A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  “Hey, look at this,” Evelyn said. “Some kid named Henry Alcott taken into custody.”

  Two pictures appeared of Henry on screen. The first was his student ID. He looked no older than twenty. He was rather skinny, wore thick-framed glasses, and smiled goofily into the camera with palpable excitement for his first day at Oxford. The second photo was Henry’s mug shot. He did not particularly look like a criminal. He appeared almost identical to the first photo, except his enthusiastic grin had been replaced with a confused expression. If I had to guess, Henry had no idea why he had been arrested.

  “He didn’t do it,” I said.

  Evelyn turned to face me. “How do you know?”

  “Look at that kid.” The news was now showing footage of Henry, impeccably dressed in a neat sweater and slacks, being led from the Oxford campus and into a police car. His wrists were so bony that they almost slipped out of the handcuffs on their own. “Does he look like he has the strength to take down a person and gut them?”

  Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “I suppose not. He’s a bit skinny. That doesn’t mean you should rule him out.”

  I went back to frying eggs. “Does it say why they arrested him?”

  She turned up the volume.

  “Police say they have reason to believe Alcott was at the scene of the crime,” the reporter stated, “but refuse to release any more information because of the strange nature of the investigation. Questions have come up regarding the police’s effectiveness, especially since this is the second time they’ve claimed that CCTV did not capture the crime. The public suspects the authorities are withholding information, which results in a lack of trust from the community. Keep checking back for updates on this story. We’ll be releasing information on Henry Alcott’s arrest as we receive it.”

  Evelyn muted the TV as the reporter moved on to another story about a corner shop break-in. “Maybe you were right.”

  “About what?” I muttered, distracted by the eggs. In a second, they could go from over-easy to totally gross.

  “Remember that book you found at Oxford with the writing in it?” Her high-pitched tone gave away her enthusiasm’s insincerity. She was placating me. “And now an Oxford student’s been arrested. It totally makes sense!”

  “Like I said, he didn’t do it.”

  “But the police said he was at the crime scene,” she pressed.

  “No, they said they have reason to believe he was at the crime scene,” I corrected, flipping the perfectly fried eggs onto a plate. The yolk jiggled but didn’t pop. I tossed some leftover bacon into the pan to heat it up. “Those are two different things. They needed to arrest someone because the public are starting to think they’re incompetent. My bet’s they release Alcott by the end of the day.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Evelyn said confidently. “I bet he has something to do with it.”

  Evelyn spent most of the day trying to cheer me up. During her appointment with Alba, she pulled the most ridiculous faces she could muster. Alba commented it was the best mood she’d seen Evelyn in since her injury. While that was good to hear, I couldn’t shake the glum mood of last night’s dream. Nor could I stop thinking about it.

  Evelyn dragged me through the shops, determined to buy me heavier clothing as autumn progressed and the temperatures dropped. I went along with her, trying on whatever sweaters and pants she picked out for me without complaint. She made a game of guessing my sizes, almost always choosing things that were too big. Around lunchtime, she draped a motorcycle jacket over my shoulders and grinned triumphantly.

  “Finally,” she said. “It fits you perfectly!”

  I checked the price tag. “It’s two hundred pounds, and I don’t own a motorcycle.”

  “You don’t have to own a motorcycle to wear the jacket,” she replied. “Don’t worry about the price. It’s on me.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her the jacket was more her style than mine. She could pull off the dark colors and brooding styles. If I wore the same things, I looked like a mouse dressed up as a lion. The effect wasn’t quite as striking.

  Evelyn paid for the jacket and a bag full of other items she’d picked out. In the streets, an unexpected chill ruffled the neck of my shirt. I shivered, and Evelyn pulled the motorcycle jacket out of the bag with a flourish, ripped off the tags, and helped me put my arms through it.

