Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  I walked up to the door and was getting ready to knock on it when the little Chinese woman snapped, “Two bob!”

  Her palm was out and she thrust it towards me.

  Dropping the coins into her hand, I opened the door and walked inside. Suddenly I was transported into an Oriental dream. I was in a small room through which there was only one door for an exit. There were statues of dragons besides a small desk. They were curious things with curling tongues and folded wings. On the walls were tapestries showing various Asian landscapes. They were quiet, tender things that I had not expected to see here. On the table was a small jade carving of a seductive woman. A small Chinese man came through the other door and smiled at me.

  “This humble one greets you, sir,” he said in a sing-song kind of way. “How may we be of assistance to you today?”

  I nodded. “I’m . . . I’m here to see Ah Sing.”

  He grinned. “And so you are.”

  “I—I—” I had drawn a blank. I really had no idea of what to ask for. I felt sure that if I had asked for Cohen, I would be shown the exit, if not worse.

  “Ah, I see.” The Chinese man came closer. “Perhaps this is your first time here? Not sure of what you need, yes? ‘And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up.’”

  I stared at him in astonishment. The last thing I had expected to hear in an opium den was someone quoting the Bible.

  “John, Chapter 3,” I said.

  His eyes brightened. “Just so! It is my favourite chapter of the Bible. I can tell that you are an educated man! And, being ‘educated,’ you must have many worries of the world about you, no?”

  Sadly, I had to admit that he was more right than he could have known.

  He took my arm and led me to the open door. There was virtually no light coming from the room on the other side. It was as if the world ended there in a soulless pit.

  “Well, normally, your entrance fee would only buy you two pipes, but as you have stirred my heart by recognising my words, I shall give you an extra pipe . . . but not too strong! This is your first time, after all, and I would not wish to lose such an intelligent client.”

  He slowly led me through the door and down three steps. I waited a moment for my eyes to become adjusted to the light—what little there was of it. There were a few gas lamps burning in the walls of one massive room. I think it may have been separate rooms at one point, but the walls had been removed to make one common area which was virtually covered with beds. I am being kind by referring to them as ‘beds’ at all, as they were nothing more than cots on the floor with low tables beside them. On the tables were bowls and pipes. Nearly every cot was occupied. Ah Sing was leading me towards the back where, I noticed, there were also some very large Chinese men standing guard.

  “Let me speak to you of the poppy. It is the pearl of the Orient and is the flower from which the opium is made. However, making the flower into our beloved balm is a delicate process. Very few know how to do it right. That woman”—here his voice became a scowl—”across the square thinks she knows how to do it, but she cannot do it as well as I do!”

  A thin, emaciated woman suddenly appeared at Sing’s elbow, and he muttered something to her in Chinese. She slunk away as quickly as she had appeared.

  “You smoke the opium as you would tobacco. Your pipes are already loaded and stamped. Light the opium and smoke it, but do it slowly. Soon you will feel its effects and the troubles of the world will be lifted from your shoulders.”

  He gestured to an empty cot. I lay down on it warily. “Do not mind my nephews here.” He motioned to the heavy-set Chinese men about the room. “They are here for your comfort and safety alone. They will respond to any need you have.”

  The emaciated Chinese woman returned carrying three small clay pipes. Inside each was a curious powder-like substance. Sing handed me a small box of matches and the pipes before bowing and walking away.

  I could see the nearest guard eyeing me suspiciously, so I knew that I would have to look as if I had some idea of what I was doing in this place. I took one of the pipes and placed it to my lips. Striking a match, I tried to light the powder, but it was harder than it appeared. It took several long minutes of drawing to get the opium to light and, when it did, I ended up taking a bigger breath of it than I had planned. I coughed violently and nearly vomited while the guard smiled and looked away to some other unfortunate.

  My chest rasping and burning, I slowly puffed on the pipe and looked around me, trying to find Cohen. The people on the cots were mostly men, but there were a few ladies there as well. I noticed that there were more sailors in the room than anything else. I imagined they had gotten a taste for the drug during their travels and could not fight off the dragon in their souls.

