The lightweight piece slid easily along the floorboards and I stared at the door. The cellar was a forgotten place. I did not collect clutter, and nor did I keep a selection of fine wines in the house, so it had long been unused. Perhaps some rats had found their way in and died?
I sighed. I wanted something to eat, for I was, for the first time in many months, truly starving, and I wanted to sit outside my back door and eat, away from the smell, but I knew that I would not be able to relax until the cause had been investigated and dealt with. It was not fair on Mrs Parks to make her work in such an environment, and I would certainly be no gentleman if I expected her to take care of it for me.
It took me a while to find the key – in truth, I could not remember the last time this door had been opened – and then I fetched a candle from the kitchen and once it was lit, unlocked the sliding latch from the wooden door and pulled it open.
I immediately started gagging at the stench that erupted from the blackness, and though I swiftly pulled a handkerchief from my dressing gown pocket and pressed it against my face it did little to keep out the noisome smell.
As I began my cautious descent I could not help but remember the vault at New Scotland Yard, where a poor carpenter had discovered a rotting torso wrapped in newspaper all those years ago. This darkness had the same sense of oppression and the smell was far too similar. I felt as if time was folding in on itself – except this time I had to go into the bowels of the earth and make that awful discovery alone.
I had expected the air to cool as I edged my way down the stone steps but the heat from the nearby kitchen combined with the summer outside instead made it humid, almost stagnant. I tried not to think of how it reminded me of the river; I forced my imagination to still and concentrated instead on reaching the bottom without tumbling. I put one hand on the rough cool wall to steady myself and I was not sure if the damp I felt came from my sweating palm or from the bricks themselves.
Finally, my feet found solid ground and I turned to look into the main part of the room, wishing I had thought to bring a shovel and sack with me so I would not have to come down again. The stench here was overwhelming, and I was gripped by a sense of dread the like of which I had not felt in years. I wanted badly to turn and flee, to lock the cellar door forever and let whatever was there remain unknown – but this was a child’s response, and I would not allow myself to succumb to it.
Upstairs was daylight, I reminded myself. The city was alive with noise only feet away from the silence I was wrapped in. As I fought the awful scent, taking shallow breaths whilst trying to calm down, I cursed myself for the lack of a gas lamp, for the light from the candle illuminated little, barely more than a few inches from where I held it.
I forced myself forward, moving slowly and carefully, with the rough sound of my breath in my ears and my slippers shuffling on the uneven floor my only company. Suddenly something caught the candlelight and glinted in the darkness: a glassy eye that stared accusingly at me. My heart almost stopped and I yelped, a high-pitched sound more worthy of a young girl than a man approaching his sixtieth year.
With a trembling hand I raised the candle higher, for the dead eye that stared into mine was not at my feet, and nor was it small enough to be that of a rat. It was a long moment before I could even begin to comprehend the horror laid out before me. The candle shook as I moved it closer and I could only imagine the mask of terror that must be my face.
The cat – what was left of it – lay on a wooden bench. Its head was quite separate from its body, which had been cut open and the skin pulled back, clearly in order to facilitate the removal of the internal organs. Two of its legs were missing. I saw the colour of the fur in the patches that were not matted with blood – black and white; the cheeky little chap I had fed the most meat to only a few night before – and once again I found myself gagging into my handkerchief.
But he was not alone on the bench; there were others around him, all in similar states of dismemberment, and all of whom I recognised from my relaxing evenings by the kitchen door. I staggered backwards, desperate to return upstairs, to the daylight. My mind was reeling and as I clambered up the steps I was shaking so much I nearly dropped the candle. And now, finally, flashes of what could only be memory started to come to me: my hands, picking up the black and white tom and feeling the thrum of his purr against my hands as I stroked his soft fur; me, turning away from the back door and murmuring to him as his paws kneaded my chest – and the sudden, overwhelming hunger.
I gasped and stumbled into the gloriously bright hallway with such relief. The dark cellar felt like an ocean in which I was drowning. I leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths of air that was no doubt still rancid, but I no longer cared. My head swam and I sobbed and shook uncontrollably, willing the unwelcome images away: a knife in my hands. Blood. A cat’s desperate hiss and squeal as hands – my hands – wringing its neck. What had I done? And why? Was I truly going mad?
When I could trust my legs to move safely, I fetched a glass of water and sipped it slowly, trying to calm myself, but when I looked into the liquid, all I could see was the river. I could hide from the truth no longer. That strange weight on my back that I had dismissed as strained muscles from my coughing, or part of my fever, now felt like lead between my shoulders, and from the corner of my eye I was sure I could see something dark, a shadowy shape, just out of my sight. I sobbed some more at that and then climbed the stairs to my bedroom where I lay, curled up on my side, like a frightened child.
I have given you the Upir.
