by Mat Ridley
“Well, I’ll repeat what I said to you the first time we met, Little Man, and that’s that you’ve got balls. No brains, maybe, but balls, aye. How do you ever expect to get out of here if you go sticking yourself with your own toothpick?”
With no warning, he raised one booted foot and pushed me down flat on my back, or at least as flat as was possible with a sword sticking out of it. A fresh surge of warmth seeped out of my wound, washing a little bit more of my consciousness out with it.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” I asked lucidly in my head, but from my mouth I couldn’t even manage a croak.
“Hold still now, this might sting a bit.”
With this colossal understatement, Jack planted his boot on my chest, pinning me down, and then wrenched the sword free. It felt like he was taking half the contents of my body along with it, but when King Arthur finally held his Excalibur aloft, only the merest trace of blood marred the blade.
“Right then, sir, let’s see about gettin’ you somewhere a little more congenial. Upsy daisy!”
A hand as large as the blade of a gravedigger’s shovel grabbed my arm and hoisted me up unceremoniously over one of Jack’s expansive shoulders. He began to stride away, gustily singing hymns, pausing only to retrieve his sword. “Come on, Devorah, me old girl. We’re not done with these buggers yet!”
I assumed we were heading back towards the relative safety of New Jerusalem, but all I could see from my perch was the back of Jack’s armour and the blood streaming across it. He carried me as effortlessly as the angels did—or at least as they had, before I’d been abandoned. The feverish thought rushed through my mind that maybe God had changed His mind, and that somehow Jack was an angel, sent to rescue me after all. Certainly he seemed to cut down any demons that tried to intercept us with the same ruthless efficiency, and even though I couldn’t actually see them fall, I could surely feel and hear the ease with which he tore through their number.
Some of my thoughts must have leaked out through my mouth, because Jack suddenly interrupted his cheerful slaughtering—of both demons and ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’—with a wheezy fit of laughter.
“Angel? Me? You’re too kind. Old Jack’s been given many names over the years, but no-one’s ever called him an angel before. Usually the opposite! But I show them whose side Jack is on, prove it to them all, me and my Devorah.”
My ride got bumpy again for a moment as Jack dealt with another assailant, but I was still too weak to twist my neck around to see what was happening. My vision was filled only with Jack’s back, slick with my own poisoned blood and that of his foes—and even the sight of that was blurry. The only thing that I could sense clearly was Jack’s deep, rumbling voice, soaking into my mind through the tenuous grasp on consciousness I struggled to maintain.
Chapter 19
“I apologise for the rough nature of our passage, my friend, but the denizens of this place make for inconsiderate travelling companions. And they can sense your weakness, yes they can; fancy stabbing yourself with your own sword, tut. There’s a tall tale you can tell one day, that’s for sure! But not today, not in your condition. No, today, you listen instead. I want to tell you the sorry tale of your friend Jack! Mayhap it will make the journey pass more quickly, but if not that, at least keep your mind from your wounds.
“Once upon a time, before this place, Jack was favoured by God, yes. An important man was I; a surgeon, at the Royal London Hospital no less! Very famous! Very refined! In those days, Devorah was only little. I could hold her in the palm of my hand, and the cutting was so soft, so gentle. I cut away the bad things and saved people’s lives. Just like now, ha!
“But I did not always succeed. It began with a fog—like a pea soup, do they still say that?—and with the fog there came an accident. A young woman was brought into the hospital, knocked down by a cab that was so enveloped by fog that the driver didn’t even realise what he had done; or, if you believed the old crone that bore the victim into the hospital, perhaps he was being paid enough not to care. Either possibility yielded the same outcome, which was to send for surgeon Jack with his dear blade and his needles and his threads, and for him to try to put Miss Humpty back together again.
“Alas! The poor thing was much too broken for me to save her. After much redness, with a shiver and a sigh, she passed over. Heart-breaking! Such rosy cheeks, even in death. Little did I know at the time what manner of creature I had before me; if I had, I would have shed no tears. But in my ignorance, I was sad, too sad even to wash the blood of failure properly from my hands. With heavy feet, I dragged myself out of the theatre, making for the departed’s companion—whom I took to be her mother—to offer her my condolences and my prayers.
