The Lady Screams

by Cross, Amy

  “Better leave you behind,” I say under my breath, setting the knife on the window-ledge before turning and walking over to the gate.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “What are you going to do?” Jack asks cautiously, watching as I settle the washer girl on a temporary table next to the main slab.

  Ignoring his latest question, I take a pair of scissors and start cutting at the girl's clothing. The blades catch a little on the fabric, but I do not have time to find another pair. Even a delay of a few minutes could make a difference between success and failure.

  “Doctor Grazier? What is your intention?”

  I pull the girl's clothes aside and let them fall to the ground, and then I trace a fingertip down the front of her chest as I try to work out the precise order in which this procedure must be carried out. Ordinarily I would take time to sketch these things out, yet today I must improvise and come up with ideas as I work. I remember the sketches I drew in my notebook, and they alone shall be my guide.

  “Did you really steal her from the street in broad daylight?” Jack asks. “Doctor Grazier, how can you be sure that you weren't seen?”

  “I took her from the alley,” I reply, as I press my fingertip against her belly and feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat. “Nobody was watching her. I doubt she is missed, even now. And I brought her back under a sheet, through the gardens of my neighbors.”

  “But still -”

  “I accept that it was a risk,” I add, moving my hand further up the girl's body and taking a moment to feel for her ribs. Her skin is so warm and soft, with plenty of fat beneath the surface. She is a good, strong girl in her early twenties, which makes her perfect for what I am planning. “I was careful,” I continue, “and I ensured that I was not observed. Perhaps I do not need you after all.”

  Turning to him, I see that he is watching the girl with a growing sense of apprehension.

  “She is young,” he points out, rather unnecessarily. “Almost a child.”

  “Nonsense. She is in her twenties.”

  “You once told me that you would never hurt a child.”

  “Indeed,” I reply, “and I have not broken that vow.”

  “Not yet,” he says darkly.

  “Not ever,” I tell him. “Please, do not think that you are in a position to cast aspersions on my character. Not a man such as yourself.”

  “Why could you not simply remove what you needed in the alley?” he asks. “Why take the risk of bringing her back here alive?”

  “Because I do not intend to remove very much from her at all,” I reply. “Not in the same manner as before, at least, and I need her alive for the procedure.”

  “And what -”

  “You cannot possibly comprehend what I am planning, Jack,” I continue, “so do not even try. It is far beyond your uneducated mind. Even when it is done, I doubt that you will be able to make sense of my brilliance. Your job is to do what you are told, and your reward is to be present at a great moment in medical history. Please focus, and try to take in as much as you can manage”

  I pause for a moment, before taking some black wire and stepping around to the top of the table, where I stop to look down at the girl's face.

  “There is not much of her that I care to damage,” I mutter, “but her mouth is of no interest to me. And she will surely wake at some point during the procedure, so it would be best to prepare for that moment.”

  With that, I start sewing her lips together. The wire slips easily enough through her skin, and the pain does not wake her. Not quite, anyway. She lets out a very faint murmur, but I am able to work quickly and within just a few minutes I have sewn her mouth shut entirely. I even take the time to thread an extra line, to make doubly sure that the wench cannot scream, before stepping over to the counter and starting to select the tools that I shall need for this procedure.

  “Doctor Grazier?” Jack says after a moment. “Forgive my impudence, but I must ask again... What are you going to do? What am I going to witness here?”

  “Are you scared?” I ask.

  “I have seen some awful things in the world,” he replies. “In the dark streets of Whitechapel, and at the shores of the Thames. I thought I had seen more than was possible, and I was certain that nothing could ever shock me again. Yet I must confess, Doctor Grazier, that I am nervous at this moment. Nervous and apprehensive.”

  Smiling as I pick up one of the scalpels, I turn and look at him, and then I walk back to the girl. In some strange way, I actually feel emboldened by Jack's concern.

  “I am going to use her to force Catherine over her final hurdle,” I explain, before reaching down and pressing the scalpel's tip into the girl's skin at the point between her breasts. I push a little harder, causing a bead of blood to emerge, and then I push harder still until I feel the blade hit bone. “It will be a temporary measure, just enough to -”

  Suddenly the girl's body jerks as her eyes snap open, and she immediately starts to struggle against the restraints I placed around her wrist and ankles. At the same time, she tries to cry out, but all she can manage is a faint murmur as she looks around with panic in her eyes. Blood is running from the stitches in her lips, but she has no hope of securing her freedom, even as she tries frantically – and fails miserably – to tear her mouth open.

  “I am sorry,” I tell her calmly, “but you must be alive for this. That is the whole point of the procedure.”

  She continues to struggle as I run the scalpel down through her chest, across her belly and all the way to her groin. Then I make more deep incisions, above and below her breasts as well as around the edges of her naval. Once that is done, I take a moment to wipe away some of the blood and then I set the scalpel down, exchanging it for a saw that I intend to use on her breastbone. There is already more blood running down her side, but not enough for me to worry. I have planned ahead, and I have determined how much blood I can allow her to lose.

