Hands of the Ripper

by Adams, Guy

  ‘I’m the perfect example,’ he said. ‘I have spent my whole life disbelieving anything that fell beyond the realms of scientific explanation and yet, ever since my wife died, I’m convinced she haunts me. I see her everywhere. I hear her everywhere. She’s not there, of course, I know that really, but knowing that doesn’t make her go away. I am tortured by my own, stupid brain.’

  There was an uncomfortable shuffling at that. The students were awkward at the emotional context of what he was saying. Understandable, he thought, but missing the point.

  ‘Don’t get caught up in the detail,’ he insisted, ‘embarrassed at the fact your mad old lecturer has a dead wife. It’s not the important point. The important point is: however much I know something, the brain won’t let me be. It cannot help but be an organ of deceit, working hard to convince me of things I know not to be the case but will end up believing – in that awful, vulnerable moment – because I am unable to help myself.’

  He ambled back and forth, not even sure if he had a point or just wanted to shake them up.

  ‘At its worst degree, this diversion between fact and reality is called madness. But it’s in all of us, make no mistake about that. When you feel jealous of a partner, regardless of whether they’ve given you due cause, when you find yourself waking up in the night convinced there’s someone else in your room, when you sink into depression knowing you can’t complete your coursework because it’s all too much work and you’re just not clever enough …’ there was a slight laugh at that, the students relieved to be on familiar, innocuous ground. ‘That’s the division at work. The rational voice conflicting with the panicked, instinctual, fearful voice. The one that wants nothing more than to rattle you. It’s all madness, it’s just that sometimes we’re just able to continue functioning.’

  One of the students, Jim Farrage, always the joker, pulled a crazy face and acted the loon.

  ‘In your case, Farrage,’ John said, ‘barely function.’

  They laughed, nothing won back a room like gently picking on one of their number. There was a psychological lesson to be learned there, too, John thought, but not today. Today they had learned enough and he had no more interest in teaching them.

  ‘And sometimes,’ he continued, ‘the best way you can understand psychology is to shut up, close your books,’ he tapped his temple, ‘and listen to what is says in here.’

  He gathered up his own . ‘We’ll finish early so you can do just that,’ he said, and went in search of Shaun Vedder.

  The campus was typical of many institutions designed and built in the seventies. The separate buildings littered the grounds surrounded by pathways and stairways that frequently led to nowhere the discerning pedestrian could wish to be. Architectural cul-de-sacs were semi-legitimised by ‘free’ areas turfed or gravelled and filled with park benches or picnic tables. Sometimes you’d even find students in these areas, but only if they were lost or specifically trying to avoid other people.

  John found Shaun huddled on a bench in the process of being swallowed by an azalea bush.

  ‘You mind if I join you for a minute?’ he asked.

  Shaun shrugged and squeezed himself into an even tighter ball in the corner of the bench.

  ‘I heard about your mum,’ said John. ‘My condolences.’

  Shaun nodded but chose to say nothing.

  ‘I just wanted to offer my help,’ John continued, determined to say his piece. ‘You know I lost someone recently and it’s difficult to deal with. I still struggle. But I’ll give you whatever support I can. At least you know that I understand what it feels like. I know how it can hurt.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. John hoping Shaun might actually say something. When he eventually decided that wasn’t going to happen he got to his feet and made to leave.

  ‘You know what’s really getting me today?’ said Shaun finally.

  John turned back to face him. ‘What?’

  ‘How it takes my mother dying to get everyone around here to give a shit.’

  John shook his head. ‘That’s not true, Shaun, lots of people care, you know that.’

  ‘Do I? Really? Who are my best friends, Mr Pritchard? Who do you always see me hanging around with?’

  John tried to think and found he couldn’t bring anyone to mind. Whenever he saw Shaun he was on his own. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You and every other stranger,’ Shaun replied and shifted on the seat so his back was turned to John. It was clear he had no more interest in talking. After a moment of desperately trying to think what might be the best thing to say, John conceded defeat and left the young man to it.

  The good mood he’d started the day with was slipping away. He’d been of no use to Shaun and felt embarrassed at how he’d handled the situation. Ray had been right that he should have avoided seeking the lad out. Still, having made that initial effort he felt he couldn’t just abandon him entirely so went to see Tracy Lambeth, the student counsellor.

  She was in her office reading a newspaper and waiting for her working day to end. John often wondered how someone so apparently uninterested in other people could be found doing her job.

  ‘Hello, John,’ she said when he stuck his head around her door. ‘I can’t hang around I’ve got a very busy morning.’

  ‘Clearly,’ he replied, with a smile, nodding at the newspaper.

  ‘Can’t do this job unless you’re abreast of current affairs,’ she said, ‘you’d be surprised how much the outside world affects them. I remember a girl five years ago who swallowed a bottle of Nembutal just because the “wrong” person won X Factor. God knows how she got hold of some. Bought it online, I suppose. I wish one of the sods would show me how to find that sort of thing. Music, drugs and porn … all you ever see on this damn thing,’ she tapped her computer, ‘are emails and Wikipedia. God knows what I’m doing wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps Ray could …’

  ‘That smelly pervert? I’d rather have the thing thrown out of the window. Anyway … what did you want to ask? Out with it so I can get on with my research.’ She shoved at the newspaper with a chewed biro. ‘What’s one of them done now? Or is it you that wants to …?’

