In Darkness Dwell

by Cross, Amy

  “Now, I'm not a smart man,” he says after a moment, as if there could be any doubt. “I'm not educated, not like you, but I know the streets. And if you don't mind, what you did to that Elizabeth Stride woman was not entirely wise.”

  “To who?”

  “The first one from the other night,” he continues. “The one you got interrupted with. Her name was Elizabeth Stride, or so the papers say.”

  “Why would I care about her name?” I ask.

  “Long Liz lived on Flower and Dean Street, where -”

  “I do not give a damn!” I shout, pulling again on the chains. This time, the entire bed creaks slightly. “Their names are not important to me! Their accommodation arrangements are not important to me! The details of their pathetic, meaningless little lives do not matter! They were just poor, common little things that had what I needed! They were bags of blood and organs!”

  “Careful there,” he replies. “I'm a poor common little thing too.” He pauses, and then he starts laughing as he gets to his feet and comes over to the bed. “I'm only joking there, Doctor Grazier. You don't need to be careful, not around me. As it happens, I actually agree with a lot of what you just said.” Taking a key from his pocket, he starts unlocking the chains around my ankles. “Most people are worthless.” He glances at Catherine's covered body. “I'm sure your wife wasn't, though. You and she are of a higher class than most folk. The worthless ones are the ones who live in the more squalid parts of London. I don't see any shame in you taking things from them, and using those things to save your wife.”

  As soon as the chains are loose enough, I slip my feet free and pull back to the top of the bed. I know I must get out of here as quickly as possible, but the madman is still arranging the chains. After a moment, I see that he has actually left his knife over by the chair.

  He must be utterly insane.

  “What is your name?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “Your name, man. You know mine, but I believe I do not -”

  “You can call me Jack,” he replies. “My surname is Ripper. You can guess what comes in the middle.”

  “I mean your real name,” I mutter, playing for time as I try to work out how to get past him and grab the knife.

  “My real name is...”

  His voice trails off, and his hands stop moving as he continues to hold the chains. For a few seconds he seems utterly lost in thought, and then finally he shakes his head with great sadness.

  “I don't remember my old name,” he says. “Or maybe I just don't want to. Reminds me of bad times, you know? But I reckon a man's real name is whatever name he's using at the time you ask him, so call me Jack.”

  “And you know what I have been doing, Jack?” I ask. “I mean, you've been watching me? You've witnessed my work in the streets of Whitechapel?”

  “A lot of it. You've been killing prostitutes and cutting out bits of them. Then you've been bringing the bits back here. Now that I've been in that basement of yours, I think I'm getting the picture. You were trying to save your wife, weren't you?”

  “And how do you suppose that to be the case?” I ask cautiously.

  “Makes sense, doesn't it? It's just logical.”

  “You consider this to be a logical situation?”

  “If I had a wife, and the necessary skills, I'd do the same.” He puts his hands on his hips and takes a step back. “There. All sorted for you, Doctor Grazier. I hope you didn't feel threatened by the chains. They were just for your own good, just while I waited to make sure you weren't going to get a fever and start doing crazy things. You're all better now, aren't you?”

  I wait, before realizing that this lunatic is serious. As he wanders back to the chair and picks up the knife, I'm starting to think that I need to be careful. Fortunately, I think this Jack fellow is out of his mind, and he seems to have some degree of respect for me. Perhaps, in my attempt to get rid of him, I can take advantage of his naivety. I could try shouting for help, of course, since morning light is starting to show outside. Then again, perhaps I can deal with the situation myself, with a little more discretion.

  “I wonder,” I say after a moment, “whether you might be able to perform a favor for me?”

  “Are you having me on?” he replies, turning to me with a childish grin. “I'll do anything you want!”

  Chapter Eight

  Maddie

  Today

  There's nobody here, and I don't dare make a fire, so I'm shivering as I sit listening to the rain. Huddled in a tight space under the bridge, in an opening that's barely large enough for me to fit, I stare out at the London night. Lights of skyscrapers on the other side of the river are reflected in the Thames, but these reflections are dancing wildly as rain continues to fall, while a strong wind howls and whistles as it blasts along the shore and races under the bridge.

  Trains have stopped passing over the bridge, so it must be a little after midnight.

  Usually this patch of the shoreline would be busy, filled with homeless people gathering together for safety. Alex brought me here several times and – although I never really spoke to many people – I began to feel as if I at least had somewhere to sleep. I left people alone and they left me alone in turn, but there was safety in numbers. Everyone looked after everyone else here, and it always felt good to have other bodies nearby, even if there wasn't much conversation. Now they're all gone, most likely rounded up off the streets for their own good, and I don't even know why I came here tonight.

  I guess I just thought that I could get out of the rain, and that the police wouldn't bother me.

  No, wait.

  There's another reason.

  Deep down, I think I was hoping that I might bump into someone. Anyone. Just another soul who, like me, is lost in the city tonight. Male, female, young, old, it wouldn't matter. It's hard to believe that everyone got rounded up, but then I suppose any stragglers probably scattered. Maybe I should have left London too, or at least headed off to find Alex, but in truth I imagine Alex has already moved on. I could go traipsing over to Stratford, but deep down I don't think I'd find any trace of her.

