Didn’t try.
For one thing, I didn’t relish losing my one and only guide through dangerous territory.
For another, I didn’t want to hurt Sue’s feelings.
And then, too, I’d never had a “go” at anyone. Here was my chance to learn, firsthand, what it was all about.
By the time I decided this was neither where I wanted to do my learning nor who I wanted to learn it from, Sue had me pushed against a brick wall.
She unbuttoned my coat and spread it open. Then she commenced to rub me through my shirt. It felt just fine. But that was nothing to when she rubbed me down below. If this was what having a “go” was all about, I’d been missing plenty. I was all-fired embarrassed, but that didn’t count near as much as the rest of the way I was feeling.
Before I knew it, she’d unwrapped her shawl and lifted my hands and planted them smack on her bosoms. There was nothing except thin wet cloth between them and me. I could feel their heat coming through. They were big and springy and soft, with parts that pushed like little fingertips against my palms.
I knew I shouldn’t be touching her there. I reckoned it was a sin, for sure, and I might be risking hell.
If Uncle Bill could see me now, he’d tan my hide. Mother would likely faint dead away.
But I didn’t care a whit about that.
All I cared about was how good those bosoms felt and how good Sue’s hands were making me feel. Nobody’d ever touched me down there, that was for sure.
Whore or not, Sue seemed just then to be the finest human being I’d ever encountered in my whole life.
Then she fetched me up a whack.
A quick, hard punch below decks.
I felt like my guts were exploding up through my stomach.
She scampered out of reach. I crumpled. My knees hit the mud. As I clutched myself, I heard her call out in a rough whisper, “Ned! Bob!”
In a trice, the three of them were having at me. They trounced me good, but I got in a few licks. I caught Sue a good one on the chin, which pleased me greatly. All around, though, I took the worst of it.
They stripped me of my coat and shirt and shoes. But when they went for my trousers, I hauled out my knife and got the blade open right smart and split open the nearest arm. Don’t know whether it belonged to Ned or Bob, but whichever, he let out a howl and scurried out of range.
I got to my feet and fell back against the wall and slashed at the fellows when they tried for me.
They grunted and cursed and leaped away from my blade.
“Come on, y’ bloody swines!” I raved. “I’ll rip your guts out! Come ‘n’ get it! I’ll cut y’ up for bangers.”
Sue stood back, watching, hanging onto the booty.
I kept ranting and slashing.
Ned and Bob finally gave up trying for me. They backed off, huffing for breath, one of them clutching his gashed arm.
“Well, go in and get him, you fools,” Sue said. “We ain’t got nary a bob off him yet. He’s got a pocketful of coins, he does, I felt them there.”
They both looked at her.
“Well, go on!”
The one I hadn’t cut took her up on it.
He came rushing at me, growling. He flung out an arm to block my knife. I went in under it. He slammed me hard against the wall.
My blade punched straight into his belly.
His breath gushed out, hot and stinky in my face.
For a while, he didn’t move. I felt his blood pouring over my hand, running down my belly and soaking the front of my trousers.
Then he backed away. He slid off the blade. Clutching his stomach, he took a couple of steps. He sat down hard. From the splashing sound, he must’ve found himself a puddle.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I’ve been killed.”
Sue and the other fellow bolted.
I was alone in the alley with the man I’d stabbed. He was making awful sounds. Whining and moaning and crying.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “But you shouldn’t have come at me.”
“You gone and killed me dead is what you done.”
“I’m awful sorry,” I said. And I was.
He let out a bellow that curdled my blood. I ran. Not out into the street. That’s where Sue and her confederate had gone. Instead, I dashed the other way, deeper into the black pit of the alley.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Mob
I hotfooted around the corner of a building at the end of the alley and almost ran down a woman standing there under a streetlamp. I thought, for just a blink, that she was Sue. She gave me an awful start.
But I gave her a worse start.
She screamed as I skidded to a stop in front of her.
She was much too large to be Sue.
To her, however, I must’ve looked just right for Jack the Ripper.
“Murder!” she shrieked, and flapped her hands in the air. “Help! Murder! It’s him! The Ripper!”
There I stood, bare to the waist, my trousers bloody, a knife in my hand. Can’t say I blamed her much for getting riled.
“I’m not,” I gasped. “Please.”
Still shouting and waving her arms, she stumbled backward a few steps and fell on her bum. “Help!” she blurted. “Murder! Bloody murder!”
Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one yelling. From all up and down the street came cries of alarm and rage.
The voices had people with them.
People running toward me.
Plenty of them.
I lit out.
They were coming from both sides, so I raced straight across the street, aiming for another alley. Through all the shouts of “Murder!” and “The Ripper!” and “He won’t get away!” and “He’ll get a taste of steel from me!” and “Kill him!” came the high shrill piping of police whistles.
From the sounds of things, I had three constables after me.
Where in tarnation had they been when I was getting attacked?
I made it into the alley well ahead of the mob and chugged along through the darkness wondering if Uncle Bill might be one of the whistle-blowers, but mostly wishing the sounds hadn’t come from so far away.
