Mad Bride of the Ripper

by Lucas Thorn

  But fresh blood waited deeper within ruthless streets.

  As she danced, she reached out. Snatched hold of ethereal globes of light which fizzed and burned within the minds of those on the edge of sanity and madness. With a squeeze, she could push them over. Send them howling into the arms of depravity.

  George Mosley. A carpenter. She could feel his name in the etchings of his brain.

  He stood at the window. Looking out at fog-blanketed streets. Ghostly reflection peering back at himself with tired and empty eyes.

  His filthy clothes stuck to his skin.

  And he wanted to scream. Scream out the emptiness of his existence.

  He was intelligent. He could have been so much more.

  But he was born here. In a slum.

  It was unfair. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  Lucy giggled as she breathed fire into the inferno.

  George turned. Put a hand in his pocket and came out with a small knife. He carried it for protection.

  He used it to slit the throat of his wife as she rested her head on the small table. She never felt it. Never knew he was there. Thrashed a little, but he kept her head down. Tears dribbling down his lined cheeks.

  He’d always loved her. Loved her grace. Her gentleness which seemed undefeated by the festering streets. He’d always wanted to do right by her. Had wanted a better life for her.

  A life of comfort.

  Now she’d never struggle again, he thought. Never have to wake surrounded by filth and the sound of cockroaches exploring the walls.

  He thought he heard laughter as he stabbed himself in neck.

  Didn’t feel a thing. Never said a word.

  One grunt, and that was it.

  Slumped against the wall and watched himself bleed. His blood slid out across the rotten floor. Mingled with hers.

  Even in death, he thought, he infected her with the uselessness of his life.

  On the roof above, the vampire stirred. Curled against the chimney with whispers of fog sliding past her face. Face which twitched and spasmed as her grin came and went.

  “Lovely George,” she purred, spinning away. “Beautiful lovely George.”

  But he wasn’t enough.

  There were more. So many more. Waiting for her to touch their minds.

  And the one who waited most eagerly was standing in the doorway as she dropped silently to the ground. His crumpled hat crooked on his head and his gaze a mix of relief and adoration. His voice, which had been singing a lilting tune sung often in local pubs, softened.

  “Mistress,” he said. Swept back inside to let her in.

  “Renfield. It’s so good to see you. How is Amelia?”

  “The Angel-maker has been busy,” he said. “Busy busy. Britches and nits.”

  She smiled at him. Gave him that, knowing it would make him blush with delight. “You never disappoint me, Renfield.”

  “I serve, Mistress,” he said. A little bow, though the feral grin remained stuck to his face.

  “You’ll never believe what happened today. I met a policeman.”

  “A constabulary officer? A peeler. A pip. A blue bottle whistler. Cunning little fellow?”

  “Inspector.”

  “Hoo hoo! Only the best!”

  “I think you might know him. He’s been in all the papers.”

  “In the papers. In the sheets?”

  “His name is Abberline.”

  “Abberline!” Renfield did a little jig and dived for his bed. Thrust hand under his pillow and wrenched out a butcher knife. Flashed its steely glint. “The only man in all of England who can catch the Ripper! Beware, Jack! For Abberline is on your tail. On your feet, foulest miscreant. Monstrous dabbler in evil. Be afraid, for Abberline is coming. He is your shadow. He walks the frightened streets. Protects the weak. The frightened mice. The poor little mites. Abberline for King! Abberline for King, I say!”

  She laughed with him, whirling around the dancing madman. “Say it again!”

  “Abberline for King!”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him close. Face pressed almost against his. “He’s desperate, Renfield. Desperate to find the Ripper! He thinks of nothing else. He dreams he is close. He reaches out and thinks he’ll snatch the monster by his collar.”

  “They never will. For the Ripper cannot be found.”

  “But he can,” she said. “And I gave him the Ripper’s name.”

  “Jack?”

  “No.” Wide smile showed fangs. “Van Helsing!”

  “Van Helsing!” Renfield roared with laughter. Head aimed at the mould-draped ceiling. “Abraham the Ripper! How fast he cuts. How deep he slices! Watch out, poor girls, for the Ripper is coming and he’s German! Achtung, peasants! Hoo hoo!”

  He linked his arms with hers and they danced.

