by Forbes, Kit
To my surprise, she merely nodded and walked off.
I scratched the hint of stubble on my neck and hoped she came back with something decent. I doubted ordering Cocoa Pebbles and fresh fruit was going to be an option.
There were a half-dozen other guys in the pub, even one who seemed near my age, all dressed casually like I was. They still hadn’t given me a second look and I realized that the single word I’d spoken probably hadn’t been enough to mark me as an American.
A plan formed in the back of my mind and I concentrated on the conversations of the others nearest me. I tried to soak in the rhythm and inflection of the accents the way my mom had done with old recordings and movies she’d picked up when working on her books. She used it for help with dialogue. I wondered if I could pick up enough to get by speaking. The slang would take more time, but with a passable accent, I would attract less attention out on the streets.
And being able to move unnoticed through Whitechapel was going to be important.
Because I was going to catch Jack the Ripper.
It had to be my ticket home.
If I caught Jack there wouldn’t be the never-ending mystery and Agatha couldn’t have dragged me to that convention.
***
Dawn was just creeping over the dingy brick facades of Commercial Street when I left the pub. The area came to life as more working men and women, housewives, businessmen, children, horse-drawn wagons, and trinket-sellers filled the streets and sidewalks either going to work or getting about their business.
I’d discovered “breakfast” for a workingman meant a pot of tea, a weird fish called a kipper, and two slices of dry bread and butter. If I didn’t get back to my own time soon, the air and the food would kill me for sure.
Trying not to concentrate on the absence of a real breakfast, I’d spent the time in the pub alternating between mentally rehearsing a story for Ian and trying to pick up a reasonable facsimile of one of the local accents. I had to treat this the way my dad and uncle would view an undercover assignment because, in a way, it was. I had to blend in. Partly to keep from getting ganged up on by the local “incorrigible youths” and partly to get enough clues to solve the crime.
What would make it really difficult was Ian. Would he want me to stay at his house? I knew he was married but didn’t think they had any kids. Would they want to “adopt” me and make me go to school? That would suck. The suckage took on a whole new level once I made it to the police station and was directed to Ian’s office.
He had questions. Lots of questions and, as good a liar as I was, I sweated the answers. I hoped claiming memory loss would go a long way to make it all fall into place.
“I remember leaving Pittsburgh on the train…the next thing is the walk in the park…then…waking up on the ground. I think I might have been jumped before the cop came along. They or he must have grabbed my money, but I guess I was lying on my side so they couldn’t get that watch. Or maybe the bobby scared the guy off before he could finish the job. I probably have a trunk of clothes at some hotel or someone’s house somewhere.”
Ian scowled. “And what of this ‘Aunt Agatha’ you’ve mentioned? I have only two sisters. How is this woman a relation of yours?”
“Well, she was a family friend on my dad’s side.”
“Where is she? What is her surname? Surely she must be worried about you? You attended a party with her then disappeared? How could she not be concerned?”
Think, dude, think. “We argued. She kept telling me how much of a disappointment I was to my mother, how I needed to act properly and stop running around with hooligans.”
It was pretty much true she had said that exact thing when she’d first picked me up to take me on the summer punishment tour. “I don’t think she’ll look for me. I think she’s pushing me into the deep end of the pool to see if I sink or swim.”
Ian put a report or something into his desk, slamming the drawer in frustration or anger. I wasn’t sure which.
I held my breath, relieved when Ian dismissed me with a gruff. “Be off with you. I have work to do.”
I lingered at the door, slipped my hand into my pocket, and fiddled with the remaining coins from the money Ian had sent to me. “I hate to ask, and I don’t want to be a burden or anything, but would it be at all possible to spend the night at your place or even here in an empty cell or office or something? If I can’t find a place to sleep before then.”
Ian exhaled a long slow breath.
Yeah, my dad had definitely inherited a sizeable chunk of the Fraser DNA. I had a good idea where this was headed.
“Never mind. I’ll figure something out.” I fished the coins out of my pocket and headed back to my ancestor’s desk. “Here’s the change from what you sent to the Trambley’s. I took a carriage here and bought breakfast. I hope that was okay.”
Ian simply stared at me. The reality that I was absolutely alone here hit me harder than anything I could remember. Suddenly, I was like a scared little kid wanting to run and hide.
“Keep the money, and here.” Ian dug into his pocket and withdrew a few more coins along with a paper bill. “Go get yourself acquainted with the area. You can spend the night at my house. I’ll send a note ‘round to Imogen to let her know.”
“You don’t have to bother. It’s all right to say no.”
Ian came around the desk and patted my shoulder. “It’s no real trouble, lad. Now go one and leave me to my never-ending stack of reports.”
I nodded, and offered him a small smile. “Thank you. Uncle Ian.”
Ian nodded and I told myself he had a half smile of his own.
Once outside on the street, I heaved a sigh of relief at having a nice place to stay at least for one night and instantly regretted it. The air was as thick and noxious as the exhaust of a Port Authority bus back home. I leaned against the building to steady myself. I might never see another bus, or Pittsburgh or my parents again.
