No Absolution

by N. M. Bell

  Guy Fawkes Night. The paper displayed drawings of the streets teeming with eejits dancing around the bonfires. Some inventive arses even made scarecrows representing Jack the Ripper with a disembowelled female at his feet. How could they not see he was doing the Lord’s work? How could they make fun of his sacred duty? Did they not realise how it cost him in both body and soul to go out and seek to right the crimes against the Lord?

  He ground his teeth and tossed the offending paper into the gutter. Unexpected rage threatened to overwhelm him and a sweat broke out over his body despite the cold of the November night. The filthy confines of the narrow alley faded and his ears rang again with the revelry of Bonfire Night. Images flashed out of the shadows and were gone before he could see them properly. Flames flaring and lighting the buildings with shadows; somehow lending the scene an almost romantic feel, the smoke and whirling shadows hiding the squalor and the sewage underfoot. High pitched laughter and the gleam of bare legs and feet as the women danced in a circle, the men clapping and urging them on. Jake’s mood darkened as the effigies paraded by, hoisted overhead and greeted with cat calls. Refuse and rotten vegetables from the gutters burst on the straw figures causing them to gyrate drunkenly. A wave of sorrow rose from his belly at the huge cheer that erupted when the effigy representing Jack the Ripper plunged to the cobbles and was stomped to pieces.

  A tear wound its way down the side of his nose and he scrubbed it away violently. How could they not understand he did it for them and for their motley gaggle of offspring? He was doing the Lord’s work and yet they ridiculed him. How could God let that happen?

  “He is testing you, Jacob. To see if you are worthy.” Father’s figure loomed up out of the flashing images. “Look what He demanded of His own Son? Surely, you can stand a bit of ignorant mockery for His sake?” The images slowed and faded as Father’s words sank home.

  He was a chosen one, singled out by the Lord God Almighty Himself to carry out His work in this den of Satan. The sorrow vanished and the righteous wrath returned. It burned so hotly in his chest Jake was amazed he didn’t burst into flame. He imagined a halo of heavenly light surrounding him as he navigated the crowded streets. Why couldn’t these poor souls see he was their salvation? Two women brushed by, one on either side of him, with coy smiles from under lowered lashes.

  There is the reason you must be strong and carry on with your duty. Father nodded at the two strumpets as they passed. They are led to wickedness as soon as they are able to walk, they know no better. Only through the flaming sword of the Lord God can they be led to righteousness.

  “Oi, watch where the ‘ell yer going.” A rag and bone man shoved Jake out into the street.

  He jerked back to the scene before him and when he looked again Father had vanished. Jake continued down Commercial, bypassing the public houses teeming with the denizens of Whitechapel eager to spend their brass on drink and forgetfulness. A woman screamed as he passed a dark close and a man brought her to heel with a well-placed slap, if the sounds were anything to go by. Stupid wench, probably deserved whatever punishment was being meted out. Women had to be kept under the watchful eye of the superior male for fear they would follow Eve’s path into lies and deception. Hadn’t Father told him that so many time, made him repeat it over and over until it echoed in his childish dreams. Women were put on earth for the sole purpose of serving men. Was not Eve formed from Adam’s rib? God in all his aspects was a man, which proved a man was superior to any woman and she was obliged to do his bidding. Even in the Holy Catholic Church, did not the nuns serve the priests? Jake stumbled over the body of a dead cat lying in the shadows between lamp posts. It broke his train of thought and brought him back to the reality of Spitalfields on a Friday night. “Bleedin’ moggy,” he cursed and kicked the scraggly tabby into the gutter.

  Jake hesitated as he neared Christ Church and the entrance to Dorset Street. He was far too restless to be able to sleep and the night was young yet. Pulling the collar of his thin jacket up against the bite of the wind he carried on toward the light and noise of the Ten Bells at the corner of Fournier. The place was packed and the crowd spilled over into the street. Jake got himself a glass of rot gut gin and found place to lean where he could watch the men playing at Chuck Penny. The clink of the coins hitting the pavement was accompanied by shouts of joy or groans of despair. He had no inclination to play himself, but watching others lose their shirt was an amusing past time.

