Broken Window

by Cross, Amy

  I think maybe the knife went deeper than I realized.

  “This could have been nicer,” the voice says, as the guy steps closer. “It could've been a nice moment between two lonely people. Now you're making it all -”

  Crying out, I swing my backpack at him, somehow summoning the strength from somewhere and hitting him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling away into the darkness. Without waiting to see whether he's hurt, I turn and run, somehow managing to keep hold of my backpack as I race between the trees. I don't dare look back, I don't dare slow; I just run as fast as I can manage, pushing through the pain as I race through the darkness. Holding my hands out to make sure that I don't slam face-first into a tree, I let out a series of pained gasps as I almost trip and almost stumble several times.

  Any second now, he could grab me from behind again and pull me back, and I think this time I'll be powerless to stop him. I just have to keep running and pray that I get away, even as I feel more warm blood soaking into my trousers.

  Chapter Six

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Saturday September 29th, 1888

  A scream rings out and I turn, just in time to see a woman run from a nearby house. As she scurries past me, I realize she's laughing, and a moment later a man rushes from the house with his trousers around his ankles. He mutters something crude to me and sets off after the woman, and they quickly disappear into the darkness of the night.

  The people in this part of London are rotten to their core, and beyond salvation.

  Setting off again along the street, I cannot help but think back to the Whitechapel of my youth. There was a time when this area was pleasant and well-ordered, when a gentleman would think nothing of coming to spend a few hours in its clean streets. Now, however, the place is infested with people who have flocked to London, and one can barely leave Whitechapel Road for a few meters in any direction without coming across some sign of squalor. It is popular to blame the Irish, but in truth it seems to me that the problem is not any one group; rather, it is the fact that so many people, from so many different walks of life, have been crammed together in such a small space. Whitechapel has become, over the past decade or so, an intolerable blight. Even Dorset Street was once tolerable.

  And yet this squalor has its uses, for Whitechapel is now the kind of place where one can find people whose lives do not matter. Whores and opium addicts, liars and murderers and gamblers. Whitechapel is where the godless congregate, and nobody – not even the esteemed Doctor Barnardo or the guileless Mr. Booth – could ever hope to help these wretches. The people here are human flotsam, with no redeemable qualities whatsoever. In this sense, then, they serve some kind of useful purpose.

  Stopping in a doorway for a moment, I listen to the sound of some nearby drunks. These people consume alcohol by the gallon, with no aim other than to numb their senses and obliterate their minds, and one would have to be a very charitable man to consider their lives to have any value at all.

  I am not a charitable man tonight.

  Suddenly a pony comes past, pulling a man on a two-wheeled cart. I pull back into the shadows of the doorway a little more and wait for the cart to leave, and then after a moment I realize that the carousing drunks seem to have moved on as well. My heart is pounding now, as is always the case when I come out in search of human organs, but I know I must act quickly and decisively. I have come out for organs on five previous occasions, and only twice did I actually succeed. Tonight, however, I have absolutely no choice.

  I need a uterus, and two kidneys, and perhaps part of a liver as well. If I fail, Catherine might not last another day.

  Once I am sure that the street is clear, I hurry out and make my way to the far corner. Already, I can hear the sound of men singing in one of the nearby buildings, and I soon see that some kind of event seems to be taking place in the club for working men. Socialists and Jews, I shouldn't wonder. I had hoped to find the streets empty this late at night, but I suppose in Whitechapel one can never be too far from large groups of people. Stopping near the club, I look around and see that nobody seems to be in the immediate area, but one never knows whether one is being watched.

  Suddenly hearing footsteps, I glance over my shoulder and spot the silhouette of a policeman at the far end of the street. My heart skips a beat as I watch the silhouette stop for a moment, and his head turns as if he is looking this way. And then, just as I worry that I must beat a hasty retreat, the officer turns and walks away, ambling out of sight as he continues his pointless patrol.

  It is good that I saw him, for now I can be sure he will not be back in this street for at least fifteen minutes. Perhaps longer.

  A moment later, hearing somebody cough, I turn and see that a whore is standing near the door to the club. She's shuffling on her feet, although after a few seconds she glances at me and I can immediately tell that she thinks I might be her next customer. She looks to be in her forties, and reasonably fit, and she is trying to make herself seem more attractive by standing straight and arching her back. Already, I can tell that she will be fine for my purposes, and I glance around to check that nobody is watching.

  My heart is beating so fast and so hard, I can feel it pounding in my chest.

  Once I am sure that I am not under observation, I make my way over to the woman, who in turn has begun to smile at me. There are voices shouting in the distance, and I still hear songs being sung in the nearby club, but nobody seems to be watching as I stop next to the woman.

  “How much?” I ask, although the words catch a little in my throat. Reaching into my pocket, I take out some coins and show them to her. “Is this enough?”

  “Depends what you want,” she replies with a grin and a broad, perhaps Scandinavian accent, before taking the coins and examining them. “These'll definitely get you something.”

