Mayhem

  ‘Vienna.’ I was looking forward to the cultural city of learning.

  ‘Then that is good. That’s on the way.’

  ‘On the way to where?’ I frowned. Where would he have me go?

  ‘Poland – but don’t go to the cities. Go to the heart of it; see the people.’ He waved his wine at me as he spoke.

  ‘But surely not?’ I said. ‘There is so much unrest …’

  ‘That, my English friend, is the point.’ He shrugged. ‘For what is life, if it is not struggle, pain and death?’ He got to his feet and swayed slightly. ‘And as much as I have no desire to experience these things for myself, not really, we must see them, surely?’

  He leaned forward and slapped me hard on the shoulder. ‘And now I must find my bed. Or somebody’s bed. Any bed.’ He turned and wandered off towards the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

  I sat there for a while longer before finally venturing to my own room. I haven’t stopped thinking about what he said though. Even in the grey light of dawn, with my head throbbing from an excess of wine and good cheer, more than I am accustomed to, my heart is racing with excitement.

  For I shall do what Edward suggested: I shall go to Poland. My mind is set. I shall have an adventure!

  21

  London. November, 1888

  Aaron Kosminski

  He had come out early, before dawn, and walked aimlessly in the quiet, his feet carrying him through the miserable streets which made up so much of Whitechapel. He had thought perhaps if he immersed himself in wickedness, then the evil that haunted him would get lost there, but it was not to be, of course. At four o’ clock in the morning, even in the overcrowded houses of Flower and Dean Street, most people slept, whether an honest sleep or the stupor of the drunk. But not Aaron: he’d awakened gasping for air once again, only just managing to contain the scream that threatened to burst from his chest.

  Matilda and Morris were no longer sympathetic to his night terrors – not that Morris had ever done more than tolerate them. Matilda gave him no practical comfort when they struck; she was barely able to contain her anger and irritation. He woke the children and scared them, and even though they knew he could not control the workings of his sleeping mind, his panicked screaming allowed his relatives to vent their frustrations with everything else, all the things they felt he could control if he put his mind to it: his fear of water and his subsequent filthiness; his strange nervous tics and irrational behaviour, and of course, most of all, the financial burden he’d become to them all over the years he’d been unable to work.

  Could he blame them for any of that? No. It was all true. If he were Matilda – sensible, practical Matilda – he would think himself a madman too.

  He had tried to fight the night terrors by staying awake as long as possible, and once he managed a whole twenty-four hours before exhaustion got him, but the constant pacing and slapping his own face in the last hours infuriated and worried his sister and her husband more than the screams in the night. They had started to whisper about him when they thought he could not hear, and he found himself wondering if, in their own darkest moments, they too suspected him of foul deeds. He had noticed the change, ever since the police had come back for him – although Matilda must surely have realised he was too weak to have committed those terrible atrocities. And where would he have hidden the tools required? And he had not washed himself in a long time, so if he were Jack, then he would be covered in dried blood.

  Still, fear and worry could make people have the strangest thoughts – he knew that better than most. And the city was infected with the darkness that came in the creature’s wake – the mayhem – and filled with suspicion and intolerance.

  He was infected in a different way: he had the visions – the scent. He was the unwilling hunter in this game which had been played out so many times over the ages. The creature had found its way out of the river and now the pieces had been reset; they would hunt each other until one was the victor. He knew these things, though without knowing how. He’d tried to explain the visions to Matilda – it was not so very long ago that his dreams had saved all their lives – but she did not want to listen. She had no time for the old ways now. She had no time for him.

  So when the dreams had awakened him once again, he’d wrapped his thin coat around his sweat-soaked, stinking carcass and come out into the graveyard of the night, walking with no real sense of purpose, but looking all the while for the man with the devil on his back who plagued his dreams. How could he hope to recognise him? There was never a face visible – in the main, he viewed the visions as if from within the man looking out; sometimes they came in an abstract flurry of images, like pieces of a puzzle. None of it made sense. He wondered if perhaps he had started to fear the dreams as much as the creature itself.

  He had walked the streets for perhaps two hours and now his thin legs ached and his feet were numb with cold. Sometimes he circled through the narrower alleys, which were so dark it could still be midnight there, and sometimes he wandered along the main thoroughfares. His body shook from expending so much energy. He rarely left their home for so long these days; even when the visions forced him out, he would be back within the hour.

  Slowly, the city around him came back to life. How many of those were waking with more than a touch of excitement, wondering whether Jack had struck once more while they slept? Perhaps he’d even been wandering the same streets as Aaron, a few moments behind or before him – it was possible; for all the efforts of the police, he had seen not a single constable during the past hours. He felt quite alone, and suddenly, wanting to cry, could not stop a small sob escaping him. It was all madness, of course, he knew that: not the madness his sister thought he suffered, but the madness that came from knowing so many around you were living in an illusion, believing that the solidity of the world was all there was. They would never see or understand the wickedness that had taken up residence in their city. He alone carried the weight of the truth, and he wasn’t up to that burden. He could taste the stagnant river water in his mouth from the visions; it was more real to him than the sooty air he breathed. Where was the creature now? Was it watching him, laughing at him? And what of the man it clung to – was he yet aware of what he had become? Perhaps he was now as tortured as Aaron himself, for they were all victims in different ways.