  Her body is still shaking wildly as she tries to get free, but that is only a mild inconvenience. She cannot escape, but I suppose she retains some sense of self-preservation. Indeed, it occurs to me now that the more she fights, the more she exercises her heart and gets her blood pumping, so this brief period of panic might in fact help the procedure.

  “Must she really be alive for this?” Jack asks.

  I do not even bother to answer such a foolish question.

  “If she can be killed now,” he continues, “then kill her. Surely -”

  “Do you suddenly want to bestow mercy?” I ask, surprised by his reaction. “You made no such suggestion the other night, when we were in the street.”

  “But then they died quickly,” he points out. “Their suffering was over in just a matter of seconds, whereas here...”

  His voice trails off, and he seems genuinely upset.

  “I do not have time for this,” I tell him. “She needs to be alive, so I shall keep her alive. And in the grand scheme of things, Jack, the suffering of one meaningless girl is of no importance. Especially not when it can greatly assist in the recovery of a woman such as Catherine.”

  I wait, expecting him to whine some more, but finally he looks back down at the girl. She, in turn, is looking up at him as she continues to struggle. It is almost as if, in her agonized delirium, she thinks he might intervene and try to save her.

  If he dared try something like that, of course, I would kill him and then get back to work.

  I place the saw against one side of her breastbone, and then I begin to cut my way through. The constant flow of blood makes it difficult for me to see exactly what I am doing, but I have to work fast so I simply peer closer and rely on my superior knowledge of human anatomy. The flap of skin on her left side of her chest keeps curling back over, so after a moment I have to stop and tear it a little further away until it falls against her upper arm, and then I get back to work. As soon as I have cut the ends of four
ribs, I start working on them, and eventually I manage to start lifting the small rib sections away until I can see the girl's heart beating furiously.

  And yet her incessant trembling is causing the table to shake, in a manner that is finally starting to irritate me.

  “Why can she not be quiet?” I mutter, feeling as if the noise is liable to push me into make errors. “She must realize by now that she cannot be saved, so what is the point in all this fuss?”

  Suddenly I hear a tearing sound, accompanied by an anguished, gurgling cry. Startled, I look at the girl's face and see that she has torn one side of her mouth open, ripping the black wire through her lips so that she can cry out. Bubbles of blood are frothing in the opening, spraying against her shoulder, as she tries desperately to scream.

  “Stop that!” I shout, hurrying over and using my hands to push her lips together. “How am I supposed to work in such conditions? This is worse than a darkened street!”

  Keeping her mouth shut with one hand, I use the other to take some black wire and start re-sewing the girl's lips. She struggles wildly and more bubbles of blood spray between my fingers, but I have no time to waste so I force the wire through her cheeks until her mouth is once again sealed. As soon as I let go, however, I realize that soon she will tear it loose again, and then she will most likely try to call for help.

  I hesitate for a moment, trying to work out how I can silence her more permanently, and then I come up with a rather elegant solution.

  “Jack!” I bark angrily. “Step this way a little!”

  Turning to him, I see that he is staring in horror at the girl as she continues to struggle futilely against her restraints. Looking down, I realize that already she is tearing the new stitches, even though she is in the process starting to rip the black wire down through her cheek. Tears are mixing with the blood, and a muffled gurgle is coming from her throat.

  “Jack!” I say firmly. “Step between the two tables.”

  This, finally, seems to stir him a little, and he looks at me.

  “Why?” he asks plaintively.

  “You will understand in a moment,” I continue. “For now, just do it!”

  He does as he is told, and I realize that the moment has come. The woman is squirming and struggling still on the table, but her efforts are futile. She has no hope of escape, and I must now move on to the main part of the procedure. Taking another scalpel in my hand, I step closer to her, and somehow her struggles become wilder still, to the extent that she is causing the entire table to rattle.

  Good.

  She has plenty of life and fight in her.

  And it is those qualities that I intend to use, to strengthen Catherine's body.

  Slowly, I reach the scalpel into the washer girl's open chest and move the blade toward the spot where I intend to make the first incision.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maddie

  Today

  The guy behind the till gives me a weird look as I set some tins of cat food on the counter along with a few sandwiches and some bottles of water.

  That's okay. I'm used to weird looks.

  ***

  As I cross Cathmore Road, heading back toward number nine, I glance over my shoulder to make sure that I'm not being watched. This is the first time I've properly been here when there's any light, and I'm surprised to see that Cathmore Road seems to be a pretty sleepy place. Still, I doubt the locals would be very impressed if they saw me, so I make doubly-sure that I'm not being followed and then I head down the side of number nine. Only after I'm out of sight, and once I'm sure nobody can see me at all, do I slip into the safety of the overgrown back garden.

