Thuds

An eerie calm held sway over the city. The water below Battersea Bridge flowed swiftly and silently, lapping gently against the banks. As Henry leaned over to peer into the cold, murky depths, his breath rattled out like an apparition between pursed lips. While Whitechapel feared the knife, torsos had begun to wash up along the river’s edge in its wake. The Ripper — some thought — was widening its reach.

Henry hugged his arms to his chest and let out a weary sigh and turned his gaze to the other side of the bridge. His eyes lingered on a point where the mist seemed to swirl and shudder as if someone had just been there. He furrowed his brow and, taking a final glance at the water below, hurried home past dimly lit windows – darkening doorframes from which light seeped out. Every so often, he glanced behind him to make sure he was not followed, avoiding drunken or homeless stragglers whose voices rang out into the night.

Once home, he struggled with his door, cold shivers making it difficult to manage the lock. Once inside, he lit a candle and set it down in the centre of a chipped table, its surface scarred and mottled, grime collecting in the cracks. A cleaver rested there, catching the light, beside a half eaten loaf of dried bread. He chewed absent mindedly, watching the flickering light. His gaze shifted from the gentle flame to linger on a cupboard in the corner of the darkened room, the door ajar. He finished the bread and washed his face before settling into bed. Then came a dull thud — soft but distinct — drawing his eyes toward the opposite wall, where a narrow stairway led down to the cellar. Henry’s gaze lingered there, impulsively lifting his hand to bite at the wicks of his fingernails.

The following morning, frigid water made his skin tingle as he dried his face. Leaning toward the mirror, he inspected a small cut that was slowly scabbing beneath a wiry beard when a firm knock drew him from his reverie.

“Come on, Henry, mate — we’re going to be late!”

Henry glanced once more at the cupboard before hurrying to the door. John stood there with a good-natured smile and rosy nose and cheeks. Behind him, the shop lad, Tom, lingered with his hands deep in his pockets — pale, miserable, his shoulders hunched up around his ears.

“Don’t worry about him,” said John, slapping the young man on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “He had a big night last night, didn’t ya, Lad?”

“Don’t forget ya coat,” he added, ignoring Tom as he teetered on his toes before steadying himself, hands never leaving his pockets. Henry offered a tight smile as he pulled on his coat and closed the door behind him, the click of the lock covering another dull thud. He glanced behind him, then at John, but the big man was already striding ahead towards the Family Butcher’s Shop, unbothered. Tom shuffled after him.

As the day drew on, Tom’s colour returned and he and John began to talk excitedly about the monsters that stalked the streets of London, all the while a gutted pig hung from the rafters, occasionally thudding against the wooden paneling. With each muffled thump of Henry’s cleaver, their voices faded, allowing his thoughts to stream steadily amidst the dulcet tones.

“What do you say, boys?” John said at last, clapping his hands together and admiring the last of the day’s work as the pig’s carcass swayed from its chain. Henry laid down his cleaver and wiped his hands dry on his stiffened apron. “Pub in Whitechapel and if we’re feeling brave, we can hunt the Ripper!”

John’s eyes were bright as his gaze darted between Tom and Henry, dried sweat and pig’s blood buried deep in his crows feet. He slapped them both on the shoulders, ignoring Tom’s protests.

“Whitechapel’s a long way from here and it’s already getting dark!” he complained, hanging up his apron, “The tram, the horses…big, stupid creatures! I don’t have a lot of money, either. I’m not a journeyman like you and John.”

“You don’t have to go.” said Henry flatly, his voice grating against a dry throat. Tom raised his eyebrows and then cast his eyes down.

“We’ll pay.” Henry said at last. Grinning, Tom’s eyes brightened. He droned on about the wonders of the infamous Whitechapel district the whole way there. Even John, who Henry had learned to endure, found it difficult to keep up with the boy’s excitement.

“Christ, smell hits you like a fist to the face, doesn’t it!” said John, startled.

From the ground, warm liquids steamed into the evening mist, thick with stench. Down an alley, two formless figures morphed together, their soft moans floating out from the gloom. Ahead of Henry, a man was heaving as vomit slapped onto the street beneath him. On the other side of the street, a woman beckoned them with a coy smile. Tom started to swagger over but John held him firmly by the collar, said something in his ear, and laughed haughtily. Above the woman, a figure in a darkened window caught Henry’s attention. Though it had no discernable features, he knew it had been watching him. Its arms were folded over its chest and its head was cocked to one side. Henry watched as it straightened and then withdrew into the shadows. He remained still, searching for any other signs of movement but nothing else disturbed the darkness within. He rolled his shoulders and furled his fingers, forcibly averting his gaze. At last, his eyes were drawn to a warm light that appeared like a beacon in the cool night – laughter and cheers of delight escaping through the windows and doors.