  Opium smoking wasn’t necessarily illegal at this time in London, and many took opium for medicinal purposes. But smoking it was definitely frowned upon, as that was considered the mark of the addict and would lead many men and women down the path of sin. It was difficult to make out the figures of people, much less their faces, but I thought I could just see Cohen laying on the cot three beds to the right of me.

  Another man was ushered into the room by Sing. He had a cloak over his head and quickly sat against the wall as he puffed on his pipe. Sing left the room without looking back.

  I had to think of a way to get over to Cohen without getting thrown out or worse. Cohen looked as if he had been here for far too long. His breathing seemed shallow, and I wondered how many pipes he had smoked. I had just about decided to try a ‘drunk’s walk,’ where I would just pretend to be confused about where I was, when a woman in the far corner began shrieking.

  “Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off me!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet and began clawing at her clothes. Within seconds, she had ripped most of them off and was tearing deep shards out of her flesh. “They’re in me skin! Get ‘em off!”

  The guards quickly pounced on her and began punching her unmercifully about the head and body. While they were distracted, I creeped over to Cohen and tried to rouse him.

  “Cohen, wake up!” I shook the man, but he didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered behind their lids.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guards picking up a raw, bloody mess that used to be a living woman.

  I lay down next to Cohen, trying my best to stay out of the guard’s direct vision. If I was lucky, they wouldn’t notice me missing before I could get Cohen out of the den.

  “Cohen, you’ve got to wake up now.” I shook him harder and his eyes fluttered.

  “Huh? Wassat?”

  His eyes opened and he struggled to focus. “Who’s that?”

  I put my hand over his mouth.

  “Listen to me very carefully, Cohen. I want what you stole from the bookstore, and if I don’t get it I’ll feed you to the Gaffer like a piece of raw meat!”

  Cohen’s eyes went wide. He tried to speak, but I wouldn’t remove my hand.

  “If I take my hand away, you will not scream. Understand? These guards will happily rip you apart for the slightest reason.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “How’d you know about the Gaffer?” he asked. His fear was dripping off him in waves.

  “We met earlier. I gave him a little present, your bureau drawer against the side of his head. I think he’ll remember me for a while now.”

  “But he ain’t here now, is he?” He looked around fearfully.

  “No, but I can find him easily enough and he’s very anxious to talk to you.”

  “Listen, mate, no need for that. We can make a deal, right? I mean, I got what you want and you got what I need, right? Namely, money!”

  “So you want me to pay you for what you stole from my employers, is that it?”

  “Well, it’s all part of business, innit? I mean, my time and work is worth something. I am the best at what I do. Besides, it ain’t really for the book! I need the scratch to get the hell out of
here! If the Gaffer lays his hands on me, I’m worse than dead.”

  “Why does he want to kill you, Cohen? What’s behind all this?”

  “Damned if’n I know. I get hired to snatch a book. Easy job, thinks I. Huh, would’ve been easier snatching the Queen’s jewels off’n her bloody neck! You see, I figger that this book has got to be important, right? Far more important than the few bob I got paid for grabbing it.”

  “So you held out for more.”

  “Well, yeah . . . I mean, he’s got it, right? Toffer like that, he could afford a few hunnerd bob more. Only, he don’t see it that way. Bloke goes completely bonkers on me. Starts cursing at me, saying I’m part of some conspeeracy agin’ him and damn near takes my head off wiff a fire poker. Next thing I know, ol’ Gaffer’s hot on my trail, and believe you me, you don’t want a bulldog like that sniffin’ after ya!”

  “What was in this book?” I asked and suddenly realised that I had broken a trust by asking for such information.

  “Beats me. Looked like a diary or summtin . . . but I couldn’t tell.”

  “Because you can’t read?”

  “Well, yeh, not to put too fine a point on it. Not much need for reading and writing in stealing.”

  “I suppose not. Do you have the book on you?”