  ‘No, no, I’m all right. It’s Shaun Vedder.’

  ‘That weirdo? What’s he done now?’

  ‘His mother’s died.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose that’s hardly his fault.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said John, ‘but he’s very cut up about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m here if he needs to talk.’

  John couldn’t see that happening. ‘I tried to talk to him myself, actually.’

  Tracy shook her head in despair. ‘What is with you people thinking you can just go and be a counsellor,’ she said, ‘I didn’t train for nothing, you know. I’ve a diploma in grief counselling, what qualifications have you got?’

  John just stared at her, not quite sure if she was joking or not.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘yeah … your wife, sorry.’

  ‘No problem. He wouldn’t talk anyway. Seems to have a real chip on his shoulder about people not caring for him.’

  ‘Took a shower once in a while he might find his social life picks up,’ Tracy laughed. ‘All right, I’m only joking.’

  Said in the manner of obnoxious bullies everywhere, thought John. It doesn’t matter what you say as long as you insist you were joking afterwards.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know,’ he said, getting up. ‘He’s genuinely suffering, maybe you could keep an eye on him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she picked up her paper again, ‘will do.’

  John coasted through the rest of the day, finding he always had one eye on the windows hoping to catch sight of Shaun Vedder. He even took his lunch at Verano on the off chance he might bump into him there. No doubt he had little in the way of an appetite, for vegetable tikka wraps even, certainly there was no sign of him.

  John even returned to the bench where he’d talked to
Vedder. Unsurprisingly it was empty.

  Perhaps, he decided, he should concentrate on his own problems and let Shaun do likewise.

  Cycling home it once again occurred to him that he might be returning to a home damaged beyond recognition. With the carefree attitude of the morning now well and truly gone he found himself pedalling faster and faster in the need to get home and find out one way or the other. The sky was beginning to darken again, eager to fulfil the promises of the weather forecasters. By the time he returned home it was beginning to spot with rain and he ran from the side of the house where he chained his bike to the front door in order to avoid getting wet.

  Unlocking his door he took a deep breath, determined to deal with whatever he might find. It was as the door swung open that he realised Alasdair and Glen might be waiting for him. It could be that their revenge would be nothing less than a beating.

  ‘Hello?’ he called, stepping cautiously into the hallway. There was definitely something different about the place, he decided, a smell …

  Anna appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wooden spoon in one hand, tea towel in the other. She was dancing to the music from her iPod, headphone cable swaying in time to her hips. When she saw him she screamed and threw the wooden spoon in panic. It painted an arrow of tomato sauce on the glass of the front door.

  ‘You made me jump!’ she shouted, before yanking out her headphones. ‘Sorry,’ she said, much quieter, ‘I wasn’t expecting you back for a bit yet. What time do school teachers finish work these days?’

  ‘University lecturers finish whenever they’re free,’ he replied, picking up the spoon. ‘Sorry I startled you.’

  ‘I’m cooking,’ she explained as he handed it back.

  ‘I hoped that was the answer,’ he replied, smiling. ‘If you’d been killing my cat with a spoon I’d have been furious.’

  ‘Oh he’s fine,’ she said, strolling back into the kitchen with John following, ‘I fed him some tuna at lunchtime and now we’ve come to an understanding.’

  John saw that it was true, Toby Dammit sat on the kitchen table watching Anna calmly. He glanced at John, confirming that all was under control but that supervision would continue.

  ‘I haven’t had someone cook for me …’ John suddenly realised where that sentence was going and head it off at the pass, ‘well, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘It’s nothing special,’ said Anna, ‘because I’m a lousy cook, but I thought it was the least I could do, considering. It’s pasta, anyone can cook pasta.’ She stirred the saucepan of sauce. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Fine. Actually, no, horrible. A student of mine’s lost his mother.’

  ‘That can be a blessing.’

  ‘Not in this case, he’s very cut up about it.’

  Anna nodded. ‘I can’t even remember mine. You’d think at four I’d have some memories wouldn’t you? At least he’ll have that …’

  ‘Or maybe that just gives him more to miss?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She dumped the spoon in the saucepan and moved over to the kettle. ‘Do you want a drink? I can make you a drink.’

  ‘You don’t have to run around after me,’ he said. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I know, I just want to be … I don’t know, a good thing in the house rather than a problem.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not a problem.’ The phone rang, saving him from any further awkwardness.

  ‘Hey,’ it was Michael, ‘how’s things?’

  ‘Fine,’ said John, not wanting to discuss Anna with him over the phone, aware that his son would disapprove. ‘You?’

  ‘Not brilliant, just heard I didn’t get that Stoppard thing. Didn’t fancy touring anyway but, well, you know.’

  ‘The money wasn’t bad.’

  ‘Surprisingly. I wondered if we could come round?’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Obviously there, Dad, unless you’re going out or something?’

  ‘No,’ John wasn’t quick enough to think of a suitable lie, ‘no, it’s fine. You just don’t often visit so I was surprised.’

