by N. M. Bell
“There ain’t no one. The coppers have bin around askin’ about them murders, that’s all.”
Jake gave a bark of laugher and leaned closer to her. “I were talkin’ about that stray tom ye’ve bin feedin’ without yer father’s notice.”
Aggie blinked and released a long sigh. “It’s only a stray and the sausages don’t miss a bit of this or that. I like moggies, there’s no harm in him and he’s keeping the mice and rats out of the place.”
A couple of nights the past week before he left work he observed Aggie feeding a mangy young tom cat. It amused him she would take in such a ratty stray.
He harkened back suddenly to the black and white cat his mother used to keep. Darkness crowded the edge of his vision for a second; Father had not liked the black and white cat, not at all. Well, perhaps if it suited him Aggie’s mangy pet might meet the same fate. He caught her gaze again with his, mesmerising and immobilising her for the length of time it took him to step nearer. He squinted at her face in the sulphurous fog that smothered even the light from the gas lamps. A frown creased his brow. What is it about that bitch that pulls me back time and again? I must be strong against her sorcery.
“:Are ye, alright Jake?” Aggie’s voice drew him back to the present.
“Aye. It’s gettin’ late. Where are ye off to, woman, all on yer own. T’ain’t safe, so they say.” Jake pinned her with a dark gaze.
She stepped back a pace and then shook her head. “I’m only goin’ over the road to Elsie’s, not even out of sight of me own front door. Father will come to fetch me later.” She straightened her shoulders and brushed by him. He watched until she vanished in the shadows of the street. A quick splash of pale light and a faint greeting told him she was safely inside.
Jake pondered on the woman all the way back to his cold, dark room. The fire was out again, damn it; he struck the match for the lamp with unnecessary force.
The heat from the rebuilt fire chased some of the chill from the air. It was raining, and the fog pressed its face close to his window. Finished with the sausages he had brought from the butcher shop earlier, he savoured the taste of both Aggie’s name and her handiwork on his tongue. Shaking his head, he forced all thought of her to the back of his mind. Time to set the game in motion, but how best to taunt the Peelers in a way their slow stupid minds will unnerstan’.
The pile of newspapers by his chair gave mute evidence of the force’s ineptitude. They kept trumpeting they had caught the man responsible for the murders; they had arrested this man, or that man. That poor fool of a man, arrested because some eejits called him ‘Leather Apron’, for God’s sake. Eejits!
He wiped the surface of the table with his hand and arranged the quill and paper so the light fell clearly on it. Carefully, he withdrew the bottle of precious red ink from his coat pocket and removed the stopper. Dipping the quill into the ink Jake wrote on a piece of scrap paper; the ink looked sufficiently like fresh blood to please him immensely. He brought another tattered sheet closer and smiled as a thought came to him. He began to write.
An hour later he set the quill down and surveyed his completed missive. The salutation was perfect, Dear Boss, a lovely dig at the police, mocking them as being in charge when Jake was in fact in charge of what was going to happen. A taunt about the Leather Apron fiasco, a warning about his dislike of whores and a promise to keep ripping them. It wasn’t really bragging to tell them how the last lady didn’t even have the time to squeal, it was the pure and honest truth.
It was also appropriate to apologise for the red ink, when Annie’s blood would have been so much more effective. And then the piece de resistance; letting them in on his little joke ahead of time, clipping the lady’s ears and sending them to the police. Just for jolly of course. The signature was another stroke of genius: Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper. Yes, a rare bit of jolly.
He folded the paper and noted with dismay his hands were splotched with the red ink, staining his fingers and a bit on the back of his hand. It put paid to his plan to dispatch the letter post haste. He had no wish to draw attention to himself by going about with red stains on his hands. Jake carefully hid the letter and poured cold water from the pitcher in the bowl. Using a scrap of lye soap, he scrubbed until his skin was raw, though some of the irksome ink still remained.
“Damn me, I’ll have to wear gloves to hide that until the first cow is slaughtered if the stain doesn’t fade by then.”
