“I hoped you’d allow me to stay and warm myself till the rain is past.” She saw two raggedy women and an old man seated at one of the tables within.
“I cannot allow that,” Mr. Bonfils said, folding his arms.
Polly gave a false smile and touched her head. “I’ll earn my doss soon enough, now as I have such a jolly bonnet.”
Mr. Bonfils scowled at her.
Realizing that the alcohol had loosened her tongue and that she’d as much as admitted that she was soliciting, Polly turned away and exited, ashamed.
She heard a church bell strike half past one o’clock in the morning as she headed south along Brick Lane to where the thoroughfare became Osborn Street and intersected with Old Montague Street. She found another client, a short, dark-haired fellow in a naval uniform, outside the Bell pub on the corner.
She avoided looking him in the eyes as she said, “Miss Laycock, four pence.”
He looked her up and down as Polly stood with as much grace as her intoxication allowed.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“My room?”
“So your toughs can roll me? No crinkum crankum is worth that. You come with me or there’s no deal.”
Polly agreed with some trepidation, and he led her east along Old Montague Street. If he is Mr. Macklin come for another try, I’ll—
Polly had rarely allowed herself to dwell on what life would be like without a soul, yet a distracting question had formed unbidden. Would I feel any different beyond relief that the fight was over?
She remembered Sarah Godwin’s description of one of the girls whose soul Mr. Macklin had taken. She can no longer speak, and does nothing but stare into the distance all day.
Yes, I would be different; I’d have no hope of reward after death. Somehow, the notion that she’d no longer need to redeem herself was a far worse immediate concern than the loss of reward.
With nothing to lose, my selfishness might lead me to terrible criminal acts. The daydreams she’d had as a young woman of becoming a palmer and a dragsman were tame compared to what she saw as possible in a future with no soul. Without constraint, she might murder to gain money or something as simple, though necessary, as food and shelter. Polly turned quickly away from the thoughts.
When the Bonehill Ghost came for Polly again, she could only hope he had no new tricks. If she survived and continued over the next few years to change for the better, she was confident that he’d lose interest in her soul.
Until then, I must face whatever he brings to the fight.
The sailor gripped her hand at the entrance to Green Dragon Place—a thin back lane she knew ran south to Whitechapel Road—and led her into the alley. The lane narrowed and became a passage underneath the second floor of a brick building. With the late hour, no one was about. The sailor took Polly quietly from the rear, while standing in the low passage. Upon his release, his muffled cries echoed eerily along the brick tunnel.
He paid Polly and she headed for the Bell and spent another three pence on a quartern of gin. The Bell’s gin seemed stronger.
Three pence remained in her pocket. One more client and she would have her doss and enough remaining to buy one more drink for the pain.
The last drink I’ll ever have, she told herself. Despite her drunken state, she remained committed to quitting forever and cleaning up her life. She felt the hope stirring within her, waiting for the pain in her ear to subside before helping her to move from the destruction of her old life into the new.
Even with all her hopeful thoughts, she knew that after each client, she’d had her doss and could have returned to the White House and slept. The pain in her head notwithstanding, Polly knew she’d prolonged her last night of drinking because she wanted more alcohol. Still, she would not allow that knowledge to dampen her enthusiasm for tomorrow.
43
One Last Client
August 31, 1888
Staggering drunk, Polly made her way along Osborn Street to Whitechapel Road to meet Emily. Thankfully, the rain had died down. She hugged herself against the chill in the air, thinking the night unusually cold for August. Much of the summer had been unseasonably cool.
Emily waited for her, a concerned look on her face. “You’re in a bad way,” she said, moving to help support her. “We must get you to your room right away.”
Polly pulled back and leaned against the wall of the nearest building. “I don’ have my doss. I’ve got it three times already and spent it.”
“I would offer you help, but I’ve had little luck tonight. You must have got all the clients there are. The deputy at the White House knows us too well or we could double up in my room. You know he won’t allow it.”
“Won’ be long before I have my doss again,” Polly said.
“Were you here earlier?”
“No.”
“I were afraid I’d missed you. I went to see the dry docks fire.” Emily pointed southeast and her face forgot her concern for Polly for a time. “I’ve seen blazes before, but I never knew fire could become so big, so alive. It flew high into the sky. The rigging of a ship were caught up in it, and sparkled like a spider web dripping with dew at sunrise. And, oh, the frenzy of firemen and their equipment as they hurried to put it out. You should have seen.”
