by Thomas Emson
There was no escape.
And there was no escape for Patricia Faultless, she knew that.
She sat in her flat, drinking. Half-an-hour earlier, she’d stormed out of the pub where she’d had a ruck with Tony. She’d told him of her dreams about being pursued. He’d gone mental, accusing her of having an affair. They’d had a brawl.
Now, her rage dimming, she stared at the TV screen. It showed a game show. Bruce Forsyth was helping people to play their cards right. The couple wore furrowed brows, deciding whether to go higher or lower. But it was easy when you were playing with money. Not so easy when you were playing with your life.
What were the odds on Patricia being born like this? What were the odds on her being given a gift of sights that could end up killing her?
She gulped down the wine and poured out another glass. She was shaking. If only Charlie were here. Her boy. Her miracle. But even he, the menace of Barrowmore, would have to cower before the one she was waiting for.
The one she was waiting for had angels lined up behind him. He was human, but non-human powers controlled him. They guided him. They made him kill for them. They made him rip. He was their hunter and their gatherer. He paved the way. He hoarded the treasures.
Pat put her head in her hands.
Why her? Why had she been born like this? She had never asked for it. They say you have free will, but that was bollocks. No one was free. No one had freedom. Who would ever choose to be born on Barrowmore? Who would ever choose to be born a seer?
“We’re descended from very special people,” her mother had told her when she was a teenager. “From people who had gifts. We can see things, Patty. We can hear the dead speak. And we can . . . we can hunt evil.”
Pat’s mum had made a living out of fortune telling. She’d converted the second bedroom in their flat into a gypsy’s den. Candles flickered, and joss-sticks scented the air. Red material was draped on the walls. Thick curtains, permanently drawn, kept out the light. Figurines of unicorns and angels and other mythical creatures peered down from shelves. Red Indian dreamcatcher mobiles dangled from the ceiling. A crystal ball and a packet of tarot cards sat on the small round table at the center of the room.
It was all pointless. Pat’s mum had no need for the paraphernalia. The crystal ball and the tarot were useless. They were what you expected to see if you visited a medium. But you couldn’t tell a future by staring into a sphere of glass, and you couldn’t predict happiness by dealing out cards.
It was all fake. Just like the mediums who used them.
But there was nothing fake about Pat’s mum. She was real. She could see. She could predict. But it was a curse, not a gift. It was a burden. Because it came at a price.
And the price was death.
You were part of an ancient game. You were pawns. You were puppets.
She wept. The couple on TV chose lower. They should have gone higher. The card came up as the Ace of Spades. Pat laughed through her tears. She stood and went to the front door, checking again that it was locked. Back in the living room, she downed her wine. She felt drowsy. Maybe being drunk would dull the pain.
She wondered if Susan Murray and Nancy Sherwood had dulled the pain. It shook her to think of them, murdered because of who they were.
And then there was poor Rachel. Poor, beautiful Rachel, who Charlie loved. Who Charlie worshipped. Although she was Roy Hanbury’s daughter, she was kind and considerate. She was wise. Pat had hoped she would lead Charlie away from the streets. Away from the violence that afflicted his life. But it was too much to wish for.
Charlie was Charlie. The darkness was in him. You could never remove it. That’s how he was made. That’s how he had been brought to her.
She clutched her chest, recalling that night nearly twenty years previously. She was mourning a lost child. It was a girl, a week old when it died. Losing the baby had been another judgment on Pat that year. Already her dreams of being a model had been wrecked, and then when she became pregnant her boyfriend left her. Someone was punishing her, she was convinced. She was paying for her sins, whatever they were.
But then, a miracle.
Contemplating suicide one night in November 1977, Pat heard a noise outside her front door. It was close to midnight. She guessed it was kids. You wondered sometimes if parents knew where their offspring were. Truth was they never cared much. Not around here. Pat had gone to the door and opened it. She was ready to shriek at the troublemakers, tell them where to go.
But no one was there. Only a naked baby on her doorstep.
Her Charlie.
Casting a quick glance along the walkway, she spotted no one. She picked up the infant and took it inside.
Her Charlie.
Pats mother had stared at the baby the following day and said, “If it was left outside the door, mate, he’s a gift, ain’t he. He’s been left there for a reason.”
“I want to keep him, Mum.”
“Darlin, I think you were meant to. It’s in the stars, ain’t it. It’s fate. It’s destiny. He’s meant to be yours.”
And he was.
Her Charlie.
Now she was torn between wanting him here to protect her and hoping he’d not come home, where he’d probably be killed.
He had been wracked by grief after Rachel’s death. He’d sworn vengeance. But no one knew who’d killed her. He said it was the Graveneys. She was a Hanbury, after all.
Pat had said, “There’s peace between them, Charlie. The Graveneys would never do that to anyone. Not a girl. No way, babe.”
Charlie’s face had darkened. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re shagging that bastard.”