Don’t go emo now, dumbass.
I straightened up. I would do the same thing as I always did when I was miserable and not wanting to hang out with my friends and party. I’d walk. I’d been on the “Ripper Walk” with Agatha, twice no less. I could find my way around a bit. Sure, the East End had really changed but a lot was similar and in some places the same.
I wandered off the main streets, into the heart of Whitechapel. I’d seen my share of period photos Mom had collected but nothing compared to seeing the narrow, littered streets up close and personal. The back alleys with their rough brick paving were sloped from the houses towards the middle so they could serve as open drains and sewers.
More than once, I had to dash for cover when the cry “Oy! Below!” sounded seconds before the nasty contents of a bucket were dumped out a second or third floor window.
The alleys reeked of every imaginable foul odor and echoed with the sound of dogs barking, babies crying, and assorted angry shouts and a couple shouts of “murder!” But the “murders” were only loud arguments with the neighbors gathered round to watch and shout encouragement to one of the combatants or the other.
Buildings that would have been condemned in my own time housed so many people here. I knew from Mom’s books that cheap doss houses had rooms where a dozen men and women would be cramped in a single space for the night. Families of five or more could be crammed into an apartment smaller than my bedroom back home.
Just like Mom had written in her Ripper book, I walked past men, women, and children, not sure if they’d have the money to pay for their doss, their room, tonight.
My skin crawled at the thought of living daily under these conditions. Even if finding the real Ripper was a way to get back home, the guy wasn’t due to kill again for three weeks at least. Could I survive on my own long enough to catch the killer at the scene of the crime? And would that really help or just make things worse?
Don’t think or spaz, just walk. The brain proposed a good plan so I followed it.
I wandered through the maze of roads and back alleys for over an hour when I came upon an outdoor market in a small square. There was a general bustle of doing business, not unlike the flea markets I’d been dragged to when touring the East Coast with Agatha.
The sun tried to break through the dingy clouds while the sounds of people talking and even laughing lifted my mood and made me believe, if only for the minute, that things would work out.
At least until I felt a hand in my pocket.
***
Genie
Fighting the fatigue that had plagued me most of the morning, I approached a small knot of women some of whom I’d seen last night. “Please stay off the streets for a few days until the murderer of the woman in George Yard is found.”
Annie Chapman looked at me with disdain. “Ooooh,” she cooed. “What a lovely idea. We’ll just sit in our parlors in front of the fire sippin’ tea an’ eatin’ scones wiv clotted cream an’ jam. An’ the maid’ll bring us our doss money.”
The other women laughed derisively, each one adding another detail that made the picture even more ludicrous.
“... an’, o’ course, old Queen Vic ‘erself’ll fluff the comforter afore we turn in!”
I ground my teeth to keep my frustration in check. Shouting at them wouldn’t help the situation. It would only drive them further away from listening to reason. Though I loathed to admit it, I couldn’t deny that Annie was partly right. They had no other way to make money, no other place to stay than a common doss house. Those that could, sold matches and trinkets or got the rare job but it wasn’t enough especially when they drank away what little they made before night fell.
“At least stay to the main streets,” I pleaded. “Keep yourselves safe.” Watching them roll their eyes or nod as if indulging a child was more than frustrating. I wanted to do something, to help, but there was almost nothing I could do except tend their obvious ailments and urge them to go the quarter mile down Whitechapel Road to the London Hospital to seek further treatment.
Annie stopped laughing first and touched my arm in a gesture of reconciliation. “Don’t take no offense, dearie. We knows ya means well.”
My frustration boiled deep inside me. Being condescended to by whores, of all people, was infuriating. No one took me seriously. No one. Just because I was “only eighteen.”
With a muttered “fine.” I stormed off, not caring where I was going. First that arrogant American this morning, laughing at me, then sternly telling me to stay away from Whitechapel as if he had some right to direct my comings and goings. Now Annie and the others mocked me. Again.
I would show them. I would show them all. All I needed was some time to think, to plan, to come up with a solution that could make a difference in their lives, something that would at least convince them to get decent medical attention.
I plunged into the open-air market before I realized it and stopped, shocked. Everything seemed so normal, so commonplace, as if there had not been a horrible murder the night before, as if the killer didn’t still stalk these streets. He could even be here, in the market.
The very thought made my skin crawl and I spun quickly around, scanning the crowd for anyone suspicious but found one hauntingly familiar.
I took a step to approach but stopped when he grabbed a girl of no more than twelve, spun her around, and pushed her down.
***
Mark
I instinctively grabbed, spun, and pushed the thief to the ground, seconds before a shrill voice called out, “Mr. Stewart!”
Keeping the thief pinned, I looked for the speaker. Genie Trambley charged toward me with a fire in her eyes and her umbrella striking the ground angrily with each step.
Genie shoved me with an angry scowl and helped the thief to his feet, or rather, her feet.
My pickpocket was a girl, ragged and filthy, who stood glaring at me like I was the bad guy. Yeah, I was rough. I didn’t realize it was a girl just someone trying to rip me off.
