The Final Act (The House of Jack the Ripper Book 8)

by Amy Cross

  Another nurse tries to step in my way, but I slam her against the side of the door. I didn't mean to hurt her, but I quickly force my way past.

  As soon as I step into the room, however, I freeze as I see that two orderlies are restraining Mum as she's kneeling on the floor next to her bed. Wires and tubes are trailing from Mum's body, and from under her bed-gown, and she's shaking violently as she tries but fails to get back up onto her feet. The orderlies are telling her to calm down and to let them help her, but a moment later she tries to bite one of them. Shocked to see the violence in Mum's body, I take a step back, and I can't help feeling that something must have gone horribly wrong.

  This can't be my mother.

  Even in her worst moments, my mother would never -

  Suddenly she turns and looks straight at me, and I see that there has been no mistake. It is my mother, but she looks completely insane, and her expression only becomes more furious as soon as she sees me. For some reason I always assumed that when she finally woke up, she'd be relieved and happy to see me, that all her madness would have faded. Now I realize that I was wrong. Five years after she slipped into a coma in the basement of the house on Cathmore Road, she looks to have woken in a worse rage than ever.

  “That's not her!” she screams, struggling desperately to get toward me. This time, she not only manages to get to her feet, but she almost slips out of the orderlies' grips. Still trying to lunge at me, she points straight toward my face. “That's not her! You have to stop her!”

  “You really shouldn't be in here,” a nurse says, taking hold of my arm. “Please, you're making things worse. Your mother can't cope with seeing you right now.”

  “What's wrong with her?” I ask, watching as Mum tries once again to get free. She's like a wild animal.

  “The doctors are going to examine her,” the nurse continues, still trying to lead me out of the room. “We're not quite sure what's happening at the moment, but if you'll just come with me, we can leave them to get on with things. You mustn't take this personally, but you seem to be the focus of some anger on your mother's part.”

  For a moment, too horrified to even move, I can only stare at Mum as she snarls and screams at me. There are tears in my eyes, and I desperately want to go over and tell her that everything's going to be okay, but she looks as if she truly hates me. Even when she did bad things before, she always seemed to love me, but now even that's gone. She's trying to get away from the nurses, as if she wants to come over and hurt me.

  As if she wants to kill me.

  “It's not her!” she growls. “Why can't you see it? It's not her, right there! It's not my daughter! That thing has to be stopped! You have to kill it!”

  I turn to the nurse.

  “I don't know what she means,” I tell her, as tears start streaming down my face. “Honestly, I -”

  Suddenly I hear a cry from one of the orderlies, and I turn just in time to see that Mum has broken free. She clambers across the bed and throws herself at me, and I only half manage to get out of the way in time. Grabbing my arm, she slams me against the wall and then puts her hands tight around my throat, before squeezing hard. I try to push her back, but she quickly forces me to the ground and starts throttling me as the orderlies try in vain to get her away. At the same time, she's slamming my head against the wall with such force that I feel bursts of pain.

  “Please!” I gasp, grabbing her hands and trying to pull them away so I can breathe. “Mum, it's me!”

  “I know what you are!” she snarls. “I've seen your true face!”

  No matter how hard I try to push her away, or how hard the orderlies and nurses try to help, her grip on my throat seems impossibly strong. I struggle for a moment longer, but slowly the fight drains from my body and my hands slip away. I can't push back, not now, and instead my head tips back as I hear alarms ringing in the distance. I've even given up trying to breathe. It's as if deep down, some silent part of my body has decided that this is the right moment to give up. The last life is being choked out of me by my own mother, and I can feel my throat being crushed, and there's nothing I can do to save myself.

  Suddenly her hand are wrenched from my throat and I fall forward, landing spluttering and gasping against the cold tiled floor. Rolling onto my side, I clutch my throat and try desperately to get my breath back. Despite my blurred vision, I can just about make out the sight of Mum being dragged away by half a dozen orderlies who've finally reached the room.

  “Are you okay?” a nurse asks, kneeling next to me. “Can you hear me?”

  “I'm fine!” I gasp, not wanting to make a fuss, although I still feel as if part of my throat has collapsed in on itself.

  She was trying to kill me.

  My own mother was trying to kill me.

  The nurse helps me up, and I take a moment to steady myself against the wall. I can hear Mum screaming nearby, but it takes a few seconds before I turn and manage to see her properly. As my vision clears, I'm horrified by the sight of Mum being held down while one of the orderlies prepares a syringe.

  “It's not her!” Mum cries out, straining so hard that the veins on the side of her neck are bulging like crazy. There are tears running down her face too, and all her violent anger seems to have dissolved into a series of huge, all-consuming sobs. “Why can't you see?” she continues, as the orderly slides a needle into her neck. “Why can't you all see that it's not her? It's not...”

  Her voice trails off, and she stares at me for a moment before slumping back. The other orderlies catch her, and then they start lifting her up onto the bed. Wires and tubes are still trailing from her body, as if she tore them from the machines when she first clambered out.

  “We should go,” the nurse says, taking hold of my arm. “Let's get you checked out, and then Doctor Andrews can talk to you about the next step with your mother.”

