Cradle to Grave

by Cross, Amy

  “I don't think the -”

  “He's co-opting the extremes of societal behavior.”

  “What?”

  “It's normal for you to not understand,” he adds, reaching up and tapping the side of my head. “It's a very big and complicated thing that's happening out there on the streets, and this is only the beginning. Just wait until it all plays out, and then you'll see, just like everyone else. Jack the Ripper's actually a great British hero. He's like the Robin Hood of his age.”

  “That seems kind of twisted,” I reply.

  “Only because you're seeing it from the wrong angle.”

  “What other angles are there?” I ask. “Jack the Ripper was a murderer.”

  “What's up with you, anyway?” he says, furrowing his brow. “You look kinda ill, Maddie. Are you coming down with something?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Well that's obviously not true.”

  “This whole thing is sick,” I tell him. “You have to realize that. It's completely disgusting and you shouldn't have anything to do with it.”

  “Oh Maddie,” he continues with a sigh, “you'll understand eventually. When all the other people out there get it, the whole of society is going to change. But Adam, or Jack as we like to call him, is a true pioneer. He's going to end the inequality and unfairness in this country. And while he's doing that, we all should have some fun. Do you wanna go somewhere and have some fun, Maddie? Just the two of us?”

  He reaches down and tries to slip his fingers between mine.

  “I've always thought you're kinda pretty,” he adds.

  I pull my hand away, but he takes hold of it again. A little more forcefully this time.

  “It can get cold out there on the streets,” he continues, “and lonely. I can help you, Maddie. I can find somewhere for you to stay. And all I want in return, really, is for you to help me stop feeling cold and lonely every so often. That's only fair, isn't it? I'm not talking about anything exclusive. Just a bit of fun.”

  I pull my hand away again, and this time I make sure I'm quick enough to avoid his next try.

  “What's up?” he asks with a grin. “Playing hard to get?”

  “Is everything okay out here?” Simon asks, stepping out of the front room and coming up behind Nick. “We don't want any trouble in here,” he adds, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You're one of that lot, aren't you? I saw you go past a while back. You might get away with that stuff out in the street, but in this house we have rules.”

  “You do, do you?” Nick mutters, smiling as he keeps his eyes fixed on me. “Well excuse me, whoever you are, but I'm in the middle of a private conversation with my friend Maddie. It's kinda rude of you to butt in.”

  “Maybe you should go,” I tell him, stepping back as he tries again to take my hand.

  “And why's that?” he asks. “We're supposed to stick together, Maddie. We're in the same boat.”

  “You heard the lady,” Simon says firmly, keeping his hand on Nick's shoulder. “I'm sure you're having a lot of fun with your little anarchist group, but we don't want any of that rubbish in this house. I'm sorry, Maddie, but your friend's going to have to leave.”

  “We'll go,” I say, stepping toward Nick. The last thing I want is to leave with him, but I figure it might be the quickest and easiest way to get him out of the house. I'll just lead him away and then come back later. “Maybe we can find somewhere to talk.”

  “And who said I want to go?” he asks, putting an arm out to block my way. “Maybe I've changed my mind. No-one owns the air we're breathing right now, do they? So if I want to breathe it in here, why shouldn't I?”

  I can't help sighing. “Nick -”

  “Don't make me tell you again, buddy,” Simon snarls, towering above Nick from behind. “This isn't your house, so you don't get to -”

  “Does this guy ever stop talking?” Nick asks me, before chuckling and turning to Simon. “Okay, dude, whatever. You win, I'll leave. There's no need to get all neanderthal on me.”

  He slips past Simon and starts making his way toward the front door. In the process, he lowers his baseball bat and lets it bump noisily across the carpet.

  “Are you coming, Maddie?” he calls back to me.

  “Actually,” I reply, “I -”

  “Thought not. Oh well, you can't say I didn't try to open your eyes.”

  With that, he turns and swings the baseball bat at the wall, smashing a hole straight through the plaster.

