by Sam Gafford
When I had stopped, he went on.
“Afterwards,” he said, “when you tried to walk down the hill, you fell and hit your head on the stone. Then, the spell broken, we were returned here, where everything looked the same as before. It hadn’t even rained.”
“So how did we get here?”
“After making sure you weren’t dead, I picked up your knife and carried you back out to the main road. Fortunately, I found a peddler going to town who brought us the rest of the way. I told him we’d been waylaid by bandits. He may have believed me, but I doubt if many others did. Some people have long lives and longer memories. Anyway, they patched me up and, having no idea what was wrong with you, left you in this bed to see if you either died or woke up. I’m happy to see it was the latter.”
I grimaced, which was about all I could manage of a smile at that point.
“Then she’s really gone? No chance of her coming back?”
“Of Mary? None. Of Alala, I can’t say. Time may not mean the same to them as it does to us. What is a century to you and me may only be the pause between heartbeats to them. But we have done all that we can do. You have done all anyone could have done. I think we can rest easy now.”
I didn’t feel comforted. The thought, unlikely as it was, that Alala might come back one day and take another weak person to fulfil her purpose made me feel as if all this had been for naught. But there was a bright sun in the sky and the sounds of birds chirping happily outside. The world might not be the same for me ever again, but it would continue on as it always had for everyone else—and that would have to be enough. I had to accept that it would be enough.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
Arthur sighed. “Oh, we go home, I suppose. I will tend to Amy as best as I can and to the extent of her needs. This has cost us both dearly, Albert.”
I wanted to say, “Yes, but Amy is still alive and there is hope. Ann is dead and nothing will change that.” I did not say that, but I sensed that he felt it all the same.
“What do we say to people?” I asked, picking up the paper. “They’re all in panic over new ‘Ripper’ attacks that will never come. Shouldn’t we tell them there is nothing to fear?”
“And how would we prove it? Even if someone believed our story, where is the evidence?”
“There is Barnett. We could force him to confess!”
Arthur looked at me the way one does at a child who has said something absurd.
“I doubt anyone would believe him. It’s all too fantastic. No, we will have to let the hysteria run its course. Without new murders to fuel it, the hue and cry will fade. Mark my words, in a hundred years no one will even remember the name of ‘Jack the Ripper’!”
Postscript
And so I have written it as I promised Arthur I would.
I began this in April, and here it is nearly November already. I hope that Arthur would have liked it, as I’ve no idea what to do with the thing now.
Arthur was wrong, of course: the legend of ‘Jack the Ripper’ has grown over the years and the mystery surrounding the murders has, if anything, deepened. I have no doubt that, if any investigators were to read this manuscript, they would dismiss it as fantasy and lies. They may say whatever they like, for they were not there in the autumn of 1888.
Upon our return, I went and had a private audience with the Beast. I told him all that had occurred and the miraculous serendipity that had led him to send me the blade. He responded that there had been nothing miraculous about it. He had seen in a dream that I would have need of it, and, having dreamt it, the reality of the future had already been set. Over the years, I would interview him several times and found him to be equal parts fascinating and repulsive. After returning the moonknife to him, I never saw it again.
Sometime later, I defied Arthur and told Abberline the whole tale. As Arthur predicted, he believed none of it. His answer for the abrupt end of the Ripper murders was, at first, that the killer had been a disgraced former teacher who had drowned himself in the Thames as a suicide. Later he could claim that the Ripper was executed for other murders. Either way, he believed that it was a human hand behind it and that justice had been served one way or another. I liked Freddy and we remained good, if casual, friends until his death in 1929 at his retirement home in Bournemouth. I think that he grew to like me after I became one of the few journalists to champion him after the Cleveland Street scandal broke, during which a number of high-ranking government officials and businessmen were found to be frequenting a house of prostitution that offered young boys to their clientele. It was rumoured that Prince Eddy was also a customer of that house. That was the beginning of Freddy’s discontent with the police force, which he left in 1892 to join the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He worked for them for nearly twelve years, during which time he was promoted to the head of their European office. He was a man with a quick mind and a strong right hook when needed. It saddens me that there is no headstone for him or his wife. Had I the funds . . .
As for Arthur Machen, he was never quite the same after 1888. Amy recovered somewhat and regained most of her faculties. We never pressed her on her memories or what she had seen, fearing a relapse. Sadly, she contracted cancer not long after and passed away in 1899 after a long period of suffering. Arthur was devastated by her loss and left the literary world to take to the stage for a period. I never spoke of it to Arthur, but I harboured suspicions that Amy’s cancer had been caused by her exposure to Mary Kelly.
Around 1890, Arthur began to be published in literary magazines with stories that quickly earned him a reputation as a ‘decadent’ writer. I noticed, with some pain, that many of his best tales were based on events that had happened during those months in 1888. Unfortunately, the Oscar Wilde scandal in 1895 made many of Arthur’s publishers too frightened to handle his work, and many of his writings during this period would not be published until the 1920s. Thanks to Wilde, the ‘decadent’ school of writing had not only fallen into unpopularity but dangerously skirted prosecution.
In 1902, Arthur married Dorothie Purefoy Hudleston, a lovely woman and every inch Arthur’s equal. She brought him much happiness and also two children. However, a life in the theatre and occasional newspaper articles did not provide enough for a newly married couple, so he became a full-time journalist in 1910. It would be a position he would hold in various papers for many years despite his loathing of both the work and his editors.
