by Ricki Thomas
“Fuck!” The others whispered in unison as they hurried behind the nearest tree. The door groaned open and the woman sneaked out, her shifty eyes darting around. She appeared to be unaware of the boys, and they relaxed in their hiding place. She smoothed down her skirt, the hem skimming the top of her filthy trainers, closed the door behind her, and limped away from the building.
As soon as she rounded the corner, Billy sprang out. “Here’s our chance. Come on you lot, let’s be quick.” He darted over and pushed on the door, it creaked open easily, revealing the darkness, the stale odour wafting from within. The other three boys still cowered by the tree, but when they watched Billy enter the boathouse, curiosity replaced the fear, and they sprinted forward to join him.
Mooching around the shed, they sorted through the clothes, fingered the food, snooping, prying, desperate to find something that would prove she was a witch, or a murderer, or a burglar, anything to satisfy their childish, adventurous dreams. Craig didn’t notice the case in the centre of the floor and tripped over it. “Fuck and bloody hell!” He exclaimed, loving the freedom of swearing.
Clambering up, he examined the bag. “Comrades. I’ve got something.” They jumped over, excited with anticipation. Dramatically, Craig unzipped the case, his chubby fingers rooting through her belongings. He tossed the scruffy, musty clothes to one side, and at the bottom of the bag his hand met with something metallic, he grasped it, grinning, and brought it out.
“What’s that?” The boys were mystified by the thin, rectangular, metal box.
Craig played about, pressing and clicking, he pushed a button on the side and the box opened, doubling it’s size. “Whoah! Cool!” Craig was giggling, he’d never seen one of these. “It’s a little computer, I think.” Without warning the door opened, the woman, carrying a plastic bag full of twigs, came in, closing the door behind herself. She was oblivious to the boys, until Craig screamed “Fuck!”, and she jumped, dropping the bag.
The boys ran for the door, shoving the shocked woman aside, and piled through, running along the bank, as fast as possible, as far away as possible. And whilst they were escaping, Craig became aware that he still had the organiser clenched in his hand. He knew it was thieving, but he never wanted to see her again.
Recovering from her surprise, Paula darted out of the boathouse after them, furious that they’d been spying on her, but they were well ahead already, their agile, young legs sprinting at top speed into the distance. She waved her fist in anger, but chasing was out of the question, her injured ankle wouldn’t endure that. Paula stomped back inside, spitting with fury, and glanced around, seeing what the boys had been up to. Almost immediately she noticed the case lying open on the floor, the stack of clothes piled to one side.
“No.” Paula gasped, falling to her knees, she began rooting through the bag. “My duties. My duties. They’ve taken my duties.”
Deflated, Paula sat heavily, she dragged her knees to her chest, her body rocking backwards and forwards, unable to understand anything, confusion obliterating everything. She begged for God’s help, over and over, but he wouldn’t speak to her, he must be angry with her. But she couldn’t comprehend what she had done wrong.
The tears flowed, soaking through her skirt, dripping down her legs, the pressure pounding her head. She had never felt so lonely. Begging. Pleading. Appealing. Imploring.
Then he was there, loud and clear, and the relief flooded over her, washing away the grief. ‘You will remember your duties, you can remember, they are in your memory. Just remember what you can, and if the details are wrong, it doesn’t matter. As long as you keep choosing people to die, you will still be my chosen one.’
Her body relaxed, and the tears restarted. Grateful tears, grateful to God for still being there, and relieved tears, relieved that she was still special.
Craig stuffed the organiser under his pillow, redundantly checking that nobody was watching. “Dinner’s ready.” His mother’s broken English shrilled up the stairs. Trotting out of the room, Craig resolved to find out how the computer worked later, see if there were any games on it.
Saturday 30th August
Krein pored over the detailed notes for the hundredth time. The first section had the facts of the original murder of Mary Ann Nichols, known as Polly, in eighteen eighty eight. The second section held the extensive details of the operation arranged for the next night. Policing the Whitechapel area of London to ensure that Kopycat could not recreate the murder of Jack the Ripper’s first acknowledged victim. He knew the plans by heart, but still read and re-read. Tomorrow he and the expansive team were going to catch the wanted man, and the anticipation was eating away at him.