  “Hey!” Simon yells, charging toward him, only for Nick to swing the bat again and smack him in the face.

  Simon stumbles back, as Nick smashes a couple more holes in the wall and then swings around, using the bat to knock over a table in the hallway.

  “Stop!” I shout, hurrying forward. “You're not -”

  Suddenly Nick swings the bat at me, and I hear a whooshing sound as I duck down and miss getting hit by a matter of inches. Ducking down, I look up and watch as Nick smashes the glass in the front door, and then Simon mutters something and runs past me, heading over to stop him.

  Nick laughs and swings the bat at Simon again, only for the handle to slip from his hand. The bat flies toward me and hits the wall next to my head. Nick mutters something under his breath as he turns and runs, and I watch with a sense of growing shock as he races away from the house with Simon right behind him. As they go, a few shards of glass are still falling from the shattered door and hitting the carpet in front of me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Monday October 1st, 1888

  By day, Miter Square is a bare and unimposing space, barely seventy feet by seventy. Located just around the corner from the heart of Aldgate, the square contains nothing of any real importance, and even now – late in the afternoon – there are fairly few people around. As I make my way toward the square's southern end, I cannot help but feel that the place is utterly devoid of value. Why, I might well have passed through here in years gone by, but Miter Square left no impression on me whatsoever. Its only quality is its blandness.

  And then, as I stop near the exact point where the Eddowes woman died, I see that there remains a very faint dark stain on the pavement.

  Is it her blood?

  I cannot help but smile as I realize that several days after she died, a part of her is still here, having seeped into the very material of the city. The police gathered the remains up, of course, but they could not entirely take away proof that a woman died here. Women die everywhere in the city, of course, as do men and children; yet while their deaths are neatly cleared away, it would seem that the death of Catherine Eddowes has left its mark. Even as I step a little closer and touch the tip of my cane to the stain, I remember leaning over the woman's corpse in the darkness, and I remember the smell of her newly-opened body.

  Catherine Eddowes.

  She is the first one whose name I have bothered to hear.

  A whore Catherine who gave her life for my better, more important, more wonderful Catherine.

  Catherine Eddowes was a drunk, that much I have ascertained from the police. Indeed, after probing Sanderson a little more and hearing a few more details of her miserable existence, I have come to the conclusion that I did the world a favor by getting rid of the woman. Not that I expect praise for my actions, of course, but it still feels good to know that I have been having a positive effect upon this city that I call home. Rubbing the cane's tip against the blood, I see that the ground is completely dry. Indeed, I crouch down and remove the glove from my right hand, placing my bare skin against the stain, and I realize with a smile that the blood has soaked well into the very fabric of the stone. It is part of the city now.

  Perhaps, in years to come, people will still speak of what I have done. I shall be celebrated.

  “Disgraceful, is it not?”

  I turn and look up, having not realized that anybody had come over to join me.

  “I know she's supposed to have been a lady of the
night,” the well-dressed gentleman says, looking down at the stain with a note of sadness in his eyes, “but still... Something should be done to help them, rather than leaving them out here in the night so that they fall victim to these murderers. I wonder, did this poor woman ever have any help in her life, or was she born into an existence that allowed her nothing but pain and suffering? I rather think the social reformers have a few good ideas.”

  “I cannot agree, Sir,” I reply, getting to my feet. I have encountered a few of these sympathetic gentlemen over the past few years, men who think that we can intervene and help the poor of London. They are in most cases well-intended in their endeavors, but they are in all cases wrong. “In all honesty, what is to be done about these people? If somebody lives their whole life in squalor and wretchedness, one can hardly expect their end to come in any other circumstances. They are doomed, from cradle to grave.”

  “You raise a good point, Sir,” the gentleman mutters.

  “One that is often lost on the social reformers,” I add with a smile, as I look down and start slipping my hand back into its glove.

  And then I see that my palm is stained rich red with blood.

