by Cross, Amy
Chapter Four
Maddie
Today
“That'll be four fifty,” the bored-sounding woman says as she sets my tea on the counter. She keeps a hand on the cup, as if she expects me to grab it and try to run, and I see a hint of surprise in her expression when I hand her a £5 note.
“Keep the change,” I tell her.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
“But can you, like...”
Her voice trails off, and she seems a little frozen, as if she's not sure how to react.
I can't afford to give away even 50p, but in that moment I really, really wanted to give the woman a shock. And she does seem a little confused as I take the cup of tea and the packet of biscuits and walk away from the counter, heading over to a free table near the coffee shop's window.
I know I stick out in a place like this.
All around me, couples are having lunch and professionals are tapping at their phones or laptops. I look like what I am: a homeless teenager who hasn't washed in over two weeks. Then again, I had enough money to pay for a drink and something to eat – more than enough, after selling those earrings the other day – so I guess my custom is as good as anyone else's.
Still, as I take a seat, I notice out the corner of my eye that the man at the next table moves his laptop bag a little away from me. I guess he's worried I might be a thief. I glance over at him, and he offers a nervous smile before quickly looking at his laptop, as if he didn't want to get caught looking at me at all. I don't blame him. I know I look like a mess, and my presence makes people feel uncomfortable. For that reason, I usually steer clear of places like this, but today I need to be in the crowd.
Today I need to find out what's going on.
Glancing across the cafe, I try to see what's on the TV screen, but there are too many people in the way.
“No, I'm not going out tonight, are you mad?” a woman says nearby, and I turn to see that she's on her phone. “Why do you think? No-one's going out, you crazy bitch. We're staying in. I'm sorry, but I'm not risking it. If that makes me paranoid, then fine, I'm paranoid. I'd rather be alive and paranoid, instead of dead and stupid. It's two murders in five nights so far. They're saying there's another one due tonight.”
Suddenly she sees that I'm looking at her. I turn away and take a sip of my still-too-hot tea, while at the same time hoping that the slightly stale smell in the air isn't coming from me.
Then again, I'm wearing the same clothes that got soaked the other night, so I'm pretty sure the smell is me.
“It's not up for debate, Becks,” the woman continues, keeping her voice a little lower now. “Until they've caught this psycho, there's no way I'm up for a night out. I know we're supposed to be all brave and, like, proving that we're Londoners and that we won't let stuff like this get to us, but sod it. Until they catch him, I'm drinking round friends' houses or staying in to watch stuff online, and you should do the same. We have to put ourselves under curfew!” She pauses, clearly listening to whoever's on the other end of the line. “So what?” she adds finally. “It'll still be a new dress when this is all over. Just be patient, they'll have him soon. Now I've gotta go, alright? Speak to you soon. Love you n'all.”
I was hoping she'd talk some more, so that I could try to figure out what she's talking about. After all, the only reason I ventured into this coffee shop today is that I want to hang out around normal people and try to figure out what's got the whole city spooked. Unfortunately, getting a view of the TV screen is proving impossible. Glancing over at the guy at the next table, I crane my neck a little, trying to make out the text on the news page he's reading.
All I see is something with the word Ripper, before he scrolls down to some text that's way too small for me to read from here.
Okay, this is getting crazy.
The other day, I saw a TV screen that mentioned something about Jack the Ripper. Since then, I've overheard little snippets of conversation that suggest people are getting seriously jumpy about a series of murders. I even followed two girls in the street for a while yesterday, so I could listen to their conversation, and they definitely seemed to be talking about some kind of Jack the Ripper copycat killer. I've been telling myself that I must have somehow misunderstood, but now I'm starting to think that I was right.
As improbable as it sounds – and it does sound extremely improbable – it seems that some kind of Jack the Ripper wannabe has killed two girls in London. And apparently he still hasn't been caught yet, which seems crazy in the age of CCTV and constant surveillance. Yet as I turn and finally get a glimpse of the TV screen that's playing silently on the far wall, I see that the news broadcast is entirely consumed by reports about the murders. And when I look at the map on the right side of the screen, I realize with a shudder that it shows Whitechapel.
Apparently both the girls were murdered not far from where I've spent the past few days.
“Shouldn't you be off the streets?” a voice asks.
Turning, I see that an elderly woman is watching me from a nearby sofa.
“I thought they'd taken all you lot away,” she continues, “for your own safety?”
“I'm sorry?” I reply.
“They've been rounding up homeless people,” another voice says, and I turn to see that the man with the laptop is watching me. “Putting them in temporary shelters. The first two victims were homeless, so they reckon there might be a pattern.”
He turns the screen around for me to see. Sure enough, there's a headline about homeless people being processed at some kind of facility.
“I don't know anything about that,” I tell him, although I'm starting to realize that this has to be the reason for the strangely empty streets I've been noticing lately. I guess I just happened to miss the news.
“You are homeless, aren't you?” the man asks.
“She smells like she is,” another voice adds, and I turn to see one of the women eyeing me with disgust. “No offense, obviously.”