The phone on his desk trilled, he clasped the receiver, still scanning the notes. “Krein, it’s MacReavie. Just to let you know that I’ll be travelling to London tomorrow for the stakeout.”
Krein’s teeth ground at the dramatic term, how did his boss always manage to stir his anger so easily. He bit his tongue, remaining polite. “Any idea what sort of time you’ll be here?”
The pause convinced Krein that MacReavie was checking his diary. His assumption was correct. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.” Slow, deliberate, buying time. “I’ve got a golf match at ten in the morning, should take a couple of hours, then we’re having a family lunch. Expect me there at about six, okay.”
“Guv.” Krein hated MacReavie, he hated MacReavie, thinking it over and over stopped him rising to the bait.
“Remind me how to get there, will you?”
He hated MacReavie, and his teeth gritted further, his words abrupt. “Get on the Circle line at Paddington, get off at Victoria. Take a cab, they’ll know where it is.” He put the phone down, knowing he would blow if he didn’t. “Bastard.”
Mary Krein was in her bedroom with two of her best friends, Nat and Tara. It had taken most of the day for them to preen and pamper themselves into perfect condition, and they were increasingly excited about the evening ahead. Starting with a shower each, they’d moisturised, perfumed, face-packed, nail-painted, hair-straightened, make-up brushed, and finally they all sat in their underwear, ready to leave once they dressed, listening to dance music, and chattering animatedly.
Just after five, Linda had brought a plate of sandwiches up, ensuring they wouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach, and she gave them a mini lecture about the dangers of drink spiking. Mary had been mortally embarrassed, surely her mother knew that people went to McDonalds before going to a club nowadays, and everybody knew about Rohypnol and the others, that’s why everyone drank from bottles. Mary had told her mother to leave them alone and stop spying on them, and the dejected Linda had obeyed sadly.
Linda sat in the kitchen, she turned on Radio 4 for company, and sat with her head in her hands. When she heard the girls trotting down the stairs, she didn’t see them out, afraid of being reprimanded again. She waited for the door to close and moved to the lounge, pouring herself a brandy, and knocking it back to follow it with another.
The warmth burning her throat, she took stock of her life. She’d not seen or heard from David since the Kopycat Killer had struck again, hearsay told her he was working in London, that might or might not be true. Mary had morphed into a completely different human being, or was it monster, in the past couple of months, one who detested every breath her mother took. Linda was fed up with being taken for granted. It was time she thought about herself for the first time in eighteen years. She needed a hobby, something that was hers, hers alone.
Linda picked up the local paper for ideas, and she was soon absorbed in an article about Jack the Ripper. It mentioned that his first victim died a hundred and twenty years ago on Sunday, in Whitechapel. The journalist had questioned if this was where the Kopycat Killer intended to strike next? Linda stared at the paper, her eyes wide, no longer seeing. Wasn’t the club Mary was heading for in Whitechapel? Linda’s blood ran cold.
Paula was subdued all day. She was patiently waiting for evening to come before
making a move from her temporary home. After her organiser had been stolen, she had bought a pad and a pen from the garage, and had sketched down all the details she could remember for the next, and subsequent, duties. She’d need to be able to move quickly, and with her ankle already a problem, she had decided not to take the suitcase.
Like most things when she was lonely, Paula had run the decision by God, who’d agreed wholeheartedly, and advised her to dispose of any evidence from her stay at the boathouse. Preparing to leave, she put a sheathed knife, wrapped in some of Jackson Brooks’s underwear, into a carrier bag, adding the remaining bags of crisps, and placed the bag by the door. She threw the gun into the river.
Dusk was falling, the sky red for tomorrow’s delight, and Paula toiled swiftly, collecting all the clothes, the bag, wrappers, everything she could find, and piling them where she’d been sleeping. The final pieces, Jackson’s identity papers, were scattered on top, before Paula took the petrol can in her gloved hand, drizzling the fluid throughout the shed.