  She slips the coins into her pocket and reaches out, taking my hand in hers. Her fingers are rough and covered in callouses, and my first instinct is to pull away. Instead, however, I let her lead me along the street and then through the open gate of an unlit yard. Now I can barely see at all, although the light of the moon at least allows me to make out the whore's shape as she walks. She is well-built and stocky, which I suppose to be a sign of reasonable health.

  “Got anything in mind?” she asks, stuttering slightly. “Anything particular?”

  “What do you mean?” I reply, playing for time.

  “You're a gentleman, aren't you? What's a gentleman doing out here at such a late hour? Feeling lonely, are you?”

  “I do not know,” I stammer, as I reach into my pocket and take out a knife. In this bad light, the whore will not see what I am holding, although I am starting to worry that I shan't be able to see what I'm doing when I remove her organs. I would prefer to have good light for what I am about to do, but at the same time I know that darkness is my greatest ally. “I would rather go elsewhere,” I add. “Somewhere with a little illumination.”

  “You want to see what you're doing, do you?”

  “It would be helpful.”

  She stops and turns to me, and she's already giggling as she starts to lift her skirt.

  “Here'll have to do,” she continues. “Don't worry, you'll have a fine time. I've not been encumbered with children, you see. Makes a difference, that. To a lady's parts, I mean. You'll find me tight, and who knows? You might even become one of my regulars. Often they do.”

  “Turn around,” I reply, keen to get this over with. Her stuttering is beginning to annoy me.

  She grins, before turning away and starting to lift her skirt higher, exposing her bare posterior.

  “Now,” she continues, parting her buttocks as I step up behind her, “don't -”

  Suddenly I grab her and pull her back. She lets out a gasp, and then she starts to laugh, but I know I have to strike fast so I slash the knife across her neck. To my shock, however, the blade merely catches in the fabric of a handkerchief.

  I quickly clamp my hand
over her mouth, to keep her from crying out, and then I pull on the handkerchief and force the struggling woman to the ground. Her laughter has stopped and now she is panicking, clearly having realized that I mean her harm. Although she has a firm and strong build, I am able to contain her attempts to break free, and her muffled cries are certainly not loud enough to draw attention. I can still hear men singing in the club nearby as I pull the handkerchief aside and re-position the knife.

  “This is for the benefit of a good woman,” I whisper, slicing the blade deep into the whore's throat and cutting from left to right. I immediately feel blood erupting from the wound and running over my fingers. “Better than you. Your death will save her.”

  She struggles desperately, but in the darkness I can already feel that she has lost a great deal of blood. She tries to bite my hand, but to no avail. I twist the knife a little, making sure to cut deep enough that the matter will be over quickly, and then I pull the blade away and simply hold the woman tight as her death throes continue. To her credit, she manages to kick my ankle and cause me a little pain, but finally she starts to weaken and I feel the sudden shift in her weight as she loses consciousness.

  I wait a moment longer, just to be sure, and then I carefully move my hand away from her mouth.

  She is dead.

  I start rolling her over, but in truth this yard is far too dark. I did not think the matter through properly, and it is evident now that I shall have to remove her to some other place before I cut her abdomen open and begin to harvest her organs. My mind is racing as I try to work out where I can take her, but I do not know this particular area well enough. I have killed the whore, but now there is a danger she will be wasted if I do not find some light. I have to think fast, since it is imperative that I remove the organs as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly hearing the sound of a pony and cart, I glance over my shoulder, and to my horror I see that some fool is driving straight into this very yard. Filled with panic, I hesitate for a moment before letting go of the dead whore's body and stepping back. With any luck, this idiot will simply leave again, although a few seconds later I hear him talking to the pony, asking the cursed animal why it is acting so strangely as it comes to a halt.

  “Go away,” I whisper under my breath. “Leave us alone.”

  I hear the sound of the man stepping down from his cart, followed by the sound of footsteps.

  “Go away!” I hiss. “Just let me get on with my work!”

  “What's up with you, old thing?” he mutters, speaking with a strong foreign accent.

  I hear him slapping the pony's side, followed by the sound of him taking a few steps closer across the dark yard. Evidently he is in no mind to leave. Indeed, if anything, he seems to be set upon the idea of checking the yard.

  Why must people be such busybodies?

  Stepping back, I wait for this idiot to leave. Every second that he's here is another second that I am denied the chance to perform my work. The dead whore's organs will have already begun to deteriorate, and I'm starting to think that perhaps I shall have to kill this man. In fact, as I tighten my grip on the knife's handle, I realize that there is no point in being weak here. I have not killed a man before, but it is clear that he must die.

  Suddenly he lights a match, bringing a flickering light to the yard, and I see the horrified look on his face as he spots the dead woman on the ground. He stares for a moment, as if he cannot comprehend what he is seeing, and then he turns and runs.

  “Murder!” he calls out. “There's been a murder! Police! There's been another murder!”

  Chapter Seven

  Maddie

  Today

  Breathless and bleeding, finally unable to force my body to keep going, I slam against a low wall and almost tip all the way over. Steadying myself for a moment, I wince as the pain tears up from my waist, and then I turn to look back along the street.

