The Big Book of Jack the Ripper
Page 152
“Danchenko? Danchenko? He’s not here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Why d’you want him? D’you want to book him?” He turned and looked at her.
“Yes. No.”
The man shrugged, and looked back at the girls. “He’s probably in New York.”
—
At the second theatrical agency a secretary said, “He’s not Hungarian. He comes from Tottenham. I can’t give you his address, but he’s appearing at the Spread Eagle in Barking.”
Seeing Connie’s reaction, she added, “It’s his slack season.”
—
That evening Connie got the children to bed early and made chilled cucumber soup, cheese soufflé and a crisp salad. She put on her yellow backless dress and her new platform shoes and served dinner in their rarely used dining room. The sideboard was full of flowers from the garden. There were long candles in elegant holders and iced white wine.
As Daniel and Connie ate, they looked at each other from time to time but didn’t once speak.
14
Connie was walking with David along a main road by the heath when a car slowed down beside them. She turned, and Daniel said, “Get in.”
He drove to the nursery and they sat and watched as David knocked on the door and then turned and waved, smiling happily. They waved back.
“It can’t go on,” he said.
She stared ahead.
“Bye, Mummy,” David called.
“It’s not been right for weeks. We haven’t made love, we haven’t—”
“Well, you don’t want to—”
“Nor do you. Not in your heart of hearts. We just avoid each other all the time—”
“You don’t love me, Daniel.”
After a pause, he said, “I do. Anyway, we’ve been together a long time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not tired of you.”
“Look, love.” He put his arm round her. “I was put off the night you—well, you remember. I know I’ll get over it. I’ll certainly try. But you’ll have to try. I think you should have analysis.”
“All right,” she sighed. “All right. All right. Maybe I am nuts. I decided I must be the day we watched Jane play. I got terribly jealous. It was the way you were looking at her.”
“Oh, for heavensake, Jane!” He laughed.
“I got quite upset. I thought you were having an affair.”
He squeezed her to him. “Well, let’s you and me have a pact. You go to analysis and I won’t look at Jane’s thighs. O.K.?”
“Yes. I’ve never realised she had such lovely thighs.”
He stroked her hair, persuasively, and suddenly she grabbed his hand and kissed it.
“It’s a lovely morning,” he said softly. “You go and have a long walk on the heath. Enjoy it.”
Suddenly, marvellously happy, she walked across the heath in the sweet morning. The light was golden. A crocodile of schoolchildren moved noisily along a path to her left, a bumpy path that converged with hers by the lake. Today was the height of summer, with the heath over-ripe, full of scents and buzzings, the trees blowsy. Connie looked serene again. She moved at the same speed as the gnashing, swaying crocodile, its chattering so loud and shrill that it was impossible to distinguish anything, and they arrived at the lake together.
For a moment they muddled up. Schoolchildren tried to pass Connie. She bumped into one, apologised and hurried to get ahead of them. Dazzled with sun, she stepped behind the old men with their fishing tackle and sandwiches, and the crocodile wound round, squeezed past the men and followed her. Among the shrill voices—were other shrill voices.
“Murder! Murder! He’s done it again.”
Connie stopped.
“He’s ripped her properly.”
The crocodile nudged up behind her. She ran, right to the top of the hill and over it, and flopped exhausted onto a bench. Below her, London was spread out misty and silent. She could see right across the river.
The crocodile came over the top of the hill and the children’s voices rose up, again tinny and confused. Then she heard, “Ripped out one kidney, whole. Ate it for his breakfast.”
She jumped up and ran screaming down the hill.
—
The pub in Barking was brightly lit and had a very different atmosphere and clientele from the nightclub. Throughout the magician’s act, the audience laughed uproariously. Instead of an MC an old woman, with a cracked voice, shuffled round touching objects.
“What am I touching?”
“A glass.”
“And now?”
“Another glass.”
“You can’t fool Danchenko. And what am I holding now?”
“You are touching a bald head.”
The audience screamed with laughter.
“A glass.”
“What’s in the glass?”
“Amber liquid. It won’t be there long.”
“And now?”
“A looking-glass.”
“Wrong!” yelled the audience.
“Well, you know what I mean.” Caught off his guard, his accent was not the usual approximation to mid-European but a more familiar strain that came from no farther than Tottenham.
The old woman held her hand up as high as she could, but her bent body, stiff with rheumatism, deprived the action of drama, and the magician’s response, sonorous, melodramatic—“Do not think you are touching nothing my friend. The air is not empty but full of vibrations”—made the audience roll about with laughter.
“She can’t reach, Danchenko.”
“Want a bunk up, luv?”
The old woman lowered her arm and scuttled off into a corner. Danchenko, probably deciding that the supernatural stuff was getting nowhere with this audience, took off his blindfold and looked straight at Connie. “He will not come like a thief in the night. And that means something to someone over there.” He circled a long finger and chose a woman at the back of the room. “She knows what it means.” And he added, addressing a fat woman by the bar, “No, lady. He’s not under your bed.”
Wild laughter.
