by Thomas Emson
“Darlin, there’s a lot of bad men in the world. But there are more good people, you know. Sometimes bad things, horrible things, happen, but they don’t happen a lot. I don’t know why Candice got killed.”
“Do you believe in God, mum?”
Her mum’s eyes narrowed. She was thinking. Then she said, “I don’t know, Jasmine.”
“If God was real, why would he let Candice die? And Italy’s mum, too.”
“I don’t know, darlin’’. Sometimes things just happen.”
“Mum . . . ”
“Yes.”
“I . . . I saw horrible things happen to Charlie.”
She felt her mum shudder.
“Do you like him, Mum?”
“Of course. He was your Auntie Rachel’s boyfriend. So he’s almost like family.”
“I saw him being burned.”
“Where did you see this, Jasmine?”
“In my head, Mum . . . you know.”
“In your head.”
“Yes, like the other dreams. Like . . . like the things I see that come true.”
Her mum nodded.
“What did old Bet say?” said Jasmine. “Does she still want to spit at me?”
“No, no she doesn’t. She’s had a very difficult life. It makes her sad. It makes her do horrible things like she did to you when you saw her. She . . . she doesn’t mean it.”
“She shouldn’t do it, then.”
“No, she shouldn’t.”
“Does she dream too, Mum?”
“Yes, she dreams too.”
“And she can see things that haven’t happened?”
Mum nodded.
“Did . . . did your mum do it too?”
“I think she did.”
Jasmine buried her face in her mum’s chest. “Why are we different?” she said. “I don’t want to be different.”
Chapter 62
LIKE THE FLAMES WERE HIS WINGS
“I found you in the early hours of this morning,” said Roy Hanbury. “You were lying outside the front door without a stitch on—naked as the day you were born. You had your eyes wide open, looking up towards the sky—but you didn’t seem to be seeing anything. You just had this blank look on your face.”
Charlie Faultless stared at Christ above Hanbury’s mantelpiece. The figure seemed serene in its suffering. But Faultless knew there was no tranquility in anguish. Only dread and terror. Only loneliness and hopelessness.
He looked at his shoulder and ran a finger from his collar bone down to the middle of his chest. He felt a burning pain as his finger traced a line down to his solar plexus.
But his skin was unmarked. No seared flesh. No charred bone. It was as if he’d been healed.
“I remember where I saw the old man,” he said.
“You what?”
He told Hanbury what he was talking about.
“That fellow. Must’ve been a stranger. Told you, Charlie. He didn’t ring no bells with me, and I know pretty much every—”
“I saw him in my dream,” Faultless interrupted.
“Your dream? Not you as well. Does everyone have dreams and visions except for me? Do you believe all of this?”
Faultless stared at Christ.
“There’s not a shred of evidence to back up claims made by psychics and mediums, and dream interpretation is bollocks,” he said. “But I saw this guy when I arrived, and I’ve seen him before, Roy—in my past.”
Hanbury shook his head. “I’m getting my snake.” He went to the vivarium and opened the lid. He reached inside and gently lifted out the python, draping the serpent over his shoulders. The moment the animal rested on him, Hanbury appeared to relax.
“Did you see anyone?” asked Charlie.
“Told you—I opened the door, and there you were.”
Faultless touched his chest again, where Buckley had blowtorched him.
Hanbury said, “Are you sure you’re not high on something, and you dreamt—”
Faultless glared at Hanbury. “I didn’t dream the pain, Roy. They picked me up, two of them in a black BMW. I woke up in a fucking cellar. Graveney was there. His son. And this Buckley arsehole with his blowtorch. I remember the pain.”
“Well, if they scarred you, it cleared up pretty well. Perhaps God healed you, son. Though I don’t know why. You ain’t repented yet. Tell me again what you saw.”
Faultless blew air out of his cheeks. “Graveney was coming towards me, and all of a sudden, this shape just appears behind the bastard. And it was him, Roy. The old fella. The one with the tuft on his chin. Leather waistcoat. Weird tattoos. He was there, and he was surrounded by fire. Like the flames were his wings. I felt the heat. The fire just swallowed Graveney up, and when it cleared, he weren’t there no more. I just passed out, I guess. But I got this recollection of being wrapped up warm. It was all soft. Like feathers, you know? But real silky feathers. And there was blood on them, and the smell of meat too.”
Hanbury shook his head and stroked his python.
“You don’t believe me?” said Faultless.
“I don’t know what to believe any more.”
“You believe in God, mate.”
“He’s sound ‘cause he’s the Lord Jesus Christ, while you’re an untrustworthy little shit.”
“Cheers, Roy.”
“Well, you’re better than you were. Get on with your jackanory.”
“I was being carried, like I say. Wrapped in these . . . feathers. Carried around by this old fella. His little beard. His eyes . . . black and cold, but they felt safe, you know. I shut my eyes, then I went to sleep. Next thing, I’m getting cold. I wake up, and the old fella’s putting me down on cold, hard concrete. He’s taking my feathers away, mate. And he’s gone. Gone into the darkness. And I’m left there, hazy. I must’ve lost consciousness again. Next thing I remember is just now, waking up in there.”
