I See You, Jack! Chapter 3
Created | Updated Feb 4, 2024
I See You, Jack!
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Chapter 3
Maria Bramwell cursed as her heel slipped on the cobblestones. The rain coursing down Oldham Street penetrated her dress, soaking her threadbare bustles. The padding flattened with moisture, ruining the exaggerated curves. Her shape was her billboard after all, her advertisement to any swill tub with a few shillings to spare.
At this late hour most gentlemen had retired to their homes, taking with them the eight and six she'd sometimes commanded.
Alas, the only trade going now were the drunken mushers staggering from the alehouse, stubborn in their bartering, unwilling and unable to offer more than three bob!
Anything less than three and she'd scold them, 'Go pick a bunter or a dollymop down by the docks, they'll do Peter for a few pennies!'
Maria was almost tempted to go down to the docks. She'd seen three new navy ships coming in to berth earlier, knew there'd be plenty of sailors on shore leave, back pay burning a hole in their pockets, eager to catch up from three months at sea.
Easy money usually, but last month she'd been attacked by four of them, badly beaten, left in an alleyway, and not even a penny for all her cuts and bruises!
Luckily she'd been found by the night watch, Big Pat was bloody fuming when he'd seen her poor face, found all four tars in the alehouse. He'd taken them round the back of the pub and given them a good pasting. Lovely Pat had even got them to empty their purses, given her the few bob they hadn't spent on drink.
A real gentle giant was Pat, tough as nails, a formidable brawler but gentle as a lamb with all the street girls.
She owed Pat a favour after that, knew he looked after the girls and wouldn't put up with bludgers on his beat.
But the attack had shaken her, especially with these gruesome Ripper reports in all the papers.
No, best to have a dull, unpaid night than risk that again.
She was shaken from her gloom by the noise. Tap, tap, tap.
From the corner with Roscoe Street came the unmistakable sound of cane on cobble. Silver tip marking time as the gentleman strode towards her, bold as brass he'd fished in his purse and held out a sovereign!
Toffer's wages!
The gold coin glinted, promising an early end to her shift. Lordy, she could probably stay home in the warm and dry tomorrow night too for that much!
She wouldn't let her mind baulk at the thought of what he'd want for his coin, didn't much care to be honest, she'd been on the streets long enough to expect the strange requests folk with money asked from the girls.
Shared bawdy jokes with the others over an ale, giggling at the often weird goings on the rich indulged in. No wonder their ladies turned a blind eye and let those below them cater for their husbands' bizarre urges!
She'd slipped the coin into her corsetry, giving him a shy smile (the toffs loved a demure entertainer!) and led him into the alley.
For the fourth night, fourth time, from the first floor of the cooper's building, Riding sat and watched her die.
No matter which room he'd hired, no matter which angle he observed from, the Ritual was clearly seen, each immaculate sequence opens to his gaze, but, never, not even for an instant, could he see the face of the Architect. Not for one second did Jack look in his direction. The only detail that changed, no matter how many times he'd witnessed this scene!
Frustrating, but Riding had all the time in the world to pop back in the hope he'd turn one night. So he went back to his research, admiring the sureness of what was to follow, becoming as rapt in the glory of the Ritual as Jack himself.
Carefully recording, notating his research, amending facts, witnessing the Divine Ritual, observing the perfection of the act, the beauty of the transformation.
In. . .thirteen minutes. . . (he checked his notes) . . . yes, thirteen, he'd follow the man to his home. Just on the one-mile border of the range given by the pocket watch. The house frontage blurred with the boundary, tantalisingly close.
He'd return again, a few hundred yards north, thirteen minutes later, picking up the route, finally close enough to be certain of the location.
Burning the address into his memory, scribbling maps of long demolished streets, ready for tomorrow, and hours of trawling through Internet records and library microfiche, searching the archives for this night, a building, a resident from one-and-a-half centuries ago.