  I immediately turn my hand so that the other gentleman will have no chance of seeing, and I take a handkerchief from my pocket. I must admit to being rather alarmed by the horrific sight, but then I find – as I try to wipe the blood away – that it will not come. The other gentleman is still speaking, but his words fade into the city's background din as I peer more closely at my hand. It is almost as if the blood from the pavement has somehow stained beneath the skin's surface. I wipe again and again, pressing harder each time, until I realize that the gentleman beside me has noticed my rather odd behavior.

  “Just a scratch,” I say with a smile, as I slip my hand into the glove so that it cannot be seen.

  “Probably the weather,” he mutters, and it seems that he is not unduly troubled. “I don't know what's to be done with all these people living on the streets, but things can't go on as they are. Why, London is filling up and up, and I don't think people are supposed to live at such close quarters. It's no wonder there's such violence breaking out among their numbers when they're crammed in so tight. Where's it going to end? Will the gates to the land remain open for all time, admitting more and more until there's a terrible crush? I mean, one doesn't hear of gentlemen such as ourselves going around cutting throats, does one?”

  “Indeed not,” I reply, “but perhaps -”

  “Because we're better than them,” he adds. “We have been properly educated, but sometimes I wonder if that is the only difference. Why, if fate had twisted a little differently, perhaps these slum-dwellers would be wearing fancy suits, and gentlemen such as ourselves would be thieving and whoring in the dirty streets.”

  “You cannot seriously believe that!” I reply, genuinely shocked to hear such words come from the lips of a man in such a fine jacket.

  “I do wonder about it,” he says. “I have heard some of the reformers speak, and they make a good case for sympathy, at least. Should we hate these wretches, or should we try to help them?”

  “They are beyond help,” I tell him. “They are the worst of the worst, the dregs of society. The most they can hope for is to be useful to the rest of us.”

  “You're not on the side of the reformers, I take it?” he asks.

  “I am not, Sir. Nor is any other free-thinking man. Catherine Eddowes deserves no sympathy from us. We can only hope that her death served some other, greater purpose.”

  “I can see that you are set in your views,” the other gentleman replies. “I shall not try to change your mind.” He pats me on the shoulder before turning to walk away. “Good day to you, Sir. Let us hope for peaceful streets soon, one way or another. Streets without whores, thieves and riff-raff. We must help the good poor and damn the bad.”

  “Indeed,” I say through gritted teeth. “That would be an admirable approach, but there is one problem. There are no good poor. Only bad.”

  In truth, I would dearly like to walk with the gentleman for a little while and hear some more of his opinion, especially in regard to the identity of the so-called Jack the Ripper killer. Instead, however, I wait until he is gone and then I slowly start removing the glove from my hand. My heart is beating rather fast, and to my horror I quickly see that the bloody stain remains on my skin. Now that I am not being watched, I remove my other glove and start rubbing at my hand with a little more care, trying to ascertain precisely what has caused this stain, yet my hand is dry and it is as if the skin has merely changed color of its own accord.

  I glance down at the pavement, and then I see to my immense shock that there is no longer a stain on the ground. Looking back at my hand, I realize that it is as if the stain has somehow transferred to my own body.

  “Impossible,” I mutter, trying again and again to wipe my hand clean.

  I know that perhaps I am being a little irrational, but I cannot help rubbing my palm furiously, desperately trying to get the stain to go away. When that does not work, I head over to the nearby wall, which seems suitably rough. Reaching up, I place my hand against the brickwork and then I scrub several times, hoping to grind the stain away. I feel a sharp pain, but I am determined to keep going until my hand has gone back to normal. Finally, after several minutes, I pull my hand away and see to my horror that the skin has been stripped to ribbons, with fresh blood trickling down to my already-bandaged wrists.

