by kindels
Three women had already died at the hands of the new Whitechapel murderer before the police got lucky. Holland's information proved vital and the authorities distributed a photo of Reid to every police officer in the capital. It was a member of the British Transport Police who eventually spotted Jack Reid, innocently waiting for a tube train on the London Underground. Rather than tackle the suspected killer himself, the officer radioed his headquarters with confirmation of his sighting and then followed Reid onto the train. When Reid left the train, the officer notified H.Q. Again he followed the suspect, at all times keeping in radio contact with his supervisor, as a tactical firearms squad, from the Metropolitan Police was quickly deployed to the area.
As Jack Reid entered a small apartment building, less than a mile from the scene of the last killing, he found himself surrounded by armed police officers and arrested on the spot. He readily admitted to his crimes and, once again, he used the excuse of being a descendant of Jack the Ripper, of having been compelled by the soul of the long-dead killer to carry out the latest series of horrific killings and hideous mutilations.
Following extensive psychiatric examinations, Jack Reid had been declared unfit to plead at trial, diagnosed as criminally insane, and promptly incarcerated, once again, in Ravenswood. What had happened to him after that, I had no idea, as I found myself strangely unable to find any further information on the Internet, after this time of his admission to the secure hospital. He'd simply dropped off the public radar.
I knew I would have to await the arrival of my guest, the next day, to discover more and to find out just what Jack Reid had done in the last years of his life in Ravenswood, and how his actions, whatever they may have been, had resulted in such a dramatic impact on his solicitor. Obviously, Forbes appeared in fear of his life; why else would he have contacted me and asked to visit me so urgently? At the same time, I wondered how I, a psychologist, could possibly be the man to assist him in his quest, whatever that might be. As I laid my head on the pillow that night, with Forbes' imminent arrival just a few short hours away, I confess to feeling a sense of excitement, tinged with an expectation that something out of the ordinary was taking place.
Whatever that something may be, I would discover soon enough, and as the darkness enfolded me as I turned out the bedside lamp that night, I slept better than the previous night, and didn't stir until the hands on the clock read six a.m. once more.
Dawn brought with it a clear blue sky, a fresh, but comfortable breeze, and hint of hazy sunshine. In short, a good day for Skerries Rock. After a good breakfast, I dressed in my usual warm outer clothing and made my way to the quay. I soon had the launch's engine fired up and, as the gentle swells carried their white wave crests towards the rocky shores of my island home, I set off against the current to my prearranged pickup point in Balnakiel, where I knew William Forbes would be waiting for me.
As I pulled up to the dock in the village of Balnakiel sometime later, I could easily identify the man I'd travelled to meet as he stood watching my arrival. Although I'd never set eyes on William Forbes before, this man could be none other than my client. The fear and the haunted look in his eyes, as I drew close enough to discern his face, identified him to me as clearly as if he'd carried a placard with his name emblazoned upon it. Never had I seen such a look on the face of a living soul. For the first time since Forbes' telephone call, I realised the severity of his trouble and I perceived, quickly, that this may just prove to be no ordinary, everyday case. This man appeared, by his obvious demeanour, terrified out of his wits!
Chapter Three
William Forbes
After tying up the launch, I stepped, expertly, from the boat onto the steps that led up the harbour wall to the walkway above, where William Forbes waited anxiously for our first meeting. In seconds I found myself face-to-face with my soon-to-be houseguest. The man exchanged a firm handshake with me; I was somewhat at odds with his hunted, or perhaps, I should say, 'haunted' appearance. I experienced little doubt in my mind that, rightly or wrongly, William Forbes held a genuine and serious belief that someone, or something, was out to do him harm. He stood hunched, against the mild breeze, his shoulders stooped as though he were hiding from some unknown and unseen enemy. He wore a camel-coloured overcoat, an old-fashioned trilby hat, and well-polished brown brogues. Under his left arm he clutched a battered, brown leather document case, slightly at odds with the obvious quality of his attire. If he possessed hair, there couldn't be much of it, as none showed from beneath the sides or back of his hat. His eyes appeared to scan the horizon as he looked, not so much at me, but through me, as we exchanged polite greetings.
