Mayhem (36 page)

Authors: Sarah Pinborough

Tags: #Fiction, #Horror, #Thrillers, #Historical

BOOK: Mayhem

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In one corner of the trunk was something else, a different shape, set aside from the rest of the gory clutter. The head had been severed from the body and the stomach sliced open, but it was no doubt Elizabeth Jackson’s baby, cut from her womb after her death.

I thought of Harrington, and that poor girl, once so in love with him. I thought of Charles and Juliana, and I found I no longer cared about the
Upir
; he was the priest’s demon. James Harrington was mine. All of these people had died at his hand – he had killed the mother of his own child, and then mutilated the corpse. He could have stopped himself – he could have gone to the police – but he did not. Man and monster had truly combined, and there could be no redemption for either.

For the first time in more than a year my mind felt clear. I knew exactly what I had to do.

I got to my feet and turned to the fight behind me. The struggle between the priest and the
Upir
meant Harrington’s body was being tossed around like a puppet. I lunged forward and grabbed the young man, pulling his chest into mind and holding him
tightly, and the priest swept his knife down, finally severing the man from the beast. Harrington shrieked loudly and slumped onto me as the priest dragged the writhing creature to the rear door.

‘Thank you,’ Harrington gasped, and as I watched, the purple spots faded from his skin. ‘Thank you.’

I looked him in the eye for a long moment, and I saw relief, yes, but no regret. How much would the
Upir
have left its mark on him, I wondered; how could he be trusted not to commit such awful acts again? And could I put Juliana through the terrible trauma of a trial? My mind burned, and I knew I would never be able to free myself of the image of the baby’s mutilated corpse – Harrington’s own child. Almost automatically, I brought up the shard of glass and thrust it deep into his throat and he staggered back, blood pumping from the torn artery and splattering over me, feeling warm against my face. His hands waved vaguely in front of his neck, as if trying to indicate where he hurt, as if he could somehow save himself.

He could not. I had known where I was aiming, and my hand had been true.

Harrington stumbled backwards, his legs as unsteady as if death were gripping him by the ankles, and liquid gurgled in his throat. He crumpled, and as the light faded from his eyes I tried to feel remorse. I could feel only relief.

I turned away from the dead man in time to see the priest by the far door of the warehouse. He still held
the
Upir
tightly, and suddenly I could see the point of the lacerations on his back. Every time the demon reached over to try to get a firmer grip on him, the pain made the priest flinch and turn away. He would hold the beast even tighter with his good hand while beating at it with his bad one, and locked in this strange dance, the two of them slipped across the slick stones of the quay. Each time the
Upir
reached over the priest’s shoulder it melted into invisibility, and each time the priest yanked it back, it reformed, black and hideous.

I stood, panting, in the doorway and looked out, Kosminski standing next to me. His whole body trembled and when he gripped my arm I did not shake him away. He had dreamed of the
Upir
for so long; I was amazed he could stand now that he was so close to it. He was fragile, the little hairdresser, but brave.

Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by our own humanity, and everything that we had been through to reach this point. It was Fate, I was sure of it; what else could have drawn us all together in this madness?

The river was dappled in the moonlight and though the rain had eased off a little, it still pattered gently against the ground, making it hard to see the struggling figures. The priest dropped to his knees and though I squinted, I could no longer see the
Upir
– it was too black against the dark of the night – but suddenly the air was cut with the sound of a hissing shriek, followed by a great splash. After a moment, the
priest got to his feet and tilted his head back into the rain.

We stood in the glow of the one small lamp surrounded by death. For a long time we said nothing. The river sang to us from outside, and I thought about the creature sinking to its depths. I found I was no longer so afraid. It might not be dead, but it was gone, for a while, at least. I ached with tiredness.

‘Why did it vanish like that?’ Kosminski’s voice was small. He sniffed, and then wiped his nose with his sleeve like a child. ‘When it tried to get onto your back?’

‘It was trying to change hosts – perhaps the drug shows it on only one host.’ The priest was leaning against the table. Scratches covered his chest, and he was wet with sweat and rain. ‘I do not profess to have all the answers.’

‘So it could be attached to you?’

I stared at Kosminski, and then at the priest. Surely he was not suggesting—?

‘I heard the splash,’ I said after a moment. ‘I heard the creature scream.’

The priest held his silver blade out to Kosminski. ‘Kill me if you wish to. Believe me, it would be a relief.’

Kosminski glanced from the man to the knife, and then shook his head.

‘There has been enough blood shed today,’ I said. I glanced towards the horrors of the trunk. ‘And for too many other days.’

‘What do we do with all this?’ Kosminski asked, gesturing at our surroundings.

‘Clean up,’ the priest said. ‘Harrington can go in the river – it will look like he was attacked here by the dockworkers, perhaps: they broke in through the window, demanded money – that is how the police will see it, at any rate. We will clean this place up. Dr Bond, if you could take the trunk and burn its contents?’

‘With pleasure,’ I said. Perhaps that way I could eradicate the memory of it from my mind. ‘But what about her?’ I looked down at the dead woman we had not managed to save.

There was a long pause. I looked up at the priest. ‘What about this poor woman?’ I repeated.

‘I will dispose of her,’ he said, ‘the same way Harrington disposed of the others.’

‘Surely not,’ I gasped. ‘That is monstrous—!’

‘It will stop the police looking for other motives for her murder. We cannot take the risk that anything could connect her to us – to
you
, even to Harrington, who, I should point out, you killed. She must be disguised as a victim.’ He looked down at her body. ‘I will do it. She will forgive us.’

‘And you will clean up here?’ I said.

The priest nodded.

I closed the lid on the trunk and picked it up. It was surprisingly light for the weight of human unhappiness it held.

‘And after this,’ I said softly, ‘I never want to see either of you again. Is that clear?’

I did not look back as I left them.

The fire blazed with the sort of heat I would expect from Hell itself, and yet I found the sight of the flames comforting. They mesmerised me even as they destroyed the last of the
Upir
’s depraved work, and as they burned, I began to feel cleaner. In a few days, they would bring Harrington’s body out of the river and Juliana would cry, but she was young. She would recover. We would all recover, even me.

I smiled slightly, and then yawned. Perhaps I might even sleep tonight. It was over. It was truly over.

EPILOGUE

The
Times
of London September 20, 1889

Nothing has occurred to throw any light upon the circumstances attending the finding of the trunk of a woman under the railway arches in Pinchin Street, Whitechapel. Without the head, all hopes of the body being identified will have to be abandoned, as on the body there are no birthmarks of any kind.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I could never have written this book without the hard work done my so many others. My go-to book was
The Thames Torso Murders of Victorian London
by R Michael Gordon (McFarlane 2002) and, should I ever meet him, I owe him much wine. There was also
The Thames Torso Murders
by M J Trow (Wharncliffe books 2011).

The most valuable internet resource for anyone writing in this period has to be the ‘Casebook: Jack the Ripper’ website where there is a wealth of information and discussion. There is an astounding body of work to be found there, as well as on the ‘Dictionary of Victorian England’ website. Beyond these there were many other websites and books dipped in and out of and I thank all of their authors.

A big thanks to my editor Jo Fletcher and all at Jo Fletcher books and the extended Quercus team for being so enthusiastic about this book. Jo, thanks for all the hard work and also the friendship. You truly do own a part of my soul now through all my work that you’ve supported over the past four years.

And of course, my lovely agent, Veronique Baxter at David Higham. Thanks always.

Follow the further adventures of Dr Bond in

MURDER

coming May 2015 from Jo Fletcher Books

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