“What a shock for poor Jack when the old prune turned on him like a scalded cat, blaming him for her friend’s death! I tried to protest my innocence, but nothing I said would calm her. All I could do was try to steer her to a side room before she disturbed the other patients, but as soon as I reached out to touch her, she flung a torrent of strange words at me in no language I had ever heard before and declared to all listening that her lover—her lover!—would be avenged. The Rotting Log Coven would see to it! Her fury seemingly spent, the hag turned her back on stunned Jack and stormed off into the night.
“Hard to believe that with all my strength, I was frightened, eh? But Jack was a God-fearing man, and if he feared God, then he also feared the Enemy. Witches! I did not dream that such as that still existed in the modern world, and I didn’t need to understand the words she had uttered to feel her hex sitting on me like a toad on a gravestone. Sure enough, over the next few days, a strange weakness began to seep into my bones. No appetite—imagine that with one so big as I! And no more surgery for Jack, either. I sent word to the hospital that I was ill, and would spend a few days in convalescence, catching up on my reading; but ah, little did they know what kind of reading Jack was about. Not the unimportant words of so-called great minds, no; instead, the sweet words of the Torah filled my head, even as my belly emptied. And there it was, written clearly: ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ Adonai commands it! Other, darker books told of ways to recognise the spoor of the sorceress, and how to confront their kind. Those Italian fops with their fancy buildings and holy smoke, Jack has no time for them in general; but their Inquisition, ah, they knew their business.
“The witch’s evil hunger gnawed at my frame, but I had strength enough. And purpose, aye! From the kitchen, beautiful Devorah called to me, now longer, brighter, sharper than before. Angry! But where to find the coven? I had an idea. The crone who cursed me was old and frail, not like Jack. She could not have carried her young companion far to get to the hospital. And if the instigator of my misery was so perverse as to fornicate with one of her own gender, then of course, the best place to start the hunt was in that nearby, sordid lair of debauchery: Whitechapel!”
The trickle of my blood running down Jack’s back had slowed, and even though a fresh wave of agony lanced through my body with every jolt that Jack’s uneven progress through the demons produced, I thought I could feel my fever receding. I started to offer up a prayer of thanks, but then I remembered how I had ended up in this situation in the first place, and cut it dead. My strength slowly returned and Hell’s grasping fingers receded—at least, for the moment—allowing me to focus more easily on Jack’s tale. And at his mention of Whitechapel, there suddenly came a horrifying suspicion about the giant over whose shoulder I was slung. Could it really be that my rescuer was… Jack the Ripper?
I must have said something out loud. “Aye, that’s what they called me in the end, and maybe rightly so. But not at first, though, no sir! At the start, Jack was no ripper. He was afraid, yes, and watchful. The eyes in the fog, that was me. I wasn’t insane, not then—not now, either, maybe, ha!—and had no desire to kill an innocent. No desire to kill at all, for that matter, but Adonai had made it clear that’s what I must do. As a surgeon, I had saved lives; as a witch-
hunter, I was to take them. Balance from the unbalanced, how do you like that?
“It was not long before I picked up the trail. There are many shadows in the night, and Jack was in all of them. The business dealings of the people who strolled through Whitechapel were always conducted loudly, brazenly, raucously; and pillow talk could be easily overheard by one scurrying with the rats in the alleyways. I soon knew where to find a member of the coven: a brewer of love potions, if you please, and no surprise.
“I was cautious. Mayhap this strumpet was innocent and only sold bottles of lies to her customers, having in fact no knowledge of the dark arts at all. But if she was indeed a sorceress, then Jack must be sure to strike swiftly lest she turn her foul spells upon him. For a while, I observed the antics of her clients and their purchases, and the effects of her philtres made it clear that she was suckling at Satan’s teat. Under their power, the unwilling became wanton, and the accompanying leers of the witch’s customers confirmed they were up to no good but their own.