“Happy birthday to Alf behind the bar. Seventy today.”
People cheered.
The magician looked at Connie. “Now what have we here? The ideal couple? Ah, but only half of it tonight.”
“Her better half’s gone off,” shouted a man nearby, and before the laughter entirely stopped, Danchenko said:
“And where’s your heart this time, doomed lady? Not on your sleeve.”
“Go on. Make us laugh, Danchenko. Make us happy,” yelled the audience.
“Some people are too happy, my friends,” he said maliciously, his eyes still on Connie. “Some people are too pure of heart.” He accented the “pure” and made it sound horrible. Then, rubbing his hands, he smiled round at the audience, and the smile, the most chilling thing so far, had quite the opposite effect to making them happy. The room was quiet as he took off his wizard’s hat and gave it to the old woman. He leaned forward. “Make sure you fill it up. Then Danchenko will show you a trick or two.”
As she took it round, Danchenko shouted abuse. “Come on, you stingy swine. You miser. Your silver’s in your other pocket. That’s not enough, lady. I may be a magician but I can’t live on air.”
—
The magician changed his clothes in the publican’s cramped office on the first floor. A single naked lightbulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling showed up the peeling walls, the dust, the damp, the disorder. It seemed even to accentuate the smell—which was a mixture of stale beer, gin, fish, and other less nice, less definable things. A cat had been sick on the soggy matting.
Connie, nervous but in control, knocked and went in without waiting for an answer. Danchenko, his thin body existing easily in the small space between a cluttered desk and a pile of beer crates, was taking off his make-up in front of a cracked mirror.
He twisted round, and they looked at each other, the
ir eyes solemn in the gloomy room. Abruptly, he turned back to the mirror. He was not pleased to see her. His face changed with every layer he peeled off. He looked young, and then old and sinister, and then strangely naive. He stripped off the sides of his nose and wiped out his eyebrows; for a moment he looked like a professional tango-dancer from the ’30s. Removing his wig, he revealed a head of black sleek hair, which he patted over with Brylcreem.
“Why call me doomed?” she asked.
“I have nothing for you. The show’s over.” The Hungarian accent was gone. He straightened up and seemed much taller than he did on the stage.
“Why doomed?” she asked angrily, and the desperation of the past months took away all fear.
“We are all doomed.”
“Why me?” she asked swiftly.
“Why me? Why me? Why not you?” he said in a singsong voice. “Why shouldn’t anything happen to you? Why should you have everything?” He slithered out from between the desk and the crates and closed his black case.
“But I’m going to die.”
“Why shouldn’t you die? People die violently every day. Excuse me!” and carrying the case he slid past her and into the passageway with all the ease and slipperiness of an eel.
She ran after him. From behind he looked young, sleek. “It’s my life!” she shouted.
He turned and said, scathingly, “Why would your life belong to you?” He opened the exit door and turned left in the street.
Again she followed him. “I’ll run away. I’ll hide. I’ll stay in. I’ll go abroad. I’ll—”
He shook his head as he opened the door of the public bar. “Whatever you do won’t make any difference. It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
He went in. The door swung shut.
Fleetingly, she saw him through the window leaning against the bar, a pint of beer in front of him. He looked malevolent.
15
It was a cold November night, and the station was ill-lit; but Daniel and Connie with Jane, Mark, and several other friends were in high spirits and slightly drunk. They were waiting at the end of a short platform for the infrequent local train to take them back to London. The station was old-fashioned, neglected. A woman said to Mark, “Some of these stations are early Victorian.”
“I love this line,” he replied mournfully. “I hope they don’t close it. They’re always threatening to.”
“You’ve got that wrong,” said Jane. She hopped about and smiled at Connie. “Soon be your birthday. Where shall we go? Soho?”
“It’s what I’ve given the last two months of my life to do,” said Daniel. “Tear down those old blocks. They’re ugly. Of no historical value. Rip ’em up. Get rid of the squalor.”
“All at once?” asked Baxter.
“A clean cut of the knife…”
Connie shivered.
Jane hopped more energetically. “Connie, I’m dying for a pee.”
“It’s nice to see old Connie again,” said Baxter, thinking it was the last thing he wanted. She’d changed drastically. He’d decided it must be the booze. “Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”
“Oh, I don’t go out much. We don’t entertain.” She looked cautiously at Daniel.
“You could hardly miss this evening,” he said. “Daniel’s victorious assault on big bogey itself.”
“Terrific darling!” Connie kissed him, but he didn’t respond. He was looking at Jane.
“Come with me, Connie,” she said.
“The train’s due in four minutes,” said Mark.
“Maybe it is, but you’ll have a splashy patch on the platform.”
Connie moved close to Daniel, which put her under the light. Baxter decided her face was too pale. For an instant he thought of the terminal ward at the local hospital. He’d have to have a word with old Daniel about this.
Something made Connie look up, and she gasped.
“Why, it’s a gas lamp,” said Baxter, pleased. “You don’t often see those.”
“Oh, these little stations often have them,” said Mark.