Fortunately, the stains were barely noticeable by Monday. That night Jake pulled the letter from its hiding place, and grinning, he carefully added a post script sharing his displeasure at the delay in posting the letter because of the ink stains. A final taunt that the authorities had had no luck catching him and a jolly about the rumour reported in the Daily Telegraph that he was a doctor. No point in letting them know how close to the truth they were. Father had been both surgeon and reverend and had taught his son well. Brilliance and genius was so often misunderstood. Smiling, Jake donned his long cloak, pulled his sharp billed cap down on his forehead and set off for the post box. Sometime tomorrow a clerk at the Central News Agency would get the thrill of his life when he opened the envelope. Jake returned to his room unobserved and fell asleep thinking about clipping the ears of his next lady and how best to deliver them to the police.
Chapter Five
The knife insinuated itself into his dreams, whispering about all the doxies out plying their trade unmolested in the night. Promising to cut sure and true, severing the prizes Jake so desired, quickly and cleanly. Yes, he promised, yes, soon you will drink at the well of iniquity. The red fountain of their sinning freed from the flesh at your touch.
Jake woke to a wet dreary morning, rain sluiced down the thin pane of glass where the thick fog pressed its face. Quickly, he dressed and flung his old canvas coat over his shoulders. He stopped at the corner to buy a copy of The Daily Telegraph; they were still rattling on over the last bit of work he performed, but there was no mention of the letter received by the Central News Agency. Capital, they’re holding it back like I telt ‘em, till I can do a bit more work with me sharp friend.
The ink drawings produced by the newspaper were highly amusing; the figures portrayed in the crude sketches looked nothing like him. How he longed to set them right, but the time was not yet. A laugh escaped his lips at the ridiculous conjecture offered up by the reporter, what nonsense. Still it was amusing, and a constant source of entertainment, now that the public and the press were so hysterical that the dailies were putting out three editions a day.
If only I could enjoy their adoration, but I must be patient. One day the world will know and remember me name.
The thought brought a rush of heat to his chilled body, Father would be proud. Oh, he would never show that emotion to Jake, but he would be proud of the work he was employed with. Stepping off the curb and jumping to avoid the gutter overflowing with sewage and rainwater he cursed the infernal weather. It was days like this he hated London’s East End, and Whitechapel in particular. It almost made him yearn for the cattle boats, where at least the wind off the sea was clean. Rage smouldered in his chest. The thought of the clever clue he left in the Dear Boss letter mitigated his anger, the fools would never figure it out, though. I’ll need to be more direct and less clever in the next letter. The bobbies are so daft, they’ll think I underlined certain words for emphasis and not to present them with a puzzle to solve. Eejits!
The sharp bark of a small dog was barely audible over the drumming of the rain. Jake glanced down the narrow alley he was passing and observed two boys poking a shivering black and white creature with sticks. Momentarily distracted, he stopped and watched in amusement as they harried and chivvied the little mongrel into a corner. Whitechapel was overrun with unwanted creatures, dogs and cats, as well as humans. Not to mention the inevitable rats and other vermin. The dog yelped shrilly, the sound pierced Jake’s ear. The rain and cold disappeared from his vision, instead he saw Mam stroking the head of her blac
k and white tomcat. Mam loved that cat, taking care of it, as well as lavishing affection on Jake. Aggie’s features blurred with his mother’s, her hands stroked the stray moggy she had taken in at the shop. Loud laughter and the increasing desperation of the dog’s cries shattered the vision. Jake strode decisively down the alley.
“Here now, get away from that, ye guttersnipes!
“Whot’s it to you, gov’?” The grimy child turned his tow head in Jake’s direction.
“We’s only havin” a wee bit of jolly, we are.” The older child sidled away from him, drawing further into the alley.
“Leave it be.” Jake glowered at them and strode further into the narrow confines of the alley.
The street urchins abandoned their fun and melted into the pelting rain like the feral creatures they were.
“Here now, little dog, come to Jake.” He knelt on the filthy cobbles and stretched out his hand to the shivering black and white mess of wet fur.
