Jack

That’s the thing about this city – one day it is the best place on earth, bustling, vibrant and full of colour – the next, it feels drab and dreary; drizzle falling and dark clouds filling the grey sky.

  I wander aimlessly through the streets, gazing into the shop fronts that I pass, longing to push open the door and walk in, to browse through the many wondrous things on show. How good would a new suit look on me? New shoes, shiny enough to see my face in them – Italian leather, definitely Italian leather.

  A taxi shoots past, splashing up water from a puddle at the side of the road and hitting my legs. ‘Thanks’, I mutter under my breath – cursing the wretched luck that I just cannot seem to shake. My jeans turn a dark shade of blue where the water saturated them, making it look like I had wet myself – not that anyone would notice.

  People walk by without so much as a glance, oblivious and preoccupied with their own thoughts and problems, rushing to get to point B, from wherever their particular point A was.

  A woman in a bright red raincoat and knee-length boots hurries by, giving me a slight nudge out of the way, as she does so, causing me to bump against the window of a large department store. The mannequins stare at me impassively, as if bored of standing for weeks on end, gazing out at the passing world, the clothes changed every few days their only cause of excitement.

  The woman is gone in the blink of an eye, I don’t even have time to shout abuse at her, or to do what I have done so many time before, so I take it out on the reflection in the plate glass window instead. It is one of an old man, haggard beyond belief, with a curly mop of greasy dark hair that shows no sign of wanting to turn grey. A rough beard covered most of the face – which was straggly and dirty looking. The clothes were ones salvaged from dustbins and skips, even a washing line.

  A sorry sight if ever there was one.

  The rain begins to fall again. Drizzle, turning to a more persistent rain, the drops getting large enough to bounce off the pavement as they hit with a ‘splat’. All around, people run for cover – in either the shops or bus shelters. I simply carry on ambling along, allowing the rain to soak me through, to cleanse me spirit. Lifting my face to the sky, it feels liberating – standing alone on the pavement, the water running in rivulets from my hair, face and neck and down the back of my shirt, tickling the cool, exposed skin there.

  How long have I wandered these very streets? Years? Centuries? Maybe millennia? There was a time whereby a man could walk out across the road and only encounter a horse and cart trundling down the rutted track that was now concrete and asphalt. Those days were gone – lost in the ethos of time and resigned to history like everything else. Time swallows up the largest of structures, down to the tiniest of molecules – nothing escapes its wrath.

  I am a faceless man, a voiceless man. People don’t see or hear me – instead they pass me by, flinching or shuddering slightly as they go, as if a goose walking over their grave.

  On and on I walk, the weight of the world, hanging heavy – trying to squash and crush my soul. On days like today, drab and miserable, my mood often reflects it. I long and yearn for the sun to come out and brighten the City, to penetrate the gloominess and bring hope – banishing the darkness and all the creatures that lurk there. It does not last long though. For I am one of those creatures.

  Today, I wear clothes from the 21^st century – easily accessible and lightweight. Yesterday -or was it a hundred years ago – I wore a dark suit. Before that, a robe, tied at the waist with rope. Years and years of costume changes, of landscape changes. Many more to come no doubt once I am gone. One thing that remains constant is the people. Always the same, always in a rush, never time to stop and ponder.

  The ground underneath my feet may have altered, but to me it is all the same. The tight alleyways, twisting and turning into a maze that could snare the unsuspecting traveller – which would always remain so. The dark of night caressing each stone and cobble, brick and tile, with its wicked fingers of death, sliding unseen around every corner, across every highway.

  My name is Jack. That is not the name given to me at birth – that of which I simply cannot recall. The newspapers gave me the title of Jack. I quite liked it then, and I still do today. It suits me I think.

  The world is a fast place now, one that I cannot seem to keep up with or comprehend. I feel as if my time may finally be reaching its conclusion – the zenith of my being. More and more these last few years (centuries), I have been found wanting – no longer able to do the things I once could. The time is drawing in fast – and my wretched body is breaking.

  Old London Town - streets paved with gold. Countless souls have come to seek out fortune and fame, only to find their end – much as my own end is fast approaching. There are more like me – of that I am certain – spread across the globe like prophets of doom, dishing out fear, terror, pain – always looking out for the weak and the infirm.

  I reach the end of the road – both actually and metaphorically – stepping around a group of young women and shuffling ever closer to my destination. I can see it between buildings, a murky brown reflecting what little sunlight there was and making it seem as though a million tiny lights danced just beneath the surface of this great river.

  It is now my time to leave this place, the place that I have called home for so long. I shall miss it, as it shall miss me. We are both well versed in the art of killing, so in tune that we each know of one another’s intricacies. The river calls to me, small waves lapping the mud banks that run the length of this serpent that dissects the streets. It is time to end this, to go home after so long, so much time.

  The mud closes around my ankles and takes me in its death grip, sucking and pulling. My arms stretch out wide, like a dark angel – the dark angel that I am. I take one last look at the City, at my City, thinking one final time of all the misery I have brought to its history, all the blood let to flow along the cobbles and down into the drains – finally reaching the river. The mysteries of who I am, who I was, will stay forever within me, within the soul of London itself, in its folklore. Hundreds upon hundreds of books written and read, pored over, and yet, I remain undetected.

  The mud is now above my knees, the water lapping and sloshing around. It should be cold, but I feel nothing. With a tinge of regret at my coming departure, I close my eyes; I cannot bear to look any longer. The river has me now - it will not be long. Goodbye my old friend - keep our secrets safe and sound.