Mayhem (10 page)

With no distraction in the form of the stranger to be found, I returned my attention to the conversation. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but as yet this, unlike Jack’s work, is not a case of murder.’

The irony in my voice was clear and Moore snorted
slightly; an animalistic burst of humour. ‘Found Dead. A verdict as useful as a fucking Bible in a Bluegate brothel.’

I was used to Henry Moore’s colourful language, but a fine-looking woman in a crisp blue dress coming down the stairs alongside where we stood turned suddenly and stared. I nodded at her by way of an apology, but she did not acknowledge me; instead she muttered something under her breath and stalked off. I noticed that her mouth tugged down at each side, the lines too deep for a woman of her relatively young years. I imagined she was predisposed to surliness, and I fought the sudden urge to curse at her myself, and using language much fouler than that which Moore had spoken. I was having these strange moments more frequently of late, and I could only put this sudden compulsion to act entirely out of character down to my constant tiredness. I turned back to Moore and focused.

‘Yes,’ I said, glad to hear my voice sounding entirely normal, ‘I fear that is my responsibility. However, without a way to determine an accurate cause of death …’ My sentence trailed away. It didn’t need finishing. The jury had been allowed two options: ‘willful murder’ or ‘found dead’, and the only one which could, in this case, be seen as provable fact was the latter, however farcical it was to all those of us who had stood in that vault and looked at the mouldering remains of our poor anonymous woman.

‘Of course she was bloody found dead,’ Moore grumbled. ‘Some bastard cut off her head and her limbs. If she’d been found alive I would have been more than bloody surprised.’

Inspector Andrews smiled, but said nothing. I couldn’t help but notice once again what an unusual pairing these two men were: one so gruffly obvious and the other quiet and observant. Their mutual respect, however, was clear.

‘Is it true,’ I asked, ‘that some of your colleagues at the Yard don’t believe that the Whitehall case and the Rainham one were even committed by the same person?’ I had heard that rumour, but I found it hard to comprehend. The patterns between the two were so obvious only a simpleton would not see it. Moore shrugged in response; of course it was true. And of course there were plenty of fools – mainly those with political sensibilities – within the ranks of the Metropolitan Police Force. I myself had met several during my years of working alongside them. But the police had bigger distractions at the moment, and I could see they did not want their concentration divided.

‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’ I said, wearily. ‘They’re only concerned with Jack.’

‘And perhaps with good cause,’ Andrews said, his soft voice reasonable.

‘Perhaps,’ I countered, and then, without any further discussion, we started to make our way down
the steps. The inquest was over and we were all busy men; the world would not allow us to linger for long. I stared over at the green, where nursemaids dressed in starched uniforms wheeled babies around in the fresh air, and men sat on benches, pausing for a moment to enjoy a breath of peace on this crisp autumn day. There was no black-coated stranger among them.

As I stared at this vision of normalcy, I felt the strange sense of the unnatural wash over me again. My words came almost of their own accord – I certainly had had no intent of speaking them, even if they did fill my mind.

‘But this,’ I muttered, my feet pausing as we reached the pavement, ‘this chills me more than Jack’s work. This is … colder. This is something …
other
.’ The brightness of the green against the darkness of my mind threatened to overwhelm me, and as my heart thumped loudly in my chest, the world around me was lost for a moment.

‘Dr Bond?’

I wasn’t sure how many times Andrews had spoken my name by the time I came out of whatever trance it was that had gripped me. I found him looking at me with obvious concern.

‘Are you sick?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me, but you do not seem quite yourself.’

‘I’m fine.’ I smiled weakly and fought to compose myself, despite the sudden sweat under my clothes. Was this simply a need for opium? Had I become so
dependent on the poppy that a lack of it would bring out such a reaction? ‘Sleep and I are not the best of bedfellows, I’m afraid.’

Andrews nodded as if my explanation was enough, but still his eyes bore into me.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ I finished, stepping towards a hansom before either could question me further, ‘time waits for no man.’

It was a relief to feel the sudden jerk as the wheels began to roll. Peace, that was what I needed: a few hours’ peace, and then I would start my search.