  It was well past midnight and the revelry was beginning to die down. Jake shoved into the public room and ordered another gin. He had to blink to focus enough to pick up the glass. The harsh liquor burnt its way past his lips and down his gullet. Pain swirled in his gut and Jake took another swig to quiet it. For a long moment the room spun around him. He pushed back from the bar and headed for the door, bouncing off other patrons on his way. Once outside the bitter cold helped clear his head but did nothing for the searing pain in his belly. Forget, I need to forget. Just for a night, just for a while. It’s too much for the likes ’o me…. He leaned his forehead against the blessedly cool brick of the nearest building. Jake fumbled at his flies and released a pent up breath as the sharp scent of hot urine rose in the dank air. It wasn’t until the stream slowed to a dribble he realised he had pissed down his leg and soaked his boot. Still leaning his head against the wall for support he tucked John Henry back into the dubious warmth of his thin trousers.

  A spate of icy rain roused him enough to shove away from the building. He took a few staggering steps into the mouth of the nearest alley and paused. The contents of his stomach scorched its way upward, his attempt to quell the assault was miserably unsuccessful. Liquid spewed from his mouth and out his nostrils while he retched uncontrollably. Unable to support himself any longer, Jake slid down the rough bricks. Dimly, he was aware he landed in his own spew but his befuddled brain refused to create any movement of his limbs. It was all too much effort, and for what? So he could crawl back to Miller’s Court and sleep in that flea and rat infested room? No far better to just stay here where he was. He threw up once more before the gin still coursing through his blood stream carried him into oblivion.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Feck off,” Jake mumbled as a boot connected with his ribs. He rubbed his cheek on the rough fabric of his sleeve and attempted to roll away from the irritation.

  “Get up, ye drunken lout.” The voice persisted and a fist grasped his collar and dragged him upright.

  The world spun around him when Jake cracked open an eye. It was all too much trouble to figure out. He lapsed into a semi-catatonic state and let the Peeler chivvy him along. The next thing he knew, he was inside a cell and someone was puking beside his head. Jake struggled upright and would have hurled himself if there’d been anything in his gut to upchuck.

  The pounding in his head was intolerable and he gripped the hair on his temples with both hands. Shite, even his hair hurt. What time was it anyway? He needed to go by the shop on Saturday morning.

  “Jacob Winncott.” A man stood outside the cell accompanied by two uniformed officers. “Which one of you is Winncott?”

  “That bloke, there.” One of the officers pointed at Jake.

  The keys jangled in the lock and rough hands hauled Jake to his feet. He stumbled down the hallway with one Bobby in front and one behind. They shoved him into an interrogation room where he dropped into a chair and cradled his head in his hands.

  “Jacob Winncott? Is that your name?” The plain clothed man addressed him.

  Jake raised his head and focussed his bleary gaze on the man, taking note of the two officers stationed one on either side of the door. “What’s it to ye?” he responded.

  “I need you to state your name for the record. Are you Jacob Winncott? “

  Jake fought down the almost overwhelming urge to lay his head on the table and sleep. “Aye, that’s me name.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Slaughter man,” his tongue slurr
ed over the words.

  “Where are you employed, Mr. Winncott.”

  “Fleischer’s Butcher Shop.”

  “Where is the shop located?”

  “Aldgate High Street. What’s it to ye?” Jake glared at the detective as best he could. His heart stuttered in his chest. The man was the same detective that questioned him about the murders weeks ago. His muddled brain struggled to supply the information that floated just out of his cognizance. In a moment of sudden clarity it came to him. It was the detective who was sniffing around Aggie. Anger served to sober him up a bit and Jake raised his head higher and met the man’s gaze. “Wha’ d’ye want wi’ me? Just let me sober up and then let me go. I ain’t done nuthin’ worse’n getting’ pissed. Weren’t it you what pestered me wi’ questions yesterday?”

  “Well, Mr. Winncott, the officers who dragged your sorry arse in to the precinct reported that you continually raved about ‘Mary Jane’ and being ‘sorry’. You also mumbled something they thought sounded like you were upset over losing a cleaver.” The man consulted the notes in his hand. “Seems you carried on quite a bit about this Mary Jane. Care to enlighten me as to what you were talking about?”

