Hands of the Ripper Page 7

  ‘Thank you for coming, John,’ said the voice, ‘I know it’s hard for you …’ and she was certainly right there, ‘I know this isn’t something that comes easily to you, I know it’s something you find hard to believe.’

  Despite his determination to remain logical he found himself imagining his dead wife behind him in the darkness. Not speaking to him, no, he still didn’t believe this was her voice, but listening to the sham, watching him play his part. What would she think of it all? Would she be relieved to find him suddenly open to such experiences? Or would she be disappointed at how easily he was being fooled?

  ‘But you believe now,’ continued the voice, ‘don’t you, John?’

  What to say? He could actually feel the chill of cold air on his neck. Like the breath of someone stood right behind him. Not that Jane had any breath left in her, of course. His shoulders tensed, waiting for what seemed like the inevitable: the grip of her weak hand as it took hold of his shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally, barely more than breathing the answer, ‘I believe now.’

  Davinia squeezed his hand again.

  Now he had said something he found the words came easier. Perhaps they had always been there, waiting for him to have the courage to utter them. In that moment, almost sure he could sense her behind him, he spoke to her as he never had before.

  ‘I believe, Jane,’ he repeated, ‘and I miss you. I’ve missed you for years. Missed you even when you were still with me because the woman you became wasn’t the woman I had fallen in love with. She was everything about you that was bad. She was every resentment, every bitterness, every little bit of hatred and anger.’ And sometimes, he thought but didn’t say, I think you left her behind. ‘And that’s OK, because we all have those things inside us. But when you became ill it was all the disease left of you. I hope you’re better now. I hope everything that was good about you is back. I wish I could have you with me again.’

  ‘I am with you, John,’ said the voice and he found himself crying, because that momentary belief had passed leaving him to wish it were true. ‘I’ll always be with you. And now there’s no pain, no anger. I’m happy, John, I’m free …’

  ‘I wish I were,’ he replied and then immediately regretted it, it was not a thought he had intended to voice.

  ‘Soon, my love, soon you will be just like me.’

  And with that John’s session was done. There was silence until Aida Golding snatched a deep breath as if something had yanked at her hair.

  ‘She has gone,’ she announced.

  John had never been convinced of that fact ever since Jane had died. Try as he might he still wasn’t.

  ‘You all right, dear?’ asked Davinia.

  He nodded. ‘Fine.’

  Golding writhed a little in her seat as if her muscles were cramping. John looked at her and found a sudden realisation. He had never hated a person more than he did her. To create such emotions in people, to drag them through this for money. She must be sociopathic, he decided, to care so little for others.

  ‘Ah!’ she exhaled, and slumped forward in her chair. After a few moments she lifted her head. ‘I need a short break,’ she said, ‘the energies are particularly draining tonight.’

  ‘More tea then, is it?’ asked Probert sarcastically.

  ‘If you wish to make it,’ Golding replied, ‘the kitchen’s just through there.’

  With that she walked out leaving Probert to stare after her in shock.

  ‘I simply can’t believe the cheek of the woman,’ he said once she’d gone. ‘Anyone would think she was doing us a favour rather than being paid for her time.’

  ‘I certainly haven’t paid,’ John admitted, only too happy to cause awkwardness for Golding. ‘Have you?’ he asked Father Goss.

  ‘No,’ the priest admitted, ‘though I would usually make some small donation, a few pounds towards the cause as it were.’

  ‘Me too,’ announced Davinia. ‘After all, it’s only fair, isn’t it? She gave up her job in order to be free to spread the message far and wide. The least we can do is ensure she has enough money to get by.’

  Get by? John couldn’t believe Davinia Harris of all people was capable of such naivety.

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t struggle,’ he said.

  ‘Quite right, my dear,’ Davinia replied, wholly missing his point, ‘good for her.’

  John wasn’t concerned by Davinia’s blindness as to Aida Golding’s business practice, he did watch Sandy’s face with interest though. In his current state of mind he had no issue with making the girl uncomfortable – why should the punters be the only ones to suffer?