Moving to the door and grasping the carrier bag, Paula lit a match and threw it, the flame caught the petrol immediately. She watched the growing, yellow flickering, mesmerised for a few seconds, ensuring the fire took hold, and, satisfied, she closed the door behind her. She didn’t notice Jackson’s driving licence by the door, away from the burning heap.
Paula walked briskly, her limp heavy, towards Windsor. She would take the train to Slough, and change on to Paddington. She was excited, the real fun was about to begin.
Mina Lockington entered her son’s untidy bedroom to settle him before she turned his light out. Guilty, he hastily put his hands behind his back, and she was suspicious. “What was that?” Craig shook his head, his eyes wide and innocent, butter wouldn’t melt. “Craig. I’m not falling for that face. What are you hiding?” Although she’d lived in England for most of her life, her accent remained heavy with Indian overtones, learned from her parents. Craig still shook his head, his innocent face appealing.
Mina gave up being reasonable, ten year old boys were a pain in the backside. She shoved her hands behind him and snatched the organiser. “What the hell is this thing?”
Craig had no choice but to speak up, he’d been busted. “We found it a couple of days ago. By the river.”
“What is it?” She repeated.
“A mini computer thingy.” He reached up and took the organiser from her, pushing the button to expose the screen and keyboard. An impressed expression crossed her face, instantly replaced with anger as she remembered she was chastising her son.
“You say you found it by the river. Did you steal it?”
Although he shook his head vigorously, Craig’s face reddened, betraying his lie. “Where did you steal it from?” Met with an irritating silence, she raised her hand as if to smack him, and the confession tumbled out.
“It was this weird tramp woman. She was all dirty and horrid. We were watching her for some days, then when she went out …”
“Went out where?” Mina was confused.
“She was staying in a boathouse, down by the river, an old blue one. She was living there I think. She went out and we decided to have a look inside, to see what she was up to. We thought she might be a witch.” Craig paused, a wailing fire engine passed outside the window. Once the peace was regained, he continued as if never stopping. “She was really scary, mama, she came back in and she was horrid and smelly, we just ran and ran and ran. It wasn’t until we were miles away that I realised I still had it in my hand. But I wasn’t going to go back, she scared me, and I don’t ever want to see her again.”
Mina sighed, content that her son was telling the truth. “I’ll have to take it to the police station tomorrow, explain what happened.” Her soft voice became stern again to act as a warning to her excitable son. “But they may decide to tick you off, boy, you aren’t to steal, it’s a bad thing to do.” She took the organiser, leant over and lightly kissed Craig’s forehead, before leaving the room, switching off the light.
Linda rushed through the door, not closing it before picking up the phone and dialling her husband’s mobile phone number. She had missed her daughter’s train by minutes, regardless of having driven like a madwoman to catch her in time. “David, it’s Linda. Where are you?” She was gasping, breathless.
Concern. “Linda? I’m in London. Why?”
“It’s Mary, she’s gone there with Tara and Nat, train, it’s Jack the Ripper, I read …”
“Whoah, slow down! Slow down! You’re not making sense.”
Linda knew she was rambling, she breathed deeply to control herself. “Jack the Ripper, David. It’s in the Oxford Times. His first victim was murdered on the thirty first of August.”
Krein was losing interest now. “I know.”
“For God’s sake, David, don’t you get it! Mary, Tara and Nat have gone to Whitechapel tonight, they’ve gone clubbing, I just missed them at the train station, I tried to stop them. What if the Kopycat Killer recreates the murder? What if he gets one of the girls? What if he gets our Mary?” The frustration and fear were bringing tears to Linda’s eyes.
Krein’s voice was reassuring, he hated to hear his wife so distraught. “Think about what you’ve just said, Linda. The anniversary of Polly Nichols’s death is the thirty first of August. It’s the thirtieth tonight.”
Linda felt like a bumbling idiot, she apologised, saying her goodbyes hastily to get off the phone. She poured another brandy, ashamed for having nothing better to do than worry unnecessarily. Sitting with the oversized shot, she resolved once more to find a hobby. If she had something else to think about, this sort of blunder wouldn’t happen again.
