by Sam Gafford
“I am looking,” Arthur pressed on, “for relatives of Jacob Cohen. Would you happen to know who they are?”
“Why should we tell you even if we did?” One of the children came up to the man and showed him something, only to have the father grunt and throw it away.
“Because he’s dead,” I said. “I’d think they’d want to know that.”
The couple shrugged. “People die all the time. What makes him any different?”
“Not much, I guess,” I replied. “Just think it’s sad when a man dies and doesn’t have anyone to stand for him.”
Dying alone. That was something that everyone could relate to and, I thought, particularly people who had little to lose to begin with.
The woman looked further down the river. She pointed to a lone man digging in the mud and said, “That’s who you want. Shlomo Cohen. Ain’t got no other Cohens in this trade.”
We thanked them and struggled to walk through the mud. It was like walking with lead shoes on your feet, but the people around us moved as if they were floating. I could tell that my legs would be aching the next day.
When we were about ten feet away, this new Cohen looked up and saw us. At first he seemed to be trying to place us, as if he had seen us somewhere before. I shouted out a greeting to him, and I could see his face stretch in alarm. He was about to run.
I felt frustration well up inside me. If he bolted, we’d never catch up to him in this mud and probably never find him again. Desperate, I yelled out, “No! Please don’t! I’m a friend of Jacob’s!”
Shlomo stopped, unsure of what to do. It was long enough for us to get up close to him.
“What you know about Jacob?” he said.
“I’m sorry to bring you bad news, but I’m afraid that Jacob died last night. He was knifed to death by the Gaffer.”
Shlomo didn’t seem to be all that surprised.
“So the Gaffer got ’im after all, eh? Jacob figured he would. Thanks for coming all the way down ’ere and lettin’ me know. Right decent o’ you.”
“I was with him when he died. I tried to help him but there was nothing I could do.”
“Appreciate it, guv. Jacob ’ad a ’ard life, no doubt. But he didn’t deserve ’at.”
“There is one thing, though. Jacob was about to bring me to you because he had left something with you, something important . . . a book.”
A light came on in Shlomo’s eyes. “Ah, so ’at’s it then, is it? ’Ight, now I know where we stand. ’E told me that either ’e or someone else would come for it. Guess that’ll be you, then. So what you offering?”
“Excuse me?”
Shlomo sighed at our stupidity. “’Ow much?”
“I see,” Arthur said. “Well, ten pounds?”
Shlomo shrugged. “Jacob said as it’s worth more’n that.”
“Suppose you tell us what you want.”
Shlomo thought. “A hunnerd.”
“What?” I shouted. “Are you mad? We’re not going to pay a hundred pounds.”
“Calm yourself, Albert,” Arthur said. “Would you accept this?” From under his coat Arthur produced a gold stick pin. Shlomo’s eyes went wild.
“Aye, ’at’ll do. Follow me.”
Shlomo led us out of the river mud and back up to the street. With a glance back, he set off through the streets into the rundown buildings near the Thames. After about ten minutes he stopped in front of a particularly nasty-looking place. “This is my place. C’mon inside.”
I was about to go when Arthur put a strong hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Cohen. Why don’t you go and bring it out?”
“Fine then.” Shlomo disappeared into the hallway and left us alone on the stoop.
“Sorry, Albert,” Arthur said, “but I couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t leading us into a trap where he’d do a ‘Burke and Hare’ on us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rob and kill us.”
“Oh, yes, I hadn’t thought of that. I guess that wouldn’t have been much of a help then, would it?”
Despite the situation, Arthur laughed. Shlomo came back out of the hallway with a package in his hand.
“Is this what you want?” he said and handed it to me. With trembling hands, I unwrapped the oilskin and found a small book. It had a burgundy binding and no lettering on the spine or front. I opened it and saw handwriting inside. It was definitely a journal, but was it the right one? In a light, almost feminine hand was written the name of the owner on the inside front cover. It said simply, “Albert Victor Christian Edward.” I had found it.
I could scarcely believe it! After all the struggles, all the trials, all the pain and death, I was holding the book in my hands.
My voice cracked as I said, “Yes, this is it. Thank you.”
Shlomo held out his hand. “Don’t thank me. Pay me.”
Arthur placed the gold stick pin in Shlomo’s hand, and the man grinned happily. “Been a pleasure, gents!” He immediately took off down the street, leaving us alone and (I thought) forgotten.
“I don’t know what to say, Arthur. Thank you!”
“You’re more than welcome, Albert, but I really think we should be going. I don’t like the feel of this area.”
At first I wasn’t sure what Arthur had meant, but I became aware of the fact that there was an unnatural stillness in the air. I couldn’t hear any of the typical city sounds. No carts moving about. No people milling through the street. Even the nights in Cornwall weren’t this quiet.
“Arthur, what’s going on?”
“Actually, I think it would be better if we started running now.”
In a panic, we began to run down the street for some unknown reason. I was filled with fear but didn’t know why. In a moment, it was all made clear as several men broke away from one of the buildings and ran after us. I didn’t think they wanted to congratulate us on finally retrieving the book.