“There,” he said, pointing.

John wiped his eyes and turned to face him, following his finger.

“Ah, yes. C’mone, Tom! We can talk to the pretty girl later – looks like someone’s eager to get to the pub” He laughed, “Can’t say I blame ‘im.”

Inside, the barmaid was stoking the fire. The heat and the laughter swelled until the air felt like it was pressing in from all sides. The dimly lit lanterns cast the big room in a halflight that made it nearly impossible to decipher a person from a shadow. Faces appeared in the gaps between arms and ales before disappearing. People that were on one side of the room would evaporate to then appear on the other. The roaring voices made the room pulse, Henry could even feel it through the bar top where his hand rested.

“Here’s your drink, Henry. Thank you, Mr Barman!”

John carelessly shoved a pewter of beer at him, spilling the hazy brown liquid all over the counter. Wrenching his hand away, Henry stepped away in disgust as the liquid poured over the edge and onto his shoes.

“Oh, sorry, lad!” John yelled over the din before taking a deep swig. Henry stared at him, watching as he inhaled his own pewter of beer before ordering another. Brown, streams of beer seeped from the corners of his mouth as John guzzled his next pint. Glancing over John’s shoulder, Tom was being led seductively away into another room.

Taking a last glance at John who was already ordering another, Henry ignored his pewter and started shoving through the cramped room to the door. As he pushed, a man in the corner with a flat cap pulled over his eyes caught Henry’s attention. His arms were folded over his chest, rising and falling with each breath. As he bustled out the door, however, he chanced a final glance at the man in the corner – he was gone, replaced by someone else who was drooped over the arm rest.

Walking fast with his thoughts racing, Henry turned a corner and collided with a person coming the other way.

“Woe there, pal!” said the stranger, eyes hidden beneath a flat cap.

Stumbling back and Henry pulled himself free of the man’s grasp,

“Very sorry, I’m in a hurry to get home.”

“I’m sure you must be,” the stranger grinned from beneath a thick moustache, “Whitechapel sure isn’t the right place to be at the minute and people who aren’t from around these parts stand out – being a small town and all.”

Henry appraised the man, his gaze lingering on a cut – fresh, still open – beneath the man’s stubble. Avoiding his eyes, Henry moved past him and walked away without another word, careful to keep his pace steady. As he turned the corner of yet another street, he paused and looked back at the stranger. He still stood where they’d parted, only then beginning to walk away.

The way home felt just as long as the way there. He had walked when the tram did not come and was exhausted by the time he barged through his door, thoughts still racing. He marched to the cupboard and threw open its doors, reaching for a tarp. He headed down the dark and dingy stairs to the cellar and pushing past the limbs that hung from his ceiling, occasionally thudding against the wooden walls.

A heavy fog hovered over the empty streets and a cold drizzle thickened the air. The coolness was a relief as he heaved the torso to the water’s edge, dragging it under the bridge. He pulled the tarp out from under it. It toppled into the water with a subdued splash, disappearing beneath the water’s surface. He waited a moment, making sure it did not resurface, before trudging back up to the bridge.

Surveying the waterway up towards the Southbank, Henry revelled in the damp air. But he could feel the presence before he saw it. It stood unmoving on the opposite side of the bridge – observing him. He shifted. He gathered his courage and took a step forward but still the figure did not move. Instead, it began to move towards him as if to meet him. As it approached, more discernable features began to appear: a flat cap, a fluttering coat. Henry stumbled backwards and clapped a hand to his cheek, feeling the tender cut there. He began to run. His legs carried him so fast, he thought – he wished – he’d take flight. Breathless, he slowed just enough to turn around and take a last glance at the figure. It had stopped where Henry had been moments before, still watching him. It uncurled its arms and lifted a spindly fingered hand to wave at him one last time.

Henry burst into his lodgings, slamming the door shut behind him, locked and barricaded it. His back pressed to the door, he slowed his breathing and staggered breathlessly to his wash basin. He scrubbed his hands and washed his face as bloodied water trickled away. Catching sight of himself in his mirror, he wondered why the cut just wasn’t healing.