The firemen struggled to extinguish the ferocious blaze, with the ongoing heat-wave the surrounding trees and undergrowth could easily catch alight. They needed to contain the fire as soon as possible. Even though the fire was still blazing, the crew already suspected that this was arson. It wasn’t impossible for a wooden structure to ignite from a discarded match or cigarette, but in this case it seemed unlikely. They guessed it was kids messing around, taking a game one step too far.
Adelaide Smith worked at the popular Wallingford Bar in Brick Lane, Whitechapel. She was even more popular than the bar, though, with the male clients. She was naturally busty, and wore clothes that accentuated her assets further. Her hair was dyed blonde, long and wavy, and people would turn to stare wherever she walked, she had presence. Up close, beneath the overdone make up, Adelaide wasn’t anything special, but she made the most of what she had, and as a result was a woman of many men’s dreams.
This Saturday night hadn’t been busy, which had given Adelaide a superb opportunity to flirt with a younger man she’d fancied for a while. In company she was outspoken, maybe even brash after a few too many drinks, and Roger Andrews equalled her in these stakes. However, on their own, chatting to one another over the bar, the conversation had been pleasant and satisfying for both parties. Roger was impressed with the older woman, he determined he would try to take her back to his flat. He could do with a good shag.
Unfortunately for Roger, Adelaide, regardless of her public persona, was not a woman for one night stands. Ignorant to this, and with the manager having rung the bell for last orders, Roger decided it was time to make his move. He asked Adelaide back to his place for a coffee, with a sly wink. Chuckling, she refused, as affably as possible, she told him she had an appointment with the doctor early the next morning, and she wanted to go to bed as soon as she got home. Roger, not used to rejection, he was a handsome and persuasive man, he cajoled her, laughing, and when the bottom lip routine didn’t work, he pleaded, but her rejection remained firm.
Surprisingly quickly Adelaide went from giggling cheerfully, to being worryingly unnerved. Roger’s demeanour was suddenly repugnant. He claimed Adelaide had led him on, she had teased him, and if she wasn’t prepared to put it out, she shouldn’t make out she was. Adelaide distanced herself from him, she had a discreet word with
her manager and friend, Ivan Stulski, who promised her that either he, or his son, would walk her home. Adelaide was an excellent worker, business always boomed when it was her shift, and he didn’t want anything happening to her.
A group of young men lurched drunkenly to the bar and, checking her watch, Adelaide served them. She could feel Roger’s eyes burning her from the other end of the bar, but she remained composed, ignoring him. Twelve midnight passed, and gradually the revellers moved on to the local clubs, or back to their homes. Ivan and Adelaide systematically cleared tables, wiped surfaces, emptied ashtrays, washed glasses, and all the while Roger sat on his barstool, sipping his pint slowly, his eyes boring into Adelaide’s back. Eventually his bitter was finished, he left the bar, shooting Adelaide a final glare.
She breathed a long sigh of relief. “Thank God for that!”
Ivan laid his burly, fight scarred hand on her dainty shoulder. “Stay back half an hour or so, give him time to get bored and go home. I’ll walk you back then. Look, let’s share a bottle of wine while we wait, okay?”
Adelaide nodded, grateful that her boss was so considerate, and grateful such a hunk of a man would be chaperoning her to her home. The pleasantly fruity Hungarian Merlot, exclusive back of a lorry stock, lasted an hour, and they both enjoyed catching up with each other properly. Ivan and Adelaide had been friends for many years, in their twenties they had consummated the relationship, passionately tumbling in and out of bed as they discovered each other, but after the initial lust had worn off, they had decided they preferred just being mates. Both loved each other, but friendship was as far as it went, and would ever go again. Adelaide had remained mainly single for the last seven years, since she had started working in the Wallingford Bar. She had two daughters, now teenagers, who had lived with their father since the bitter divorce. She was content with this arrangement, she preferred partying to mothering.