The dog bared its teeth and growled. Jake neatly grasped it by the scruff of its neck and dangled it just off the ground. He surprised himself by tucking the quivering dog into the big pocket on the inside of his coat. Now what am I to do with the mutt, and what in the name of hell made me rescue the damn thing? He stood uncertainly in the downpour before shaking his head and moving off down the street toward the nearest public house. Reaching the door, he stuck his hand in his pocket intending to deposit the creature on the paving stones by the door. His fingers encountered the warm, still damp, mass of the sleeping dog. Jake withdrew his hand and continued in the door. If the miserable creature made a peep, or caused any trouble at all, at all, it was out into the street with the rest of the rubbish with the miserable creature. He settled at the bar and ordered a gin.
The intolerably long day over at last, though it was still drizzling outside, a soft mizzle mixing with the thick mist. The gas lamps were lit and the evening well advanced as he left the warmth of the bar. He pulled the brimmed hat lower over his face. The cobbles under his feet were slick with slime and sewage. A small movement against his ribs reminded him of the pathetic creature he had foolishly rescued earlier. Now what am I to do with the rotter? The old besom next door will squeal to McCarthy if she gets wind of the thing. Always sticking her nose where it don’t belong, so she is. The puppy chose that moment to curl itself around the hand Jake inserted in his pocket with the intention of discarding the thing. The warm wet tongue licked his fingers and the odious thing sighed audibly and went back to sleep. Jake withdrew his hand; common sense warred with his persistent inclination to take the creature back to his room and give it some nourishment. The tiny bones poked sharply against the animal’s skin as he reached back into the deep pocket. Perhaps, just for tonight, he would give it a warm place to sleep, Mam would have done that and risked Father’s wrath. Poor wee spalpeen, Mam’s soft Irish brogue whispered. He shivered at the memory of Father’s wrath. The scars on his back itched at the thought. It’s only for the night, my treasure. St. Francis says we must show compassion to animals when we can. The rain on the cobbles seemed to speak with Mam’s voice.
“Such kindness did you no good in the end, though did it?” He increased his pace and shook his head to dispel the image of Father’s furious face, and in a moment of uncustomary solidarity with his mother’s spirit, allowed the wretched ball of fur to remain in his pocket.
Wrapped in an old shirt the black and white puppy slept peacefully by the hearth. Jake finished up his supper, washing it down with ginger beer. He managed to pilfer some cream and a bit of stale bread from the shop on Dorset; the old bitch might miss it but she would never accuse him of taking it. However, that didn’t solve the problem of what to do with the thing. Give it a taste of the knife, just for a jolly, Father spoke in his ear. Jake’s eyes flicked to the hidey-hole, but he resisted the notion he should fetch it at the moment. His thoughts drifted as the heat from the fire melted the chill from his bones, Mam’s face danced in the shadows at the back of the hearth. Inevitably, her features changed and merged with Aggie’s. He saw her work worn hands, a silver ring on the little finger of her right hand. Mam wore a silver ring on her small finger; that seems too much of a coincidence not to be significant somehow. The puppy mewled in its sleep. It was just a puppy, he had checked the creature’s mouth and it had only just lost its milk teeth. Mam taught him how to tell an animal’s age by the teeth. Aggie appeared in the flames of his fire where she stroked the head of the mangy stray cat and regarded him with huge luminescent eyes.
“Aggie, by heaven, why didn’t I think of that before now? She’ll take the wretched thing and I can be shed of it.” His voice broke the stillness of the damp room.
He was quite pleased with the idea. The woman was wary of him though, perhaps she wouldn’t accept a gift from his hands. He thought not, and the time wasn’t right to be giving the woman a token, at any rate. She wasn’t a common three-penny whore to be bought with baubles and couchous. He stared at her image in the flames, a frown wrinkling his brow. An anonymous gift. That would work. She don’t need to know it was me unless I decide to tell her so.
