Pariah

by Thomas Emson

  PARIAH

  PARIAH

  Thomas Emson

  Tantor Media, Inc.

  2 Business Park Road

  Old Saybrook, CT 06475

  www.tantor.com

  Pariah

  Copyright © 2011, 2013 by Thomas Emson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for reviews or critical articles.

  Cover design by Constance Lemieux.

  ISBN: 9780988349476

  “Evil is woven into our most basic biological fabric.”

  Howard Bloom

  The Lucifer Principle

  “Therefore, just as through one man sin entered into the world, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men, because all sinned.”

  Romans 5:12

  The Bible (New American Standard Version)

  “A universe of death, which God by curse/Created evil . . . .”

  John Milton

  Paradise Lost

  “God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM’.”

  Exodus 3:14

  The Bible (New American Standard Version)

  Part One

  The Women Of Moab And Midian

  Chapter 1

  THE FIFTH

  WHITECHAPEL, LONDON–12:07 AM, MARCH 1, 2011

  IT WAS GOING to be bloody, she knew that. The knife-man would cut her throat and disembowel her—he’d have to, if he wanted what was inside.

  He loomed over her. His green eyes glittered through the holes in the terrifying, asylum-style hood he wore, and his breathing hissed.

  In a whisper he said, “You scared of me?”

  She said nothing, just stared at the blade gripped tightly in the killer’s hand.

  Again he said, “You scared of me like your sister was?”

  She struggled but couldn’t get loose. They’d tied her on rusty bed frame. The room was tiny. It was filled with shadows. It smelled old, very old—because it was. She knew that. More than a hundred years old and lost in time.

  This room had also seen murder. It had tasted blood in the past. For decades it lay hidden, buried in time. But now it was about to become a slaughterhouse again.

  Death would come full circle.

  The woman ached all over. She felt doomed. Steeling herself, she prepared to die. It was difficult. Death wasn’t so terrifying, but dying was.

  “Do it, you bastard,” she told him. “If you’re going to do it, do it now.”

  She tried to stop her voice from quivering. Her guts churned with dread.

  But she wouldn’t show it. Not to him. Not to the other two figures in the room, both lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to die.

  The knife-man came closer and kneeled next to her and pressed the knife to her throat.

  He said, “You’ll show me you’re scared.”

  She cried out, and he laughed.

  “See?” he said. “See? I was right.”

  She spat in his face. He recoiled. The blade went from her throat. She struggled again, and the rope around her wrists and ankles cut into her skin.

  She screamed, more in frustration than fear.

  The knife-man wheeled to face her again, and fury burned in his eyes.

  “Cow,” he said. “You cow—you show me some respect. You show me awe.”

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  “Bitch.”

  He raised the knife, ready to plunge it into her.

  She screamed for help. But help wouldn’t come. Anyone who could save her was either dead or disappeared. She’d been abandoned to the fate of her ancestors.

  The blade arced down. It sliced through the darkness heading straight for her throat.

  She braced herself.

  A voice boomed:

  “Stop it there!”

  The knife-man froze. The blade stopped two inches from her jugular vein.

  “Stop it there,” said the voice again, quieter this time. It sent a chill through her. The atmosphere grew colder. The shadows thickened.

  The knife-man stumbled away. “I was . . . was going to open her up for you,” he said.

  The shadows in the room moved, and out of them stepped the knife-man’s master. The one who’d controlled him. The one who’d been in his head all these years. The one who had called the knife-man to prepare the way for his return.

  The master said, “We’ve got trespassers.”

  “What?” said the knife-man.

  “A seer and . . . something else. The seer—it’s this one’s child again.” He gestured at the woman, and she screamed. Her daughter was here. She yelled out the child’s name and urged her to run.

  The master told the knife-man, “Go get them,” and the knife-man went to the door and opened it. Lying on the bed, her mind reeling, the woman thought she heard the sound of wind beating against sails. Or perhaps wings flapping, although they sounded too large for any bird. Maybe it was just her sanity dissolving, and all the noises of the earth were filling her head.

  The master said, “You go too, eunuch.”

  The eunuch shambled out of the shadows.

  “You bastard,” the woman shouted at the neutered man.

  He looked at her and whispered, “I’ll look after your girl when you’re gone, don’t you worry,” and he gave her a sneer, spit dribbling down his chin.

  The woman stiffened with fear, and a scream locked in her throat.

  The eunuch followed the knife-man out into the darkness.

  The master loomed over the woman.

  His chalk-white face was framed with long, black, greasy hair. His blue lips spread out in a smile, revealing rotting teeth, and his black eyes sparkled. A tuft of hair grew from his chin.

  He looked dead.

  He was dead.

  But he’d never really been alive.

  “Now, you be quiet,” he said, right in her face. “Or I’ll have them cut up your kid in front of you, just for show. You saved her the last time, but not again. This time she’ll die. But if you behave, I’ll have you killed first, so you won’t have to watch. You understand?”