  All I can do is stare at Mum and relive her outburst.

  What did she mean, when she said that I'm not me? She was pointing straight at me and saying over and over again that I'm not really me.

  “I can't find a pulse,” one of the orderlies says suddenly, his voice tight with concern. He checks Mum's wrists, while two of the nurses rush over to help.

  “She's not breathing,” one of the nurses says. “We need to get her heart restarted.”

  “Mum?” I stammer, stepping over before another nurse pulls me back.

  “Please,” she says, ushering me out of the room, “you can't be here right now.”

  “I have to be with her!” I shout, trying to force my way past, only for another nurse to step in my way and guide me toward the door. “Let me be with her! I want to see her!”

  “They need room to do their job,” the nurse says, but behind her I can see another nurse already starting to resuscitate Mum. Or at least, trying to. “Please, let's go outside.”

  “Out of the way!” a voice yells.

  Turning, I spot two orderlies pushing a trolley this way. There's some kind of medical equipment on the trolley, and I instinctively step aside to let them through. And then, with no further warning, the door slams shut and I find myself standing in the corridor with one of the nurses. I can hear voices yelling inside the room, and it's clear that something's seriously wrong, but somehow I'm frozen here and all I can think about is the way Mum grabbed me and forced me to the ground. I think she was actually trying to kill me.

  “What's wrong with her?” I ask finally, turning to the nurse. “Please, tell me she's going to be okay!”

  Chapter Ten

  Maddie

  Sitting by the window in a hotel bar, I stare out at the late-night street. I don't even know why I came in here, except that I was sitting on the bus for so long that eventually I felt like I just had to get off. So I stumbled out into the rain and somehow I ended up here in the bar of a hotel on Cromwell Road, just along from the Natural History Museum. I've got an untouched coffee on the table, but all I can do is stare out at the street and watch the traff
ic and think about Mum.

  She's gone.

  They spent an hour trying to revive her, but eventually Doctor Andrews came through and broke the news to me. Something about her heart giving up, about her having been weakened after all that time in the coma. Not all of what they said made sense, but the gist was that she worked herself up into such an insane fury that her damaged body failed. Her heart stopped beating and nothing they did was enough to revive her.

  She's gone and now I'll never know why she tried to kill me.

  I'll never get to tell her how much I loved her.

  “That's not her!” Mum's voice screams, echoing in my thoughts. “Kill her!”

  At the hospital, after they confirmed she was dead, I kept saying over and over that I should have visited more. I said I was a terrible daughter. And then one of the nurses told me that I was there every single evening, that I didn't miss a single evening over the past five years. That I usually only stayed for a minute or two, long enough to see her face, but that the night before I stayed for several hours and talked to her. I don't remember any of that, but at the same time I don't see why she'd lie. Something wrong with me, with my memories, and I can't get my thoughts straightened out.

  “It's not safe out at the moment,” a guy is saying at the bar, slumped over a pint of Peroni. “It's always women so far, but I wouldn't put it past this bastard to start going after men too.”

  “Didn't Jack the Ripper always go for women?” his friend asks. “Wasn't it always prostitutes?”

  “That was, like, a hundred and fifty years ago,” the guy mutters. “Something like that, anyway. Sometimes it's like the bastard never really went away.”

  I try to focus on their conversation. Anything's better than listening to my own thoughts.

  “I can't believe they never figured out who he was originally,” one of the guys at the bar says. “I know they didn't exactly have the best tech back then, but you'd still think they could catch a guy who used to send taunting letters to the police.”

  “Yeah, but that's the theory, isn't it?” his friend replies. “There were so many copycats, so many fantasists, all the waters got muddied. The real Jack the Ripper, the acorn that started it all, got completely lost in the mass hysteria that broke out. Most of those letters weren't real. Maybe none of them were. I bet the real Jack the Ripper loved it all. He was probably some cackling even genius who whipped the crowd up.”

  “Or he was just some loner who was lucky to get away with it all,” the first guy suggests. “Nothing grand or dramatic. Just someone who got lucky a bunch of times.”

  Hearing another beep on my phone, I don't even bother to look. Dad's dead so it's not as if there's anyone I need to call. I guess I'll have to get in touch with a funeral home in the morning and start arranging the service, but for now all I can do is think back to the way Mum screamed as she wrapped her hands around my throat. She was always unpredictable when I was a kid, and there were times when she hurt me. That's why I ran away from home in the first place. Still, I never stopped loving her and somehow I still had it in my head that things would work out in the end. After everything that happened in the basement at Cathmore Road five years ago, I thought we were starting to inch our way to some kind of normality.

  I thought everything would be okay once she woke up.

  My phone beeps again, and this time I figure I should just switch the damn thing off. When I take a look, however, I see that the beeps have been Facebook notifications, and I notice that one comes from my colleague Tom. He's posting about being at a bar just around the corner from here, and it's pretty clear that he's drunk. I'm about to switch the phone off when I suddenly see another notification from him, claiming that the party is rubbish and that he's walking to a different place.

  “Another coffee?”

  Startled, I look up and see that one of the barmen has come over.

  “No,” I mumble, “thank you.”

