The Hellgate

Chapter 15

If history were to repeat itself, and I knew it would, the newspapers would soon be screaming of another "Horrible murder!" That I could guarantee. Humorously, I imagined, following that eventual outrage, the idiotic reporters would wonder aloud in print "How did the Whitechapel murderer come to target this poor girl?"

“Fools,” I could reply before it happened, “I spied her out the window.”

Let me tell the whole of it.

It started simply enough. At just gone 10:00 pm, Thursday, 30 August, as I toiled away in a south ward of London Hospital, I chanced to look outside and saw the night sky aglow in a strange shifting orange light. As I was alone and had the time, I ceased my activities and went to the window. It was then I saw it plainly, to the south and the east, where the River Thames did its massive meander round the Isle of Dogs… the world was on fire! Brilliant reds. Brilliant oranges. Massive tongues of blue (yes, blue) and yellow flames!

I would learn later it was the London docks, the warehouses of the South Quay ablaze, but that night it didn"t matter. I didn"t see what it was, I saw what it meant. I saw a city in flames and well understood its meaning… for me. Hell had opened its portals wide. The infernal regions hungered for a new arrival. I was being called upon to provide her.

I leaned heavily on the window frame, needing the full structure of the great hospital to support me against the overwhelming swoon. I closed my eyes against the dizziness, swallowed by the magnitude of the job I was again being called to perform. In my first outing, I had been the least of amateurs, timid and frightened. I had accomplished my ordained task but had failed to experience all that came with it; failed to relish its pleasures, to understand its importance, failed to understand my new importance in the scheme of things. I was being given a second chance. I was being called… by the fire.

myWhat occurred an hour later was inevitable. Back at work (and biding my time) in a ward on the hospital"s north side, I was led again to a window and, looking out, saw a p********e walking south along Whitechapel Road. No, not a p********e; the p********e. The dirty drunken w***e for which the fire was calling.

theDon"t think I jumped to conclusions. I did not. Getting it right was all that mattered to me. I took my time; it was a slow night and I had the time. I made sure. It was easy to distinguish a w***e on the game. Like all criminals they left clues. One needed only to observe, the teetering strut, the repeated passes over the same ground, the bleary eye on every male passerby.

on the gameI watched for some time. I"ve mentioned my ability to go unseen in the streets. I had the same powers at work and, when I wished, was good at not being found out. So, unmolested by empty duties or the random dictates of Mrs Price (our Commander-like matron nurse), for some little time I watched unseen from above.

The w***e strolled up and down the thoroughfare shamelessly strutting and displaying her dubious wares. She repeatedly poked and patted at her covering, a flash black bonnet atop her bean that, by the way she carried on, you"d swear she thought was a crown and she Victoria Regina. Horrible! Horrible! Bad enough the streets teemed with w****s filled with evil, but to be filled with pride as well went beyond the pale. I had always been a supporter of the monarchy, but I felt nothing but a bubbling hate for this "Queen of Tarts".

I"ve wandered again…

Point was, by her long and steady parading, she showed herself for the drunken slag she was. Not merely lost, confused, or aimless, the teetering Queen of Tarts walked her beat, tapping her crown, looking to sell her s*x and her soul to the first king, prince, or ponce willing to part with his pennies. I couldn"t wait for my day"s employment to reach its end – that I might go to work and oblige her.

I"m sad to say that, round one-ish on that Friday morning, 31 August, when I caught up the trifles, finished my duties, and returned to my overlook window, I found the street empty of the one thing I wanted to see there. The Queen of Tarts had gone. She might easily have dropped into one of the endless pubs in the district, of course. Or slipped off into the shadows with some… To do the other. I didn"t know. All I knew was, she no longer walked the road.

I felt a flash of panic, an accusation heard only in my head that I"d missed my opportunity. But my sanity soon returned; I quickly got hold of those ridiculous thoughts. I"d had my heart set on her for a reason. She"d been ordained. The fires of hell had named her and god had led me to her. I could not, would not, go back to my lodgings without fulfilling – our destinies.