  Danced a merry beat without tune. Without rhythm. Chaotic and building to a screeching crescendo as Lucy melted into convulsions. “Stop,” she cried. “It’s too much! Too much, Renfield. I can’t see. So bright…”

  “Abberline for King, and Abraham for Jack! And the Queen is coming, so it’s spades for all!”

  “And you, Renfield? What will there be for you?”

  “Why, Mistress, I am but the Joker of our pack.”

  “You are a funny rogue.” She put a hand to his cheek. Feeling the warmth glide into her palm. “I love you for it, my mad little Renfield.”

  He placed his hands across hers. Fierce lights burning inside. “Tell me how to serve, Mistress. Tell me, so I can never displease.”

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I want you to do it again. Can you?”

  “Of course!” He held the knife high. Brought it down in mock slaughter. Thrust out his chin. “They search for Jack. They search for Abraham. But they’ll never know, it’s Renfield! Renfield the Ripper! Fresh from rats, he hunts bigger prey, though they regretfully never taste so sweet. Not so sweet. Oh, poor Renfield. He misses his rats.”

  She clapped her hands. “But you are so dashing!”

  “Why, of course! I’m a gentleman.” He adjusted his hat. Showed a haughty expression. “A man about town. Refined and blue-blooded. I am Sir Renfield of Whitechapel.”

  “Sir Renfield?”

  “Of Whitechapel.” Broad leer. “The Strumpet Lord.”

  Lucy giggled, then turned her head as a gurgling cry stuttered from Amelia’s room.

  “The Angel-maker,” she whispered. “Her mind is darker. Why is it darker, Renfield?”

  “You can make it bright again, Mistress.”

  “She finds the most delicious children.”

  “Bothersome complication,” he said. “She is a granny of the streets. The whores duck their heads and the cads tip their hats. They bless her and are charmed. Charmed to meet her! So giving. So generous. Genteel and polite.”

  “Are you being mean to her, Renfield? Do you keep her inside?”

  “She must keep silent! Wag not the tongue, or the tongue be split!”

  “You can trust her. You must. Will you listen to me, Renfield? Let her go where she wills. She’ll return.”

  He scowled at the old lady’s bedroom. “She smells.”

  “This is London. Everyone smells.”

  “Fine! Mistress commands. Renfield serves. You hear me, Angel-maker? Renfield serves. Fly and flit through the streets if you must. Speak a peep and I’ll take your tongue. Nail it to the Clock Tower at half-past four.”

  Amelia appeared in her doorway. Shrouded by shadow and head bowed low. “Mistress,” she said. “Thank you. I can get more for you if I could only travel some. I know a friend who would assist. I’m getting old, you see. It’s hard work. And this one here’s no good with the little ones. He frightens them.”

  Renfield snorted.

  “Soon you’ll have all you need,” Lucy said. “The Queen is coming. Before she arrives, we’ll move from Whitechapel to somewhere more fitting. I’ve already found a place. It is being prepared.”

  “Move? From Whitecha
pel?” Renfield stood in shock. Looked down at his knife. “I have to clean it. I should clean it, shouldn’t I? How long, Mistress? How long do I have? Is there time?”

  “Weeks. A month. Perhaps a little more. I am not entirely sure, but I can feel them. They move so slowly, though. Too slow! Why do they take so long?” She chewed her bottom lip carefully. “I wonder what she’ll think of me?”

  “She’ll love you, poppet,” Amelia said.

  “Of course she will!” Renfield’s brain surged as madness flared. “And we shall have the Queen, the King, the Jack, and the Joker! And you, the Ace in her sleeve. A full suit! Mistress, it’s perfect.”

  “Everything must be ready. We can’t let Van Helsing get close.”

  “Abberline is a wolf,” Renfield said. “It’s said the dog hides inside sheep’s wool. That nose of his seeks a trail.”

  “Then we should give him a trail, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She took his hand and let him swing her round and round. Laughter bubbling from her lips. Drunk on his glee, she didn’t hear the old lady creep back into her room.

  Didn’t notice when the Angel-maker returned with a bundle wrapped soft inside her arms.

  Only when Renfield wheeled her to a stop and stood panting through a brutal grin did she hear the gentle crooning voice of the Angel-maker.

  She inhaled.