  She whimpered.

  The master laughed. It was a chilling sound.

  She thought of the hope she’d found in this horror—the man who’d already saved her and her daughter once. Where was he now? Had he died too? Had everyone she loved now died? Everyone apart from her child, who was also facing death.

  She screamed in desperation.

  The chalk-faced monster laughed at her, and his breath stank of sewers. She retched.

  He said, “You be sick, whore. Puke all over yourself. Choke on it. Make it easier to cut you open and pull it out of you. You’re the fifth. Once you’re done, I’ll be free. Free of this place. Free of these streets. Then London’ll be mine. I’ll make it a slaughterhouse. Blood will color her gray concrete towers. Gore will garland her thoroughfares.”

  A noise erupted outside the room.

  The master’s eyes suddenly showed concern. He straightened. There was shrieking and that sound of wind on sails again.

  The woman felt drowsy, but she tried to focus.

  She said, “Death’s coming for you.”

  The master scowled at her.

  Then from outside, a voice shouted, “I’ve got her.”

  Now the master smiled again, bearing his yellow teeth. “Now we have two seers to kill. Mother and child.”

  The woman thrashed about, trying to get loose. But there was no hope. No hope for her or her daughter. Her body
slackened, and she slumped into the bed frame. She started to cry. The master laughed at her. But through her tears and his hysterics, she could hear that sound again.

  And she knew it wasn’t wind on sails.

  It was wings. Vast wings that were powerful enough to carry something much larger than a bird. Something like a man. Or maybe an angel.

  Part Two

  THE DEATH OF MARY KELLY

  Chapter 2

  SWEET VIOLETS

  WHITECHAPEL, LONDON–12:59 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1888

  “Sweet violets . . . ”

  She sang to keep the fear at bay.

  “ . . . sweeter than the roses . . . ”

  It made her feel better, but only a little.

  “ . . . covered all over from head to toe . . . ”

  It wasn’t going to heal things. It wasn’t going to wash away the dread.

  “ . . . covered all over with sweet violets.”

  But it was a nice tune, one her father used to sing to her when she was a kid.

  She cried, thinking about her dad. It had been years since she’d seen him. He was working at an iron foundry in North Wales, the last she’d heard. He wasn’t happy with what she was doing, being a whore in the East End of London.

  But she wasn’t either. What kind of life was it? But what choice did she have? She had to eat. She had to survive.

  Despite having had terrible experiences with men, Mary still dreamed of the perfect one coming along and rescuing her. A prince to whisk her away. A farmer, maybe, like the one in Sweet Violets. Although he wasn’t that nice, taking a girl into a barn. But any man would do. Any decent man.

  But Mary was getting on a bit. Most twenty-four year olds she knew were married and had kids. Not her. She was an old maid. But not for long. Soon, her misery would be over. Soon, Mary would be dead.

  She sat on her bed, humming and looking around the room. This was the sum of her life, what her twenty-four years amounted to—this grubby hole with a table and two chairs, a bed, and two small windows.

  The room cost four shillings a week. It was in a three-story house off Dorset Street, a narrow, 400-foot-long thoroughfare off Commercial Street. It was a rough part of Whitechapel, and that was saying something. Some said it was the worst street in England.

  Common lodging-houses crammed the avenue. Slum landlords ran things and controlled most of the activities, much of them illegal. Whores roamed and thugs prowled. Drunkenness and violence were rife. Illegal prize-fighting left blood and body parts in the dirt. Stolen goods were fenced. Anyone stupid enough to get lost down here was beaten and robbed.

  There was grease and there was grime. There was piss and shit. There were rats, there were dogs, and there were humans, all packed together. The air carried a putrid smell. It was the odor of thousands of unfortunates who’d lived and died there over the years.

  Mary’s skin would layer the ground before morning. Her bones would powder the walls. Her blood would fill the drains.

  They would rip her like they’d ripped the others. Tear her open and plough around inside her for the treasure, the thing that gave him strength.

  Him.

  The ghost that stalked Whitechapel. The most terrifying killer in history. The one they called Jack.

  And he was hunting her. She shivered. There was not much she could do. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. She knew he was coming, because she could see him. She had gifts. She had foresight. She could see the future.

  And her future was death.

  “Sweet violets, sweeter than the roses . . . ”

  Such a funny song. Jokey and naughty.

  Mary tried to smile while thinking about the lyrics. But it was a struggle to make her mouth curve up into a grin. Her lips quivered. Her eyes welled. Tears were easier. Her fear was strong.

  Outside, someone screamed. A woman. Mary didn’t flinch. It was normal. Silence, not noise, made you alert in Dorset Street.

  A man cursed, saying, “Fucking tart.”

  The woman screamed again, begging to be left alone.

  Another man said, “Cut her fucking nose off, Charlie.”