Genie fussed over the girl, making sure she was uninjured before turning back to me. Seeing her chance, the pickpocket looked for escape. I tried to grab her but Genie inserted herself between us and the girl took off.
“What kind of a man are you, Mr. Stewart? Attacking young girls in broad daylight!” Genie punctuated her verbal assault with the end of her umbrella, driving it into my chest with each exclamation. “What vile perversions did you have in mind?”
I wrenched the umbrella out of her hands. “She’s a little thief!”
“Was it absolutely necessary to throw her on her face?” Genie demanded, trying to snatch back her umbrella. “Have you such an utter contempt for the female gender, sir? You seem to think you can tell them when to come and when to go and what to do and what not to do and treat them however you want as if you were ordained by the Almighty Himself!”
“What?” I stared. She kept giving me the evil eye. “You don’t have a freakin’ clue. If you could get past your own stupid prejudices you might be able to see that!”
“My what?” Genie gasped.
“You’re so convinced men are bad, no matter what I do, you’ll see it in your own twisted little way as proof of whatever it is you want to believe.” I waved the handle of the umbrella in her face, but stopped short of actually touching her. She backed up, knocking into people who jostled her back to me.
“I didn’t know it was a girl and I sure wouldn’t have been as rough with her if I had—but I might still have taken her down because she’s a thief! But that doesn’t matter to you because you know it all and are always right, aren’t you?” I shoved her umbrella back into her hands. “Here, take your umbrella and your attitude and leave me alone!”
I stormed off, calling her a few choice names in my head until it hit me.
I was having dinner at her house tonight. Genie’s father had invited me this morning. And there was no way out of it because I had to get my own clothes and give these ones back.
Chapter Nine
Mark
I stared at the shining brass knob of the hand crank doorbell. What would I do if Genie Trambley opened the door? Would she slam it in my face? Why did I even care, beyond getting my stuff back? Oh well, no sense putting it off.
I turned the knob and waited. I held my breath when I heard the door latch click inside but relaxed when the maid, Sarah, appeared on the other side.
“Hello again, Mr. Stewart. Do come in. The doctor is waiting for you in the surgery. This way, please.”
The exam was a pretty quick deal with a check of my heart, breathing, and eyes. And lots of questions about my memory. I B.S.’d my way through, was soon pronounced “fit of body,” and invited to clean up and change clothes before dinner.
I soaked in a deep claw-footed tub till Sarah tapped timidly on the door to tell me my suit was in the guestroom and that I’d better get ready.
I pulled the stopper and let the water drain out, trying to postpone the thing I’d been avoiding, well, avoiding more than running into Genie Trambley. Shaving. With a big sharp straight razor.
I remembered what happened when Mom sucked Dad into using one of these so she could write about it. It hadn’t been pretty, but it was fortunate she was an ER nurse. I didn’t want to think about what sort of bribes Mom used to make Dad give it another go once the stitches came out, but it had definitely gone smoother with only a little nick—well, three. The third time, though. That had gone really well and Dad hadn’t shed any blood, except for his toe when the razor fell off the edge of the sink when he was drying his face.
I picked up the razor. I could do this. I put the razor to my neck. And I froze when I realized I was missing of a pretty important component. The whole shaving soap, cup, and brush thing. This part I knew I could handle. I closed the razor so I wouldn’t gash my foot, then worked up a nice lather and swirled it on my cheeks and neck. And left the razor where it was.
Maybe I’d just grow my beard
in. Or not. I hadn’t exactly inherited all of Dad’s manly genes. The hair on my cheeks grew in splotchy and looked like hell if I let it go too long. And this soapy crud was starting to get itchy. I put the razor to my neck again then eased it back away because my hand shook.
I wondered if I could go down and grab a shot of that brandy, but I didn’t want to get busted as a sneak and a drunk. I’d gotten accused enough of that back home. A lot of times when I hadn’t even done it. As much as I hated to admit it, my parents were right; my friends were mostly losers. They did stupid shit and made it look like I was at fault a lot more than I actually was.
I was going to have a hard enough time keeping myself together, and getting hammered would only make it harder. Things I took for granted just didn’t exist anymore. Like Starbucks. And shower curtains. And cell phones. And the Net. I hoped I’d learn to survive back here in the dark ages and learn to keep my mouth under control. Hopefully, the weird food and air wouldn’t give me some disease that could only be cured by the antibiotics that hadn’t been invented yet.
And I really hoped I wouldn’t kill myself shaving.
I shook the tension out of my arm and shoulders, took a deep breath, and put the razor to my neck again.
Here we go. Piece of cake.
I pulled the razor back. Maybe I needed to start somewhere less lethal. Sideburns might be safe.
I carefully positioned the razor against my cheek, checked the angle, took a deep breath, and gashed the hell out of myself.
“Shit!”
My brain didn’t quite register a little knock on the door until the door slid open and Genie Trambley peeked in.
“My word, are you all right?” She hurried forward. She took the towel from me and looked at my wound. “However did you do that? Certainly not shaving?”
“Not shaving is certainly how I did it!” I shot back. I snatched the towel away and pressed it back against my cheek.