"I'm so pleased you agreed to see me, Dr. Hemswell."
"Please, call me David," I replied. "If we're to share my home for a day or two, I think we should dispense with the formalities, don't you?"
"Thank-you, yes, I agree of course. David it shall be then. But, please, Doctor, er, I mean David, can we be on our way as soon as possible? I really don't like being out here like this. We seem so exposed."
"Listen, we're in a tiny village, on the very tip of the British Isles. This place is exposed by the nature of its existence and location, but that doesn't mean it isn't a safe place to be. I know everyone in this village, Mr. Forbes. They are my friends and my neighbours, despite the distance to my own home. None of these folk would do me, or anyone staying with me, the slightest harm, believe me. I hope I can call you William, by the way."
He nodded, signalling his approval.
"Very well," I went on. "I need to pick up a few things at the local store, then we can return to the boat and be on our way. Will that be okay with you?"
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry," said Forbes, his eyes once again scanning the surrounding area for whatever threat, real or imagined, that he perceived in his mind.
"It won't take long," I assured him.
Forbes nodded again, words appearing hard to come by. Without another word, he simply fell into step with me as I made my way up from the tiny harbour to the small village high street where the grandiosely named Potter's Emporium stood, imperiously overlooking the dock area and the small boats that bobbed gently at anchor. The emporium stood sandwiched between the tiny post office/chemist shop, and McMurdo's Ships Chandlers. I'd always wondered how a ship's chandler could make a decent living in Balnakiel, with the entire fleet of fishing boats, owned by the locals, amounting to no more than a dozen small inshore boats, and a couple of small pleasure cruisers that gave tourists guided trips round the bay and the isles in the summer months. But, somehow, old McMurdo had survived in business for many a year gone by, and probably would for many more to come. Sandy McMurdo had even had the funds available to purchase Potter's Emporium, when old man Potter died the previous year, and had now become one of the wealthiest men in the village, though one would never had known it from his permanent frown, which greeted the pair of us as Forbes and I entered the emporium. In fact, it was nothing more than a general store and mini-supermarket, selling mostly canned foods and pre-packaged meats, delivered each week from the nearest town, in addition to the varied dry goods and haberdashery required by the locals in an isolated location such as Balnakiel.
"Well, if it isn't Doctor Hemswell, and friend, I'm supposing?" said old McMurdo as we crossed the wooden floor boards that smelled of polish and linseed, ending up across the opposite side of the high counter from the old man.
"Yes indeed, Mr. McMurdo," I responded. "I need a few things to see me through the next few days. Extra food, and so on, for my guest."
"Aye, as I thought," said the old man. "And this will be... ?" He looked directly at Forbes.
"As you say, a friend, Mr. McMurdo," I replied, not wanting to give away my guest's name for fear of displeasing him, or of fuelling unwanted gossip in the village.
The local tom-toms could easily build a mountain from a molehill from the merest piece of loose information, and I had the feeling that William Forbes would appreciate the privac
y of anonymity during his stay with me.
"Aye, well, you just help yourself to what ye need and we'll tot it up and add it to your regular monthly bill, if that's agreeable to ye," said the shop owner.
"That'll do fine," I said as I began trawling through the shelves of the store, picking up the extras I felt would be needed with a guest in the house; extra toilet rolls, toothpaste, a few tins of salmon, beans and such like. Within ten minutes I'd filled two large cardboard boxes and old McMurdo had added a princely forty pounds, give or take a few pence, to my account at the emporium.
Before we left, I asked Forbes if he'd made arrangements for his car. It would be left unattended during his stay with me.
"I left my own car at home. I used a hired car to drive up here. It's a blue Mondeo, parked in the little car park near the harbour," he informed me.