If Polly hadn’t had her mind on finding her last client and earning her doss, she might have found the description fascinating.
A church bell began to strike, and the sound seemed to draw Emily back to the here and now. “That’s the bell for half-past two,” she said. “Let me help you.”
“No, I’ll do for myself. I mus’ take greater pride in my own efforts if I e’spect to get on in life.”
“But you can hardly stand.”
“Tired is all.” Polly succeeded in straightening and standing properly on her feet. Willing herself to become steady so Emily would not worry, Polly looked her friend in the eye and said carefully, “I will suffer through this night on my own. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new day for me.” She wanted to say that her birthday, August 31, had come. Then, concerned her friend might make a fuss about it, she thought better of the idea. “I must be allowed to get there on my own.”
Emily looked at her doubtfully, but finally nodded her head.
Polly turned and walked away along Whitechapel Road toward the northeast, doing her best to move steadily for Emily.
* * *
Polly spoke to three men as she made her way along Whitechapel Road. None were interested in visiting with Miss Laycock.
She continued along the footway, moving in the direction of the London Hospital. Although she continued the search for a client, her thoughts returned to considering her future: How do I forgive myself? Somehow, she knew that to be the hardest part of the change to come. Indeed, the change could not come without it. How can I expect the best from Polly Nichols, as Mrs. Hooks and the Heryfords did?
What if I’m sober, and still find no work?
Can I forgive myself if I’m still a whore? Can I forgive myself while living in the misery of the workhouse?
She tried to shake off the worry. I mustn’t let the questions discourage.
Still, her mood darkened as she considered the depth of her drunkenness. With the excuse of the pain in her ear, she had returned so quickly, so readily to what she recognized as a wretched view of herself; one in which seriously weakening her senses and then wandering the dangerous streets had become reasonable. One or two drinks might have been prudent enough, but having become truly sodden, she knew, spoke of a desire for her own destruction. The inability to forgive herself drove the desire.
If I cannot forgive myself, my need to escape, to be comforted, will always damn me.
Polly knew she must find her own, personal absolution, but how?
On the south side of the road, the London Hospital loomed, dimly backlit by the orange glow of the two fires at the docks. As Polly approached the imposing structure, she imagined going in and finding help for her ear
, but she hadn’t the funds to pay a doctor. The clock above the building’s entrance showed the time as ten minutes past three o’clock.
Polly turned her head quickly toward the sound of a door opening on the darkened western side of the building, and saw warm light emerge briefly from within. Moments later, she saw a dark figure walking toward Whitechapel Road along Turner Street.
Polly saw no one else. She crossed to the north side of the road. Something about the way the figure moved, with rapid, short steps, reminded Polly of Mr. Macklin’s mechanical, mincing gait.
He would not catch her so easily. As she turned north into Thomas Street, the wind blew painfully across the opening of her right ear. She wrenched her head quickly out of the wind, then cringed and stumbled, experiencing severe vertigo. Dizzied and nauseated, she staggered toward the building on her right, holding out her hands to prevent running headlong into the structure. She heard footsteps approaching rapidly. Her vision spun and she couldn’t see clearly.
“Let me help you,” said a male voice.
She flinched violently when she felt the touch of hands upon her upper arms. “No!” she cried.
The hands let go, and she slumped against the brick wall of the building. She tried to make out the figure, but her vision twisted and turned. Polly couldn’t make sense of what she saw.
“You can’t see properly,” he said, his accent strange. “I’ll take you to hospital. It’s just there. You’ll see a doctor.”
Polly turned her head away from the sound of his voice and shut her eyes. Even with them closed, she experienced the sickening dizziness and fought to keep the contents of her stomach.
The man didn’t act like the drunken ghost, having none of the giddiness she’d previously seen in Mr. Macklin. Powerless to get away, she allowed him to take her by the arms and lift her to stand erect. He smelled of sulfur and soap.
If he is the demon, she thought, he’ll have a fight on his hands.
Supporting her around the waist, he helped her to move along the pavement.
If he’s a good Samaritan, perhaps he’ll pay a doctor to heal my ear. A hospital bed would be better than the one at the White House.
She opened her eyes briefly several times as they moved. The glimpses she got of their surroundings were darker each time. “I don’t see the gas lamps of Whitechapel Road.”
“The front of the hospital building is closed at this hour,” he said. “We must go ’round to the back entrance.”