Faultless thought about things.
Then he asked, “Do you know who my dad was?”
Hanbury stared at him. “How the fuck should I know? I’m not Jeremy fucking Kyle with my DNA test, you know.”
“You knew everything.”
“Bollocks.”
“Was it Tony Graveney?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He was messing about with my mum.”
“Don’t mean nothing. That was years after you was born, son.”
“He wasn’t coming back for more, then?”
Hanbury shook his head.
“Was it you, Roy?”
Hanbury’s face darkened.
“I’m only asking.”
“Don’t ask fuckwit questions like that, Charlie.”
“I want to know.”
“Some things we’re not meant to know, son.”
“Not meant to know? Why aren’t we meant to know them?”
“Cause maybe they can kill us.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean I’m not your bloody dad, and maybe you’ll never find who it is, that’s what I mean.”
Faultless was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. Then he said, “Was Pat Faultless my mum?”
“You what?”
“You heard.”
“Jesus, I don’t know.”
“I dreamt I was being laid at someone’s door.”
“You were—at mine, last night.”
“But it’s happened before. I know it has.”
“How can you know, Charlie?”
Faultless gestured at Christ over the mantelpiece. “You know he’s your savior. And that’s irrational.”
“It fucking ain’t.”
“It fucking is. You can’t prove it. You ain’t got evidence.”
“I got personal experience.”
“So what?”
“If yours is valid, way ain’t theirs? Why ain’t mine?”
The snake slithered down Hanbury’s leg.
Chapter 63
HOW WE HAVE ALL BEEN CURSED
They would learn the truth together. Maybe then it would be easier to bear. Two are stronger than one. Mother and daughter are stronger than everything. That’s what Tash told herself.
She laid the red suitcase given to her by Bet on the carpet. She sat on the floor and looked at Jasmine. “It’s okay,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Bet gave it to me.”
“Is it hers?”
“It was her grandfather’s first. And maybe his grandfather’s, too.”
Jasmine came closer.
Tash said, “It’s all right.”
Her daughter knelt.
Tash touched Jasmine’s hair. It was warm and soft, and love came through it and rinsed into Tash’s veins, flooding her heart. She nearly cried. It made her grieve that she might fail her child. That this place, this world, might take Jasmine away like it had taken Candice away from her mother, and Terri Slater from her children, and so many others from those who loved them. But love meant nothing. It was only a gesture. A scream drowned out by the storm of violence and hate engulfing them all.
“Okay,” said Tash and opened the suitcase.
“It stinks,” said Jasmine, crinkling her nose.
“That’s just age.”
What memories smell of, she thought.
“And look at those clothes,” said Jasmine.
There was a Fez, a smoking jacket, and a scarlet necktie. They had holes in them. Moth-eaten.
A voice drifted through Tash’s head like a ghost passing a window.
I am the moth eating at the law, it said, but she barely noticed it. Her head was full of voices, crammed with memories she had no idea she’d experienced. She took them for granted. Ignored them and let them flap around in her brain like litter on the breeze. They weren’t doing any harm. They were just scraps. They meant nothing.
From the suitcase, she removed the items of clothing. They were dusty on her hands. She laid them gently on the carpet.
“Whose are they?” said Jasmine.
“I think they were your great-great-great-great grandfathers. His name was Jonas Troy. He was . . . I think he was like a magician. He could . . . ”
“He could see things.”
Tash looked at her daughter.
Jasmine gazed at the clothes and went on. “He dreamt things, like we do. He could tell the future.” Her eyes lifted to Tash. “That’s true, ain’t it, mum?”
Tash had no reason to ask her daughter how she knew. It was obvious. She nodded and said, “That’s true.” Everything was true. Every fear, every doubt, every uncertainty, every strange feeling Tash had ever experienced was down to this. She felt weirdly calm with this new knowledge. As if it made her complete. The last piece of the jigsaw dropping into place, the picture it made now clear.
Beneath the clothing were piled newspaper cuttings, photographs, notes, and a journal. They were yellowed with age. Time had crumpled the paper.
Tash lifted the journal out of the case. It was fragile, and she thought the pages might disintegrate if she were not careful. She gingerly opened the diary to the first page. The lined paper was gray. The writing slanted to the right and was tiny, the ink smudges making it difficult to read. But the date at the top was written in capital letters.
AUGUST 31, 1888
And she could make out the first paragraph.
“As I feared, he has returned,” it said. “Very early this morning, at around 4:00 am near Bethnal Green, a cart driver discovered dear Mary Ann Nichols. The devil had nearly decapitated her. She had been cut open from beneath the ribs on the right side of her body, down under her pelvis and to the right of her stomach. How we have been cursed that we must be mutilated in this way. How he has been cursed that he must rip to seek out his sustenance. How we have all been cursed.”
And then on one line, written in capital letters:
“DAMN HIM!”