*

The hours passed interminably, but finally I found myself back in the grim streets of Bluegate Fields, looking the worse for a change of clothes and with my face dirtied, making my way to the den where I had last seen the stranger. I had always varied my choice of den as well as the hour, for fear of standing out because of any regularity of habit, but if I were to find this gentleman who had so fired my imagination, I was going to have to follow some sort of schedule of my own in order to fathom his. From the nature of his actions, the
searching
, I concluded that he must be following a pattern of some kind; that, after all, was the nature of searching. It had to be methodical, even in the hellholes of Bluegate Fields.

I had also to admit, even if only to myself, that such was the nature of the smoke of the poppy that I was not always clear about which of the various dens I had
visited most often. My memories of the stranger were clear and sharp, but my surroundings were merely a blurred haze.

I walked quickly through the narrow alleyways, trying to keep my pace purposeful and confident. The dirt I had rubbed into my cheeks might fool a casual glance, but it lacked the ingrained quality that would mark me as one of the hoodlums who belonged, and neither did my eyes have the sharp, feral sheen common to those who had survived here. This was no place for the faint-hearted to wander at night, for these were streets filled with villainy. The worst kind of brothels proliferated, where whatever fleeting pleasures the sailors stumbling in from the nearby wharves might enjoy were as likely to be accompanied by the pox or some other fatal infection. And any seaman innocent – or foolish – enough to carry with him more than just the fee for his evening’s pleasure was unlikely to find himself still in possession of money or goods at the end of his encounter.

It was with no small amount of relief that I knocked on the familiar door and was ushered silently inside by the Chinaman’s ancient, bowed wife. This was one of the largest of the dens that I frequented. Some were no more than a single room in an Oriental’s cramped house, but this one could hold forty or more clients, though this evening it was quieter than normal. On seeing me, Chi-Chi spread one of his cloths over a vacant cot in one corner. His brown cigarette was
clamped between his teeth and he said not a word as I sat down gratefully and waited for him to gather the tools of his trade and bring them to the low table beside me. I found my mouth watering as he picked up the long pipe, dipped a pin into the treacley liquid and held it over the flame until it had bubbled and grown into a ball the size of a pea, and I realised I was like a child waiting impatiently for a promised treat. Although the surgeon in me enjoyed watching the precision with which he prepared the opium, the rest of me wanted to grab him and shake him to make him work faster. I should have been ashamed of myself, I knew that, but instead all I could feel was the need to have the drug coursing through my system. That need eclipsed all else, momentarily at least.

Eventually, Chi-Chi dropped the small brown ball into the ceramic bowl and lit it. I puffed greedily, relishing the sweet taste and the immediate rush of tingling sensation that flooded my brain. I could feel the veins in my head throbbing as my body absorbed the smoke.

I lay back on the bed. Around me the grimy gas lamps glowed like stars in the firmament. They detached from the walls and danced before my eyes, leaving trails of light and colour behind them, and my mouth opened in wonder. I tried to focus on the purpose of my visit this evening. I needed to ask the Chinaman about the stranger – it had been my firm intention to
do so before I took the pipe, but my need had been too great; it had overwhelmed me. I should have felt shame at that, but all natural sense was rapidly being lost to me. I made up my mind that I would close my eyes for just a moment and then I would call him back. That was what I would do.

My mind drifted and for a while I was floating amid the kind of visions of the fantastic that might be considered madness by a rational mind. I was aware of my body, but as if it were something distant from my mind.

When a partial lucidity returned to me, and once again I became hazily aware of my dimly lit surroundings, Chi-Chi, with that innate sense peculiar to the Orientals who ran these establishments, silently appeared by my side and began the job of replenishing my pipe, knowing my habits of quantity perhaps better than I did.

The room before me had filled with more clients and I wondered how many hours had passed since I had arrived. Time means nothing in the dens; indeed, I believe it moves at a different pace for each smoker. For those whose visions brought sudden, unwanted terrors, the minutes could feel like eternities, while for others who smiled and drifted more pleasantly, surely the reverse was true, and an hour could be over in a heartbeat – just as it had been so for me.

My arm felt incredibly heavy, but still I raised my hand as best I could, in a bid to stop the old Chinaman
in his work for a moment. Although my subconscious might have very recently taken flight, my body was very much anchored to the bed.