"We'll pick up your bags and I'll arrange for someone to look after it while you're on the island."
"I hadn't thought of that," he replied.
Sandy McMurdo was also the owner of the only garage in Balnakiel and I quickly made arrangements for him to pick up the car and keep it garaged on his premises until 'my friend' returned to collect it. We quickly walked back to the car, drove it back to the village and left the keys with McMurdo, who promptly locked up his emporium and ushered us along the road to his own car and kindly gave the two of us, and Forbes's luggage, a lift back to the harbour, where my launch awaited us, gently bobbing on the end of its tether.
"I appreciate what you did back there, not telling the shopkeeper my name," Forbes said as we loaded the boxes into the launch back at the harbour.
"Don't mention it," I replied. "I just thought it best not to give the locals too much tittle-tattle to talk about. There's little enough happens in Balnakiel as it is, and any hint of a newcomer with a strange story to tell might soon get blown up out of all proportion."
"What d'you mean, strange story?" asked my visitor.
"Well, you did tell me that you thought Jack the Ripper is after you, didn't you? That's a little strange to say the least. After all, this is the twenty-first century. Jack the Ripper died over a century ago, so there's little chance of him prowling the streets looking for you, is there?"
"You just don't know, or understand," Forbes said as we exited the harbour and picked up a rolling swell as we hit the open sea beyond the breakwater. "There are things in this world that defy logic, David, really, there are, as you'll find out all too soon."
"Yes, well, let's save your story until we reach Skerries Rock, shall we? I'd rather talk in the peace of my house than out here on a rolling sea with a gale brewing."
"How long till we get there?"
"With a following wind, about an hour, or just over"
With that, Forbes fell silent and simply gazed out to sea, his eyes continuing to scan the four points of the compass as though he expected a battleship, with all guns blazing, to suddenly appear over the horizon and open fire on our tiny craft. I remained content to continue our short voyage in silence, concentrating instead on following a sure course, and hugging the coast, as much as possible, in order to prevent my guest from experiencing too much in the way of those rolling seas I'd already mentioned. I certainly didn't know if he possessed his sea legs or not, but at least I could do my best to help him avoid any seasickness; thus saving myself a cleaning job if he'd thrown up in my neat motor launch.
Looking to the sky, I could see a mass of dark, rain-laden storm clouds fast blowing in from the north; I opened the throttles to the stops in an effort to beat the weather to Skerries Rock. Even though we were close to shore, I wanted to avoid the pitching and yawing and thunderous waves that would accompany the arriving storm.
Forbes remained silent for the rest of the trip, his mind seemingly miles from our current location. He barely seemed to register the ever increasing swells and the heavy pitching of the boat as we ran before the storm, until, finally, I swung the launch round in, towards the shore of Skerries Rock, and he finally broke his silence.
"It's beautiful," he exclaimed as he took in the awesome grandeur of the land as it rose from the shore towards the centre of the island. I hadn't even realised his mind had made contact with the view as we'd approached my home.
"It looks even better when the sun shines," I replied, trying to keep the conversation light as I struggled to bring the boat in to the quay, despite the efforts of a cross-current that appeared determined to push us further out to sea. I was too experienced at docking my launch, however, and five minutes later, with the launch safely stowed in the boathouse, we stood on dry land.
I led Forbes up the steep path that led to my croft, my home, my retreat from the outside world. He clutched his briefcase as he walked. I nobly carried his overnight bags. I suddenly realised that William Forbes would be not only my first house guest since moving to Skerries Rock, he might also have brought with him something of the outside world that I'd rather not be here with me, something that I might find hard to put aside once I became aware of whatever had brought the man hundreds of miles from London to see me.
We entered my home some ten minutes later, and I allowed my guest to enter ahead of me. As I closed the door behind us, I watched Forbes as he appeared to visibly sag. The man sighed and his shoulders drooped a little more. When he turned to face me, however, some of the fear that been evident earlier appeared to have vacated his expression. Perhaps my home represented some kind of sanctuary for him, an escape from whatever terrors lurked within his mind.