The folks on my tail had blood on their minds. I reckoned I wouldn’t have none left by the time the police caught up.
While I was still running through the alley, I folded my knife and dropped it back into my pocket. That was a good move. With the knife out of sight, I didn’t get myself jumped by the excited folks on the next street over.
Before any of them took a notion to grab me, I gasped out, “Which way’d he go?” I tried to sound like a neighborhood fellow. The words came out, “Wichwydeego?”
Shoulders shrugged. Heads shook.
“Who?” asked a man with a clay pipe.
“What’s going on?” asked a fat woman.
“Didn’t you see him?” I blurted.
“Ain’t seen…”
“The Ripper!” I cried out. Then I pointed down the dark, rainy street. “There he is!”
Several woman started yelling and screaming.
“Come on!” I shouted. “Let’s get him!”
I vamoosed without more than a few seconds to spare before the mob came pouring out of the alley. Now, I was at the head of my own little mob. It consisted of four men who were all a bother to chase down the Ripper, same as those behind us, but who didn’t figure I was him.
We were fresher than the other bunch. We managed to stay ahead of them. Every now and again, I’d yell “There!” and point and we’d rush around a corner.
This section of town had corners galore. The streets were short and narrow and twisty, chock full of alleys and doorways and courts and just more corners than you could shake a stick at.
By and by, when it looked clear behind us, I grabbed my side like I had a stitch in it and slowed down. The others looked back at me. I waved them forward. “Go on,” I huffed. “Don’t let him get away. Went to the right up there.”
They hurrie
d on ahead.
I ducked into the dark under an arch, and not a moment too soon. Along came the other crew. They were looking mighty haggard. One fellow flung up an arm and waved at my crowd. “We’re with you!” he called. “Get him!”
The whole bunch hurried by. I counted eight of them. Not a constable in the bunch. Not one in uniform, at least. That made me durn glad I’d outfoxed them.
Well, I stayed where I was for a while, catching my wind and trying to figure out a safe move. Returning to the streets didn’t seem to be it. Not a few folks had gotten a look at me, and even more had likely heard that the Whitechapel murderer was a fifteen-year-old chap running about shirtless.
I had to get a shirt.
Then I’d be all right.
And I wouldn’t be freezing so bad, either.
What with all the action, I hadn’t been bothered much by the rain and cold. But the longer I crouched there in the darkness, the worse I felt. Even though the arch kept rain from falling on me, I was already drenched. Before long, I was all a-shiver. My teeth took to chattering up a storm. I hugged my chest and rubbed my goosepimply arms, but that didn’t help much.
A shirt was just what I needed.
That and a coat and shoes. And a pair of dry trousers, too.
A magic wand would’ve come in right handy.
Lacking that, my only recourse appeared to be thievery. I’d already handled the breasts of a whore and stabbed a man, so turning robber didn’t seem like any great sin.
Besides, it was necessary for self-preservation.
When it comes down to saving my own hide, I’ll do pretty much anything short of betraying a friend. That’s a fact. It grieves me to think about some of what I’ve had to do over the years when it was touch and go with the Grim Reaper. Stealing some duds is about the least awful on my whole long list.
It seemed like a big thing at the time, though.
I’d never stolen anything, up till then. But I sure did need a shirt.
So finally I stood up and stretched out my kinks.
Turning away from the street, I crept through the narrow passageway and found myself in the courtyard of a lodging house. The arch wasn’t over my head any more, and rain was falling on me again. I figured some of the rooms had to be empty, though. All I had to do was find one and break in.
The nearest door, just to my right, was for room No. 13. That ain’t a lucky number, so I passed it by for the moment and scouted around.
A few of the other rooms, further on, had lights glowing dim in their windows. I heard people laughing and carousing in some of them.
But the window just around a corner from No. 13 was dark. It was broken, too, and had a rag stuffed in its hole to keep the weather out. I listened for a while. No sound at all came from beyond the window. That didn’t mean the room was empty, but it gave me hope.
I went back to the door and rapped it softly a few times.
Nobody spoke up, so I tried the knob. The way it gave, I could tell the door wasn’t locked. But I couldn’t shove it open. Figuring it must be bolted from the inside so the room wasn’t deserted, after all, I nearly gave up.
Then it came to me that whoever lived there might’ve used a different door to leave by.
Back at the window, I pulled out the rag. I put my face to the hole in the glass and called softly, “Hello? Is anybody here?”
No answer came.
I stuck my arm in through the hole, reached around toward the door, and the very first thing I touched was its bolt! Well, this seemed like the greatest luck ever.
Thirteen might be an unlucky number for some, I thought, but not for me.
I slid that bolt back real easy, then pulled my arm out of the window being careful not to get it cut. After that, I stuffed the rag into the hole just like it was before.
I went to the door and eased it open. It didn’t get very wide before it bumped something. It was wide enough to let me in, though. I entered and stood still, keeping it open for a quick escape. Nobody let out a cry. About the only sound other than my own heartbeat came from outside. That was the rain smacking down on the stone courtyard and splashing into puddles.