  Shutting the gate, I feel a flash of relief, and then I head over to the broken window. If I can just -

  “So I was right,” a voice says suddenly, startling me enough to make me spin around and drop everything I just brought from the shop.

  A scruffy-looking man is watching me from just a few feet away. He's wearing an old beige overcoat with several tear marks, and his face is mostly hidden beneath a dark green fishing hat and a huge gray-black beard. The knife is still resting on the window-ledge, where I set it before I left, and the man apparently hasn't noticed it at all.

  “I thought I spotted someone breaking in last night,” he continues, taking a step toward me. “Something tells me, young lady, that you don't have a key to the front door.”

  ***

  “Relax,” Jerry says as he makes his way across the kitchen, in his house next door to number nine. “I haven't calls the cops and I'm not gonna, either. I'm not the kind of person who'd rat someone out just for seeking shelter. And that's what you're doing in that place, isn't it? Seeking shelter?”

  “I...”

  My voice trails off as I try to work out how much I can trust this guy. Standing here now, with tins of cat food and a bunch of other items gathered in my arms, I feel as if I probably look a little ridiculous.

  Suddenly hearing a faint thudding sound nearby, I turn and see that one of Jerry's cats has jumped up onto a book-covered table. The cat slips expertly between the various piles, somehow managing to keep from knocking any of them over. Purring as he goes, the cat finally reaches the table's far end and settles down with a faint purring sound, and a moment later I see that two more cats are entering the room. I guess it's totally possible that it's one of Jerry's cats that has entered the house next door, although I can't help noticing that these particular cats seem not to have bells on their collars.

  Okay, it's not one of his in the other house. It's some other cat.

  “They've been rounding you folk up, haven't they?” Jerry continues, examining the crack on a mug before setting it down. “I saw it on the news. Maybe I'm being cynical, but I get worried any time I see a government herding people into any kind of camp. Family matters, you understand. Which is to say, I understand why you wouldn't want to go anywhere near one of those things. It's smart of you to stay out.”

  “I'm not a thief,” I stammer. “I didn't even break the window, it was -”

  “It's been broken for years,” he replies, waving away my suggestion before setting another mug down. “I know, I know. It's been broken since as long as I remember, which is actually a rather long time. Now for a more important matter. Would you like some tea?”

  “Uh...”

  I honestly don't know how to respond. To be honest, there's a part of me that thinks maybe I should just turn around and run.

  “Don't overthink it,” he says, as if he's sensed my uncertainty. “The question's simple enough. Would you, or would you not, like a cup of tea? If you don't know, err on the side of caution and accept.”

  “Well, I...”

  Again, I fall silent.

  “It's not a trick!” he splutters, before mumbling something under his beard and setting a tea bag in each mug. “Well, you're getting one,” he continues, “whether you like it or not. And you should like it, because it's tea, and because tea is the answer to all of life's problems. Well, not all of them, but some.”

  He turns and shuffles to a cupboard. When he pulls the door open, I see a truly impressive selection of biscuits.

  “The window next door has been broken since forever, as far as I can tell,” he explains as he examines the various packets. “I was born in this house and I'm seventy-four years old now, so you can figure that out. In all the time I've been here, I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen anybody go near number nine. Do you know, the council keeps sending me letters, telling me that my house is untidy and that I have to fix my front garden? Did you know that?”

  “I didn't,” I reply cautiously, wondering why he's telling me about that.

  “And yet that place next door,” he continues, “they let stay rotten and empty. Doesn't it strike you as odd that those busy-bodies aren't poking their noses in?”

  “I guess.”

  “They're scared,” he says with a sigh. “I saw a man there once, I'm sure he was from th
e council. He stood outside the front door of number nine for at least half an hour, and then he wrote something on a clipboard and walked away. If you ask me, the people they send just kick the can down the road. They know, they sense, that something isn't right about that place.”

  “But -”

  “And no-one owns it now,” he adds. “Not as far as I can tell, anyway, and believe me I've traipsed round to every council office in the borough. I've knocked on doors, I've phoned people, I've been online, and there are no records of ownership. That house is probably the only place in London that has just fallen through the cracks like that. If you ask me, it should be knocked down and the ground should be salted, and then it should be left alone for a hundred years, maybe even two hundred. Long enough for the evil to fade away. After it's been checked out and documented, of course.”

  He finally takes one particular packet of biscuits and brings them over to the breakfast bar.

  “Would you like a biscuit?” he asks. “And consider your choice very carefully, because if you give the wrong answer, I'll murder you and shove your chopped-up body parts down the drain.”

  He opens the packet and holds the biscuits out toward me.

  “That was a joke,” he adds, “in case you hadn't realized. From the look on your face, I think maybe you hadn't.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, taking a biscuit.

  “You're homeless,” he continues. “Don't even bother to deny that. I can see it in your eyes, and your clothes. Heck, I can even smell it. You can use my bath some time if you like. In fact please, use it some time. If the wind changes, I'll smell you from a mile off. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Eighteen,” I lie.