He hurried to his bed and rummaged underneath it. He found the basket he was searching for and pulled it into the light. It would work splendidly, the top closed with a latch so the creature couldn’t escape and spoil his surprise. He set the basket by the hearth and prepared for bed, an emotion he couldn’t place vibrated through his body. Dismissing it from his thoughts, Jake cleared the remnants of his supper and crawled into bed after extinguishing the lamp. No sooner had his weary head hit the pillow than tiny mewling sounds erupted from the basket. Cursing, he swung his legs from under the meagre warmth of his blankets and scooped the annoying thing up. He stamped back to his bed and tucked the thing into the warm hollow of the mattress. The noise ceased immediately, Jake turned his back on the tiny annoying beast and slept.
In the dark before dawn Jake skulked down the stairs with his basket. It wouldn’t do for him to run into the bitch, or one of the other renters, and have to explain about the damn basket and, God forbid, the creature within it.
Not a fit day out for man nor beast. Why should he remember Mam’s words, today of all days? Why did she keep intruding on his thoughts all the bloody time? He called Father’s face to the front of his mind deliberately blotting out Mam’s gentle features. Once this damnable creature is where it belongs I will never think of her again.
Closing the door at the bottom of the rickety stairs behind him, he set off quickly hunching his shoulders against the driving rain, water dripping off the sharp peak of his cap. The bottoms of his trousers grew wet with rain and God only knew what other excrement by the time he reached the slaughter yard. He crossed the street and made his way toward the pens where the miserable steers awaited his attention. The fog was coming up from the river, mixing with the putrid fumes from the matchmakers, the sweatshops, and the abattoirs. The noisome brew swirled around him and his foot landed in a deep pot hole of effluence.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed. A stream of icy rain slid down his neck as he tipped his hat brim up in an attempt to improve the line of sight. If there was any more water about, a man could drown in it. Perhaps he should just forget this foolishness and toss the basket and its occupant into the gutter.
A light flickered along the edge of the shutter over the front of the shop. Aggie, or old man Fleischer, must be up and about already. Stepping into the mucky yard he shouldered his way past the soggy beasts and let himself into the dank confines of his work place. He stopped to shake the water from his clothes, shrugged out of the outerwear, and hung his oilskin up on a peg. Something that seemed to come from outside him drove him toward the light spilling over the butcher block. The dark voice hissed in his mind as an almost physical force hindered his progress.
The puppy began crying at the top of its lungs as the wet seeped into the wicker basket. Unfamiliar emotions annoyed Jake and he stuffed a finger in one ear to block the sound. He hesitated i
n the shadows and caught his breath as the halo of light shining around Aggie’s blonde head mesmerised him for a moment.
She looked like Mam, except Aggie was blonde where Mam’s hair was red. Was she blonde all over, he wondered. She innint the kind to dye her hair. Only them that are no better than they should be do that.
He edged further back into the shadow and set the basket on the floor. The damned dog was thankfully silent now and the earlier screeches had been smothered by the pounding rain on the tin roof. Without a backward glance Jake faded into the gloom at the back of the shed and returned to the stinking kill room to start the day’s work. Perhaps sometime in the future the dog would protect her. Memories of a black dog who used to come with the coal man infiltrated his thoughts. Katie, the dog’s name was. Why should I recollect that now?
Jake hastened to pick up the bludgeon and motioned to the yard boy, who had finally showed up, to send the first steer into the narrow passageway leading to its death. In no time he had no thought for anything other than the skin and bone parting under his hands. The iron tang of the blood strong in his nostrils.
Chapter Six
His head was clearer tonight in the absence of the knife’s constant nagging for blood. Time to deal with the tasties I’ve saved. The fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and chased some of the chill from the gloomy corners of the room. Jake pushed the bed aside and pried up the floorboard next the wall. Groping in the dark confines of the narrow space he extricated a quart jar, the dark red contents sloshing gently against the inside of the glass. Cheap wine was good for more than drinking straight from the bottle. It was very useful for marinating tender tidbits. He held the jar up to the light, the blurred outline of the prize within sent a spiral of pleasure through his gut. His fingers tightened on the glass in excited anticipation of the ritual he intended to enact. The ritual he learned at Father’s side and perfected with a special touch all his own. Quiet laughter spilled from his lips while he opened the jar and slid the contents into the chipped basin waiting on the table by the fire.