That was what Kosminski had said to me, and despite everything that we had been through together all those years before, I had arrogantly dismissed it as madness. There had been madness at work, I now knew: my own madness of reason and science, my arrant refusal to believe in everything that had been right before my eyes. I dismissed the priest as a lunatic, blamed all memory of the Upir on drug-addled imagination. What a fool I had been – and now it was I who was cursed, just as James Harrington had been. The evidence sat in the bowels of my own home and in the dark corners of my memory. Why had I gone to see Kosminski? Why had I not just left all alone, let it lie? What good could the truth ever have served?
The skin on my back crawled, and I knew that if I could have flayed myself to be rid of what clung there, invisible and insidious, I would have. I shivered at the thought of it, and once or twice I lifted a hand and almost reached round to touch my skin, but I could not quite bring myself to do that. I would not feel it, that I knew, but all the same, it would be there.
The afternoon darkened into evening and eventually into night as I lay on my bed and stared into space, all hope lost. I was not sure what I was most afraid of – the thing on my back, or the fact that I had done such deeds without knowing. My skin cooled until my trembling was overtaken by shivers.
Eventually I got up.
I was afraid, but abject terror could be sustained for only so long before exhaustion calmed the body. I needed to think; to consider how I was to manage my new condition. This time I would not hide from the truth. Harrington and the priest had both been tricked by the Upir, but I had the advantage of understanding something of the beast; perhaps this would allow me some control. It was attached to me, but that did not mean I had to hand myself over to it – indeed, I had no intention of doing so. I had a good life and I was not about to give that up.
I had to make plans. I determined to start by reading Harrington’s letters properly – but first, I had to clean out the cellar, scrub away the smell of my guilt. Then I would release Mrs Parks from my service with a generous parting gift.
Now I was on my feet and moving and I had a sense of purpose, and I felt stronger already. This thing would not beat me; I would not become a monster. I would find a way to live like a decent man.
Some hours later, sweaty and exhausted from my exertions, I threw the sack of remains into the river. There was nowhere else for them to go. I stared at the inky water. I was
going to have to make the river my friend.
27
The Times
Thursday, June 11, 1896
EXECUTION AT NEWGATE
Yesterday morning at 9 o’clock the woman Dyer, who was convicted at the Central Criminal Court of the murder of a child which she had adopted, was executed at Newgate. It will be recollected that Dyer had carried on the business of baby-farming at Reading.
28
Extract from letter from James Harrington to Edward Kane, dated 1889
… I should dread the vagueness that heralds the approach of the fever that leads to my dark deeds. I used to. I used to fight it, drag it out as long as possible before I was overwhelmed. Now, I find I am simply weary and welcome it. I let the other, this terrible demon behind me, take control. I think that perhaps fighting it for so long has weakened me. More than that, I fear that my weakness has allowed some part of its wickedness to seep into my soul, for I have begun to enjoy the darkness, the long nights where secrets can breathe and respectability slumbers.
Sometimes I watch Juliana as she lies in our bed sleeping. She is sweet and beautiful and I still love her. I’m sure I must do beneath my numbness. Love does not die so easily. The fact that she still loves me despite my illnesses and erratic behaviour are proof of that. She does not know how dangerous I am, how as I watch her breathe, her soft skin rising and falling with the action, I want to tear into her skin with my bare hands and see her flesh from the inside. I want to see her eyes widen in fear. I want to feel the powerful surge of the creature that clings to my back – the one they all see in the end. The very thought of it can make my mouth water. These thoughts are terrible in themselves, but she is carrying our child. Her pregnancy is making her ill and I should be more sympathetic but all my warm emotions are deadened. They are things I have a memory of but can no longer touch. I watch my sleeping pregnant wife and fantasise about slicing her breasts off and feeling those pleasurable shivers as the monster feeds, as I did with Elizabeth when from somewhere deep inside I watched myself pull our unborn bastard from her womb. I am a killer. I can no longer blame it on the visitor I carry. The Upir and I are no longer distinguishable.
I am remembering more and more as time passes. It is as if the creature and I truly are becoming one – symbiotic. I feel old so much of the time, and cynical, as if somewhere just out of reach I have thousands of years of life and knowledge that I can’t quite grasp but weighs me down all the same. I know I have had blood on my hands. I know I have squeezed the life out of strangers. I know that I am cursed and doomed and yet I can’t open my mouth to speak.
I do believe that this demon is a kind of drug. Perhaps we provide the pleasure for each other. For when I relax – when I enjoy my madness for want of a better word – then I feel free and powerful and unstoppable.
This is my greatest fear: I have become unstoppable. No, perhaps my greatest fear is that I no longer wish to be stopped.
I have lost any belief that you are receiving these letters, and much of the time I no longer care. I no longer truly understand why I write them except maybe to retain one last thread of my unravelling humanity. I believe that this will be my last. There is very little more that I can say. However, if you do find yourself with this sheet of sorry paper in your hands, take only this from it.
Do not come to London, Edward. Do not try and find me. No good could ever come of it. There is only wickedness here.
Your friend,
James Harrington.