  “Wot? ‘Ere? Are ye daft? They’d rook me soon as kill me here. Naw, the book is well hidden, where no one woud even think of lookin’ fer it.”

  I paused for a moment. The guards hadn’t noticed anything amiss. I had begun to hope that I would be able to get both of us out of this alive.

  “All right, Cohen, here’s how it’s going to work. We’re walking out of here and then we’re going to go get the book. After that, we’re going to my employers, who will pay you a fair amount as a ‘finder’s fee’ and that will be the end of it.”

  “Enuff for me to scamper?”

  “Far and away, I should expect.”

  “That’ll be good enough for me.”

  “Fine, that’s settled then. Let’s get up and you lean on me so it looks as if I’m just helping a friend who’s had too much.”

  We slowly got to our feet and began to walk towards the door. The guards didn’t seem too concerned with us.

  “Wait,” I said. “I have to ask. If you can’t read, how did you know which book to steal?”

  “Aw, that was easy. The Toff what hired me described the book to a T! He’d seen it before lots of times. That’s wot was so wild about this job. This guy was a good pal to the one wot wrote the book! Best buddies! And he hired me to steal it!”

  “Who hired you? What’s his name?”

  Cohen laughed. “You think I give that name for free? That’ll cost ya extra, mate. But I’ll give ya a taste: his initials are ‘J. S.’”

  Suddenly a loud voice broke in from the outer room. It was a loud booming voice that was filled with anger and rage. Cohen and I both knew that voice well. It was the Gaffer.

  “DON’T GIVE ME NONE O’ DAT CRAP, SING! I KNOW HE’S HERE. I FOLLERED ‘IM AND BEAT IT OUT OF THAT MONKEY OF A CABMAN WHO BROUGHT ‘IM. SO GET THE HELL OUTTA MY WAY!”

  “He’s here!” Cohen gasped. “You brought ‘im to me! You said we’d get money, you said!”

  “I didn’t bring him! He must have followed me from the Ringer’s.”

  “You came straight ‘ere? You didn’t check to make sure you weren’t bein’ follered?”

  The Gaffer burst into the room, and I could see Sing lying on the floor in the room outside. A bruise was already forming on his temple.

  Sing was screaming in Chinese and the guards didn’t know what to do. Should they kill the intruder or help their uncle?

  “There ya are, ya thievin’ toad!” Gaffer yelled. “Where is it? Where’s the fuckin’ book?”

  Cohen went white and began pleading, “No, no, no!”

  Like a flash, a huge knife appeared in the Gaffer’s hand and the nearest guard leaped at him. A quick slash and the guard’s lifeless body crashed to the floor.

  “Get out of here, Cohen!” I shouted. “I’ll stop him.”

  The Gaffer laughed. “With what? Ain’t no drawers in here, ya bastid!”

  He lunged at me, and I was prepared to grab the bloody knife when the man against the wall sprang to life and jumped at the Gaffer.

  To my amazement, it was Ronson, the consulting detective that The Brothers had hired. He laid a mighty punch on the Gaffer’s skull which sent the brute tumbling over a mass of cots and unconscious opium smokers.

  Cohen was standing still, stunned into immobility. I grabbed his sleeve and pulled. “Come on, we’re got to get out of here!”

  Ronson tried to press his advantage, but the Gaffer threw him off like so much straw. I saw him fall near the middle of the room as we tried to get to the doorway.

  “Like ‘ell ya do, Cohen! I ain’t losin’ ya agin!”

  Ronson fell on the Gaffer like a sack of bricks, pushing the maniac towards us. Before I could move him out of the way, the Gaffer’s knife stabbed deep within Cohen’s back and he screamed in a terrible, high-pitched voice.

  “Get him the hell out of here, Besame!” Ronson yelled. “NOW!”

  Cohen had fallen to his knees, so I threw his arm around my shoulder and pulled him through the door. I could feel the blood pouring from his back.

  “Hang on, Cohen! I’ve got a cab out here, we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  Cohen groaned, and I could see the pupils roll into the back of his eyes.