  Another blast of wind hits the bridge, and I hear a few faint howls coming from nearby. I've gotten used to those sounds over time, but I remember when I first heard them and I genuinely worried that somebody was in pain. Alex had to reassure me that what I was hearing was not, in fact, the dying cry of someone who's suffering, that it's just caused by the wind. I remember she took me higher up toward the base of one of the pillars, and she showed me the narrow spaces that she said were causing the howling sounds. I believed her then and I believe her now, but it's still a little creepy to hear those cries as I sit here shivering in the dark. It's not difficult to let your imagination run a little wild.

  Hugging my knees tighter to my chest, I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain.

  “It's been a fun couple of months,” I remember Alex saying the other day. “I've taught you a lot. You were such a kid when we first met, but I've really toughened you up. I know you'll be just fine on your own, Maddie.”

  Yeah, right.

  Look at me now.

  “Just stick around the areas I've shown you,” Alex told me the last time we were together, “and you'll be well off. There are good people here.”

  Not anymore.

  There's no-one here.

  “You're tougher than you think you are,” her voice whispers in the back of my mind.

  She was lying.

  She was just trying to make me feel better. Or, more likely, she wanted to make herself feel better for leaving me behind. She must have realized that I'm not tough at all. Even in normal circumstances, I'd be struggling. Right now, with the city in such a mess, I'm just making one bad decision after another.

  And then suddenly I realize I can hear footsteps.

  My eyes flick open and I stare out at the empty shore. It's too dark to see anything much, although at least I'm relieved to note t
hat there's nobody silhouetted against the river. Still, the footsteps are definitely out there, crunching across the shingles. If I could see a flashlight, I'd assume that it's the police, but there's no light of any kind. Just the constant, trudging steps that seem – slowly but surely – to be coming a little closer. It's almost as if somebody else is coming to take shelter under the bridge.

  There's a part of me that wants to call out, of course, but I also know that sometimes it's better to be discreet. After all, there's supposed to be a killer loose on the streets. Even if it's highly unlikely that I'd bump into the fake Jack the Ripper guy all the way out here so far from Whitechapel, I could still find myself face-to-face with somebody else who's up to no good. So I sit completely still, listening to the sound of the footsteps, waiting for them to fade away into the distance. They're coming closer at the moment, and I can hear them clearly above the rain, but -

  Suddenly they stop.

  I wait, convinced that at any moment I'll hear them again as the person walks away. As the seconds pass, however, all I hear is the sound of the driving rain. As much as I want to believe that I'm mistaken, I'm pretty sure that there's somebody nearby – maybe only ten or twenty feet away – standing in the darkness. I don't know what they're doing out there, but my heart is beating fast and I'm pretty sure the footsteps were coming toward the bridge before they stopped, which means that the person is standing in the pouring rain.

  Please go away.

  Please, just walk away from here.

  I thought I wanted company, but now I'm scared.

  I wait, and a moment later the wind howls louder than ever through the gaps in the bridge. It's almost as if the entire vast structure is warning me to get out of here, although I don't dare move, not yet. Instead I stay completely still, figuring that if I can't see the other person, then they can't see me either. Not unless they've got some kind of night vision thing going on, in which case I guess I'm screwed anyway. So I stay perfectly still, listening to the wind and the rain, waiting to hear the footsteps turn and walk away.

  But they don't.

  I wait and I wait, and I'm sure I would hear them, but there's nothing.

  I don't know how much time passes, but it must be a couple of hours. And finally, as I sit staring into the darkness, I spot a very faint orange glow up near the road. There's a distant rumble, too, and I watch as a lorry drives slowly into view with a bright flashing orange light on its roof. The lorry stops next to a bench and a figure climbs out, hurrying over to empty a bin. The flashing light casts an orange glow across the shoreline, and I look out toward the river, hoping to reassure myself that somehow the footsteps didn't mean anything and that there isn't anyone here.

  My chest tightens and my heart skips a beat.

  There's a figure standing on the beach, just ten feet or so away, and from the shape of his silhouette it looks as if he's staring straight at me.

  My heart is pounding now as I watch the figure, but I'm starting to feel as if I have to get out of here. The flashing light continues, but when I glance at the truck I see that the driver is already done with the bin, and that he's climbing back into his cab. Any moment now, he'll drive off and the beach will be pitch-black again, except this time the guy standing nearby will know that I'm here. I hesitate for a moment, before finally deciding that I have to run.

  I scramble out into the rain and start hurrying up toward the road. I look over my shoulder, watching the beach as the flashing orange light continues, and I see to my horror that the silhouetted figure is starting to walk after me. I turn just as I stumble, falling onto my hands and knees, and then I start scrambling up the steep shingle incline. I slip slightly as rain continues to come pounding down, and then I slip again, and this time I feel some of the shingle falling beneath me. Realizing that I'm too slow, I look toward the truck, but the driver is already back in the cab and a moment later – over the sound of the rain – I hear the engine revving as the truck sets off again.