  ‘Have you paid?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t ask.’

  And John could see that was true, Sandy – or whatever she was really called – paid Aida Golding in quite another fashion. She was the ‘shill’, the inside man in the con. Her testimony helped lend conviction and no doubt her ears were always open for anything that could later be put to use.

  He was aware that he was transferring all of his anger on to her, the safer target. Aware that he was being unreasonable and that he didn’t have the first idea what had forced her into this life. At that point he didn’t altogether care.

  ‘And yet you owe her so much?’ he said, sitting back down at the table so as to be able to stare right at her.

  ‘More than you could imagine,’ she replied and in that moment, all his anger, so recently built, dissipated away to nothing. There was such a clear hurt in her, something that went way beyond even those scars on her arms, that he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it must feel. In that moment he wondered whether this girl was the most cruelly treated of them all.

  They reconvened after about ten minutes. Aida Golding wafting incense-sticks around the dining room that couldn’t quite mask the fresh smell of pipe tobacco that clung to Father Goss. The cleric had loitered on the medium’s front door step for a smoke, casting a silhouette like that of Sherlock Holmes across her floor tiles.

  ‘Right then,’ she announced, once they had all taken their seats, ‘let’s see if the rest of the evening can offer something more pleasant.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Davinia, though all gathered knew she was enjoying herself immensely.

  Once again the lights were turned off and the candles lit. They linked hands and waited as Golding took several deep breaths and settled into what she called her ‘receptive state’.

  It was only a few moments before the room was visited by its next spiritual guest.

  ‘Is it come to this, Father?’ the voice asked, ‘meeting again after so many years? Is your hunger for confession so pronounced you hunt it beyond the grave?’

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said Father Goss, his voice as fragile as the thin wisps of smoke shed by the extinguished candles. ‘Is that Douglas?’

  ‘Of course, Father,’ the voice replied. ‘You’d know my voice anywhere, surely? Whispered through vented confession booths, velvet curtains, the wall between life and death. It seems we’ll never stop talking, you and I.’

  John’s eyes were starting to become more accustomed to the darkness. He could pick out vague shapes in the light offered through the undrawn curtains, the distant streetlights spreading their amber light thin by the time it passed through the wet glass. Nobody was moving; Father Goss in particular was rigid, his aged, bulbous profile jutting forth.

  ‘Douglas?’ the priest asked, ‘what do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing more than your company,’ the voice replied and John struggled to place where it was coming from. Was it recorded? Surely it must be … or maybe performed live from elsewhere in the house. Could it be Alasdair? Presumably the young man was still in the room, without shifting around it was impossible for John to tell. With the lack of light and all of them forced to maintain their positions it was impossible to be sure what was going on around them. Still, even if Alasdair was with them who knew how many other players took p
art in this evening’s demonstration? The house could be full of people for Golding to call on.

  ‘It gets lonely out here,’ the ethereal voice continued, ‘lonely and cold. It’s nice just to know you’re close by again. To imagine we’re back in the warm velvet box, my admitting my delicious sins to you while you weep to hear them.’

  ‘Douglas,’ the priest’s voice was distinctly frail, ‘where is she? If you want any kind of forgiveness then tell me. Her parents have a right to bury her.’

  ‘Forgiveness? What makes you think I have any interest in your forgiveness?’

  ‘Think of your soul, man!’ Goss shouted, ‘just tell me and you will be one step closer to absolution.’

  ‘I think not. I think I like the way things are. Anyway, who cares about her body? I have her spirit close to hand. She still likes to play …’

  ‘Dear God, no!’ Goss screamed the words, his hand snatched from John’s as the priest jumped to his feet.

  ‘Please!’ said Golding, her voice harsh and croaky, ‘don’t disrupt the flow … ah …’ she gave a long sigh, ‘he’s gone.’

  ‘You’ve got to get him back!’ begged the priest, ‘we can’t let him keep her!’