We reached the corner, quickly turned left, and could see two more men hastily running towards us. Arthur suddenly darted down an alley, and I followed as fast as I could. My breaths were becoming ragged and my chest was starting to heave. I glanced back and thought I could see four men chasing us. I knocked some trash bins across the alley to slow them down and tried to catch up to Arthur. Suddenly, I realised I should have counted six men, not four.
At that point the extra two men jumped at us as we exited the alley. One of them hit Arthur hard and knocked him down, while the other one just glanced off of me. “Albert,” Arthur cried, “don’t stop! Keep going!”
I wasn’t about to do any such thing and made a grab for the first man when the second one smashed me in the head. Falling, I reached for him and pulled him down with me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the first man kick Arthur viciously in the stomach. I fell onto the book, hoping that I could use my weight to keep it hidden.
“I’ve ’ot it, Pete!” the other man shouted. I looked to see him holding a small book aloft. My hand was on the diary, so I didn’t know what he was talking about. I looked over to see Arthur lying on the street with a pained look on his face. I realised that the man had taken the book that Arthur himself had taken from the Golden Dawn library. I was about to say something when I saw Arthur silently telling me to be quiet.
My attacker whooped in glee and gave me a swift kick to the head. I had seen it coming and curled up so that the boot glanced off, but I could feel that it had opened a gash. The men ran off down the road and left us alone, alive but bruised.
I rolled over to a sitting position. My head was ringing and I could feel blood trickling down the back of my neck. Arthur was sitting not too far from me and looked as if he had barely been touched.
“Why,” I said between harsh rasps, “did you let them get away with your book? I thought it was important to you.”
“It was, but it can be replaced. It was more important that we not lose yours after everything you’ve been through. Come on, though, we m
ay not have long before they realise their error and come back. Can you stand?”
“I think so,” I said and gamely got to my feet. We made our way down the street and found signs of life. Arthur hailed a cab despite the driver’s apprehension at our appearance and my drunken-like walk. I climbed inside and fairly sank into the cushions, clutching the book to my side.
I must have fallen asleep, because Arthur woke me when we were in front of my house. “Albert? You’re home now. Do you need a hand getting inside?”
“No,” I said, “I can manage. I think I will just go inside and get some sleep.”
I stumbled out of the cab. Arthur looked at me worriedly. “Are you sure you’re all right? Should I get Mrs. Hutchins?”
“I’m fine, Arthur. Come by and see me tomorrow morning, won’t you? I’d like for both of us to bring the book to Wendell.”
“Certainly. Get some rest.”
The cab rattled away.
I dragged myself up to the door and opened it. The house was quiet. I hadn’t realised how late it was. Apparently dinner had been served some hours ago and everyone had gone to sleep. I walked upstairs and saw light coming from under Ann’s door. Emboldened, I knocked lightly, not wishing to wake her if she was already asleep.
“Come in?” I heard her say.
I opened the door and saw her sitting in her easy chair, reading what looked like some sheet music. She was lovelier than I had ever seen her before. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was down around her shoulders.
“Albert!” Her voice was light and happy. I thought I could see the Ann I had fallen in love with coming through again. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried about you!”
“Ann,” I said as I walked into the room, “great news! I’ve found . . . I’ve found . . .” And then I pitched forward and fell on my face, unconscious.
*
I drifted in a grey expanse of fog. I thought I was walking through the streets of London, but I did not pass any landmarks I knew. The streets were familiar, but everything on them was wrong, out of time somehow. The buildings were older and I noticed, with an air of nostalgia, that common places and shops I had known and recognised had been replaced with newer things. Strange metal machines ran viciously down the streets in place of the horses and carts I knew so well. The fog was actually some sort of pollution that the machines vomited out of pipes under their back end.
The people walked by me without a glance. It was as if I were simply not important enough for them to notice. I realised that I was in the East End, but it was a strange, fearsome East End that was a perversion of the one that I knew. The women walking the street were dressed, or perhaps I should say not dressed, in clothes that would have shamed any woman into hiding. The men looked uglier, if that were possible, as if their souls matched their faces.
I passed by the Ten Bells (surprised that it had not been replaced) and found myself walking past the scene of Polly Nichols’ murder. She sat there, on the edge of the street where her body had been found, crying. I walked closer and she saw me. “What are you doing here again?” she said. “You keep coming back and you do nothing! Nothing!” I passed her by and walked onward. I came upon another woman who was wandering aimlessly up and down a street I didn’t recognise.
“They knocked down my building,” she said. “I have nowhere to go now.” It should have been shocking to me, but it seemed the most normal thing for her to have her intestines trailing behind her as she walked. She looked at me as if I were the one to be pitied and said, “I’m sorry, you know. But it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t the fault of any of us. You know that, don’t you?” I told her I understood, but I really didn’t, and she called me on it. “Nah, you don’t, why would you?” She continued to pace up and down in front of her non-existent building.