  Sing was screaming orders into the room, and I could see the remaining guards starting to spring into action. As I hit the front door with my whole weight, I could hear the howls of large Chinese men behind me.

  I felt the cool night air hit my face and felt a sigh of relief—until I looked up and saw that Netley and the coach were gone.

  My hope fled through my feet. Dragging Cohen, I stuffed Netley’s tin whistle into my mouth and blew as hard as I could. No one came.

  I made it to the front of the courtyard to the open street. There was not a cab in sight. Cohen began to blow blood bubbles out of his mouth.

  I laid him down. There was nothing I could do except sit next to him as he died.

  “Cohen!” I cried. If he died, I would never find the book. “You’ve got to tell me where the book is before you die. Cohen!”

  His eyes fluttered and he focused on me for a half-second. He laughed and began to choke on his own blood.

  “It’s safe, safe as in the Bank of England!”

  “But where, Cohen, WHERE?”

  He grabbed my jacket—the one that had been cleaned so nicely by Ann what seemed like a lifetime ago. Gurgling, he said, “Toshers. It’s with the Toshers.” And then he died.

  I had no idea what he meant.

  I laid Cohen back on the ground and didn’t know what to do next. Across the courtyard, I could hear the sounds of a war raging. I looked at the blood on my hand. It was the brightest red I had ever seen. I was about to get up and see if I could help Ronson when a light suddenly fell on me from above.

  Looking up, I could see the beam from a patrolman’s lantern shining in my face and a voice beating down on me.

  “Well, now, what’s all this then?”

  Chapter 21

  London was a sooty spectre, divided in purpose between being visible and invisible, and so being wholly neither.

  —Charles Dickens

  There are moments in everyone’s life when time ceases to exist. Everything is frozen and it is eerily like being stuck in a painting. Later on in life, you can look back at that moment and recall every single detail. These moments loom large in our lives, acquiring an almost mythic quality. We tell them to our children and grandchildren, who, we hope, will pass the tales down through the generations. I have several such moments in my life. Most of them (well, really all of them) happened during the autumn of 1888. What happened next was one of those moments.

  I stared into the face of the London bobby who stood ov
er me and the dead body of Cohen, feeling the blood from the knife wound in his back seep over my hands, and felt a horrible compulsion to laugh. I would have done so if that crystal moment in time hadn’t then occurred.

  “Officer,” I began, “there’s a fight in . . .” But I could not finish my sentence because suddenly, in the courtyard behind me, came a loud crash and several screams. The P.C. and I both turned to witness one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen. The Gaffer had crashed out the door of Ah Sing’s opium den in an orgy of violence as Sing’s remaining nephews struggled in an effort both to inflict punishment and to avoid their own deaths. There were at least three large Chinamen laying into the Gaffer, and I could see another lying unconscious, or dead, in the shattered doorway. Undaunted, the Gaffer was hurling punches that would have removed the heads of lesser men like myself. To my disbelief, he was not only fighting three men at once, but winning.

  The P.C. next to me quickly put his whistle to his lips and blew several short and very loud blasts; it seemed as if he wanted to enter the fray but thought better of it. Instead he turned to me and, incredulous, asked me if I knew anything about this.

  “Yes,” I breathlessly responded. “That man just assaulted me and my friend! He stabbed him in the back!”

  The P.C. finally seemed to remember the body in the street and blew on his whistle again. “Shall I send for the doctor?”

  “Send for the cart instead. He’s dead.”

  “Right, then,” the P.C. said. He grabbed his truncheon with a purpose and set his shoulders straight. He was trying to steel himself for something he really didn’t want to do.

  The Gaffer connected with one of the nephews’ head with a roundhouse right so powerful that I could have sworn I could hear the Chinaman’s neck snap from where I sat. To his credit, the P.C. jumped in boldly and laid a mighty hit against the Gaffer’s forehead. In response, the Gaffer uttered a scream of rage, grabbed the PC around the throat, and threw the man against the courtyard wall, where he slid back to the ground and lay still.