  He walked up Church Street, licking at the snot that dribbled from his running nose. Only when a woman crossed to the other side to avoid him did he realise that he was also muttering to himself. A fine sight he must be, he thought: a filthy, scrawny lunatic, twitching and stumbling through the streets. A monster. He was a monster seeking a monster. He almost laughed at that.

  He stopped outside the church and stared up at the magnificent pillars, admiring the beauty of its Romanesque strength of shape. If only he could take comfort from it – but no place of human worship, no synagogue, mosque or church could help him. It took lost souls to fight the devil – for that was what the Upir was, he was sure of it: a devil by a different name, a tormentor of souls. How he wished for faith.

  ‘Stand back and let me through.’

  The gruff voice coming from somewhere to the side of the building made him jump, and suddenly he was very much back in the real world of the dark morning. He sniffed to clear his nose, and rubbed his face with the back of his cold hand. From around the corner he could hear more voices, and suddenly in need of human company, he walked in their direction.

  Metal rattled against metal: somewhere ahead, a man was unlocking the gates to the small cemetery attached to the church, but Aaron could not see whoever it was through the gathering of figures shuffling for places nearest the front. There must have been twenty or thirty of them, all of a type: roughly dressed, with worn coats and threadbare gloves. They kept their heads down, and those who did glance at him looked at him with mild curiosity only, not disgust or disdain. Poverty and filth stripped them of their sex, and Aaron found it hard to distinguish men from women
. As he stood there, the gates ahead finally swung open, and more figures emerged from the gloom behind him, seeking out the entrance. The weariness in their trudging walk echoed in Aaron’s soul.

  Caught up with the tide, he moved into the graveyard, where those ahead were already claiming benches and places beneath trees, curling up with their knees tight under their chins, trying in vain to fend off the cold.

  Sleep, Aaron thought, they’ve come here to sleep. Exhaustion flooded through him. He found he felt safe here among the destitute, lost in their midst. Maybe, if there was a God, he was smiling a little on him after all. He sat down at the base of a stone mound topped by a crucifix and watched the shadows drift in. He would rest for a few minutes, he decided, just sit here and watch those who were as lost as himself for a while, maybe even let his troubled soul calm itself. The stones were rough on his spine, but he didn’t mind. Just a few minutes, he thought again, as his eyes drifted closed. Just a few minutes.

  *

  It was daylight when he opened his eyes, and his back screamed from where the hard stone had dug into him as he’d slept. He was frozen, even though there were two other bodies huddled close to him and he’d somehow managed to pull his coat tightly round him and tucked his hands into his stinking armpits. One man had actually fallen into his lap, and another, with barely a tooth left in his foetid mouth, was leaning against his shoulder and snoring soundly. As Aaron pushed him away, the man fell backwards, revealing open sores on his face and neck. Aaron looked down. The elderly man who was either sleeping or dead on his lap was also covered in some kind of skin disease: his face and hands were flaking away, and sores oozed foul pus from the edges. He shivered in disgust and wriggled his aching body free.

  The cemetery had filled considerably over the however many hours he’d slept, and now people were strewn across the grass and benches, but even where areas were crowded, none other than these two, the lowest of the low, had come close to him. It was as if an invisible circle had been drawn around the small monument he’d slept against, and no one with any soul left would come inside it.

  A woman stared at him from a bench opposite. Her look was feral. Aaron dropped his gaze and hurried for the gates. He did not look back. Whatever comfort he had believed he had found had disappeared; he did not belong here. Most people saw him as a stinking man in ill-fitting clothing, a tramp, but perhaps these vagrants recognised him as something other than one of their own. His teeth chattered violently as he headed home, weaving his way through the busy streets of Whitechapel, where Londoners were well into their day. Filth squelched through the gaps in his shoes where the stitching had frayed and he hadn’t yet repaired them. Matilda would not like that. He must remember to take them off when he got through the door.

  *

  ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

  He wasn’t expecting those to be his sister’s first words. Nor was he expecting the rather tight expression on her face.

  ‘Who?’

  Matilda’s eyes glanced down at his boots and he crouched to remove them and his soaking socks. His fingers shook as he worked at the laces. Who would come and see him? He had no friends; those acquaintances from his hairdressing days no longer spoke to him, Matilda and Morris’ friends left him well alone and even the Rabbis ignored him.

  From behind a closed door came the chatter of children. Matilda must have shut them away. His heart thumped. Was it someone from the asylum? Had she finally decided that enough was enough?

  ‘He says he’s a friend of a friend of yours. He wants to ask you some questions. He talks like a gentleman, but his clothes are poor.’ She frowned angrily, a sure sign she was worried. ‘What have you done, Aaron?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’ He took his coat off and tried to smooth down his shirt below. Black lines of dirt ran under his fingernails. He should wash his hands, he knew that, but he couldn’t bring himself to, not now. A gentleman? A friend of a friend … He didn’t move. If it wasn’t someone from the asylum, could it be—? He couldn’t bring himself to think it, but he must: could the Upir have found him?