She was a w***e, wasn"t she? That was her beat, wasn"t it? She"d be back. She would be back. All I needed to do was to wait and, upon her return, claim her.

There was no question as to where to wait. I had my very own infinitely quiet chamber of solitude within the walls of the hospital. There I could wait without fear of being found out. For who went there in the middle of the night? Even if I was found, I would not be found out. A well-respected orderly, I needed only keep something in my hands, a basin, a cleaning rag, anything really, to be anywhere in the building without so much as an odd eye cast my direction. There was always something I could appear to be doing, always something needed sorting, in my quiet place. So I slipped quietly downstairs into the mortuary.

Three others were there, in the cold morgue, when I lit an oil lamp; an old bloke, a crone, and a young thing (I didn"t know which s*x). The old ones had been left uncovered. The young thing, covered over with a sheet, I made out by its size. I didn"t investigate further, I didn"t care what lay beneath it. Fact was I took the time to cover the old ones myself. I said, I wanted solitude.

Finally alone, undisturbed, I could contemplate what had been and what soon (I had to trust) would be. I sat in the corner and waited. Several times during my vigil, I checked the lower hall, found it empty, and slipped outside to gaze up and down the road. Each time I dealt with the disappointment, fought off thoughts of hopelessness, and returned to hiding. She would return.

Providence was kind to the faithful. My perseverance paid off. Just after 2:30 in the morning, I slipped quietly out to check again and… glory! The Queen of Tarts had reappeared; stupid with drink, and still patting her posh bonnet crown, she was wobbling her way back up the road.

Mrs Griggs had taken great pains to keep me up to date on the news of the George Yard murder investigation, such as it was; needles of fact hidden in a haystack of rumor. One fact stood out to me at the moment I spied the return of the w***e in Whitechapel Road. It was this… The Coroner"s Inquest into the death of Martha Tabram had concluded on 23 August with the jury proclaiming: "Murder by Person or Persons Unknown".

I thought of that verdict now. And considered it a challenge.

I would meet that challenge. Soon, I determined, the authorities, the people of the East End, all of London, were going to know Yours Truly!

The fire burning in the south had tempered me even as it devoured the London docks. I"d accepted my place in, my importance to, society. Keenly aware of my power, I moved away from the hospital and toward the filthy street with a light heart and a determined steady hand.

Before me walked the proof. I didn"t need to hunt. The Queen of Tarts, a royal prize, had been sent to me. She paraded, twirling her skirts, touching her bonnet, begging me (though she couldn"t see me and didn"t know I was there) to set her right. The previous day"s drudgery, the do-gooding, had ended. A new day was at hand. The time had come to get on with the important and delightful real work for which I had been destined. I started across the Whitechapel Road.

I reached the north side of the wide street and made myself visible.

She saw me and her face lit up. In her head, I could see her already counting her doss money. I could see too, as she passed beneath a gas lamp, I"d been correct; her bonnet was new, black straw trimmed in black velvet. She touched her topper, coming my way.

I took her in as best I could in the light. She wore a reddish-brown ulster, loose and worn, with seven large brass buttons. The heavy coat looked especially tired in comparison to the brown linsey frock beneath (looking as new as her bonnet). Her shape and the cool morning air suggested other layers of clothing at which I might only guess. All funneled down to a clomping pair of men"s side-spring boots. She stood no more than five feet two, with dark-brown hair that, even in the poor light (peeking from beneath her crown), could be seen to be turning grey. She had a dark complexion and, I saw then, brown eyes as well. The w***e reached me, raised a hand to touch my chest and, without pretense, asked, “Want the business?”

The last came out a slurred "bish-ness" and, though she was not staggering drunk, I could smell alcohol on her breath. She had a small scar on her forehead and was missing an upper front tooth, yet she could not be described as haggard. She was probably middle aged but, preserved well-enough and adorned in that stupid bonnet, managed to look younger. I nodded in agreement to her question.

Yes, I did indeed want the bish-ness. In return, I thought, I would give her the business as well.