Further on, I passed a tall woman who bellowed curses at me in another language. Her throat was slashed but she was otherwise unmarked. “Lipski!” she screamed. “You could have saved me! I didn’t have to die!” I passed further, heading into the City of London. I passed a wall bearing white letters that glowed with an unnatural light, as if no one could ever wipe them away. I had no idea what the message meant or who the “Juwes” were. I stood at the cross-section of another road, but I could not make myself walk down it. I knew that there was a woman down there, in a courtyard, who had had the most vile things done to her, but I couldn’t face her and my failure. From afar, I could hear her moaning in pain and agony.
My time was ending, I felt, and yet I had learned nothing to help me. Was I even there to be helped? My steps grew faster now and I nearly broke into a run. I passed corners I did not know with the sure step of a native and found myself staring at the entrance to a narrow alley that led to another court. For some reason, my mind called this Miller’s Court, but I did not know why. As I walked down, it looked familiar to me, as if I had walked these stones before, in an earlier time, but I could not place it. I stopped and faced a window with a door to the right of it. The bottom pane of the window had a piece broken out of it. It was large enough to put my hand through. I didn’t want to put my hand through it. My mind and soul screamed for me not to do it, for me to run away, far and fast. But my hand slowly reached up. There was a curtain on the other side of the window. I slowly pulled it to the side and felt my sanity run away and hide.
What was on the bed was once a human being. What had been done to it was as far beyond butchery as we are beyond a cockroach. Skin had been stripped from the face. The nose had been removed. Her breasts had been cut off and placed on the table next to the bed. One of her legs had been skinned to the bone. There was so much blood that I couldn’t see everything that had been done to her. My tears flowed down my face and I gasped for breath as her head slowly turned and looked at me. “Albert . . .” she said slowly through pain and fear and agony.
Suddenly, Mary Kelly jumped up from under the inside window and laughed a high, piteous howl that would have landed any sane woman in Bedlam for life.
And I woke up.
*
My eyes blinked and I slowly became accustomed to the light. With a start, I realised that I was lying in my room in my own bed. I was in some sort of bedclothes; when I stretched to touch my face, I felt stubble. I moved my head to the side and was greeted with an astonishing spasm of pain that shot from my head down to my hip. I screamed out and finally noticed that there was someone else in the room.
“The dreamer awakes!” Arthur cried triumphantly. He jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. “Mrs. Hutchins! He’s awake! Bring some soup and tea!”
He came back and sat by the edge of the bed. “Well, Albert, you’ve given us all quite a scare. How are you feeling?”
I tried to smile. “My head feels as if there were racehorses running through it. What happened?”
“Well, according to the good doctor, that blow you took on the head gave you a concussion! Quite a nasty one, too. Ann wanted to bring you to the hospital, but the doctor felt that moving you would be too risky. I don’t mind telling you, old boy, I was seriously afraid we were going to lose you.”
Underlying the flippancy of his words there was a look of genuine concern on Arthur’s face, and I once again thanked merciful Providence for providing me with such a steadfast friend.
“I remember coming home . . .”
“Yes, the doctor says he was amazed that you were able to walk at all. You collapsed right after walking into Ann’s room. I daresay that was a shock she won’t forget soon.”
“Ann! Is she all right? Is she here?”
Arthur looked away and would not meet my eyes. “Ah, no, she had a pressing appointment she was forced to keep. An audition for some work that was very important. She was going to cancel it, but I told her that Mrs. Hutchins and I would be here to watch over you. I should expect she’ll be home presently.”
“I’d like to clean myself up before that happens, if I could. I must look awful and smell worse.” I touched my
face again. “I have stubble. Arthur, how long have I been out?”
“Nearly three days, Albert. Today is September sixth.”
“Three days? I’ve lost three days?”
“Relax, Albert. We don’t want you passing out again. You must take it easy. You’re not going anywhere for a little while. The doctor says that you need to rest and recover and that you’ve had one too many knocks to the head this week already. One more and we’ll be visiting you in a graveyard.”
I lay back down. Arthur patted my shoulder comfortingly and continued talking. “Ann’s been here by your side pretty much the whole time. She and Mrs. Hutchins would take shifts, and I’d come and sit as often as I could. Ann slept with her door open in case you woke up when she was asleep.”
I smiled. Perhaps I hadn’t completely mucked things up with Ann just yet.
“Arthur!” I exclaimed as a thought suddenly hit me. “The book! Did you bring the book to Wendell?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Hutchins burst into the room with a tray of tea and soup. “Lord bless us, Mr. Albert! I was afraid you’d never come back to us.” She virtually pushed Arthur out of the way and placed the tray over me. The smell was intoxicating, and my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in three days.
“Bless you, Mrs. Hutchins! I truly need some of your wonderful soup.”
I pushed the spoon into the bowl and brought it to my lips. It was only a meat broth with some potatoes, but it tasted like ambrosia to me. My head complained, but my stomach was happy. The tea was lovely, with some extra honey, but I would have much preferred a cup of strong coffee.
“I swear, Mr. Albert, you’ve given me more starts than any other lodger I’ve had. And to think you recommended him, Mr. Arthur! Miss Ann will be so happy when she gets back from her show.”
“Show?” I asked. “I thought that she had an audition?”