Connie moved out of the light, and her face, Baxter admitted with slight disappointment, was all right again.
“Isn’t there a loo on the train?” asked the woman.
“No there is not,” snapped Jane. “It’s all that beer I’ve put back. I can’t hold it. Come on,” and grabbing Connie she ran squealing to the waiting room.
“Have one for me,” shouted Baxter.
It was locked up.
“Blast!” Jane scuttled to the ticket office. The collector was lolling by the entrance looking up the road.
“Where is it—the lav?”
“It’s out of order. Best go to the pub, love.”
“Where? Where?”
“Just over there,” and he pointed up the street.
Jane and Connie started running.
“Can’t hold it since I had the kid. A pint of bitter and I’m up all night.”
Making a strange growling noise, she dashed into the pub; and Connie was about to follow, when a group of people plunged out and sped towards the station. A train was approaching.
Connie waited on the corner, her black fur coat sleek around her and the light of the street lamp on her. She wasn’t as beautiful as a year ago, but she was still appealing. The street—modern, suburban, with lighted shop-fronts further along—seemed deserted. She walked up and down, and then lounged on one leg and looked up idly at the sky.
Footsteps came up behind her. She froze. They were quite distinct on the stone-slab pavement. She began to walk fast in the direction she was facing, away from the station. The footsteps got faster. She started running. She could see a pub on the next corner. She could hear singing. Enormously relieved, she ran towards it. Though it was a cold night, a knot of people were standing outside drinking, and for some reason they stared at Connie. She looked at them. They didn’t seem quite right. Their clothes were strange…She started running again, her hair falling forward over her eyes. She lost a shoe and looked down. The street was cobbled.
Gasping for breath, her chest aching, her legs numb, she stumbled on. She nearly fell. The footsteps, definite and slow, came right up behind her and stopped. In the distance, “That in your arms you’d like to hold. Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”
She turned, just slightly, and saw a shadow on the wall. She knew the shadow well. Then a man’s voice—soft, educated—said, “Now, my dear. You’d say anything but your prayers.”
The Final Stone
WILLIAM F. NOLAN
The evidently tireless William Francis Nolan (1928– ) has written dozens of novels, short stories, teleplays, motion pictures, poems, biographies, and nonfiction studies in a variety of genres, including horror, science fiction, mystery, and dark fantasy, most famously, perhaps, the landmark science fiction novel Logan’s Run (1967, coauthored with George Clayton Johnson); he also wrote the novel sequels Logan’s World (1977) and Logan’s Search (1980). His classic postapocalyptic tale “Small World” (1957) was recently adapted into comics form in Evil Jester Presents 1 (2013).
Among his screenwriting work are the 1975 television movie Trilogy of Terror (cowritten with Richard Matheson) and 1976’s adaptation Burnt Offerings (based on the novel by Robert Marasco), which starred Karen Black and Bette Davis. Other television writing credits include episodes of One Step Beyond, Wanted: Dead or Alive, and several ABC and NBC Movie of the Week features.
Nolan has also written biographies of Dashiell Hammett, Steve McQueen, John Huston, Barney Oldfield, and Ernest Hemingway, among others.
Nolan has received numerous lifetime achievement awards, including Living Legend in Dark Fantasy from the International Horror Guild in 2002, Author Emeritus from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2006, the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association in 2010, and the World Horror Society’s Grand Master Award in 2015.
“The Final Stone” was first published in Cutting Edge: Brave New Horror Stories, ed
ited by Dennis Etchison (Garden City, NY, Doubleday, 1986).
THE FINAL STONE
William F. Nolan
They were from Indianapolis. Newly married. Dave and stirring, flexing muscle, feeling power now…anger…a sudden driving thirst for Alice Williamson, both in their late twenties, both excited about their trip to the West Coast. This would be their last night in Arizona. Tomorrow they planned to be in Palm Springs. To visit Dave’s sister. But only one of them would make it to California. Dave, not Alice. with the scalpel glittering
Alice would die before midnight, her throat slashed cleanly across. glittering, raised against the moon
“Wait till you see what’s here,” Dave told her. “Gonna just be fantastic.”
They were pulling their used Camaro into the parking lot at a tourist site in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. He wouldn’t tell her where they were. It was late. The lot was wide and dark, with only two other cars parked there, one a service vehicle.
“What is this place?” Alice was tired and hungry. hungry
“You’ll find out. Once you see it, you’ll never forget it. That’s what they say.”
“I just want to eat,” she said. the blade eating flesh, drinking
“First we’ll have a look at it, then we’ll eat,” said Dave, them getting out of the car, walking toward the gate smiling at her, giving her a hug.
The tall iron gate, black pebbled iron, led into a picture-perfect Tudor Village. A bit of Olde England rising up from raw Arizona desert. A winged dragon looked down at them from the top of the gate.
“That’s ugly,” said Alice.
“It’s historic,” Dave told her. “That’s the official Heraldic Dragon from the City of London.”
“Is that what all this is—some sort of replica of London?”
“Much more than that. Heck, Ally, this was all built around it, to give it the proper atmosphere.”