  Without really thinking about what I'm doing, I get to my feet and head out of the bar, through the hotel's reception area and then down the steps onto the street. Traffic is roaring past through the rain. I'm in a daze, but for some reason I feel like I really have to go and find Tom. In the back of my throat there's a weird scratching sensation, almost as if I've swallowed lots of little twigs and branches.

  And weirdly, for some reason I can taste peaches.

  ***

  Rain is crashing down now, flooding the streets and slowing the traffic. Loitering in the doorway of a shuttered restaurant, I watch the bar on the opposite side of the road and wait for Tom to appear. According to his profile, he still hasn't left yet but he's about to head off to some other pub. He's probably drunk and loud, barely even in control anymore. For some reason that I don't quite understand, I like that idea.

  Finally, a little after 11pm, I see him come staggering out. He's with another man and they stop to talk, but to my relief Tom sets off alone along the street. Staying on this side, I start following him, although it's not easy to keep track of his movements as he sways drunkenly and almost falls a couple of times. At one point he stops and tries to light a cigarette, but he clearly can't even see properly and after a moment he sets off again, eventually taking the next left.

  I cross the road and hurry after him, while making sure to not get too close.

  I don't even know why I'm doing this. I'm soaking wet now and I don't actually like Tom. In fact, I always try to spend as little time with him as possible. Tonight, however, I feel drawn to him, as if some inner instinct is taking over. I guess I should fight that instinct and try to make myself go home, but I can't quite bring myself to actually change direction. Instead I continue to follow Tom past bars and restaurants, and eventually I realize that I'm waiting for...

  Waiting for what?

  What do I want?

  I have no idea. Well, I know one thing: I want the scratching sensation to leave my throat. And another: I want to stop tasting peaches, and I want to stop all this excess saliva building up in my mouth. Something has to be wrong with me, but I won't allow the fear to slow me down. On the contrary, I start speeding up a little and then I have to slow myself as I realize that I'm in danger of catching up to Tom too soon.

  Too soon?

  Too soon for what?

  It's almost as if some inner part of my mind has its own plan, a plan that it's not ready to share with the rest of me. And all the while I keep walking, as if I'm in a daze, as if I'm lured inexorably toward Tom.

  Why can I taste blood?

  Ahead, Tom takes a sudden left turn, disappearing down a side street. When I reach the corner, I see only darkness, and for a moment I feel a sense of panic as I realize that I might have lost him. Then, finally, I spot a flash of light in the shadows and I realize that he's sheltering in a doorway while he smokes a cigarette.

  I take a step to the side, so that he won't be able to see me, but I can still just about make out the glow as he continues to smoke.

  Rain is still pouring down, soaking through my clothes and causing me to shiver. I know I'm getting weird looks from passersby, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is the sight of Tom in the shadows, and I can feel a strange sense of hunger starting to rise through my chest. It's as if I'm suddenly ravenous, as if Tom has something that I want. No, wait, that's not quite right. It's more like Tom is something that I want, as if it's his body that's drawing me closer. Whatever it is, though, it's not sexual. I instinctively take a step forward, not able to stop myself, and now I feel as if I can almost taste him.

  His meat.

  His organs.

  All the blood and flesh and tissue that's sloshing about inside him.

  I know this is wrong, but the rational part of my mind is being pushed aside by something else, by something that's roaring up from the depths of my subconscious. At the same time, I feel more alive then ever before in my life, and I know I won't be able to hold back for much longer. I can still see the glowing orange tip o
f Tom's cigarette, like a beacon calling me through the night air. Licking my lips, I feel more saliva dribbling down my chin, and finally I start making my way along the dark street.

  Tom's just fifty meters or so up ahead, but I'm already quickening my pace. He hasn't spotted me yet, probably thanks to the crashing rain, but any moment now I'm going to grab him and -

  Stopping suddenly, I realize the truth.

  I'm going to kill him.

  I'm going to talk to him for a moment, just to get him a little relaxed, and then something's going to come out of me and tear him to pieces. I don't even know how that's going to work, not exactly, but I can feel the scratching sensation getting stronger and stronger in the back of my throat. Somehow I know that this has happened before, or at least something very similar has happened, and I instinctively take a step back. For a moment I feel as if I'm caught between two competing urges, between the desire to go to Tom and let him suffer, and the need to run. He still doesn't seem to have spotted me, so I take another step away as rain continues to crash down, and then finally I turn and start walking away.

  I can do this.

  I can fight whatever's inside me.

  Before I've managed another half step, however, a sharp pain slices up from my gut to the back of my throat, as I something is trying to slice me open. I stumble and hit the wall, barely managing to stay up, but the pain is still rumbling in my belly as if it's about to strike again.

  I take a moment to steady myself, and then I once again start walking away.

  I can do this.

  I can fight whatever's -

  The pain immediately comes back, and this time I can feel something tugging on my guts, trying to turn me around so that I'll go back toward Tom. I lean against the wall again and this time I double over. There's blood in the back of my throat, some of which I spit out, but the nagging pain won't go away. It's almost as if there's a hook in my gut, pulling me toward Tom and tearing through me whenever I try to go the other way.