  Though I would have been happy with Nandos again for lunch, she dragged me all the way to the Walkie Talkie and sweet-talked the blushing hostess for a table at the Fenchurch Restaurant. Our table looked down on the SkyGarden, a beautiful collection of plants and flowers that in turn looked out on the entire city of London.

  A server, dressed all in black, approached our table. He smiled at us, but his eyes lingered a moment too long on my new jacket. “Afternoon, ladies. I’m Archie, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Something to drink?”

  “Champagne,” Evelyn said. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Ah, what’s the occasion?” Archie asked.

  She lifted her injured shoulder as high as it would go, which was about the level of her chest. The simple sling kept her from moving it any farther. “I couldn’t do that a few weeks ago,” she told Archie, beaming.

  “Congratulations!” Archie clapped lightly. “Your first glass is on the house.”

  As he went to fetch the champagne, I said to Evelyn, “I thought you couldn’t drink with the painkillers.”

  “I’m not taking them anymore,” she said proudly. “Don’t need them.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I slumped in my seat. “Guess you won’t be needing me around much longer, then, either.”

  The idea of leaving London hit me harder than I thought it would. I wasn’t ready to go back to San Diego. There was nothing there for me. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was until I’d reunited with Evelyn. All this time, I’d been avoiding the memories in England, and while it was difficult to cope with the circumstances of my mother’s death, I didn’t want to run away from my past anymore.

  “Relax,” Evelyn said. “My shoulder’s nowhere near back to normal. How long can you be away from home?”

  I thought of my expensive studio apartment and the month-to-month lease. If I told the landlord I was staying in London and hired movers to box up my stuff for storage, I wouldn’t have to go back at all.

  “I’m happy to stay for as long as you want.”

  “Another month?”

  Secretly, my heart leapt for joy. “Absolutely.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  Archie returned, poured two glasses of champagne, and took our appetizer order. Once again, he glanced at my jacket.

  “I’m not dressed for this place,” I hissed at Evelyn. “He keeps staring at this ridiculous jacket.”

  “Probably because it looks so great on you.” She leaned back and stretched her good arm over her head, comfortable regardless of her casual clothing. “You know what the key is to convincing people you belong somewhere? Act like you belong there.”

  I did my best to mimic her, but the back of my chair was too high for me to rest my arms on it without hiking my shoulders up. Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

  “Forget about it,” she said. “Sit normally.”

  Archie returned with a tray of escargot. As he set it down, the scent of garlic and butter wafting across the table, he turned to me. “I’m sorry, but can I ask you where you got your jacket? My girlfriend would love something like that.”

  Evelyn winked at me.

  Before I could reply, another server—a woman—sidled up behind Archie and asked in a whisper, “Are you coming tonight?”

  “Sorry, Ellen. I can’t. Working a double.”

  Ellen pouted. “No fun. Ask Sherry to let you leave early.”

  “I would,” Archie said, “but I really need the money. Rent went up.”

  “Wuss,” she hissed and then stalked off.

  “Sorry about that,” Archie said. “Can I get you anything else
?”

  “Why’d she call you a wuss?” I heard myself asking.

  Archie rolled his eyes. “It’s stupid. Have you heard about the Ripper parties?”

  I straightened up in my seat. “No, what’s that?”

  “Mostly, it’s a reason for bars and clubs to capitalize on the recent murders,” he answered. “There are a bunch of themed parties going on all around the city. One of the big ones is tonight. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Lazy Licker.”

  “Come again?”

  Archie laughed. “It’s a club down the street from here. Look it up. They have a huge Instagram following.” Another table flagged Archie down. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  As Evelyn freed the first snail from its shell, I searched for the Lazy Licker on Instagram. It was a run-down pub turned music venue, but it maintained certain historic elements like the original bar top and cushioned booths. At nighttime, the Lazy Licker featured up-and-coming artists who weren’t yet popular enough to sell out a larger venue. The most recent posts advertised the upcoming Ripper party, to which the guests were encouraged to wear their sexiest Victorian outfits—good luck to them—and show up ready for a good time. I scrolled down to read the comments below.

