The Reaper's Touch

by Robert Southworth

  “You aren’t going anywhere Jack. Abberline, remain with the men. Which way did he go, Jack?”

  “The cocky bastard didn’t run. He just strolled over there.” He pointed to the magnificent church. “He has already fired three shots.”

  “Is it the Webley Bulldog the men were carrying, Abberline?” William asked.

  “Yes, but you can’t be considering going over there alone.”

  A shot rang out from inside the church. It was clear to William that the suspect had not finished his murderous spree. He turned and looked at the Ten Bells. Through the grime smeared windows, he could see a bounty of timid eyes watching the proceedings. If the populace of London were to perceive their friends were being slaughtered as officers of the law stood by cowering, they would not look kindly upon it.

  “The Bulldog only has five chambers, leaves him just one more shot.” William announced.

  “It only takes one to blow your bloody head off,” growled Abberline. “Wait until more men arrive.”

  William did not answer; instead, he turned and slowly walked toward the church. He'd faced many terrible things in his relatively short life; fear had always been a constant companion. This night felt different. An overwhelming terror gnawed at his guts. He tried, as always, to push the fear to one side; concentrate upon the task ahead. He drew his own weapon, the multiple barrelled pepperbox. The gift from Isaac Naismith would be useless at any sort of range, but within the confines of a building, it could prove lethal. He moved forward, as he climbed the steps which parted the great columns guarding the front of the impressive church. The heavy wooden doors which lay to his front were slightly ajar. William found it unsettling that the killer was not hiding, or barring his pursuer’s way. It was almost as though he was daring William to place a foot within his lair. The former soldier of the 66th ground his teeth, annoyed by the killer’s arrogance, and then he pressed on. The annoyance helped keep the fear at bay. For the moment, he had control; inwardly, he admitted to the temptation to take to his heels and leave the danger far behind.

  He slipped quietly into the interior of the Church, but before he could gather his bearings, a shot rang out. The noise bounced around the cavernous space within the church. William looked at his jacket where the frayed cloth showed how close the shooter had been to spilling William’s blood on the polished floor. It seemed that the killer could be no more than fifteen paces away; the Bulldog could not hope to be accurate at any greater distance. Unless, William thought to himself, the killer had luck on his side. Good luck played its part in any battle or skirmish. The most gifted of soldiers could be undone by the rawest of recruits with fortune on their side.

  A voice sounded through the darkness, “Nearly got you, Peeler,” a demented cackle following it.

  “You will have to be closer on your next attempt. The pistol is nought but an ornament now,” William responded, trying to sound supremely confident. He received no further torment from the killer and so pressed on, choosing the central aisle. If he was to be attacked, then the aisle would afford him the best chance to move freely. After twenty paces, a body lay across the floor. A thick substance laid on the ground, beneath its form. William guessed that in the light that substance would be the deepest red. However, in this poor light, it was just another shade of black. He stepped carefully over the body not wanting to glance down at the victim’s mask of agony. Besides, he was trying desperately to stop his weapon hand from shaking. He had encountered battle many times, but usually its terror-filled grasp upon him had faded when he neared the enemy. Another ten paces on and a form caught his peripheral sight. As he recognised a gunshot to the head he realised his mistake. He now knew that the initial figure he had believed to be dead was merely the killer pretending to be his own victim.

  William turned, as he did so, he raised the pistol. However, before the weapon had reached the required height, a figure brought an object crashing down against the pepperbox. The blow knocked the pistol from William’s hand, but he was afforded no time to lament the loss. The killer reversed his swing and brought his weapon around, obviously intending to crush William’s fragile skull. The brutal weapon missed. William felt the draught of it upon his hair, as he dived to avoid certain death. He crashed against the pews, and was on his feet in the blink of an eye, but when he turned, his assailant was nowhere to be seen. All that remained of his foe was the echo of his cackling laugh. Deep within William’s soul, a change was taking place. Fear was being replaced by rage.

  He strode down the aisle; he would not skulk around and wait for an attack. William Harkness had endured enough ridicule from the unknown foe. “You have two choices. You can surrender, or die this night.”

  William saw a figure loom from out of the shadows. This time, he was ready. He and took a step to his right and watched the hammer blow slip by harmlessly. Finally, he could see the killer’s face in the torchlight which adorned the altar. The face was a hard and unforgiving mask. A large hooked nose and small bead-like eyes gave the impression of a particularly nasty bird of prey,

  “You’re a strange Peeler.”

  “I’m no Peeler,” William spat out his reply. “But I intend to deliver justice this night.”

  “Going to take me in? Let some fool of a judge pass verdict and then put a rope round my neck?”