Polly’s vision began to clear by degrees as she took frequent quick glances. Each time, her surroundings made more sense. They moved along a brick wall toward a gate. She thought they might have reached the back entrance to the hospital building.
At the gate, they stopped. She remained crouched, ready to flatten herself on the pavement should the vertigo return. Her vision had finally cleared. She saw nothing unusual: a back lane lined with brick structures choked with deep shadow.
“You’ll feel much better once the doctor has seen you,” he said, drawing Polly up to stand straighter.
He turned toward her, and she looked away just in case he was Mr. Macklin.
Then his hands took her neck in a hard, tightening grip.
He is the demon!
Keeping her eyes averted, Polly clawed at his hands, but gloves protected them. She kicked at his shins, and raised her knees violently toward his crotch, yet couldn’t land a solid blow.
Pray for yourself!
She struggled against panic to find the words.
At long last, pray for yourself. Only God can save you now!
Polly couldn’t muster the thoughts to form even a quick prayer.
If she caught his eye briefly, he might become distracted and let up on her neck. She opened her eyes and looked the man in the face.
His eyes did not glow red!
He’s just a man!
Pray for him!
Still, she couldn’t put together the words. Meaningless, they tumbled about in her head, and in that moment, she knew that words were all the prayers had ever been.
A scar on his forehead caught her eye, a flaw nearly identical to her own. The shiny oblong with a slight lip on one side gleamed in the wan light. He’d been damaged much the way she had.
Her throat spasmed in an agonizing effort to find air. She looked to the man with a pleading in her gaze, and saw deep into his eyes. The emotion within them was clearly born of great need. Desperation of some sort drove him to commit the hateful act.
His hands slipped briefly, allowing her a short breath of air. Frustration flashed in his features and his hands became tighter still.
Indeed, he was but a man, with all the emotion of a human being. Unstoppable desire forced him to act, much as her all-consuming needs had driven her.
She couldn’t feel her body. Her thoughts became simple and elegant, as the darkness closed around her.
She became the man strangling Polly Nichols. She knew him as she knew herself.
Yes, he did a terrible thing, as she’d done terrible things.
We commit a dread, wicked deed.
Again, the question: How can I forgive myself?
No. How do we forgive ourselves?
The answer opened a door upon a moment of undiscovered peace.
By forgiving him.
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Although the novel is inspired by real historical events and actual human lives, the characters have been created for the sake of this story and are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Thanks to Cameron Pierce, Kirsten Alene, Melody Kees Clark, Eric M. Witchey, Jill Bauman, Mark Edwards, Elizabeth Engstrom, Mark Roland, Frank Freemon, Simon Clark, David Nicholls, Garrett Cook, Pigg, Michael Green, and Matt Hayward.
About the Author
Author and illustrator, Alan M. Clark grew up in Tennessee in a house full of bones and old medical books. He is the author of seventeen published books, including ten novels, a lavishly illustrated novella, four collections of fiction, and a nonfiction full-color book of his artwork. As a visual artist, he has created illustrations for hundreds of books, including works of fiction of various genres, nonfiction, textbooks, young adult fiction, and children’s books. Awards for his work include the World Fantasy Award and four Chesley Awards. Alan M. Clark and his wife, Melody, live in Oregon. www.alanmclark.com
Table of Contents
Contents
Praise for A Brutal Chill in August:
Other Books by Alan M. Clark
A Brutal Chill in August
Frontmatter
Dedication
Polly Nichols
Author’s Note
1: Tell Me a Dreadful
2: A Song
3: Labor
4: Selfish Prayers
5: Risk
6: The Dead Lie Quiet & Still
7: Adventures
8: Fragile Abstinence
9: Something in Common
10: Scheming
11: Mistrust
12: With Time
13: A Tempting Choice
14: Obsession
15: While She Was Out
16: Negotiations & Changes
17: Lonely Hearts
18: A New Routine
19: Pursuit
20: A Promise of Lessons
21: A Need for Worry
22: The Girl’s Decision
23: Reprisal
24: Unexpected Allies
25: A Timely Amendment
26: Routine Reestablished
27: Exhaustive Search
28: Bed Rest
29: Reunion & Departure
30: Census
31: A Precipitous Decline
32: The Workhouse
33: Bargaining
34: The Lush
35: Visitation
36: Many Need Help
37: Paupers
38: A Position
39: A New Friend
40: Temperance
41: The Price of Solace
42: Storm
43: One Last Client
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Page 24