29
London. October, 1897
Dr Bond
‘I think he may be overworking,’ Henry Moore said. ‘What do you reckon?’ He hadn’t taken his coat off and for that I was glad. I did not want him staying long.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen him very much since I was ill,’ I said. It was the truth. I had been to the wharves to see Juliana on several occasions, eager to re-establish our relationship now that Edward Kane was temporarily absent, but I had not been to the house yet, or seen her father, for all his care of me during my sickness. ‘I have dined with him only once this month – I fear I have had far too much work to catch up on for much socialising.’
Moore nodded and glanced up at the bookshelves of my sitting room, where volumes of mainly unread poetry sat alongside novels and plays. Most of my medical journals were kept in my study. ‘I should read more,’ he said, pulling a slim blue book free and turning it over in his hands. ‘But then I suppose the same is true of most men.’ He reshelved it and turned back to me. ‘You didn’t think he was slightly erratic, then? When you saw him?’
‘Not that I recollect,’ I said, but if I were honest, I would have to admit that I could barely remember our dinner at all. I had still been reeling from my personal discoveries. ‘I am presuming, however,’ I continued, ‘that you have been finding his behaviour odd.’
‘He seems distracted,’ Moore said. ‘I’d like your opinion though.’
‘Of course. I shall arrange to see him in the next week or so, and let you know what I think.’
Edward Kane’s words at our last meeting came back to me. He had been worried about Charles’ drinking and had asked my help, but I had been so absorbed I had barely listened, and I had promptly forgotten my promise. Now it appeared Kane was not alone in his worry.
‘Thank you. And you’re well, Thomas?’
‘Certainly better than I was last month.’ I smiled. ‘But I fear my recovery is slower than it was when I was a young man. In fact, I was about to lie down for an hour or so when you arrived.’
‘Then I shan’t keep you any longer.’ He squeezed my arm in a surprising and unusual gesture of affection. ‘But I’m glad you’re better. You had us all worried for a while there.’
He glanced back briefly at the slim volume that had grabbed his attention and I took the book down and pressed it into his hand. ‘You were right. We should all read more. It can be very good for the soul. And also, I think you will enjoy this one.’
He took the book and left, declaring that he would start reading it that very night, and I smiled as I closed the door. I was glad he had taken it. Mr Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was a little too close for my comfort these days, and I was happy the text was no longer in my house.
I left it ten minutes to make sure Moore was not going to return for any reason before I started to make my way to the cellar, whence I had been headed before my friend’s unexpected visit. I took one of the new lamps from the kitchen and went down the stairs to where my work awaited me.
After my initial terror on finding the poor cats had eased, my first thought had been to return to Leavesden, to force the thing back onto Kosminski, but my request for a visit had been politely declined and there was no way I could force myself into that institution without causing the medical staff to think me as insane as their guests.
After several long dark nights of fear and laudanum I decided that I must approach my new situation in a scientific manner. I would not think in terms of demons and creatures – I vowed I would never even think the word Upir when considering the thing that I could almost see, the weight I could feel on my back – but instead I would treat my condition as one of parasitical infection, which if handled carefully, could at least be managed. I had studied Harrington’s letters thoroughly and it was clear to me that he had lost control by fighting the urge for blood for too long; it had made him too weak to fight the thing’s desire for wickedness. I would not make that mistake. I intended to feed it little and often – not too much, but enough to keep me healthy and free from fever.
The one thing I was certain of was that I would not take human life. I was a doctor. Although I spent much time analysing the dead, my vocation was the preservation of life. I would not become a monster like James Harrington. I would learn from his mistakes; I would live with this condition and I would remain the master of it.
At the bottom of the stairs I lit the two gas lamps I had left there, and yellow light illuminate
d the small underground room. In the corner a mop and bucket stood ready with carbolic soap and jar of bleach I had mixed. I had spread old newspapers across the floor under the wooden table, that I would burn in the brazier in the garden when I was done.
The dog lay on the table where I had left it in the early hours of this morning. Its bared teeth had frozen into a rictus grin and I shuddered slightly looking at it, just as I had when I had pulled the knife across its throat. But I knew that the parasite that clung to me had enjoyed the fear and pain in the animal’s last moments; that was what it fed on and so it could not be avoided. I took some comfort in the knowledge that the dog would have died anyway.
I picked up my scalpel and started to cut through its stomach. I had work to do. The monster needed feeding and it liked its meat fresh.
The dog had not been difficult to source. My addiction to the smoke of the poppy, both recently and in those dark times past, had led me into many of the poorest parts of London, and it was to these I returned when I worked out what needed be done. In the steamy pubs of the East End it did not take me long to find out where I could go to gamble a few pennies on fighting dogs, and it was there I met the burly, gruff man introduced only as George who would facilitate my needs. He was a swarthy, well-built fellow missing most of his teeth, but his eyes had a granite sharpness I recognised in the intelligent among the criminal classes. He might not be well-educated as my class would recognise it, but the back alleys of the East End were his place of business and he ruled it like a prince.
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