  The stink of poverty was thick in the air.

  But above that, the alluring scent of young hot blood.

  She held her arms out and took the little form. Cradled it gently against her breasts and smiled down at the sleeping face. Cherubic and peaceful.

  “Oh, look,” she purred. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “A delight,” Renfield hissed. “So ripe, little tyke.”

  “His mother works in a workshop,” Amelia said. “She makes matchboxes.”

  “The father?”

  “Her Foreman.” The old woman wrinkled her mouth in disapproval. “She traded favours for extra food.”

  “Barter barter,” Renfield said. “Flesh and death. Whitechapel, Whitechapel. Paradise on Earth.”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. Touched the tip of her cold finger to the baby’s little nose. Sucked a breath when he wriggled against the cold. His little face screwed up against her touch. A moment from crying. “A place of much delight.”

  “Taste him, Mistress. Taste! Isn’t he delicious? Doesn’t he cleanse the palate? Sate the thirst?”

  She lifted the child in her arms. Pressed her cheek against his and slid to the crook of his neck.

  Mouth opened.

  Closed.

  Sharp sting. One strangled cry.

  But there were plenty of those in the slums late at night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When he was fifteen, he spent five years haunting opium dens. He’d felt every exquisite sensation he thought opium could provide. Thought nothing could compare. But he was wrong.

  Her voice was liquid opium of a quality he’d never found. A quality made legend by the tales of crooked addicts dragging the last blistered stains from their pipe.

  Lucy.

  Her name was always in the back of his mouth.

  But Mistress was what he called her. What he’d always call her.

  Wide-eyed, Renfield stepped into the fog-locked street. She swerved up into the sky beyond. Lost to him for now. He felt an echo of loss, but knew she’d come back for him. She always would.

  He was hers now. To the bone.

  Whistling a cheerful tune, he skipped on down the road. Sneered at a pack of kids picking through garbage. Their nimble fingers plucked rancid chunks of food and discarded trinkets of no monetary value. Though, they’d try to sell them to someone.

  Anyone.

  “Little tykes,” he called. “Juicy little tykes. Beware the Bloofer Lady’s bite!”

  “Bloofer Lady?” One of the urchins pushed his cap back and showed yellowed teeth. “Fuck off, Mister. Ain’t no fucking thing as the Bloofer Lady. That’s a story, that is. Ain’t that right, Henry?”

  “That’s right, George. Ain’t no fucking such thing.” Snorted. “Bloofer Lady. She can have my arse, she can.”

  “Be your neck she’ll be having,” Renfield crowed. “Mark my words! She’ll line you all up. Little dolls in a pretty row. One by one. Fall. Be off, tykes! Off to whatever bastard place will shelter you! She knows where you are. She’ll come for you when she’s ready, she will. Hoo hoo!”

  He gave a little jig and moved on, ignoring their jeers.

  They’d get theirs soon enough. Soon enough.

  There were fifteen taverns down the long winding lane. Almost as many brothels. At least a dozen women of varying appearance united by a singular grubby facade and suggestive twist of lip and tongue. A big man reeled drunken toward him.

  Another two argued in the mouth of an alley. Glint of steel.

  Nothing serious.

  Few nasty words and a shake.

  Pockets of drifters. Some would be rich, Renfield knew. Slumming it. Putting on their best shabby clothes and pretending to be poor so they could delight their friends with stories of abject poverty and the charming speech of the street.

  Collecting moments.

  You could usually pick them out. Frightened, but walking tall. Trying not to be noticed, but still unable to shake the attitude of superiority. There was always a hesitancy in how they ate or drank, if they did at all. They didn’t want to taste the filth. Just see it and absorb enough to lament the suffering of the poor over a glass of expensive wine.

  Renfield always kept his eye out for such signs.

  Because he knew inside those pockets would be treasure.

  “Mister Renfield,” one of the girls called, turning her body to show off the generous bustle at her rear. “You looking for something special tonight?”

  “No thanks, love,” he called back. Wide grin. Kept it simple. Nothing too wide. Not showing teeth. Play it calm, Renfield. Mister Renfield. Sir Renfield. “Ain’t been paid, yet. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here.” Lost interest straight away. Turned to her friend.

  Exchanged whispers.