  Jake stared stupidly at the man for a moment while his brain raced feverishly. Thoughts bouncing off one another like hail off the cobbled street. “Me mam’s name were Mary Jane. When I’m corned I talk to her like, she comes to me when I’m pissed and gives me hell for losing her best cleaver when I was a nipper,” Jake lied, making things up a second before they left his lips.

  “Where were you on the night of November eighth and the early morning hours of November ninth of this year?”

  “I don’ rightly recall. What day were it?” Jake played for time. “Didn’t I tells ye yesterday at the shop where I were?”

  “The eighth was Thursday.” The detective was obviously losing patience.

  “Were that Thursday last? Two days ago, like?”

  “Yes.” Detective Keegan’s reply was terse.

  “As I recollect … I had me a few pints and then went home to sleep. Worked all day and I was whacked,” Jake replied.

  “Where do you live, Mr. Winncott?”

  “In Miller’s Court, off Dorset.” Jake could see no profit in lying about it as it would be easy enough for the Peelers to check on. Those bastards in the court would sell him out for a few coppers.

  “Miller’s Court? The same place Mary Jane Kelly was murdered. Don’t you find that a bit of a coincidence? You living there and then muttering about Mary Jane and a cleaver?” The detective leaned closer, his nose inches from Jake’s face.

  “I cain’t help living where I live. I were at home and in me bed. Niver heare’d nothin’ the night that fiend kilt that poor woman,” Jake replied without flinching.

  “Mr. Joseph Barnett says he saw the victim with someone who looked like you late on the night of eighth November. Can you explain that, Mr. Winncott?”

  Jake snorted in derision and then instantly regretted it as pain lanced through his temples. “Joe Barnett is drunk more orfen than he’s sober. He’s a powerful jealous man, so he is. That Kelly woman threw him out of their room couple of weeks ago. He were in the Ten Bells ragin’ ‘bout it. Sayin’ how he was gonna get even wi’ the woman. Iffen he couldn’t ‘ave ‘er, no one could.” Jake paused. “Mebbe ye should go barkin’ up his tree about the woman’s murders.” Jake waved a red herring under the detective’s nose.

  “Did anyone else hear Mr. Barnett making those claims?”

  “Aye, anyone w’thin hearin’ distance. Go check with the bar keep at the Bells, he had to throw the bleeder out o’ the place more than once. Always pickin’ fights, Joe is. Accusin’ everyone of makin’ eyes at that carroty-haired woman o’ his,” Jake replied.

  Detective Keegan held Jake’s gaze for a long moment and then straightened. He nodded at the two officers by the door. “Take Mr. Winncott back to the cell and release him when he’s sober enough not to be a threat to himself or others.” The tall detective turned on his heel and departed.

  Jake got to his feet and followed his escort back to the holding cell. In under on hour he was back on the street. The weak November dawn was just breaking, the pale rays of an anaemic sun attempting to force their way through the miasma of smoke and fog that clogged the streets. He turned into Dorset and as he crossed under the brick archway that led into Miller’s Court proper Mam materialised at his side. The touch of her hand was soft on his cheek and Jake blinked.

  “Ah, Jakie. Why did ye not tell the detective man the truth? It was a hard and horrible thing ye did to that wee gurl and her niver havin’ said a word or raisin’ a hand against ye. It will eat yer soul alive, so it will, until ye shrive yerself of the sins ye’ve committed, mo chroi.”

  “But, Mam.” Jake stopped and looked into the apparition’s sweet face. “How can it be a sin when I’m doin’ the work of the Lord God Almighty?”

  “Think, Jakie, think. When has the Lord spoken directly to ye and told ye ta do these things?” She laid her hand on his arm gentle as a summer breeze while her gaze held his.

  “Father says—” he began.

  “Aye, Jakie. Father says … not the Lord God Almighty, but your father. Do ye honestly think the Lord, or Jesus, is happy about ye murtherin’ all those poor wimmen? Don’t let him rule ye, Jakie. For me sake and for the sake of yer immortal soul confess to yer sins. Go to mass and take confession. The priests can’t reveal what ye tell them in the confession box. At least be honest with yerself and wi’ God and ask his forgiveness,” Mam implored him.