“You wanna get yourself to one of those shelters,” the man says. “Anyway, you look too young to be on the streets. They're saying we should all report any homeless people we still see about. I think there's a shelter up on Mayfield Street. Get over there and they'll send you home.”
“I don't want to go home,” I reply, before I have a chance to stop myself.
“It's not about what you want,” he says firmly. “It's about what's safe.”
“Think of the poor police,” the woman adds.
I turn to her.
“Do you think they want to be dealing with more dead bodies?” she continues, scrunching her nose a little. “It's not just for your sake, it's for society's. Get off the streets.”
Hoping that these people will ignore me, I turn back to look at the screen, where a reporter is standing outside a set of houses. A moment later the picture changes, showing what looks like a warehouse where homeless people are standing in line, queuing to speak to people at desks. My heart skips a beat as I realize that they're being processed, and I know full well that if I went there and they found out that I'm under eighteen, they'd get in touch with my parents. I could try to give a false name, of course, but I can't take the risk.
Besides, a moment later the image changes and shows concerned family members at one of the shelters. Sure enough, the banner at the bottom of the screen reveals that people have started showing up to look for their lost loved ones. I'm sure my parents are doing the exact same thing.
“There are some sick bastards in the world,” the man says after a moment. “Who wants to go around, pretending they're Jack the Ripper? I read about some of the stuff that weirdo used to do. It's sick.”
“Apparently they've been getting letters,” the woman adds. “Well, they don't know they're from the killer, do they? I mean, anyone can write a letter. They already arrested one guy who admitted he was just writing for a laugh. I bet the real killer isn't writing any letters at all.”
“It's kind of fascinating,” the man says, “in a morbid kind of way. I swear, I'm checking the news every ten seconds.”
“Or maybe it's the real Jack the Ripper,” the woman suggests.
I turn to her.
“I'm just saying,” she continues. “It was on the news. Some people are suggesting that this is, like, the real Jack the Ripper coming back to pick up where he left off.”
“I'm pretty sure the real Jack the Ripper is long dead,” the man points out.
“Exactly,” she says, her eyes opening even wider now, as if she's starting to get a little excited. “So what does that tell you? I mean, if you think it through logically, it's one of the most realistic possibilities. Maybe the ghost of Jack the Ripper is haunting the streets of London!”
Several people sigh nearby.
“Maybe he is!” she says firmly. “You don't know! It could be a ghost! Maybe he's got, like, unfinished business and he's come back from the grave! You don't know for certain that stuff like that can't happen!”
Turning, I see that the woman behind the counter is speaking to someone on her phone. She's staring at me, too, although after a moment she steps back out of sight, as if she's worried that I noticed. Immediately, I feel a flash of panic at the thought that she might be calling someone to report me. I tell myself not to get carried away, but at the same time I feel as if this whole situation is getting pretty crazy. When I look at the screen, I see that the police are strongly advising people to stay at home when it's dark. I guess the whole city is living in fear.
Finally I grab my cup and the packet of biscuits, and I head to the door.
“You going to one of those shelters, are you?” the man calls after me.
“They might let you take a shower,” the woman adds. “No offense, but you should really take them up on that!”
I turn and look at the screen, which is now showing photos of two girls. Their names are also on the screen, and although I've never met either of them, they look like the kind of people I've seen down near the river's edge. Actually, they both look to be around my age, and I even think that maybe I recognize one of them from a few weeks back.
For a moment I remain frozen next to the door, and I can't help imagining my own face on the screen. After all, it's only been a few days since I had that encounter with the guy in the park, and I still have stitches in the wound on my waist. I guess it's fanciful to think that I had a near-miss with the same person who killed those two girls, but I can't keep my thoughts from wandering in that direction. What if I was going to be his first, but I managed to get away? That'd be a hell of a coincidence, but still...
Spotting something moving outside the coffee shop, I turn just in time to see a police car pulling up.
I immediately head out the door and start walking in the opposite direction, but a moment later I hear a car door swinging shut.
“Hey!” a voice calls out. “You, over there! Can I have a word for a moment?”
I glance over my shoulder, and I see that a female officer is coming after me. Without even daring to wait, I turn and start running, quickly slipping into the crowd of shoppers. I take the next turn, then the next, and then I stop and lean against a wall. Looking back the way I just came, I realize that I slipped away from the officer easily enough, although I'm sure I'll be spotted again before too long.
Feeling a sudden flicker of pain, I reach down and touch the stitches in my side. I need to get off the streets and out of sight, but first I need some new clothes. And then I need to hide away until this whole mess is over, and until London goes back to normal.
Chapter Five
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
When I open my eyes, everything is calm and peaceful and quiet. Somehow, I can already feel that a great deal of time has passed. It takes a moment longer, however, before I realize that I have been unconscious.
I remain perfectly still, blinking a few times as I stare up at the ceiling. I'm not quite sure that I remember how I ended up here, or indeed where I am, but I'm fairly sure that my mind is rather foggy. I should be sharper than this, I should be fully aware of my surroundings, yet somehow my thoughts drift in and out of one another. I even start slipping back to sleep, letting my eyes close for a few seconds before I wake again with a start, and this time I turn and look to my left.