She turned the pages and in the back of the journal discovered old, black-and-white photographs. She clutched her chest. They showed mutilated bodies. Jack the Ripper’s victims. They showed where the women had died and what they looked like after death.
A chill ran down Tash’s spine. Did she want to be seeing and reading these terrible things? She looked up. Jasmine was studying a letter. Panic gripped her, and she snatched the piece of paper from her daughter’s hand.
“Mum, what are you doing?”
“You . . . you shouldn’t be reading this. I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I—”
“Mum. Mum. You know what we are?” Her voice was shaking. “It says in the letter. You know what me and you are, Mum?”
Chapter 64
LOOKING FOR AN EXIT
By now Spencer was very scared. He was so scared he had to puke every few minutes. His nerves were shot, and his head was messed up.
Hallam Buck had killed a kid.
Jack just told him to, and he did it.
Killed a kid.
Just like he told Spencer to kill Jay-T.
But worse. Candice Daley was a twelve-year-old child. And Hallam had assaulted her and then strangled her.
I’m in over my head, thought Spencer. Way over my head.
He wanted a way out. But he guessed there wasn’t one. Unless he topped himself or Jack finished him off. He swallowed. That option might not be pleasant. Dying, full-stop, would be unpleasant.
Hallam had only just come back. After killing the girl, he’d holed up in his flat. “I had to spend time getting used to what I did,” he’d said, his eyes glittering.
Dirty, sick bastard, thought Spencer. Hallam Buck, child-killer and kiddie-fiddler, had been re-living what he’d done to Candice. Dirty, sick bastard.
Spencer sat against the wall of his flat. The place had gotten worse. The policeman had died overnight, and flies buzzed around his body. The squat had started to smell of shit and blood. It had grown darker there, too.
He knew they’d have to leave soon. There was no way the cops were going to hold off from smashing down his door. No way. It was hard to believe they hadn’t done it already. He was certainly a suspect in the first four killings, including Jay-T’s murder.
And he was missing.
First place they’d look would be where you lived. That made sense. Or it did to Spencer. Maybe the filth thought differently these days. Maybe they’d gone to the wrong address. To his mum’s. To his auntie’s place. His cousin’s or his mate’s.
This place wasn’t really home. It was one of the places he crashed.
They stuck a lone copper outside the door, hoping he’d turn up, and he had—with something from hell behind him.
But they’d be round again, for sure. They’d smash the door down and ransack the place. Confiscate the TV and the PS3. All his games.
He looked over at Jack and Hallam.
Hallam had handed Jack a hoodie. Something he took off the girl. A gift.
At first, Jack was angry.
“I meant something from inside her, you insect,” he raged. “Her heart. A lung. A kidney. Not this piece of—”
He had smelled the hoodie. And he still smelled it, rubbing it all over his face.
Finally he said, “Seer.” He pressed it to his face again. “Seer. I can smell her. I can smell it on her. Did you kill a seer?”
Hallam gawped.
“If you did, you’ve got to find the body,” said Jack. “Where have they taken it? Find it and . . . and cut
it out of her.”
“Cut . . . cut what?” asked Hallam.
Cut what, for Christ’s sake? thought Spencer, retching again. No more cutting. No more stabbing and killing. He groaned.
Jack looked at him. “Do you know if she was a seer?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you want me to kill you, Spencer? Have you had enough?”
Despite earlier thinking of death as an option, having it offered up made him decide against it.
“N . . . no, Jack.”
Jack tossed the hoodie at Spencer. It hit him in the face.
“Find out if she was a seer,” said Jack.
“How do I do that?”
Jack glared at him. Even in the gloom, the terrible glow emanating from him blinded Spencer.
“Do it, Spencer. Do it or I will dismember you.”
Spencer wanted to cry. He felt weak. He bundled the hoodie up into a ball. He started to pull it inside out, his panic growing.
Jack said, “We have to relocate. Hallam, we’ll join you.”
“Me?” said the dirty, sick bastard.
“You think I want to move from hovel to hovel, living with low-life such as yourselves?” said Jack. “I need to find my ripper. I need to find the seers. A woman and child. The ones who dreamed me.”
Spencer had turned the hoodie inside out. It had a name tag in the hood. He said, “This wasn’t Candice’s.”
They turned to face him.
“It says here it was Jasmine Hanbury’s. You know her, Hallam. Don’t you fancy her mum?”
A silence fell. It grew even colder. Spencer shivered. He thought ice was forming now in the flat. He could see his breath.
Then, cold and cruel, Jack’s voice came hissing out of the gloom. “She’s the fifth. This Jasmine. The fifth. Hallam, you’ll rip her if you have to. You shall stand in my ripper’s place. You shall be a ripper, too. She’s the fifth, and then London will be bathed in blood.”
Chapter 65
ABOUT THE FALLEN ONE
It was good to see Tash again. Better than he ever thought it would be. He felt he never wanted to leave her presence now. Always be here with her. Just sitting on her bed, talking. It was enough. More than enough. It was the world.