  I wait.

  There's no sign of him.

  I watch the parked cars, just in case I spot a figure coming this way. It's hard to believe that I could outrun the bastard, especially while I'm bleeding so heavily, but after a few seconds I realize that there's no reason why he'd be hiding. If he was still coming, he'd have grabbed me by now and he'd be doing whatever he wanted to do to me.

  Still struggling to get my breath back, I lean against the wall, steadying myself against the backpack. My lungs are screaming with pain and my heart is pounding, but after a moment I reach down and touch the area where the knife sliced into my waist. Immediately, I feel blood all over my skin, running from the wound to the top of my trousers. I don't dare touch the cut itself, since the pain will be too strong, but I can already tell that the wound isn't quite as deep as I first feared. Still, I've lost a fair amount of blood.

  If I go to a hospital, they'll find out my name and home address.

  And then, since I'm still technically a kid, they'll call my parents.

  Wincing, I start stumbling along the street. I have to keep hold of the low wall, supporting myself carefully, and my knees are starting to feel weak. I'm terrified that I might collapse at any moment, and that's something I can't afford. If I collapse I'll eventually be found by someone, and then I'll get taken to a hospital. And if that happens, the same problem rears its head.

  They'll find out my name somehow, and my address.

  Then they'll realize I'm a kid.

  And then they'll call my parents.

  Biting my bottom lip as I feel the pain burning through my waist, I reach the street corner and stop again. Looking around, I realize that I'm somewhere near Aldgate, which means I must have run further than I realized. I know this area pretty well, but I don't know anyone who might be able to help me. Alex would know what to do, but I guess I have to get used to the fact that Alex isn't around anymore. After struggling on for a few more steps, I stop and lean against the wall, but this only makes the pain feel ten times worse. Still, I need to rest for a moment, so I lean forward and try to gather my thoughts.

  My heart is pounding, and for a moment I feel as if I'm about to collapse.

  And then I see the street sign on the other side of the road, and I feel my blood run cold.

  Cathmore Road, E1.

  I'm in Whitechapel.

  I've been on this very street before, long ago with Alex.

  I look along the dark street, and I immediately see that only two or three of the streetlights are actually working. There are cars parked all the way along, but I don't see any sign of movement. I guess it must be well past midnight now, so most people are asleep. There are lights in the windows of a few nearby houses, but they look mostly like the kind of lights people leave on when they go to bed.

  Forcing myself to get going again, I start limping along the pavement. My backpack feels so much heavier than before, and I don't even know how I manage to keep going. I have to steady myself for a moment against a bus stop, but finally I stumble and hobble a few more meters before stopping and seeing that one particular house on this street has been left in absolute darkness, with boarded-up windows and an overgrown front garden. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the trees and bushes are trying to cover the house completely and keep it from being seen.

  Number nine, Cathmore Road.

  How's that for a coincidence? I ran desperately from the park, and of all the places in London, I've ended up right outside the one house that Alex warned me about when we walked past a few months ago. Even now, I can hear her warning ringing in my memory.

  “See that place?” she told me. “Never go in there. Even if it's the last house in the whole goddamn city, do not go inside.”

  I remember being curious. “Why not?”

  “Everyone knows not to go in there, Maddie. Even the most desperate assholes on the street. There's just something evil about the place.”

  “Evil?”

  I remember being surprised. Alex was always very calm and rational, but that day she talked about the house as if she genuin
ely believed it possessed some other kind of quality. She was being pretty mysterious, too, which wasn't like her at all.

  “Can't you feel it?” she asked, as we stopped right out here on the street in broad daylight. “Can't you feel the evil emanating from the house itself?”

  I couldn't. “Not really.”

  We stood in silence for a moment.

  “Can you?” I asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” she replied, surprising me. “There are stories about this house. Too many to keep track of. But all you have to remember, Maddie, is that you must never, ever go inside. No matter how desperate you might get.”

  It's a pretty crazy coincidence that after all these months, I happen to be right outside that house again. And whereas last time I was here in the middle of the day, now it's a little after midnight and all I see before me is a vast black shape silhouetted against a starless sky.

  Limping to the gate, I look up at the windows. As my eyes adjust a little more to the darkness, I see that the house has three storeys, each with bay windows, but I also see that there are wooden panels covering the glass panels. Even from here, I can see that there's some kind of security device fitted over the front door, most likely to deter looters and squatters. The house itself looks pretty decent, and there's no obvious sign of vandalism. There isn't even any graffiti on the wooden panels, which is something of a miracle. In fact, the whole house looks to have been left completely alone, ignored by the rest of the world. The houses on either side have long, tall fences, as if their occupants want to keep themselves to themselves, but the detached number nine looks completely untouched.

  I reach out to open the front gate.

  “Never go near that place, Maddie,” I hear Alex's voice saying in the back of my mind. “I'm warning you now. One of the most important lessons you can learn on the streets of London is that you never, ever go inside number nine, Cathmore Road. Not even if your life depends on it.”