“The proof obtained, it was time for Jack to conduct a little… interview with this harlot. How can one remove a curse? Can its progress be slowed? Where could I find the one who had put the hex upon me? Many questions, but be careful not to let that witchy tongue flap too much, Jack, or she’ll doubtless compound your misery! I chose my moment carefully, late at night—although not the witching hour, ha ha!—but those supernatural senses of hers were sharp. As she staggered from the warmth of some dim saloon, reeling with cheap alcohol, I approached, but she turned and spoke to me before I could get close enough.”
Jack’s voice changed to that of his victim. “‘Alright, my lovely?’ she crooned. ‘Don’t be shy now, old Polly always has time for customers. I’ve seen you in the shadows. I was wondering how long it would be before you got your courage up enough to approach me. But then that’s Polly’s speciality: potions to help fine gentlemen such as yourself to get their courage up!’ A knowing laugh. A lewd wink. Disgusting creature! But her guard was down, so I shuffled forward, playing the role of timid Romeo, head down, Devorah hidden close by my side in the folds of my coat.
“Her drunkenness was her downfall. Humorous, isn’t it, that a witch’s demise be due to the potions brewed by ordinary men, eh? Eye of newt and toe of frog are no match for juice of grape! Old Jack got nice and close, and then sprang like a cobra, quickly with the hand over the mouth and swiftly with sweet Devorah into her side. Gently, my love! Not enough to kill; but enough to focus the mind and ensure cooperation. As she weakly struggled like a fish on the dockside, I danced with my mistress to a more secluded spot.
“She was a lively one, I tell you! Eager to talk, eager to save her wretched neck. Lots of information for Jack to remember. But she was a tricky one, too, sir. Several times she would be describing some detail of her devilish craft to me, when all of a sudden she would start speaking in that accursed language I remembered from the hospital. Each time, a little prompting from Devorah put her back on her best behaviour, but after an hour or so of conversation, wicked Polly was not quite so helpful or attentive anymore. Too many holes! But she had been very informative, so I did her the service of a quick finish, and left her carcass to the rats.
“The first of order of business when I got home was to clean myself and Devorah off. She soon regained her glow, and, if anything, looked healthier than ever, which I ascribe to the invigorating liquids she had imbibed. Inspired, I even regained enough appetite for a bowl of broth: invigorating liquids for Jack, too! For the rest of the night, we sat together in my rooms, Devorah and I, me scribbling down all that I could remember of the witch’s confessions, and her sitting by the window, radiant in the lamplight.
“Dabbling Polly had been a goldmine of useful information, although the excavation had been hard, dirty work. I had learnt the names and whereabouts of others in her coven, and—just as usefully—more tips on how to deal with such creatures safely, things that my books did not cover. I spent the week in seclusion, praying for protection from the dark ones, forgiveness for the death I had wrought, but most of all, for the strength to continue my crusade. With each stroke of my whetstone against Devorah’s shanks, so too sharpened my resolve to remove the sickness of these women from Whitechapel’s diseased body!
“The week passed, and Jack the Surgeon once again sallied forth. I had decided next to visit a member of the coven so brazen that even her name proclaimed her nefarious associations; but Jack soon taught this Dark Annie contriteness. As before, I adopted a humble attitude for my approach, but she was a wary one, and alas, my initial slice did not quite strike true! Quite the merry chase she led me through the alleyways, but by now I knew them well, and the trail of red stuff from her gaping neck was easy to follow. I knew she was mortally wounded—why else would she not cry out for help unless she was not able to?—but I could not risk that she make it back to her Sisters and then be nursed back to health by their black arts. I eventually caught up with her, just as she staggered into the garden of a poorhouse. If I had rounded the corner a mere moment later, she might still have escaped me though, for as I entered from the alleyway, I saw her propped against the fence, and then, in the blink of an eye, she disappeared! Cautiously, I approached the spot where she had stood, and as I drew close, her form faded into view. A step back, and she vanished again! Witchcraft!