‘No want?’ he asked. His dark eyes stared at me, endless pools of alien thought.

‘There is a man who comes here,’ I said. ‘He wears a black coat. It’s long, and coated in wax. He has a withered arm.’ My words slurred as I tried to keep my sentences short and focused, as much for my own confused mind as to ensure the Chinaman understood me.

‘You talk of him last time,’ he said, and I wondered how much this man remembered of all his clients. We came here and dreamed in front of him – perhaps he was the guardian of all our souls.

‘He is looking for someone,’ I said. ‘I might be able to help him.’ This was only a partial lie – until I knew for whom he was looking, I did not know whether I could help him or not.

The Chinaman remained still, his expression unreadable.

I continued, ‘He takes the pipe and then wanders amongst those who lie here. He studies them.’ I felt as if I were talking to myself. Perhaps I was. Maybe this was all part of the opium dream. ‘Although how he has the wherewithal to move at all astounds me,’ I muttered, thinking of my own weakened state. ‘He must have the constitution of the devil.’

‘He does not smoke this.
This
, but not
this
.’

The Chinaman spoke quietly, and the words took a moment to filter through my dulled senses.

‘What?’

‘More expensive.’

For the first time, the Chinaman looked slightly awkward, a moment of universal humanity on the wrinkled foreign face.

‘Is rare. He ask I no tell.’

‘But you’ve told me,’ I said, ‘and I must try it.’

‘Very expensive.’

‘I have money.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of shillings. I had more tucked inside my shirt, but I had no intention of revealing that, not in a place like this. Although the Chinaman seemed like a decent enough sort of chap given his situation, I had no desire to find myself robbed, murdered and thrown into the stinking Thames on my departure.

He looked down at the palmful of coins and selected three before disappearing behind the curtained doorway that separated his place of business from what I imagined must be his home.

I wasn’t sure quite what I was expecting, but Chi-Chi returned with a small silver container, about the size of a thimble, containing a liquid of much the same consistency and colour of that which I had smoked earlier. Was this some kind of ploy? As there was only one way I was going to find out, I lay on my side on the cot. Once the preparations were complete, I drew in a deep lungful of the smoke.

At first the sensation was familiar to me, but then it changed and settled into an excited tingle in my veins. The world did not blur about me, and my body was no longer heavy – if anything, I felt as if I could walk on air, should I so wish. I smiled and drew in more, until Chi-Chi, watching me carefully, took the pipe from me. For the first time in our acquaintance I saw how sharp those dark eyes really were. Previously, the world had become a swirl of colours and fantasies of the mind. This time, although my body was experiencing the expected pleasant sensations, my mind was quite clear – in fact, the world around me was almost
too
real as I looked at it. The negative empty shapes between each item competed for my attention as much as those articles themselves. The room around me had changed its dimensions, almost flattening, and yet becoming perfectly clear. It felt as if I were seeing the world as it saw itself.

I sat up, a restless energy filling me, and looked at Chi-Chi once again, and I gasped out loud. Around his head was a strange glow, an aura of reds and rich purples that clung to his dark hair. I was quite certain that somewhere within the colours, an Oriental dragon danced.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

‘Those who can see, see,’ he answered. His accent had evaporated.

‘Those who can see?’

Chi-Chi shrugged and got to his feet. ‘Some can
see. Others, no. The man can see. Perhaps you also, can see.’ He picked up his tools and disappeared back behind the curtain, then emerged again and scurried over to a client who was feebly waving a hand from his cot.

I sat for a moment, unsure what I ought to do next, and then I thought of the man I sought. What did he do after smoking this strange opium? He looked at the dreamers – so that was what I would do. I got to my feet, expecting the world to shift beneath me, making me nauseous, as often happened, but I was steady. Neither could I feel the aches and pains that had settled into my bones as the years passed. I felt younger – more than that, I felt
awake
, and I found myself holding back a giggle at the sheer relief of having shrugged off the exhaustion that had enveloped me for months on end. The opium dens had always brought me some measure of oblivion but I knew it was a false rest. Now I felt the kind of energy that came only with having eight hours’ good sleep each night, and I wondered how long this would last. If anything were to turn me into an addict, then surely it would be this.