No sooner had that momentary relaxation registered, when a resounding clap of thunder sounded from what seemed to be a position right above, presaging the coming storm.
Forbes jumped, nerves getting the better of him, and in an instant the fear had returned. As a bolt of brilliant lightning rent the sky and lit up the room through the sturdy windows of my home, William Forbes shrank still further into himself. I watched, fascinated, as the well-built solicitor, a man whose entire life should have been built around logic, order, and the law, and who I'd have imagined to be one of the least likely to panic at the forces and sounds of nature, backed away from the window, until, his eyes once more displaying the fear of one hunted by terrors unknown, his back came to rest against the wall beside the fireplace.
His body shook and his mouth opened in fear. His lips moved, but not a sound came from them. Though he remained in the room with me, I felt as though William Forbes were no longer with me, but had retreated to some dark place, locked away in his own private world of fear and dread.
"Mr. Forbes ... William," I implored, trying to break through whatever barrier had risen in his mind.
I received no reply, just the sound of the wind as it swirled round the house,
and of thunder roaring again as another sheet of lightning lit the sky. William Forbes shook, as though the storm's force might be directed solely at him, as if he were under attack by unseen forces and, for the first time, I contemplated the absurd notion that, perhaps, just perhaps, he was ...
Chapter Four
A Piece of Yellowed Paper
I tried, but found it impossible to break Forbes out of his panic attack, for that constituted my diagnosis of his state of mind.
"Mr. Forbes, William!" I implored and beseeched him to snap out of it, tried to reassure him out of his terror of the storm. I switched on all the lights in the room in an effort to calm him, all to no avail. Whatever demons had invaded the man's mind, they held a far stronger hold over his psychological equilibrium than anything my own feeble entreaties could break through.
I made the decision to try and allow him to break free from his fears in his own time, and I simply walked to him and took him by the arm, gently guiding him to the nearest armchair. He allowed me to lead him, still shaking, to the comfort of my own fireside chair, and I eased him into a sitting position as his eyes continued to dart around the room in search of... what? I couldn't tell, and I had the distinct impression that my guest, if he'd had the
opportunity, would have run from the house in his terror, and possibly careened across the landscape of Skerries Rock until he pitched into the ocean, becoming a victim not just of the power of the sea, but of the irrational fears (as I thought) that had temporarily deranged his mind. At least, I hoped it would prove to be a temporary state. The possibility that I'd allowed a madman to enter my home, for whom I'd made up my spare room to occupy, had begun to grow in my mind.
As the warmth of the room began to reach into his body, as the lights now burned without flickering (I'd done a good job on repairing the generator), and as the storm slowly abated in its intensity, so William Forbes began to visibly relax a little. Though still rooted to his place in my most comfortable chair, his hands no longer gripped the arms of the chair as though his life depended upon it, and his chest stopped heaving with the intensity of his rapid breathing. I'd heard that allowing the victim of a panic attack to breathe into a paper bag could help, and at last he appeared sufficiently lucid for me to try and get him to do so, utilising one of the bags containing a number of my purchases from the emporium. The brown paper bag seemed to help and, within five minutes, the previously panic-stricken solicitor had calmed down sufficiently for me to attempt conversation with him once more. He at last removed his hat and coat, revealing an almost bald head (with just a few wisps of light brown hair clinging to his scalp), a dark brown jacket, and a pair of designer jeans.
"I'm sorry," he eventually volunteered as I knelt on the floor in front of him. I eased the bag from his hand, and laid it on the floor beside the chair.
"Listen, these storms are part and parcel of my life here on the island. They're quite normal and do no harm at all. You really mustn't let them have such a fearful effect on you. There's no one else on the island, just you and me. No one is going to harm you while you're here."
