A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (33 page)

On the south side of the road, the London Hospital loomed, dimly backlit by the orange glow of the two fires at the docks. As Polly approached the imposing structure, she imagined going in and finding help for her ear, but she hadn’t the funds to pay a doctor. The clock above the building’s entrance showed the time as ten minutes past three o’clock.

Polly turned her head quickly toward the sound of a door opening on the darkened western side of the building, and saw warm light emerge briefly from within. Moments later, she saw a dark figure walking toward Whitechapel Road along Turner Street.

Polly saw no one else. She crossed to the north side of the road. Something about the way the figure moved, with rapid, short steps, reminded Polly of Mr. Macklin’s mechanical, mincing gait.

He would not catch her so easily. As she turned north into Thomas Street, the wind blew painfully across the opening of her right ear. She wrenched her head quickly out of the wind, then cringed and stumbled, experiencing severe vertigo. Dizzied and nauseated, she staggered toward the building on her right, holding out her hands to prevent running headlong into the structure. She heard footsteps approaching rapidly. Her vision spun and she couldn’t see clearly.

“Let me help you,” said a male voice.

She flinched violently when she felt the touch of hands upon her upper arms. “No!” she cried.

The hands let go, and she slumped against the brick wall of the building. She tried to make out the figure, but her vision twisted and turned. Polly couldn’t make sense of what she saw.

“You can’t see properly,” he said, his accent strange. “I’ll take you to hospital. It’s just there. You’ll see a doctor.”

Polly turned her head away from the sound of his voice and shut her eyes. Even with them closed, she experienced the sickening dizziness and fought to keep the contents of her stomach.

The man didn’t act like the drunken ghost, having none of the giddiness she’d previously seen in Mr. Macklin. Powerless to get away, she allowed him to take her by the arms and lift her to stand erect. He smelled of sulfur and soap.

If he is the demon,
she thought,
he’ll have a fight on his hands.

Supporting her around the waist, he helped her to move along the pavement.

If he’s a good Samaritan, perhaps he’ll pay a doctor to heal my ear. A hospital bed would be better than the one at the White House.

She opened her eyes briefly several times as they moved. The glimpses she got of their surroundings were darker each time. “I don’t see the gas lamps of Whitechapel Road.”

“The front of the hospital building is closed at this hour,” he said. “We must go ’round to the back entrance.”

Polly’s vision began to clear by degrees as she took frequent quick glances. Each time, her surroundings made more sense. They moved along a brick wall toward a gate. She thought they might have reached the back entrance to the hospital building.

At the gate, they stopped. She remained crouched, ready to flatten herself on the pavement should the vertigo return. Her vision had finally cleared. She saw nothing unusual: a back lane lined with brick structures choked with deep shadow.

“You’ll feel much better once the doctor has seen you,” he said, drawing Polly up to stand straighter.

He turned toward her, and she looked away just in case he was Mr. Macklin.

Then his hands took her neck in a hard, tightening grip.

He
is
the demon!

Keeping her eyes averted, Polly clawed at his hands, but gloves protected them. She kicked at his shins, and raised her knees violently toward his crotch, yet couldn’t land a solid blow.

Pray for yourself!

She struggled against panic to find the words.

At long last, pray for yourself. Only God can save you now!

Polly couldn’t muster the thoughts to form even a quick prayer.

If she caught his eye briefly, he might become distracted and let up on her neck. She opened her eyes and looked the man in the face.

His eyes
did not
glow red!

He’s just a man!

Pray for
him
!

Still, she couldn’t put together the words. Meaningless, they tumbled about in her head, and in that moment, she knew that words were all the prayers had ever been.

A scar on his forehead caught her eye, a flaw nearly identical to her own. The shiny oblong with a slight lip on one side gleamed in the wan light. He’d been damaged much the way she had.

Her throat spasmed in an agonizing effort to find air. She looked to the man with a pleading in her gaze, and saw deep into his eyes. The emotion within them was clearly born of great need. Desperation of some sort drove him to commit the hateful act.

His hands slipped briefly, allowing her a short breath of air. Frustration flashed in his features and his hands became tighter still.

Indeed, he
was
but a man, with all the emotion of a human being. Unstoppable desire forced him to act, much as her all-consuming needs had driven her.

She couldn’t feel her body. Her thoughts became simple and elegant, as the darkness closed around her.

She
became
the man strangling Polly Nichols. She knew him as she knew herself.

Yes, he did a terrible thing, as she’d done terrible things.

We commit a dread, wicked deed.

Again, the question:
How can I forgive myself?

No. How do
we
forgive ourselves?

The answer opened a door upon a moment of undiscovered peace.

By forgiving him.

Acknowledgments

This is a work of fiction. Although the novel is inspired by real historical events and actual human lives, the characters have been created for the sake of this story and are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Thanks to Cameron Pierce, Kirsten Alene, Melody Kees Clark, Eric M. Witchey, Jill Bauman, Mark Edwards, Elizabeth Engstrom, Mark Roland, Frank Freemon, Simon Clark, David Nicholls, Garrett Cook, Pigg, Michael Green, and Matt Hayward.

About the Author

Author and illustrator, Alan M. Clark grew up in Tennessee in a house full of bones and old medical books. He is the author of seventeen published books, including ten novels, a lavishly illustrated novella, four collections of fiction, and a nonfiction full-color book of his artwork. As a visual artist, he has created illustrations for hundreds of books, including works of fiction of various genres, nonfiction, textbooks, young adult fiction, and children’s books. Awards for his work include the World Fantasy Award and four Chesley Awards. Alan M. Clark and his wife, Melody, live in Oregon. www.alanmclark.com