  ‘Well, come on,’ Matilda snapped at him. ‘I’ve already lost an hour to him. I have washing to do!’

  Aaron shuffled forward. On some level he was still as scared of his big sister as he was of the monsters who tormented his dreams. In the small room that served as the family’s living space a man was standing at the window and looking out. He could see what Matilda meant: although the jacket he wore was of cheap fabric, even with his back turned Aaron could see that his hair was well-cut. When he turned, his skin was clean and his moustache shaped and trimmed.

  The man didn’t flinch at Aaron’s unkempt appearance but looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb your day, Mr Kosminksi, but I wanted to ask you something,’ he began.

  Matilda was right: he wasn’t from this part of London. Aaron had his own heavy accent, and he could recognise the different tones in others’ voices.

  ‘Who are you?’ Aaron stayed where he was in the doorway until, from behind, Matilda shuffled him forwards and then closed the door, sealing them in. Although his bones were still freezing and their rooms were never entirely warm, fresh sweat prickled his itching scalp.

  ‘I mean you no harm.’ The man looked awkward. ‘It has taken me a few days to track you down. I saw you outside the Police Station the other night—’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ Aaron started, the words coming out in Polish as he panicked, and the man raised his hands in supplication until Aaron quietened.

  ‘I am not a policeman, and truly, I was not suggesting you had. It was something you said as you came out – a word I have heard before, from a priest. I wondered if you knew him?’

  There was a long moment of silence and Aaron fought to think clearly. What was it that he had said? He knew no priests, so what was this, some kind of trick?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said at last.

  ‘Neither do I,’ the man said, ‘and I am hoping you can help me.’ He came closer and sat down in the worn chair next to the unlit fire. ‘You see – I thought he was mad. And now I’m not so sure.’

  For the first time, Aaron noticed the dark rings that rimmed the man’s eyes. He had placed him at perhaps fifty, but now saw he was probably several years younger. Aaron Kosminksi wasn’t the only one having difficulty sleeping.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again, more softly this time as his fear abated. This man was almost as troubled as he was; he could sense it.

  ‘I was on the steps,’ the man said, ignoring his question, ‘and I heard what you said. You talked of not needing to find the man, but what was behind the man. “In his shadow”, you said. You mentioned the river.’ His eyes searched Aaron’s. ‘You said “Upir”. I need to know what it means.’

  Aaron flinched at the word and one dirty hand started rising to tear nervously at the dry skin of his lips. His head twitched and he stared down at the carpet. It was a trick. It had to be.

  ‘The priest told me of these things and I thought him mad. I want to know if he spoke to you too.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Aaron muttered again. ‘Who are you? It sent you – it is trying to trick me. I don’t know any priest. Who are you?’ His anxiety was rising and his head twitched. The river tasted strong in his mouth and he wanted to spit it out. He wanted to get all the liquid in his body out. It was contaminated – that must have drawn him here. His breath came in sharp pants—And then suddenly the man leaned forward and gripped his knee and the shock of such voluntary human contact stopped his panic in its tracks and he looked up, his eyes wide.

  ‘I do not mean to upset you,’ the man said. ‘My name is Doctor Thomas Bond. I have been examining the remains of the women found in Rainham and Whitehall – the body parts pulled from the river. I am not here about Jack, and I do not believe you are Jack. I just want to know if you have been to the opium dens or spoken to thi
s Italian priest.’

  This was all too much to absorb. What opium dens? And someone else knew of the darkness roaming the city? Could it be a trick? He rocked forward and back for a moment, but the doctor kept his hand on Aaron’s leg. There was kindness in his touch, and it was calming.

  ‘I don’t know the priest,’ he said, eventually. ‘An Italian priest?’

  Dr Bond nodded. ‘I didn’t recognise the clothes of his order, but he was a priest, I don’t doubt that. He said he was a Jesuit. From a special order.’

  Aaron looked up, cool relief spreading through him like balm. He was not alone. If Fate was at work, then Fate had found him and this man and the priest. They would stand together.

  ‘We must find this priest,’ he said, simply. It was all there was to say.

  22

  London. May, 1887

  Elizabeth Jackson

  She had just about reached the third floor with the two pails of fresh water when Mrs Hastings appeared on the landing below and called up to her, ‘You’re needed. In the drawing room. Straight away.’ Her eyes were suspicious; maids did not get summoned to the drawing room.

  Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted. What had she done wrong?

  ‘But I was changing the basins,’ she said. ‘Should I finish? I can’t just—’

  ‘Immediately, girl,’ Mrs Hastings said.

  Her muscles aching from having carried them this far – she didn’t think she would ever get used to that! – Elizabeth placed the buckets against the wall and kept her head down as she scurried past the housekeeper and made her way back to the ground floor. She could feel Mrs Hastings’ eyes burning into her back. What had happened? She’d been distracted and she wasn’t sleeping well, but she didn’t think it had affected her work. She’d always taken pride in her job, no matter how back-breaking and thankless it was. She’d been at this Chelsea house for a long time now, and aside from that time, she’d never been in any trouble – and even then, her mistress hadn’t known about it – so what could it be?