Pat slapped him. The first time she’d hit him. “Don’t you say that to me, Charlie. Don’t you ever.”
He looked at her, and his eyes, one brown and one blue, were cold and deadly.
He’d wheeled then and marched out of the house. He was gone for two days. He came back, and they were still cold together. And now, feared Pat, she would die without making up properly with her beautiful boy.
She leapt from her seat, thinking, I got to find him and I got to tell him the truth, and pulling on her coat, she went to the door.
She unlocked it and threw it open and stared through the eyeholes of a mask—the mask of a madman.
She tried to scream, but the man in the lunatics hood clamped a gloved hand over her mouth and forced her back into the flat.
He kicked the door shut.
He spun her around, and he was behind her and he was driving her through into the living room, his breath hot on her neck.
He grabbed her hair and pulled back her head, and the cold blade was on her neck, and she gasped.
The knife cut her, and she cried out.
But then her throat became warm with blood, and she had no breath or voice to scream.
Her body grew cold, and she felt herself drift away, her vision swimming.
Her mouth filled with blood. It ran hot down her chest.
The man loosened his grip on her and her legs gave way and she felt herself fall and fade away and she was dead before she hit the floor.
Chapter 88
THREE DEATHS
WHITECHAPEL—3:51 PM, FEBRUARY 28, 2011
Jack held him against the wall by his throat and said, “Fifteen years ago, I sent a great man out to kill for me. He claimed four seers. He paved the way for my return. There was only a fifth to be killed. Only one more. I gave her to you, Hallam. I gave her to you. I gave you the chance to be a prince in my kingdom. You failed.”
Jack tossed him aside. Hallam smashed into the wall. The back of his head cracked against the concrete. Stars burst before his eyes, and he slumped to the ground. He groaned and laid there for what felt like hours.
He sat up slowly. His vision was blurry, and his head ached. Drowsine
ss overwhelmed him. He threw up. The sour taste of vomit filled his mouth. He cringed and retched again. As his eyes cleared, he saw Jack prowl the darkness, moving from pillar to pillar like a shadow.
They were still in the cavern—wherever that was supposed to be. It was under the tower blocks. But was that possible? Spencer had said how Jack had shown him places and things he never knew existed on Barrowmore. Hallam could tell by looking into Spencer’s eyes that some of those things were appalling. Maybe they were things no one should ever see, and once you saw them you were stained.
Hallam certainly felt stained. He felt corrupt. It seemed as if a serpent were slithering inside him, spreading its poison through his veins. And it was all down to Jack. Jack who gave him the chance to live out his desires, who gave him the chance to be a prince. But Hallam, typically, had thrown it all away. He’d failed to kill Jasmine. He’d failed to be Jack’s ripper.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he said.
Jack wheeled. His black eyes blazed. He swept towards Hallam, who cowered. But Jack was on him, hoisting him to his feet. He screamed in Hallam’s face, and his breath was stale. Hallam was nearly sick again.
Then Jack, in his rage, bit Hallam’s face. The pain was like fire. He shrieked as Jack’s teeth tore into his cheek. Blood ran warmly across his skin. He writhed, begging Jack to let him go.
Jack tore his head away, taking a chunk of Hallam’s flesh with him.
Hallam screamed, clutching his face. Blood poured from the wound. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before.
His flesh filled Jack’s mouth—until Jack chewed and swallowed.
“Tasty,” he said, smacking his lips. “Shall I eat the rest of you, Hallam?”
“No . . . please . . . please . . . ”
“You’re crying like a baby. I’m ashamed of you. You’ve disgraced yourself. I should kill you. I should do what I did with my enemies—I should fucking roast you alive.”
“Please . . . please . . . ”
“One last chance, Hallam.”
Relief filled Hallam’s heart. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Three deaths I want from you.”
“Th . . . three?”
“The first will be the mother. Bring her to me. I want to see her ripped. The second, her child. I just want her dead. The third, the big man. The older one.”
“Roy Hanbury?”
“Is that his name?”
“I can’t kill Roy Hanbury.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . he’s Roy Hanbury.”
“What does his name matter?”
“He’s . . . he’s really tough.”
“So will you be.” He moved towards Hallam. “You will be like a demon. You will be a gelding.” He lifted Hallam up against the wall again.
Hallam screamed as Jack’s claw-like hand closed around his testicles.
And then Jack said, “You’re better off without them, I promise you . . . I promise you.”
Hallam squealed.
Chapter 89
THE MAGICK ARTS
Tash studied Faultless. He was staring at the portrait of the crucifixion. She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, surprised by her touch.
“You okay?” she said.
“Me? Fine. How’s Jasmine?”
“She’s sleeping in Dad’s room.”
They’d come back to her father’s house, because her flat had been destroyed. Spencer, meanwhile, had been dragged off to Faultless’s rented hovel. Tash’s dad stayed with him, keeping an eye. She pitied the teenager but tried not to think about it too much.