  ‘Please, Father,’ said Golding, ‘try and retain your calm. I sensed the spirit’s dishonesty most strongly and have no doubt that everything he said was designed to cause you upset.’

  John could only agree.

  ‘Who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘My Lord …’ the priest shook his head and sank back into his chair.

  ‘Alasdair, be a darling and pour the Father a glass of water would you?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ the priest insisted, ‘it was just … Douglas Reece was a young man in my first parish, St Luke East in Tower Hamlets.’

  ‘Charming area,’ interrupted Probert.

  ‘It had its problems,’ Goss admitted, ‘but where doesn’t? The majority of my parishioners were fine, spiritual people, Douglas amongst them, I had thought. He helped regularly at the services, was a very active figure in the church. He was a charming and considerate fellow.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Davinia, ‘Douglas Reece … I know that name!’

  ‘There aren’t many over a certain age that don’t,’ admitted Goss, ‘he killed a great many people.’

  ‘The East End Ripper!’ Davinia explained.

  ‘Not a name I would endorse,’ said the priest.

  ‘Oh come on,’ scoffed Probert. ‘A nutter chops up women a stone’s throw from Whitechapel, what else are the papers going to call him?’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but what Douglas did … it’s not something to be sensationalised.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ John admitted, ‘but people always will, it’s a common enough defence mechanism.’

  ‘Says our resident psychologist,’ Probert laughed. John shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Goss continued, ‘but you must remember I knew the victims; I can’t help but take the whole matter seriously. These were not statistics to me. Grainy photographs on the front of tabloids. They were people, people who were singularly dear to me.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ said Golding, finally speaking to the man she had so disturbed with her act. ‘You mustn’t feel you have to discuss it.’

  At the thought of this Davinia Harris turned quite pale, she could imagine nothing worse than the conversation stopping before it had even really started.

  ‘I’d much rather we didn’t talk about it,’ agreed Sandy.

  ‘It does him good to get it off his chest,’ insisted Davinia, ‘no use bottling these things up.’

  The priest waved their comments away with a flick of his hand. ‘There’s not much to say, I was the one who informed the police of Douglas’s guilt.’

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Davinia, positively thrilled at this turn of events.

  ‘He told me,’ said Goss, ‘in unceasing detail, during the Sacrament of Penance.’

  ‘He told you in confession?’ said Probert. ‘He was mad.’

  ‘Of course he was,’ agreed the priest. ‘He slaughtered eight women with a set of mechanic’s tools, he was extremely ill.’

  ‘Not as ill as they were by the time he finished,’ Probert replied.

  ‘Perhaps we should take a few minutes’ break,’ the medium suggested, ‘while I clear the atmosphere and recharge.’

  ‘Please don’t feel it’s necessary on my account,’ insisted Father Goss, ‘I’m quite all right, just a little shaken.’

  ‘Then for goodness’ sake let’s carry on!’ said Probert. ‘If we keep stopping it’ll be midnight before you get to me.’

  ‘And that would never do,’ Davinia muttered.

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Golding, closing her eyes and gesturing for everyone to hold hands once more. ‘Let us see if we can finally find someone to talk to Lord Probert.’

  ‘Preferably not a doormat or a psycho,’ Probert replied, to the audible disapproval of the others.

  ‘It is difficult now,’ said Golding, ‘the air is thick with the stains left by that unpleasant creature. I must tread carefully. The other spirits are likewise cautious, he has scared a number of them away.’

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered Probert, ‘more excuses.’

  ‘Do shut up,’ snapped Davinia, ‘your attitude is not at all suitable for this kind of thing. One should be genteel and respectful.’

  ‘I’ve never felt the need to be so in life thus far,’ the Lord replied, ‘I’m certainly not going to start now.’

  ‘Hush!’ shouted Golding, gripping the hands of both of them so tightly that they flinched. ‘They come!’

  ‘Helly?’ asked a voice, ‘are you there, Helly?’

  ‘Oh God …’ every ounce of Probert’s pomposity was drained away.