The door.
The bedroom door.
But...
I hesitate for a moment, before slowly turning to the right and finding that I am indeed upstairs on the bed, right next to Catherine's silk-wrapped body. I cannot see her features, of course, since the silk is covering her face, but I stare for several seconds as I feel a slow sense of fear starting to rise through my chest.
Is this it?
Is that what comes next?
Have I woken in some afterlife that has taken on the appearance of our bedroom? My head feels odd, as if my thoughts have turned to sludge and are having great difficulty connecting to one another. There's a hint of pain, too, flickering at the base of my skull, and I can feel the constant tug of sleep trying to pull me back down into the bed. I seem to be a little dizzy, too, and it is rather difficult to keep one train of thought going. Indeed, I find myself beginning the same thought several times before I am finally able to follow it through to its conclusion.
Suddenly remembering that blood-filled moment at the table downstairs, I sit up and look down at my wrists, only to find that they are heavily bandaged. In places, blood has seeped through those bandages, which appear to have been wrapped rather haphazardly. Indeed, thick black stitching wire has been passed through the ends of each bandage, which makes no sense at all since I have all the necessary equipment downstairs to affix such items properly. I stare at my wrists for a moment longer, feeling a twinge of pain, and then I slowly turn and look at Catherine's still-covered face.
I wait for some hint of movement, yet she remains still.
Is this it?
Is that what awaits us on the other side?
I had hoped – assumed, indeed – that Catherine would be back to her radiant self when I arrived, and that she would greet me fulsomely. I imagined a rather romanticized image of her bathed in light, smiling and young again, waiting to embrace me. In my mind's eye, she was as I remember her from our trip to Cornwall, and as she is shown in one of our photographs. Instead I find myself on the bed in our room, next to a body that still seems to be dead. I hesitate for a moment, before reaching out and gently placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Catherine?” I whisper, hoping to wake her. “Catherine, I came for you. Catherine, can you hear me?”
Again I wait, hoping that she might stir. Yet she remains completely unmoved, almost as if she is still dead, and finally I reach out and touch her shoulder again.
“Catherine,” I continue, “it is me. There is no need to be afraid. We have passed on to whatever is next. It is a glorious thing, and you must not be afraid at all. Evidently I have stirred first, most likely on account of the fact that I am better equipped to make sense of our new surroundings. Wake now, and we can leave this room and explore together.”
I wait, and this time I glance around the silent room for moment. Certainly this appears to be our bedroom, but I can only assume that we must be in the middle of some illusion. Perhaps there is still some task I must complete. When I turn back to Catherine, my mind is racing as I try to determine what I must accomplish next. I had hoped that simply by arriving, I would be able to stir her soul. Now, evidently, there is something else I must do. But what?
Filled with a sense of panic, I try to climb off the bed, only to feel something tight pulling against my right ankle. Looking down, I pull the sheets aside and see to my horror that a set of thick chains has been passed around my ankle and foot, securing me to the bed's frame.
“What the...”
I reach down and start trying to pull the chains aside, but there are several wrapped around one an
other and I am not sure where to begin. Indeed, I believe I recognize these chains as being a set that I kept in the basement.
“No no no,” I whisper, overcome by a growing sense of concern, “this cannot be right. I must -”
Suddenly my efforts are interrupted by a sound from the closed door. I turn and look over, and with a rush of dread I realize that I am hearing stifled laughter. It is as if somebody lurks outside, listening to me and finding my panicked struggle to be somehow amusing. And then, a moment later, the door bursts open and the disagreeable gentleman from the basement comes stumbling into the room. The hallucination. The mirage. The man who cannot possibly be real.
“Do you think you're dead?” he chuckles, evidently unable to contain himself. “Are you serious? You, a man of science, think you've woken up as a ghost? Well, that is certainly something I never expected. You're full of surprises, Doctor Grazier.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, although in truth I feel utterly confused. “Where is this place?”
“It's your bedroom,” he replies, leaning down and slamming his fists against the sheets, before making his way around to the other side of the bed and looking down at Catherine's body. After a few seconds, he reaches down and pulls the silk sheet away, revealing her dead face.
“Do not do that!” I shout, trying but failing to grab the sheet and put it back in place. “You have no right, you must show more -”
Stopping suddenly, I stare at Catherine's face and see that she looks utterly peaceful. At the same time, her features have changed subtly in death, with her face appearing more gaunt yet also a little more relaxed. I should be reassured by her calm demeanor, yet as the seconds past I begin to feel increasingly horrified. For all her beauty and wonder, she does not look alive, and I am starting to realize that in some way – however improbable it might seem – I have not passed on to the other side after all. I am still alive.
“You old fool,” the man says with a chuckle, setting the silk sheet back across Catherine's face. “Did you really think you were dead? And here was me, thinking you to be a rational fellow.”