  Mary shut her eyes and laced her fingers together. Would a prayer do any good? It hadn’t helped the others. Not Mary Ann, who’d been butchered in Bucks’ Row on August 31. Throat cut, guts opened. A policeman had found her lying in a pool of blood. She’d put up a fight. Her teeth had been knocked out, punched after she’d punched first, probably.

  That was Mary Ann—five-foot-two and hard as nails.

  But being tough hadn’t saved her.

  Two days later, the man came from Austria. He came to look for Mary and found her in the Ten Bells, drinking. He said, “You have to come with me,” and he gathered them all at an Inn—Mary, Annie Chapman, Catherine Eddowes, Elizabeth Stride. They’d never met. But they were all prostitutes in Whitechapel. And according to the man, they all had a special gift.

  A gift that would make their lives even more dangerous than they already were. A gift that could kill them.

  He told them everything, and not all of them believed. Mary wasn’t sure. Hearing what he said made her feel special. She’d always wanted to be special. But not so special that she might die.

  Annie had refused to accept what the man had said, and she left in a huff.

  But a week after Mary Ann’s death, she was dead too, just like the man had warned.

  Mary looked out of the small window. It was dark. But it was always dark there. Very little light found its way down Dorset Street. It was as if the day kept its distance. The night owned this part of the East End. The night and the darkness.

  And a short walk from where Mary sat now, it had swallowed up Annie.

  She had left her common-lodging house at 35 Dorset Street at 2:00 am on September 8. She’d been drunk and needed money for a bed. Annie was happy to fuck for it. “Means nothing to me,” she’d say. “And means nothing to them, after it’s done.”

  She’d walked up Little Paternoster Row, and was heading towards Christ Church, Spitalfields.

  But they got her in the darkness. They got her and cut her throat. They got her and ripped her open, taking her womb and parts of her cunny and bladder. They got her and stole her soul, just like the man had said.

  Two down.

  “Another three must be ripped.”

  Ever since Annie’s death, that had been the whisper wending its way through the streets.

  “Another three must be ripped.”

  Mary heard it wherever she went. She’d wheel round in a panic, expecting to see his terrible face.

  But he was never there. Only his voice.

  “Another three must be ripped.”

  And Mary knew one of those three would be her. She knew it the moment the man had met her at the Ten Bells and told her who she really was, told her she had a gift—a gift for hunting evil.

  There was a fight going on outside. Shouts and curses filled the night. Mary heard a struggle. Men kicked and punched. Flesh and bone being smashed. Mary winced with every blow. But it comforted her. A fight attracting a crowd meant her killers would not be able to skulk to her door unseen.

  Glass smashed. A crowd bellowed. Voices said, “Smash him, Bill,” and, “Glass him, cut him up.”

  Women screamed.

  “Break his face!”

  “Cut his balls off!”

  “Fucking Jew!”

  “Christ killer!”

  Jew, thought Mary. The East End was full of them, Spitalfields especially. But they stayed away from Dorset Street. But plenty of Irish. Plenty of Frenchies and Italians. Scots and Welsh, too. The place was a melting pot.

  Outside, the noise grew. Insults were hurled. More Jew abuse.

  They didn’t usually come round here. They rarely caused trouble. But every race had its thugs. And ma
ybe a few young Jew bulls had swaggered down here to booze at the Ringers pub on the corner of Dorset Street, where Mary sometimes drank.

  She listened now. The fight went on. But now there was more than one tussle. She could make out a few. Gangs going at each other. Blades and bottles drawn.

  A whistle pierced the cacophony.

  Mary jerked, sitting up.

  The whistle came again.

  “Coppers,” someone shouted.

  Another whistle speared through the noise.

  The fighters and the spectators scarpered. Mary heard their feet pound the pavement, their dark shapes shooting past her window.

  And then came silence.

  Cold, deadly silence.

  The silence you should fear on Dorset Street.

  She froze, her skin crawling.

  A dark shape moved past her door. She saw it in the gap at the bottom—the two-inch space where the cold and the rain and the fog came in, and through which evil could seep.

  Dread turned her heart to stone.

  And it cracked into a thousand pieces when a pale, white hand slipped under the door, the fingers scuttling like spiders’ legs.

  Chapter 3

  VIENNESE WALTZ

  The Ten Bells boiled over.

  The drinkers poured out. Fists and boots flew. Curses filled the air—mothers insulted, wives slurred, manhood’s mocked.

  Customers not following the fight outside grabbed drinks left by the departing crowd and downed them. Beer soaked the wooden floor. Dogs lapped it up. A woman’s voice rose above the noise, singing Sweet Violets.

  Jonas Troy put down his drink.

  Mary’s song, he thought.

  He looked around, searching for the singer. He spotted her through the crowd. An old crone, her face speckled with warts, her mouth empty of teeth, and gray hair sprouting like weeds from beneath her black hat.