Tash had led them out of the cavern. A tunnel snaked away from the elevator shaft where they’d found all those bones. It had been a sewer. The stink could strip the skin from the inside of your nose. Rats scurried. Dirty water ran in a channel under the earth.
She had no idea where she was going, but she had been convinced it was the way out. After all, she’d found her way down there in the first place.
She’d found her daughter and Jack. She’d “seen” them and “known” how to track them down. At the time, she had accepted this knowledge. But now, once more, her gift confused and scared her. Would she always have it? Could it be switched off and on at will?
Faultless said, “I need to find the old man.”
“Who is he?”
He shook his head. “He . . . he looks like . . . you know . . . the geezer who took Jasmine—he looks like Jack.”
“What’s going on?”
“Fuck knows.”
“Those bones we found . . . ”
“Don’t ask me, Tash, ‘cause I’ve got no idea.”
“I’m so scared.”
He stroked her hair. They looked at each other. She could see in his eyes that he thought she was beautiful. She could read what he was thinking. It made her quake. It made her want him. But she’d always wanted him. He was Charlie Faultless. He was the man, even when he was a boy. But he was Rachel’s. Beautiful Rachel. Thinking about her sister made Tash cry.
“Hey,” he said, wiping away a tear.
He touched her face. She kissed his hand. He leaned towards her. Their eyes stayed open. Their eyes said, Is this the right thing to do? But their eyes also revealed how badly they wanted each other.
They kissed. His arms around her were strong and safe, and she gasped. Her blood was up. She had heat running through her now. She pressed close, craving him.
When they were done, she must have fallen asleep, because she woke up disorientated.
He was squatting on the floor, his back to her. He wore no shirt. His back bore scars. His muscles rippled. She reached out and touched him and he turned and smiled. She smiled back.
Dressed in his shirt, she sat next to him on the floor. Before them lay more of what they’d found in Jonas Troy’s briefcase.
Tash studied a magazine called The Magick Arts. Its pages had yellowed with time, and they felt brittle as she turned them. The pages were full of articles about mediums, psychics, and healers. It featured adverts and illustrations. The journalism was sensationalist. But she found a story about Jonas. She narrowed her eyes and read. The item said Troy was descended from Egyptian shamans, who were the offspring of ancient Hebrew prophets.
“This genuine?” she said.
He shrugged.
“Do you think it’s possible at all that the man we saw was Jack the Ripper?”
“He said he was ‘once’ Jack the Ripper.”
“What did he mean by that?”
He shook his head. “He said as well he was ‘once’ Montague Druitt. So who is he now, or who does he think he is?”
“And who was he before?” said Tash.
Chapter 90
BEWARE THE SNAKE
In the pile of papers they found in the briefcase, Faultless discovered a leather-bound Bible. It was a pocket-sized version.
He skimmed through the pages. The writing was tiny. As he flipped through, something caught his eye.
He opened it where a passage had been underlined in ink and notes were scribbled in the margin.
Tash sat next to him on the floor. She kissed his shoulder. It was very matter-of-fact. Like she’d kissed it every day for years.
He smiled. She looked scared.
“What does the Bible say about sleeping with your murdered sister’s boyfriend?” she said.
He shook his head. “I think it’s okay.”
“You sure about that?”
He nodded.
She asked, “What have you found there?”
“It’s underlined. Hebrews, chapter four, verses twelve to thirteen. It says, ‘For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and
marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do’.”
Faultless stayed quiet and turned the pages, looking for more marked passages.
“Another one,” he said. “Leviticus, chapter seventeen, verse eleven. ‘For it is the blood that maketh atonement for the soul.’ And then this. Genesis, chapter three, verse one. ‘Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God has made.’ Someone’s written ‘Beware the snake’ next to the verse.”
Faultless felt a chill run through him. He looked behind him, to where Hanbury kept his python. He stood and went over to the vivarium. It was empty. Or it looked empty. He peered in, looking for the reptile under the rocks and branches. He saw nothing.
“Where’s it gone?” he asked.
“The snake?”
“Yeah.”
“I . . . why? It can’t have nothing to do with Dad’s python.”
“No, but . . . I don’t know, it just made me think.”
Faultless felt a sense of fear flood his heart. The foreboding had grown since he’d come face to face with Jack. It was as if something had been sown in his heart at that moment. Or maybe it was always there, and the meeting had made the seed begin to grow. One thing he knew, he was hesitant to make love with Tash. But he needed to. He wanted her. Not as a substitute for Rachel, but as Tash. It had been difficult because of the feelings he’d experienced in the cavern—the sense that he would stain the world, that he would poison everything. But his desire for her was overwhelming, and for those few minutes, he felt cleansed. The notion that he was tarnished, though, returned quickly once he started reading through the notes.
The phone rang. Tash answered it. She nodded and then put the receiver back in its cradle.