  ‘Helly?’ asked Davinia. ‘What sort of name’s Helly?’

  ‘It was her nickname for me,’ Probert replied, surprisingly forthcoming, ‘instead of Llewellyn.’

  ‘I can hear you, Helly,’ the voice continued, ‘but I can’t see you … why can’t I see you?’

  ‘No …’ the lord’s face fell even further. ‘Her eyes, her eyes …’

  ‘It’s dark, Helly, always dark … why did you leave me in the dark?’

  ‘Oh God!’ Probert writhed in his chair, trying to tug his hand from Aida Golding’s and Sandy’s, they held fast.

  ‘I didn’t want this!’ he said and jumped to his feet, his knees hitting the underside of the table and causing the candelabrum to topple and the candles to go out.

  Once again plunged into darkness, the room was more chaotic than before, Probert still shouting.

  Then one voice shouted out even louder, not a voice of one of those gathered but rather a voice they had heard only recently. Douglas Reece’s voice.

  ‘I forgive you, Father!’ it shouted and then all was drowned out by the sound of a scream. Father Goss squeezed John’s hand so tightly that he gave a small cry of his own, tugging free of the man’s grip and massaging the back of his hand.

  ‘The lights, Alasdair!’ Golding shouted. ‘Quickly!’

  John was aware of footsteps in the floor above, hidden conspirators perhaps, running to assist.

  The light switch was thrown but it didn’t calm them, far from it. The blood it illuminated made them panic even further.

  Five

  Politics

  FATHER GOSS WAS a ruin. His throat was a second mouth, bloody lips parted as if to yawn. His chest shined with blood.

  Nobody could speak, all eyes staring at the mess of blood and peeping bone that sat at the head of the table. Suddenly the priest coughed. A small black lump, about the size of a golf ball, was ejected from the hole in his throat and exploded against the surface of the table.

  ‘He’s alive,’ said John, ‘call an ambulance, he’s still—’

  But whatever life had been left in the priest’s body was swift to pass. A low hiss bubbled up from the man’s lungs and then ceased.

  ‘Oh God!�
� cried Sandy, hands to her face, rocking back from the priest’s dead body. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God …’

  She jumped up and ran for the door but Aida Golding grabbed her arm. ‘Wait,’ the woman said, all pretence of soft, maternal tones gone. ‘Just wait while I think.’

  ‘We’ve got to call the police,’ said John, looking around trying to process the obvious. ‘Someone must have—’

  ‘The cake knife,’ said Davinia, pointing at where the large kitchen knife lay on the carpet, ‘they used the cake knife.’

  ‘Or he did,’ said Probert, ‘much more likely, don’t you think? You saw what he was like. Full of guilt, the Catholics love a bit of fucking guilt …’ The lord was getting more and more angry, clenching his fists. ‘I can’t be here,’ he announced, ‘I simply cannot be here … not with this … think what the papers … what everyone …’ He roared and kicked at one of the chairs, sending it toppling.

  ‘That hardly helps,’ said John. ‘We need to get out of this room and call the police.’

  ‘I don’t want the police called!’ Probert shouted, his voice taking on the high-pitched squeal of an angry child. ‘I can’t be involved in this!’

  ‘But you are,’ said Golding, ‘you are involved. And you need to think about what you do next.’

  ‘Think about what? What are you saying?’

  ‘What connections do you have. Who can you call? Don’t tell me there’s not someone on the end of a phone line who can make this go away.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said John, ‘you can’t just brush this under the carpet.’

  ‘No,’ said Probert, ‘she’s right, that’s exactly what we do. He must have done it himself, he must have … why would any of us …?’

  ‘That’s for the police to decide, surely?’ said John, though he had to admit he found the idea of any of them being responsible beyond belief. He had been holding Davinia’s hand, she had been holding Golding’s, then Probert’s, then Sandy’s then, finally, the Priest’s. So the most likely culprits at the table were himself and Sandy. He knew he hadn’t done it and couldn’t believe Sandy had, the girl was shaking violently, Golding still holding her.