  “Wait!” I yell. “Stop!”

  I doubt he can hear me, but I have to try.

  “Stop!” I shout again. “I'm down here! Please, you have to stop!”

  Somehow I clamber to the top of the incline, and finally I roll out onto the pavement. The truck is driving past, and I turn to look back down at the shoreline. The flashing orange light swings behind me, accompanied by a smell of garbage, but for a fraction of a second I watch as the light illuminates the beach, and I see the silhouetted figure walking up the incline toward me.

  I immediately turn and run.

  I race after the truck, even though it's pulling away. My backpack almost slips loose, but I manage to keep it in place as I scurry across the road and run toward one of the half dozen museums that line the other side of the road. I know this area pretty well and there's some lighting in this area, so I quickly run down the side of one of the buildings and race toward the large open space that separates the three main museums. Once I get there, I duck down behind a set of bushes, and then I turn and look back the way I just came.

  Rain is still falling, hammering every surface. I'm desperately out of breath, but I guess I can't be heard over the sound of the bad weather.

  Was this a mistake?

  My gut instinct was to run toward a lit area, but now I'm starting to think that I've given the guy an advantage. After all, it'll be easier for him to track me. I should probably run again, but for a few seconds I remain crouched down and still, terrified that I might accidentally draw attention to myself. If Alex could see me now, she'd probably tell me that I've done the worst thing possible, that I've basically left myself completely open to attack.

  “Please be gone,” I whisper under my breath. “Please don't come back.”

  And then I see him.

  The silhouetted figure is walking between the buildings, moving calmly and following the exact same path that I took. At first I try to tell myself that this is a coincidence, or that maybe it's not the same person from the beach. I want to believe that I'm crazy and that maybe there wasn't even a figure back there at all, but I feel a growing sense of fear as I watch the figure getting closer and closer. Finally he steps into the open space and stops, silhouetted against the concrete wall as he looks around. He's at the edge of the lit area, as if he wants to stay at least partially hidden by the shadows.

  I duck down lower, but I can still see him through the bush.

  He doesn't know I'm here.

  He can't know I'm here.

  He probably thinks I'm long gone.

  I keep telling myself those same three things, over and over. At the same time, if he doesn't know that I'm here, then why is he just standing around like that? I try to convince myself that maybe he's a guard or something like that, someone who just happened to see me run down here, but I know that's unlikely. He's standing completely still, almost as if he's somehow waiting for me to reveal myself, or as if he thinks that he'll be able to sense me. I briefly consider running, but instead I remain frozen in place, too scared to do anything that might bring him closer.

  And then he walks away.

  I feel a rush of relief as he simply turns and walks off through the rain, heading across the wide open space and finally disappearing between two of the other museums. I wait, worried in case he doubles back, or in case this turns out to be a trap designed to lure me out, but he actually seems to be leaving. I guess maybe I overreacted after all, or maybe he was just worried about me. I'll probably never know the truth, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Still crouched down behind the bushes, I decide to wait a little longer, but then I start slowly getting to my feet.

  Rain is still crashing down, hissing all around me as it hits the concrete, but there's no sign of anyone moving nearby.

  I think I'm -

  Suddenly a hand grabs me from behind and pulls me back into the shadows. I try to scream, but another hand clamps tight across my mouth.

  Chapter Nine

  Doctor Charles Grazier


  Sunday September 30th, 1888

  “I have to kill him,” I whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed as I try to work out how I shall deal with the intruder. “I have no choice. He could ruin everything.”

  I pause for a moment, before turning and looking down at Catherine's body. Her face is still covered by the silk sheet, but I know she's under there. I know she's waiting for me. I should be with her by now, but I cannot go to her, not yet. First, I must ensure that the loathsome fellow – the man who broke into my home – is dealt with before he causes any more trouble.

  “I have no choice,” I continue, although I can hear the fear in my own voice. “My dear Catherine, you must forgive me. I shall join you shortly, but first I must end this cretin's miserable existence before he destroys my reputation forever. I cannot imagine his reason for coming here, but it is clear that his mind is not in a proper state. I am only sorry that, even in death, you had to tolerate his presence.”

  In truth, this little extended period of life has made me realize that I had not prepared properly before. When I sat down at the table and cut my wrists open, I had paid scant attention to my papers, or to the legacy that I shall leave behind. I had ordered my papers and left annotations that I hoped would explain my actions, but perhaps I must go into a little more detail. I suppose I was so utterly overcome by grief, I wasn't able to think clearly, but things are different now. I do not want my body to be found by miserable wretches who cannot possibly understand my work, nor do I want idiots to go rooting through my basement.

  They wouldn't understand.

  They'd think me a common murderer.

  Even now, I can imagine those cursed social reformers using my name to further their lamentable cause. They seem to think that the poor of this city are somehow worthy of help, that they deserve the pity of their betters. Why, they would probably think that it was wrong for me to kill those common whores. I do not have the time to change their minds right now, but I trust that at some point they shall be tossed from their pedestals.