  “I’d rather just kill you and be done with it.” William’s words had an impact. For a moment, the manic face of the killer showed his uncertainty. William took the opportunity to observe his foe. The man matched him in height but there the similarity ended. The killer was a slender frame; his clothes were ragged and worn. His teeth were blackened, and William could smell the stench of him from three paces away. William had no idea what the man gained from his crimes, but it clearly was not a better life. William learned long ago that some people had just become angry with the world, and some were born with fury in their hearts. They killed for pleasure, creating a misery that brought a kind of euphoria to their soul. William saw it many times in the ranks of the army. The chance to kill and be paid for the pleasure was too much for such fury-consumed beasts to ignore.

  The killer moved forward, the hammer-like weapon held aloft. William held his ground, waiting for his assailant to attack. The world beyond mattered not; the noise and business of the greatest city on earth paled into nothingness as William and his opponent prepared for battle. The first swipe of the hammer was poorly thought out. It was rushed and designed to smash its recipient from the face of the world. William stepped inside the blow and threw out a powerful right fist that caught the killer squarely on the jaw. William felt pain, and it was clear that his opponent did too, for the man backed away. William shook his hand; his knuckles screamed out their agony at striking the man’s granite-like jaw. Then they circled each other, and William noticed that the other man appeared as wary of William as he was of him. Suddenly, the hammer was flying through the air. It was a calculated risk taken by the killer. A weapon of that weight hurled with such forced would leave its victim at the very least immobile, but it all depended on whether or not it found its target. Fortunately for William, the killer's aim did not match his obvious wish for bloodshed. The hammer sailed harmlessly over William’s head. It smashed into the church furniture, and then slid noisily across the floor.

  “You’re not what I expected,” growled the killer.

  “Really? You are exactly what I expected; just another wild dog that needs putting out of its wretched existence.”

  The killer screamed and rushed forward as William expected he would. Then, as the man wild with fury neared, William brought his fist up with savage brutality. He had fought many men of all shapes and sizes, learning early that no matter the strength of an enemy, the throat remained vulnerable. It proved to be the case for the killer. One moment he was an irresistible force of fury intent on slaughter, the next he was quite motionless as air refused to pass through the mangled flesh that was once his windpipe. For a few seconds, the shock from the b
low seemed to hold him upright, as if his mind was unable to comprehend its own mortality. Then he slipped unceremoniously to the floor. As William gazed into the killer’s eyes, he observed as the man finally accepted his fate.

  William could hear footsteps on the church steps, but before he turned to leave, he bent and closed the killer’s eyes.

  “What better place to die than in our Lord’s house? Let’s hope he is more merciful than you chose to be.”

  Abberline entered the Church with three constables; each carried a pistol and looked keen to find the killer of one of their own. William pointed toward the figure before the altar and then walked beyond the police, without a word. The Inspector gave orders that the killer should be removed, remarking that his kind had no place in the house of God.

  Outside, William was seated on the white steps of the church staring at his hands. The inspector sat down beside William.

  “A nasty business tonight, but you did well.”

  “My hands won’t stop shaking.” William held them aloft to prove the point.

  “Danger often causes an excitement that takes time to ebb away.”

  “It’s not that Fred. I was,” William paused almost ashamed of what he was about to say, “I was afraid.”

  “And what’s wrong with that, many a time I’ve felt like filling my breaches.”

  “I’ve felt the touch of the Reaper many times, Fred, but tonight it was like he had hold of my balls. I could hardly move, his hold on me was so powerful.”

  Abberline did not reply immediately; he studied the man by his side. “William, I do not profess to know all of your past. However, I know that you have been a soldier, you have sailed some of the most dangerous waters and fought some of the evilest bastards God has ever placed upon this earth. What you felt this night is different because you are no longer the same. Fighting savages and risking all is no great thing when you have nought to lose. You have found the love of a woman, who, by the way, is far too good for you,” Abberline smiled, “and you seem to have found comfort in this rat-infested city. You are not fearful of death William, you are afraid of losing a joy that has taken too long to possess. Do not think about it too deeply.” The Inspector rose from the cold step, “I will call on you at Slaughter Yard tomorrow. I have news to share over a glass or two.”

  William smiled. “My whiskey I suspect.”

  “A common copper can’t afford the elixir which graces your desk. Besides, I am not sure that the bastard you ripped from the world tonight had any connection to the Ripper. I would be interested to know your thoughts on the matter.”

  “He didn’t, he was just another angry soul in a city awash with fury. When the slaughter begins, I think we will know it’s the Ripper. Don’t ask me to explain because I’m not sure I understand my own thoughts. I just feel something big is coming, and somehow we must prepare for the unknown.”

  “Then prepare, we shall have to do, William. Now, I bid you a good night. I will have to call on Constable Grigg's family before I see my bed.”

  William thought of the young copper already cold on a slab in the morgue. As Abberline walked away William prayed that the old inspector would not fall like Griggs. He was a good man, but liked to lead from the front. In this game with the Ripper, that could prove fatal.