During World War I, he would produce his most annoying (to him) story, the tale of “The Bowmen,” about ghostly apparitions from Henry V’s army at Agincourt who rose to aid the British Army at the battle of Mons. It had been nothing more than a clever bit of fiction, but to Arthur’s horror survivors of the battle began to swear that they had actually seen the ghosts! The whole business caused Arthur nothing but aggravation, and it was many a year before he could refer to it without flying into a rage. I, of course, never missed an opportunity to tease him about it.
With a more steady income, the Machens moved to a nicer house in St. John’s Wood in 1919. This place would become almost a second home for me and many literary gatherings took place there. In 1921, Arthur was fired from the Evening News, much to his delight. His years on Fleet Street had endeared him to many, however, and we were able to keep him busy by requesting his essays for various other papers.
Thankfully, the 1920s also saw a resurgence in the popularity of Arthur’s writings. In 1923, a collected edition of all his works (known as the Caerleon Edition) was published in a signed and numbered limited printing. Despite his many complaints at having to sign all 750 copies, I know that he derived great joy and pride from it. Sadly, this renaissance did not last long, and by 1927, Arthur was forced to take a secondary job as a manuscript reader.
Eventually, the Machens left London and finally ended up in Buckinghamshire,where I also followed upon my own retirement. Their finances were dire, however, and even the receipt of a Civil List pension of₤100 in 1932 did little to help
.
Things would not change until 1943 when, on Arthur’s eightieth birthday, I joined with many others in a literary appeal to ease their suffering. It was successful, and they were able to live comfortably, though not lavishly, for the remainder of their years.
As for myself, I never moved far beyond the events of 1888.
When we returned to London from Caerleon, I went back to Mrs. Hutchins’ house. I could not break her heart by telling her that Ann was dead, so I said simply that I could not find her. For the rest of her days, Mrs. Hutchins held the hope that one day Ann would show up on her doorstep once again.
I considered suicide. Were it not for Arthur, I would have given in to those impulses, but he refused to let me wallow. Wherever he went, he insisted I accompany him. When he went into journalism, so did I. When he joined the theatre, so did I as a travelling stage manager. I had lost all taste for fiction but realised that I could write news columns and articles very easily. In time, I rose up to desk editor and found the work to be, if not fulfilling, at least distracting.
I never married. Despite Arthur’s and, later, Purefoy’s attempts to introduce me to women, I simply had no interest. Love had come and left me, leaving only a dried husk behind. When Mrs. Hutchins eventually agreed to marry Dr. Williams, I managed to buy the house from her. It was foolish and sentimental but, being there, I still felt somewhat close to Ann even though the memories faded as the years grew.
Despite not having any literary success of my own, I knew many writers and artists and found solace in their friendship and accomplishments. However, in the end, when the final glass of wine had been drunk and the last guest had taken his leave, I ended up alone in a big house. When Arthur moved to Buckinghamshire, I found less and less reason to stay in London. It had ceased to be ‘my’ London for quite some time. Urban renovation had removed many of the old buildings that I used to know, and the shops changed hands so quickly that it was impossible to keep track of them. I found myself living in the same place I had for many years but no longer recognising it. So I moved to be closer to Arthur, my one remaining link to those early years when I was young and London was a great, golden city sparkling in the sun.
Now, even he is gone.
I can see them all now. If I close my eyes just enough, they parade by in front of me: Arthur, Amy, Abberline, Gull, Polly, Liz, Catherine, Annie, Edwards, Sickert, Stephens, Netley, and, of course, Ann. They are all gone. I am old now, perhaps older than I have any right to be. In all those other realities that Arthur used to talk about I wonder if, in one, Ann and I lived to be happy and surrounded by family and children. I choose to believe that there is and I hope that is where I will be going.
In the bottom drawer of my desk is the revolver that I have kept for nearly sixty years. I’ve never fired it again in all that time. I’ve brought it with me during tough assignments in rough quarters but never had occasion to use it. I am going to take it out and clean it now.
One thing I never told Arthur or anyone was that, when Mary had me in her grip on top of that hill in Caerleon, I looked up into the funnel of clouds and saw what was coming down. Its monstrous hand was but one part of it and it would all have come through if I had failed. It was the very definition of unholy and unclean. I suppose that people thousands of years ago would have called it Satan or the Devil, but those are such inadequate descriptions of what that thing really was and what it meant. In that instant, my eyes locked with something inside it and I saw through its eyes at the puny ants struggling below me and felt, overwhelmingly, a sense of complete indifference to everything I could see. Then, just beyond, a galaxy of impossible creatures flew and floated and flopped, taking no notice of me or this green world. Their purpose in trying to come here had nothing to do with man. We would not even be subjugated or conquered. We would be extinguished as we ourselves extinguish with our brooms the unsuspecting spiders in our kitchen. All was meaningless.
It doesn’t matter what happens to this manuscript. It may be thrown into the fire or published or just tossed upon a pile of forgotten paper. All that matters is that it has been written. What the world chooses to do with it now is up to it. I no longer care.
In a short while, I shall go out and sit in my garden and watch the setting sun. I will drink the last bit of excellent wine I possess and then pick up my newly cleaned revolver. I hope that there is a place beyond this world where I will see Ann again. I hope that she will not be angry that I have grown so old while she never had that chance. I hope that she will remember me.
I hope.