  And yet, as I peer more closely, I think I can see now that the remaining skin has indeed lost its unaccountable stain. Tilting my hand a little more toward the light, I find that I am right, and I feel a huge sigh of relief. Indeed, when I look down at the ground, I see that somehow the blood-red stain has returned to its proper place.

  I do not know what just happened, but as I put the glove back on my torn hand I resolve to consider the issue at a later point. My hand hurts a great deal, but it will heal soon enough. I have solutions at home that will surely deal with any risk of infection, and I do not believe that the damage will in any way hinder my work.

  “Nonsense,” I say under my breath, in an effort to strengthen my resolve. “Utter nonsense.”

  Once my gloves are in place, I turn and start walking back across the square. It is time to go back to the house, back to the basement, and get to work on the brain stem that I intend to transplant into Catherine's body. I have read enough today to be sure that the procedure has a good chance of succeeding, and indeed I am filled with a new surge of confidence. Passing a shop, I glance at the window and see my own reflection, and I cannot help but note that I strike a fine figure of a man as I make my way along the pavement. Why, anybody who sees me will most certainly -

  Suddenly I spot a figure in the reflection, standing at the exact spot where I killed the woman the other night.

  I slow my pace, keeping my eyes fixed on the reflected figure, and I see that not only are her clothes torn open at the front to reveal a bloodied belly, but she appears to be staring straight at me. The warped glass makes her image a little blurry, but finally I stop and stare for a moment before slowly turning to take a look.

  There is nobody there.

  I look at the window again, and she is gone from the reflection too.

  Supposing myself to have perhaps allowed the paranoia of others to infect my thoughts, I set off again, this time resolving to focus on my work.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maddie

  Today

  “ASSHOLE!”

  Hearing the front door slam open, I look away from the TV screen just in time to hear Simon storming through the hallway. A moment later he appears at the door, breathless and sweating and with pure fury in his eyes.

  “Did he come back here?” he snaps.

  I shake my head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I swear,” I stammer, “I haven't seen him since you chased him out.”

  “If you're lying to me...”


  “I'm not, I promise!” I tell him. “Honestly, he's not my friend! He's just someone I met a few times.”

  “If I ever see that little streak of piss again,” he snarls, “I swear I'm gonna tear his head clean off his shoulders. And that goes for his friends in that stupid gang as well. The world might be going to hell out there, but in this house there are still some goddamn rules!””

  “I cleared up the glass,” I tell him, as he heads back along the hallway. After a moment I get to my feet and go out to join him, and I see that he's examining one of the holes in the wall. I'm still feeling hot and feverish, but all the drama of the past half hour has given me a shot of adrenaline. “I wasn't sure what else to do,” I continue. “I'm really sorry he came here. I didn't know he was going to do any of that stuff.”

  “Those people are assholes,” Simon mutters darkly. “You should see all the mess they caused down at the market. I'm going to go down help the stall-holders clear up. They're good folk, they're just trying to make a living. They don't deserve to have a bunch of over-excited preppy idiots go storming through their market, knocking everything over and causing a mess.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say again. “I'd never have let him into the house if I'd known that he was going to do any of this.”

  “I believe you, kid,” he replies, before stepping back from the wall. For a moment he seems utterly lost for words, as if he doesn't even know where to begin. Finally he turns to walk away, but then he stops and – as if gripped by one more burst of anger – he turns and snarls as he punches the wall.

  His fist goes straight through the plaster-board.

  “Damn thing needs recovering anyway,” he says under his breath, before pushing past me and heading toward the front door.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I ask, but he quickly slams the door shut once he's outside, leaving me standing alone in the hallway.

  I stand in silence for a moment, before realizing that I can hear the TV still running. I walk through to the front room and stop in the doorway, and I see that the screen is showing images of that Adam Michael Devenzies guy being led back out from the rear of the court building and into a waiting police truck. I know it's wrong to judge people based on their appearance, but there's a fear in the guy's eyes that makes me think he can't be the real killer. I guess I might be underestimating him, but he looks bewildered and lost.