  ∞∞∞

  The populace of London, so used to bloodshed and mayhem, had already returned to normality by the time William had started to walk home. Whores plied their trade, calling out to potential customers. Drunks swayed to, and fro, and entered into squabbles. Sometimes the disagreements were with other drunks, and at other times, it was with an antagonist that only the drunk could see. As William walked, he wondered if many of the inhabitants were worth saving from the killers that lurked in the shadows. Then he was reminded of the forlorn figure of Constable Griggs. No more than a boy and yet he’d paid the ultimate sacrifice to bring law to the streets of London. It was the way of things; the young and idealistic often paid with their lives long before their hopes could be realised.

  William took another step and felt the squelch of something unpleasant underfoot. After cursing, he decided that the filth of the city was far more likely to kill him than any deranged murderer. As he scraped the filth from his foot, an uneasy feeling made the hair on the back of his neck bristle. His soldier instincts were sounding their alarm, and he turned fully expecting an attack. The street showed no such danger, but he still felt discomfort. He watched those going about their usual routines for some time before another sound made him turn once more.

  “I can soothe your nerves.” The whore loosened her bodice as she spoke. With one tug, she showed William her ample breasts. William was both amused and impressed at the same time. She was no beauty, but God had bestowed her with ample assets to compensate.

  “Magnificent! Alas, my hands and eyes are destined for another.” He smiled and dropped a coin between bodice and flesh. “However, such beauty deserves payment.” He gave a wink and then continued with his journey. The chance meeting had gone some way to dispel the sense of danger, but he could not shake the feeling that eyes were watching his every move.

  ***

  Within the hour, William entered his home. The lateness of the hour ensured that those in residence were already in their beds. After cleaning himself up, he slipped without ceremony into his bed. Emily did not wake; however, her natural instinct moved her body to close the distance between their bodies. William placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and then settled down into the warmth of the bed.

  Slumber came quickly, but so did the demons that frequented his dreams. If an observer was positioned above William’s bed, they would have seen the flicker of his eyelids but not the visions within his mind.

  William was walking along a dark street; it could have been one of many within the old City. He could feel the cold breeze on his exposed face. The same wind chased the previous days’ discarded items from the populace. Paper performed an erratic dance as it was plucked here and there by the gentle, but relentless zephyr. Suddenly, his world turned to darkness as a large newspaper engulfed his face. His hands scrabbled at the determined paper assailant. He yanked it from his head and spied the headlines. The words ‘slaughter’ and ‘Ripper’ stood proud of the other text. They grew and finally broke their anchored position and raced towards his face. He ducked but as they neared, the words burst apart and faded into the night.

  William returned his gaze to the paper, but it had returned to normality. Confusion often brings anger. He balled up the offending rag and threw it into the gutter. As it landed, the paper unravelled, and lay with its Ripper story on display. William wanted to tear it apart but footsteps up ahead, attracted his attention. He stared up the street, but a descending mist had eradicated any possibility of observing the source of the footsteps. His eyes bulged with the effort to learn more, but it was his ears that brought him new information. A second set of footsteps were moving at pace. Moments later the street fell to silence, then a woeful scream erupted from the shroud of mist.

  William immediately burst into a run. The street and mist seemed to be unending with no sign of killer or victim. He felt his feet slipping on the cobbles. When he chanced a look, he saw deep crimson blood, flowing like a grotesque river beneath his leathered soles. Another scream rent the air and focused his mind on the pursuit. He rounded a corner, and the landscape changed from a London street to a small court. He faced a door, which was adorned with the painted number thirteen.

  He recognised and knew his location. With fearful resignation, he raised a hand and pressed against the timbers. The interior was shrouded in darkness but, as he placed his foot over the threshold, a single candle sprang to life. His eyes were fixed to the light as he took a few more paces. He knew that he must turn and look to his right. He knew only too well what horrors lay just beyond his vision. He couldn’t do it; every sinew in his body refused to bear witness to the slaughter. He considered retreating from the room but suddenly it
was moving. In answer to his reluctance, the structure took matters into his own hands.

  The bed came into view and on its surface laid the tangled mess that had been the beautiful Mary Kelly. His eyes took in the horror she had undergone as his vista moved from the foot of the bed and travelled upwards. He saw the bloodstained bedding and the legs left spread apart. The torso had been ripped from the abdomen to her jaw. He stepped back in shock. Mary’s head turned and then slowly, so very slowly, her eyes opened.

  ‘Who will speak for us William?” the figure asked.

  He did not reply but turned on his heels and raced from the room. Outside, he crouched low and vomited. His hands shook as he fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his sweating brow. He held the cloth to his eyes hoping to wipe the image from his mind’s eye. However, as he did so, he realised that he was not alone. As he allowed the cloth to drop to the cobbles, figures dominated his view.

  Before him, stood the mutilated victims of the Ripper. Each held out a hand as though begging for help. They made no sound, because the mouth of each was sown shut. A figure at his side plucked up his handkerchief and placed it in his jacket pocket. Mary Kelly was no longer the horrific butchery that had lain on the bed. She was the woman whom William had walked, talked, and made love to. Her hand moved to his cheek and to his surprise, it was warm and tender.