The Demons of Whitechapel

Prologue: Simon Says Light switches were the worst. They all came with Rules. Different Rules, although sometimes the same—if they were the same color, shape, and at the same side of the room, the same distance to the door he first walked in through—or sometimes only slightly the same—if they were the same color, shape and at the same side of the door but on a wall facing north—or sometimes completely different—why were light switches so different?—why couldn’t they just all be the same? They tripped him up. He was able to hide it sometimes—sneak back when the others were gone and finish what he had started—and he had to suppress it sometimes—it was possible, he had a rule for that, a ritual to make up for it—and sometimes he didn’t even notice he was doing it—“You alright, DI?”—“Absolutely, why do you ask?”—“You just switched the light on and off again.”—“Did I?” It had only kept him from doing his duty once so far, and he had dealt with it rather professionally, he thought—broke the light switch, used the stapler, the heavy one, had someone come in to fix it, but it was either that or not doing his job, and not doing his job—there was no rule to make up for that. If he screwed up on the job, he had no rule to help him cope with that. But not tonight: it was too much, he couldn’t deal with it, even though he wasn’t on the job, he shouldn’t mind, but he found he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it was stress, the nerves, what the others kept telling him—tough case, tough history, tough everything. Simon fumbled his mobile out of his pocket with one hand and dialed—speed dial number one, he didn’t have time to type in an entire number, he needed to keep pressing the digits on the microwave oven—the bloody microwave oven that came with the flat, he never used it anyway! One number with his left hand, one with his right, two numbers with his left hand, three with his right, five numbers with his left hand—bloody Fibonacci sequence—no time to think, only concentrate—but the rule said he was allowed to start from the beginning again after one hundred and forty-four—thank heaven for small favours. “Anything new?” Simon groaned with relief when he heard Detective Sergeant Golding’s voice. It was late—why wasn’t the man asleep?—and part of Simon felt guilty for waking him, but part of him, the stronger part, was too desperate. He gave another groan, it was hard to find words while his mouth whispered numbers, hissed them as if they didn’t belong to him, as if his body needed to get rid of them like poison in his blood. “Come again?” “Help me,” was all Simon could say in between murmuring the treacherous numbers over and over again. Ralph Golding—the savior, the friend—didn’t miss a beat, “I’m coming. Where are you?” “Home. Can’t move.” And that was all, no more words made it, only numbers, the same numbers, over and over again; the DJ in the great night club that was Simon’s brain had fallen asleep, but the record kept playing the same tune until infinity would be filled with it. When had it all started? When had the numbers taken over? When had sanity hung him out to dry? He almost couldn’t remember a life without the numbers. They had always been there—but, yes, there was the memory of a day—peaceful, tranquil, fragile. No numbers. It was bliss. It was Tuesday.