  ‘Well, Laura and I’ve been talking about your suggestion.’

  ‘My suggestion?’ John’s head was all over the place, imagining what Michael was going to say about Anna.

  ‘You know, about the house.’

  ‘You two moving in, of course, sorry …’

  ‘If you’ve changed your mind …’

  ‘Not at all, just had a lot on today, my head’s not with it.’

  ‘No change there. What sort of time would be good?’

  ‘Whenever you like,’ John decided the only way forward was to be brazen about it. ‘Tell you what, come at seven and we’ll feed you both.’

  ‘“We”?’

  ‘You’ll see, tell you about it later.’

  Eight

  A Nice Man

  ‘I SHOULD JUST go out,’ said Anna, fretting over the pasta, ‘give you some space for a couple of hours. There’s no need for me to stay. After all, it’ll only be awkward.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ John said, grating cheese, ‘it’s only my son. It’s not a problem. It’s my house.’

  ‘But he’ll ask about last night, I really don’t want to talk about that …’

  ‘Then we don’t have to. I’ll explain everything.’ He put down the grater, exasperated with his own nerves more than hers. ‘For God’s sake! I’m only putting you up for a couple of nights, what’s the big deal?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she agreed, her voice calmer. ‘Nothing, you’re right.’

  They carried on in silence for a minute. John glanced at the clock. It was still half an hour before Michael and Laura would arrive.

  ‘I wish I’d packed more clothes,’ said Anna looking down at the baggy jumper and jeans she was still wearing. ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘There’s stuff upstairs you can borrow if you want,’ said John, dumping the cheese in the sauce. ‘In the wardrobes in your room. Most of it should fit.’

  ‘Your wife’s clothes?’ Anna looked uncomfortable and, now he thought about it, with good cause. What had he been thinking?

  ‘Actually, yes … probably you don’t want to … I just never seem to find the time to clear them out.’ He grabbed some cutlery and began laying the table. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think …’

  ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘it’s fine, honestly. It’s very kind. I mean they’re only clothes I’m sure there’d be something in there better than …’ she looked down at herself.

  Relieved, he nodded. ‘She wouldn’t have minded. She’d certainly have lent you something had she been here.’ Had she not been dead. Oh shut up, John Pritchard, he thought, just shut up.

  There was a moment of slight awkwardness, with both of them looking at each other. Anna broke first.

  ‘If you’re sure it’s OK, I’ll grab a quick shower and get changed. I’d feel more comfortable I think …’

  ‘Go ahead, please, there’s nothing left to do here anyway.’

  She ran upstairs and he sank back against the table, trying to convince himself that it was fine. It was only stuff, clutter he should have cleared out months ago. It really didn’t matter did it?

  And before he could even steel himself against it he could picture Jane, the grey, lifeless remnant of her that always lingered close by, watching as Anna ran her hands through the old clothes. He could imagine her dead eyes, almost as white as those of a boiled fish, staring on in jealousy, reaching out to stop this act of desecration.

  He dropped the cutlery and the clatter brought his mind back to the present.

  ‘You all right?’ Anna shouted from upstairs.

  ‘Fine, just clumsy.’ He heard her opening the wardrobe doors and clenched his fists in anger at himself.

  He picked up the knives and forks and finished laying the table.

  ‘He’s allowed to meet someone, you know,’ Laura laughed, hugging Michael’s arm as they walked together up the street.

  Michael shifted the umbrella sl
ightly, wanting to make sure that she was fully covered.

  ‘Of course he is,’ he agreed, ‘if that’s what it is. Probably it’s just an old friend visiting or something …’

  ‘If it was an old friend he’d have told you, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe the IT guy from the Uni, I think they’re friends …’

  ‘Then he would have said “The IT guy’s here too.”’

  ‘Ray, his name’s Ray.’

  ‘Whatever. You know what I’m saying. You know I’m right as well. Whoever it is it was too complicated to explain on the phone.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s a woman.’

  ‘Oh Michael,’ Laura laughed and he was given cause once again to bask in her sheer ebullience. She went through life seeming to constantly erupt with joy. He frequently wished it was contagious.

  ‘Well? It doesn’t. But if it is then that’s OK too, I’m just surprised. He really doesn’t seem to be over Mum, that’s all.’

  ‘He probably never will be “over” her. Neither will you. Doesn’t mean you can’t get on with your life.’

  ‘I know, it was just the way he was talking. About sharing the house and the medium thing …’

  ‘Maybe he met someone there?’

  ‘What? Amongst the gloomy pensioners and weird new-agers? I doubt it. Though there was a widow who kept talking to him, maybe she’s kidnapped him.’

  ‘Maybe. She keeps him chained up except when he has guests, if he looks panicked we’ll try and break him out, all right?’

  ‘OK.’

  They stopped at the kerb, Michael waiting for a slow bus to head past rather than dragging Laura across at speed. He had learned to become a patient set of eyes for her and was proud at the trust she placed in him. He had never felt like someone who was reliable, she made him feel exactly that. With the road clear, they crossed and walked past the last couple of houses to his father’s house.