  “I can see the cogs turning in your head.” Evelyn slurped up another snail. “What’s going on?”

  I turned the phone to show her. “Look at these comments.”

  “‘Can’t wait to see the Ripper,’” she read out loud. “‘Ready to meet the killer.’ Are these people sane?”

  Archie returned to the table. “How’s the escargot, ladies?”

  “It’s great,” I said hurriedly and held my phone for him to see. “Archie, what are all these people talking about?”

  He skimmed the comment section. “Oh, right. There’s a rumor going around that the killer is going to show up tonight at the club. People have been talking about it for days.”

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  He shrugged. “No idea, but I wouldn’t go. Why take the chance? Ready to order?”

  Later, as we finished our lunch and paid the bill, Evelyn caught my distracted stare. She snapped her fingers. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “About what?”

  “I know you want to go to that Ripper party tonight,” she said. “Please don’t do it. It could be dangerous. The panic alone could send people into a tizzy, and panic makes people stupid.”

  “I won’t go.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  That night, long after Evelyn had fallen asleep, I watched the clock. It was only eleven o’clock, and the “main event” at the Lazy Licker wasn’t due to start until midnight. The pub was right around the corner from Evelyn’s flat. She was a deep sleeper. I had a good chance of making it there and back without ever disturbing her.

  I crept out from under the covers and got dressed. If the killer was going to a party, then so was I. After a second thought, I pulled on my new jacket. Maybe Evelyn was right; it did have a certain sense of badassery about it.

  I snuck out of the flat and into the streets. It was a busy Saturday night in Whitechapel. The Lazy Licker wasn’t the only pub to take advantage of the Ripper scares. Signs in various windows advertised “two for one Ripper shots” or discounts for wearing a top hat. The pubs were packed with people in various states of drunkenness. Fear manifested in different ways. Some let it keep them from going about their daily lives, hiding safely at home but missing out on life. Others behaved as if this night could be their last. The Ripper could come for anyone at any time, so why not drink the dread away?

  The Lazy Licker was overrun. A long line to get in twisted around the corner. I waited at the back of the queue for a good twenty minutes, but when it started to rain, I decided to give it a shot with the bouncer.

  “Hi,” I said, flashing my best smile at the large man who blocked the front door. “My friends are already inside. Is it possible for me to slip in?”

  He cast a hungry eye up and down my body. “Nice jacket. What do you ride?”

  “Oh, uh—” I wracked my memories for a glimpse of the brand splashed across Evelyn’s old bike. “A Triumph.”

  The bouncer nodded in appreciation. “Nice. Got a Suzuki myself. Need ID.” I flashed my driver’s license, and he pulled back the velvet rope to let me in. The girls in line behind me cast me dirty looks. “Have fun.”

  Inside, I squeezed between the packed bodies and found an empty stool at the bar. I ordered a beer and cast an eye across the pub. The light was low, and the room was full of smelly fog from a machine on stage. Bodies gyrated on the dance floor as nondescript electronic music thumped loudly over the speakers.

  Across the way, I spotted Bertha sitting at a high top. When she caught my eyes, she lifted her glass. I waved back. Though I wouldn’t have minded the company, neither one of us was willing to test the thickness of the crowd to join the other.

  “You here to see the Ripper?” a loud voice rumbled in my ear. A guy in his early twenties had shoved his way between the next girl at the bar and me. He flashed me a crooked smile. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was far too young for me. Not to mention, I wasn’t there to hook up with anyone.

  “Yeah,” I said and turned away.

  “I hear it’s gonna be killer,” he went on, his lips so close to my face that I could feel his breath tickling my hair. “Are you here alone?”

  “No, my boyfriend’s in the bathroom.”

  “Nice try. I saw you walk in. What, you don’t think I’m handsome?” He pronounced his th sound as an f, so think sounded like fink.