If the room had been much darker, I couldn’t have seen a thing. The window and open door let in a trifle of light, though. Enough to let me make out that what the door had bumped up against was a small table by a bed. Not enough to show whether anyone was stretched out on the bed.
Sure hoped not.
Creeping forward, I reached down and felt among the bedclothes.
Probably would’ve screamed if I’d found a foot there.
But the covers were smooth.
Beside the other end of the bed was another table. There was a chair nearby.
Everything in that room was nearby. It was about the smallest room I’d ever seen, and I pitied any person who had to live in such tight quarters. Why, there was hardly enough space for the bed. It was pushed up tight into a corner, and you couldn’t even open the door without whacking the table by its foot.
Standing there, I felt like an intruder on someone’s misery.
But at least I was out of the rain. Even though the room had a chill, it beat the weather outside.
I shut the door. I was about to slide the bolt home to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprise visitors when it came to me that the place didn’t seem to have any other way out. That was quite a puzzle. What did the lodger do, reach through the broken window to work the bolt every time she came and went?
It was a she, I was pretty sure of that but didn’t know why at first.
Then it came to me. Along with burny smells from the dead fire and some other smells like sweat and beer and some I couldn’t put my finger on, there was an odor of perfume that was so sweet it made me feel a little sick.
It smelled the same as what Sue’d had on.
This better not be Sue’s digs, I thought. And I could just picture her coming in along with Bob or Ned (whichever rascal I hadn’t stabbed in the alley) and the both of them cornering me.
I shut that bolt right quick.
And wondered where I’d hide if someone should show up.
No place at all but under the bed.
I hunched down and made sure there’d be enough room for a fellow my size. There seemed to be. That made me feel a little less trapped, so I tried to stop fretting about who might come along, and started scouting the room.
On the table by the head of the bed were a couple of bottles. I uncorked one and gave it a sniff and went woozy with the stink of flowery perfume. Then I tried the other bottle. It was a lot bigger. It smelled of rum.
Well, rum could turn fellows into nasty drunken louts like Barnes, but Mother had sometimes administered a bit of it to me for medicinal purposes. Shaky as I was with the cold and wet, I was in sore need of such medication.
I took a few swallows real quick. It scorched my throat on the way down and lit up a cozy fire in my belly. The stuff chased off my chills so quick I drank some more. And then some more.
Feeling considerably better, I corked the bottle, set it down and did some more exploring.
What I found next was almost better than the rum.
On the chair was a whole heap of clothing. I picked up the items one at a time, and held them toward the dim light from the window for a better look. There were two big shirts that smelled ripe, a smaller shirt that looked like it might belong to a boy, an overcoat, a bonnet and a petticoat.
Well, this was just about the best luck in the world!
Figuring to keep one of the big shirts and the overcoat, I put everything else back on the chair. And jumped a mile when a woman laughed close by.
“Ain’t you the randy one!” she blurted.
My heart stopped cold when I saw the rag get plucked out of the window hole.
Quick as I could, I dropped the shirt and coat on the chair and scurried. As the bolt clacked, I belly-crawled under the bed. The door swung open, letting in a chill and the smell of rain. Then it b
umped shut. The bolt slid.
“Ah, Mary, Mary, Mary,” a man said.
This wasn’t Sue, at least. But I still didn’t relish the idea of getting caught. I tried to hold my breath, and hoped they couldn’t hear my heart drumming.
“Now let go for a bit,” Mary said. “You’ll be wanting your coat off.”
“I’ll be wanting more than that off you.”
She laughed.
There was a sound like a coat might make hitting the floor.
Then footsteps. Someone sat on the bed. A match scratched. In the orange, fluttering glow, I saw the booted feet of the man just beyond my shoulder. The woman was crouched at the fire grate. She had her back to me.
When the fire was going good, she stood up straight and turned around.
“We’ll have it cheery and warm in no time at all,” she said.
“I’ve got to be off in a bit,” the man told her.
That was welcome news.
“We’ll be quick then, won’t we?”
With that, Mary started to shed her duds. While she worked at them, the man pulled off his boots. Then he swung his legs up. The bed slats moaned a bit, and I knew he must be stretching out.
From my hiding place, I couldn’t see any higher than Mary’s knees. She stood barefoot on top of her coat and clothes kept dropping to the floor around her. Her legs had a ruddy glow in the firelight. Scared as I was, I got an awful urge to scoot closer to the edge of the bed for a better look at her. I was curious, but mostly I was feeling excited like I’d been with Sue before that gal whacked me.
Long about the time I decided to make my move, Mary came hurrying over to the bed and climbed on.
Those old slats groaned and creaked and pressed against my back. Pretty soon, the bed was shaking and jumping. From the sounds Mary and the fellow made, you’d think they were pitching fits. They thrashed about something fearful. They huffed and grunted and gasped. They both used vile language that doesn’t need repeating here. I was just commencing to believe that “having a go” might entail a fight to the death, but then Mary started in blurting, “Oh! Oh yes! Harder! Harder! Oh, yes! Oh, deary! Yes!” If she was being killed, she was liking it. Then she let out a squeal that sounded closer to rapture than to pain.
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