  Soft giggle.

  At him? Hard to tell. Hard to tell. These women had their secrets and he didn’t mind. Everyone had secrets.

  His own would turn their hair white, if it weren’t already under their hair pieces.

  He picked a pub. One he’d visited more than most. One whose meagre slop wasn’t too putrid. Where the offal still had a few strings of real meat.

  “I’ll take a mug and a plate,” he told the girl who approached first.

  She had nothing to say. They were quiet in here, which is what he liked about it.

  They left him alone.

  In a corner, head over his plate, he wasn’t picky. Wolfed it all down and patted his belly as he used a chunk of stale bread to wipe the plate clean.

  Finished beer without a word and accepted a refill.

  Drank that one slowly.

  Thinking about his Mistress.

  “Mister Renfield?” Quiet voice. Little bit of a squeak to it.

  A mouse.

  Looked up. Knotted brown hair. Dull brown eyes.

  Familiar, but he wasn’t sure where from.

  “I’m skint,” he said. “Can’t afford a roll, love. Bustle on out, eh? Like, hustle. I’m tired. Real tired. Tuckered and treats. No time to unwrap your corset. Finishing this here tank, then off into the yonder.”

  “What? Oh!” Hand to her chin. “No, Mister Renfield. I’m not… I mean. That is, I was told you’d be here. Miss Amelia said you would be.”

  He grunted sourly. “She did, did she? Not nice, that is. Oughtn’t to be telling a woman a man’s business, am I right? I’m right. No need to tell. Spell Hell when I get me home. You know how to spell? Course you don’t. Course not. But it’ll be half-past four, for sure.”

  The woman sat next to him without asking.

  Something whic
h irritated him. Put a hand on his wrist, even.

  Like they were acquainted.

  Who did she think he was?

  “Here,” he said. Pulled free. “Told you, I’m skint. What you’re selling, I ain’t wanting no piece of.”

  “Arnold.”

  “Eh?”

  “Arnold, Mister Renfield. He’s my boy. Was my boy. I sold him to you, remember?”

  “Not to me!” Snarled. “I ain’t one to like the tykes. Little tykes. Lice and worms. Not my insects. Not my grubs. Cockroaches are sweet. Crickets nicer. Speak to Granny, yes? To Granny. Now off with you.”

  “She told me to come to you. She said you arranged an adoption for him.”

  Renfield’s smirk was barely hidden. “Then he’s a lucky tyke. Got himself a good home, I bet. Good homes are hard to find. Keeps me up all hours of night finding the right place for them, it does. Must have the right garden. The right light out front. Right drapes. Hard job. Difficult job.”

  “I’m sure. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but the thing is… Well…”

  “Spit spit.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just, I think I’ve changed my mind. I spoke to me mum, you see. And she said she’d help out. I didn’t think she would. Not back when I gave him to you. I thought I was on me own, right? But I’m not. I can take care of him now. Give him a good place to kip. Me mum will make some clothes to keep him warm. Please, Mister Renfield. Can’t something be done?”

  “Be done?” White hot fury was a thin line through his belly. “What be done? Woman, we took your coin. A bargain was struck. Ain’t you got any honour? Can’t give it back now, can we? Granny’s gone and spent it all, I bet. Not on booze, I’d warrant. No. Soft things. Things for tykes. Blankets. Milk and muscle. No. Can’t be done.”

  “You can keep the coin!” She leaned across the table. Grabbed his arm again. “I don’t want the money. I just want Arnold. I can hear him, you see. Every night. Wailing for his poor mum. Oh, Lord, I never meant to do him no harm. I just wanted the best for him.”

  “Hoo hoo,” he growled. “Pickles and gin. Can’t be done. Afraid it can’t. To a home he’s gone.”

  “Then tell me who it was. Who you sold him to. I can talk to them, can’t I? I could explain it all. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Bloody shanks. No papers were signed. No records to be kept.” He jerked his arm loose again. “No names for the scribblers to find. I’m a man of my word. Keep my word, I do. He’s gonna be a rich boy, woman. You want to take that from him? Grow him up around here? Let him pick the trash and eat bones for breakfast? He’ll be baking rats on the pavement with the other tykes, he will. And what for? What kind of heartless bitch are you? Let him have a happy life.”