  “I’d like to be left alone,” I said firmly. From the scent of his breath and the glazed look in his eyes, he’d already downed a few Ripper shots.

  He moved closer. “That’s no fun.”

  I elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted and backed up, knocking into the guy behind him.

  “Oi, watch it!”

  “Sorry, mate.” Rubbing his ribs, he sneered at me and disappeared into the crowd with a nasty insult. I watched as he tried his luck with another girl. She rolled her eyes and pushed him off. It wasn’t his lucky night.

  “Good evening, ladies and gents!” A tattooed man with a handlebar mustache and a top hat had taken the stage. He tipped his hats to the Lazy Licker’s patrons. “I see everyone’s turned up in their best duds. Are you all ready to see the Ripper?”

  The crowd roared its approval. I resisted the urge to cover my ears. The stage lights flashed wildly, as if the intention was to disorient the crowd so much that they would forget they’d already tipped the bartender.

  “The man himself is here tonight!” the MC shouted, working off the crowd’s energy. His manic grin flashed beneath the nights. “It’s gonna be a night you won’t forget. A killer experience. Are—you—ready?”

  If possible, the noise in the bar grew louder. My head hurt, but I stuck it out with clenched teeth. What the hell was happening tonight?

  “Then get ready to welcome,” the MC growled, “Jack the Ripper!”

  The power cut in the bar. The lights went out, plunging the crowd into complete darkness. A girl screamed, triggering every other girl to join her. The guys yelled, just as freaked out. My heart pounded in my chest as my eyes struggled to find a single source of light. If the Ripper was here, it would be the perfect moment to strike. No one would know who pulled the knife.

  A single spotlight illuminated the stage. A slim figure in a top hat, a waistcoat, and matching trousers stood with his back to the audience. Something glimmered in his right hand: the blade of a knife? My pulse intensified again, fluttering against my throat.

  The figure spun around, letting his coat flare around him. He raised his hand—the glimmering object was a microphone—and leaned into the light. He was a gorgeous guy in his late twenties, with a charming smile that caught the audience’s attention without hesitation.

  “Whitechapel!” he shouted in
to the mic. “Are you ready to party?”

  The crowd stomped and hollered with appreciation as another stage light flickered on to illuminate a DJ’s turntable. The man tossed his top hat into the crowd and replaced it with a pair of headphones.

  “I’m the Ripper!” he howled.

  He smashed a button on his turntable, and the music resumed, more frantic and faster than before. The people on the dance floor promptly fell into the beat, pushing up against one another without any regards for personal space. When someone’s butt rubbed against my thigh, I hopped off my stool and headed for the exit.

  The street was dark and cold. The moon was nowhere in sight. I hurried along the sidewalk, keeping my eyes peeled for trouble. The music from the bar faded out behind me. Overhead, the single streetlight along this road flickered out. The shadows deepened. I quickened my pace. Evelyn’s flat wasn’t far. I’d be home soon.

  A splash of water—like a boot in a puddle—echoed behind me. I whirled around and saw nothing. When I faced front again, I noticed the street sign: Henriques Street. This was Ripper territory.

  Footsteps clicked behind me. Without looking back, I made a run for it. The cold air burned my eyes as I crossed the road and kept sprinting. Not far now.

  The toe of my shoe caught the edge of a curb. I landed hard and skidded across the pavement, peeling skin from my forearms. An ugly laugh rang out, and the guy I’d rejected in the bar loomed over me.

  “Hiya, sweetheart,” he said, flashing a terrible grin. “Just me and you now, innit?”

  11

  I scrambled across the pavement and tried to find my footing, but the bar guy was too quick. He planted his feet on either side of my torso and trapped me against the ground. I thrust my fist up toward his crotch, but he quickly cupped his tender parts with both hands.

  “Thought you might try that,” he said, leaning over me. His breath reeked of whiskey. “I knew you wanted to touch me.”

  I snarled a nasty reply, but it only made him laugh.