  Jake closed his eyes against the anguish and supplication on her face. When he opened them she was gone and he jolted with a bolt of shock as he realised he has halted by the shattered door of Number Thirteen. What if Mam is right? What if Father doesn’t speak the Word of the Lord? Horror and revulsion swept through him. He moved on and his hand shook as he unsnibbed the latch of his room.

  “Spawn of Satan. You are no son of mine if you listen to that rubbish,” Father thundered. Jake fell back against the door clutching his chest in fright. “You must banish that whore of Babylon from your mind. I’ve told you and told you and still you let her into your thoughts. You imagine her touching you … are you mad? Her evil was strong enough to tempt even me, the sorceress!”

  Jake fought to slow his ragged breathing. What could he say to defend himself? How did Father always know when he’d seen Mam? At least he couldn’t hurt her anymore. Not like when Jake was a nipper.

  “Have you nothing to say?” Father demanded. A small smile curled the corners of his thin lips under the bushy moustache. “I stopped the damage she was doing in this life, now it seems I must stop the trouble she is making in the hereafter. Lucifer has given her great power if she can continue to plague you when you are under my protection and guidance.” Tiny bits of spittle shone on his beard.

  “Your protection or the Lord’s?” Jake was appalled at the words as soon as they left his mouth. He knew better than to ever question Father.

  “That’s a stupid question, Jacob. Of course, the Lord protects and guides you, as do I. It is one and the same thing. Don’t plague me with your juvenile questions again,” the spirit decreed.

  Jake found himself nodding even while a tiny part of him quivered with uncertainty.

  “I’m ashamed of you, son. Lying in the gutter like a common drunkard and getting locked up as Her Majesty’s guest. You know you must atone for your sins, don’t you? What shall it be this time? You may choose, but be sure it fits the transgressions or I shall have to take a hand … and we don’t want that do we?” Father regarded him with a stern expression and shook his head.

  Jake crossed the floor of the small room and pulled up the floorboards that hid his most private things. With trembling fingers he picked up the short whip with the many tails. It was bequeathed to him upon Father’s death; the same one Father had used when Mam had been particularly evil. Turning he presented it to Father, arms extended w
ith the handle and lash laying across his palms. Jake bit his lip to keep his chin from wobbling. Father hated weakness.

  The figure loomed larger and seemed to fill the room. He crossed his arms and nodded to Jake. “Go on then. You know what has to be done.” Impassively, the apparition regarded him.

  For a moment, Jake considered throwing the whip to the floor and lighting every lamp he possessed to chase the ghost from the room. Sweat broke out over his body. No, he knew better than that. He’d tried it when he was much younger and he’d experienced the most horrible things for two days before he threw himself on Father’s mercy and begged forgiveness. Clemency had not come cheaply. Jake had killed for Father and the Lord for the first time in order to obtain a pardon. Little Lucy Higgins … Jake could still see her face when he brought the knife out of his coat. He’d been scared, and it was his first time, so it wasn’t a clean kill. The girl had squealed a lot, begged him to stop, but there was no one to hear her. Father had been so proud of him. Jake smiled at the memory. Told him he was a man now, a man of God, even though he was only eight.

  “Well,” father prompted him, bringing Jake back to the present. “What are you waiting for? Begin.”

  Jake laid the whip on the table and stripped off his clothes. The room was cold and goose flesh rose on his body while his balls pulled up tight into his groin. He picked up the whip again and closed his eyes. It seemed some other person controlled his movements as the lash rose and fell, biting chunks out of his flesh. He snapped the long tails up over his opposite shoulder to rain down blows on his back. Jake bit through his lower lip but no sound escaped him. Whining only made the torture go on longer—no—not torture. Punishment, his due and just punishment. Jake wielded the whip with renewed vigour. The long tails curled around his buttocks and stung his scrotum. His knees threatened to buckle but Jake kept his gaze on Father’s stern face and persevered. Blood ran down his legs and pooled under his feet. At last he was allowed to set the whip aside, but then to his horror Father motioned for Jake to pick up a short sharp knife from the assortment on the table. His sins must be very great this time. Greater than he realised. The Lord was angry with him. Very angry. In his mind the Lord and Father were one and the same. He must regain his place of honour.