“No more dancing around for Jack. Bold steps forwards and get to work! Perhaps Dark Annie should better have been called Dim Annie, for her ill-judged spell worked against her, and the cloak of invisibility provided perfect privacy for my endeavours. As the sun rose, a man even looked over the garden out of a window, but saw nothing, not even my cheery red wave! Ha ha! There was plenty of time to ensure that Annie could never be brought back from death by her foul Sisters, and by the time her spell had worn off and the cries of discovery could be dimly discerned, my coat was already on my coat rack and my hands were soapy.”
The enthusiasm disappeared from Jack’s voice. “But soap was not enough. Although my hands were clean, my soul was still stained crimson. Jack and Adonai, they wrestled. How could death, murder, even of such abominations, be right in the eyes of the Most High? Yes, the Torah said clearly that the people of God must cleanse the practitioners of witchcraft from their midst, but remember also the tablets: ‘Thou shalt not commit murder’, they say. Which was right? I was not without heart—unlike some of my later quarries!—and the doubts, they gnawed at my mind like the rats that fed on Whitechapel. Reading and praying, little help. Had Jack been abandoned? Was I already being punished for my sins? But surely they were sins I had been told to commit, in His name! Or had I in fact been a victim of the sinuous deceit of the Enemy? Was the voice of Adonai I had heard not Him at all, but the Other?
“I cannot remember how long I hid in my rooms, searching for clarity amongst the shadows, but then suddenly one night there was an answer, albeit it in a most unwelcome form! Scratch, scratch, coming from the corridor, scratch, scratch. Most irksome; but as soon as I stepped out to investigate, a flash of viridian light exploded in my face, and I was knocked back into my parlour. Before I could even shake my head to clear it, some kind of wailing harpy descended upon me, plucking at my poor, scalded eyes with her talons! An assassin! But Little Miss had sorely misjudged Jack’s reserves of strength, and he soon had her under control. The first thing to do when you catch a witch, my friend, is to always make sure she cannot speak, at least not unchecked. If her dark master cannot hear her, he cannot help her! Alas, Devorah was resting, out of reach, and so the only way to block this one’s foul mouth was with my forearm; and in her wide-eyed desperation, she was having a good old chew on it. My blood was all over her chops, but oh-ho, I soon evened things up again. A light tap on the head to teach her respect, and then—answers, please!
“It turned out that Jack had not been the only one pondering things over since his last escapade. The bitches of the Rotting Log had also been shaken by recent events, and so had used their unclean divinati
ons to track down their nemesis. That was the word my prisoner used! Nemesis! Ha ha, I liked that! Once their impish spies had discerned my identity, it was trivial enough for them to dispatch the lively lady who was currently my guest to seek me out. My colleagues at the hospital had apparently been somewhat anxious about my health, and therefore quite forthcoming when this ‘concerned cousin’ suddenly appeared, wishing to know the whereabouts of my lodgings. I could well imagine my dear ‘cousin’s’ wolfish grin as she left the hospital, all aglow at how easy it would be to pluck out my weakened soul and offer it to her master. Little did she know how robust, in fact, Jack still was!
“So eager she was to claim her prize that she went straight to Jack’s house without first reporting back to her coven for assistance. Tut tut! But with the Lord’s strength flowing through my veins—and trickling out of them, down her chin!—there was no chance of victory for her. The doubts I had about my work vanished in an instant. I wrung the life from her, singing with joy, and then proceeded to clear up the mess. Quickly, Jack! Ye don’t know how long it will be afore she is missed, and where one has come, surely others will follow! But never let haste overrule thoroughness, my friend; you must always make sure those in league with the Fallen One are truly dead. Devorah and I promptly chopped our nameless visitor into pieces small enough for the large fire in my kitchen to consume, although I must confess to a little nibbling of my own, too. Do not be disgusted, sir! The principle is no different than vaccination. One can gain a measure of protection from any evil, natural or spiritual, by ingesting of its essence!”
With Jack’s claims of cannibalism, I once again began to fear a little for my own safety. Not because I feared being eaten—not by Jack, at least—but because it reminded me that I was in fact slung across the shoulders of an apparent lunatic, half savage, half gentleman; hardly the most reassuring of rescuers. Unless, of course, all that he was saying was actually true…