'Big Pat!'

Patrick O'Leary looked up from his pint, nodding at the boy.

'Your Da is calling for you!'

'Cheeky bugger!' He smiled, flicking a farthing to the boy, grateful for the warning.

Brushing the pie crumbs and stout foam from his moustache, O'Leary stood up from the bar, 'Put this on my slate Bill; hopefully back in a jiffy.'

As he left the Goat alehouse, the sounds of nearby whistles, his colleagues replying to the cracks of a signalling stick striking against the curb.

His Superintendent was calling.

Probably just wanted a peg, Pat thought. Checking up on the old Night Watch as usual!

The Super was Liverpool City, placed in charge of a band of men who had been absorbed from Docks, and the Watch, he was well aware that each one had a reputation as either a drunkard or a bribe-taker, and was determined to bring them in line with the new force, the modern Liverpool City Police.

Pat missed the Night Watch. Easy work, shaking hands with doorknobs, checking for fires, ensuring shop windows were clean, getting the odd backhander from the buckos to turn a blind eye. Most pubs giving him an unlimited tab, and the odd kiss and cuddle with one of the many dolly birds who owed him a favour.

His main chore, shouting out the passing hours of his fourteen hour stint of duty. Yup, easy money, perks, and eighteen shillings for the seven nights!

But times were changing in the city, the good old days were sadly gone.

Pegging was a way of keeping them out of the alehouses that covered the South Division. Most bobbies simply paid the street rats to keep dixie for them, listening out for the signal, providing a warning that supervision was near.

O'Leary munched on a pickled onion he'd taken from the bar, keen to hide the beer fumes from his breath. He'd blow his whistle, produce his appointments, showing the Super his rattle, whistle, truncheon, and cape, touch his hat and state all was right. Then hopefully get back to his night's drinking once the oaf was satisfied he was on his beat and hadn't lost his uniform playing cards!

More cracks. No mere peg. The whistles were joined by the clack of police rattles as the shift converged on the boss's location.

'Oh, Sweet Mary, Mother of God, not another poor lass?'

The constables circled an ally on Back Canning Street, dark wet patches glistened in the gaslights, the Superintendent barking orders, keeping the growing crowd away.

On the cobbles, a woman lay, bodice torn, head back at an impossible angle, her throat gaping, the razor cut lined with crimson far redder than her blood.

'Jesus, this makes, what, seven in the past few weeks?'

Bert shook his head, 'Eight now. Pat. Found another last night, up in North Div, same bloody thing!'

O'Leary wished he'd had something stronger than stout. 'What the Hell is going on?'

'What the Hell is going on?'

Riding threw his phone onto the bed, frustrated, and bemused. Eight wretched souls he'd given the Divine Gift to now, eight Rituals followed meticulously from his own book.

Not one mention. Anywhere. No Jack the Ripper, no serial killer novels, no movies, TV shows nor even ghoulish tourist city murder walks through the area. Nothing.

He looked at the bookshelves, his teenage youth mocking him with the fantastic titles, half expecting a new tome to miraculously appear. The childish surroundings said otherwise – he hadn't written a best seller about the world's most infamous killer: no movie offers, no personal appearances, no fame, no fortune. Just his parents' crappy old house.

I See You, Jack! floated in his mind's eye, tantalisingly close, but something was missing. The trigger to re-write his life had yet to be pulled.

It wasn't the Rituals: they were perfect, divine.

The vessels chosen, carefully matched in the order he had transformed them. Liverpool City Police had no idea who was killing these girls, or why. So, what had he missed?

'Where are you, Jack? Why have you not struck terror into the heart of Liverpool?'

Liverpool! That was it!

The Ripper was never the Dockland murderer, Riding himself had made the link to his home turf. But history hadn't. Jack belonged in Whitechapel, waiting to be seen.

Riding couldn't believe he'd missed the obvious, the London girls had yet to be found on display, transformed by His Divine Plan. Only when they were dead would the legend of the Ripper emerge.

Riding smiled at his reflection in the dresser mirror.

'Looks like we're off to the Smoke!'

FINALLY! hissed the voice in his head.

FWR

10.06.24 Front Page

Back Issue Page