Post by franklinmarsh on Jul 19, 2013 13:29:14 GMT
Here's a golden oldie from the archives -
The F In Fog
Wilson walked out of Waterloo Station on the bridge over York Road. He approached the Shell Building and tutted in surprise as he realised that the thoroughfare had been closed off and he would have to retrace his steps or descend the stairway to York Road itself.
It was a number of years since he’d last visited the city and he’d forgotten how everything could change.
He trotted down the stairs, and as he walked towards what he remembered as County Hall, he was amazed at the complete transformation. All manner of eating-houses, shops and tourist attractions seemed to have sprung up. The signs bewildered him. Aquarium? Dali Museum? He felt dizzy.
Wilson felt more on solid ground as he approached the Embankment and Westminster Bridge. They couldn’t tamper with the river. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets as a chill wind whistled between the buildings.
He could hear the waves of the river lapping at the walls now, but a thick fog concealed the water itself. In fact it concealed virtually everything. He could just make out the top of the Westminster Clock Tower housing Big Ben . Of the bridge itself there was no sign.
This must be what it was like in the days of the pea-souper, he smirked. He walked along the Embankment towards the bridge, surprised by the absence of people. It was mid-morning. He expected some visitors to England’s shores to be out and about.
Wilson then noticed the silence. Apart from the sound of the gentle lapping from where the river should be, there was nothing. He could hear his breathing, and the beat of his heart, but nothing else save Old Father Thames.
He walked on. Surely he should have reached the steps up to the bridge by now? His breathing had become louder and more ragged. The fog had swirled above him, blocking out the grey sky.
‘Hello?!’ he shouted involuntarily, making himself jump.
He stood stock still, listening. Straining his ears. He couldn’t even hear the water anymore. He began to edge forward slowly, stretching out his hands, hoping to touch a wall, or to ward off anything concealed within the fog.
He froze as he heard footsteps coming towards him. Quiet at first, progressively louder. Click-click-click. High heels?
Wilson sighed and relaxed slightly. A woman. The pace of the footsteps picked up, and he discerned a heavier tread behind them. His body tensed. He could hear breathing. Feminine gasps, and a deeper, grunting sound.
The clicking became a scrabbling, and Wilson gasped as an ear-piercing scream leaped out of the fog at him. He looked left and right. Still nothing could be seen. He tried to control his own breathing, and the hammering of his heart.
‘Hah! I’ll teach you.’
The disembodied voice came from below him. Another shriek, followed by a slow gasp, and the sound of ripping.
The fog moved, revealing the stone paving of the Embankment. Wilson felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he watched an ever-increasing pool of scarlet liquid form.
The fog swirled and eddied. Wilson bit his lip. The rouged face of a young woman, the throat opened. A knife held in a black-gloved hand. A familiar face beneath a top hat.
‘You! But… you’re not…not….’ Wilson’s agitated voice trailed off limply, as the dark figure straightened and moved toward him.
‘***********************************
‘Where the heck is Wilson?’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘It’s his own signing, for Heaven’s sake.’
Harris sighed.
‘I told you this horror stuff was a non-starter. Even tarting up Victorian decadence for the Nasty Generation.’
He picked up a slim volume and waved it at Escott.
‘ “Doctor Emanuel Slaughter – The Westminster Ripper?” Come on, Wayne, they want psychological stuff now. Not this.’
Wayne Escott drummed his fingers on the table, and cast a nervous glance at the bookshop manager.
‘Keep it down, Pete. If you were so against this, why wait ‘til now to whinge? Give Willy a chance. All our research showed this was the way to go. Now calm down.’
Pete Harris surveyed the empty shop. He walked slowly to the window.
‘Your research’, he muttered, adding ‘Filthy bloody weather,’ in a louder voice.
‘It’s what’s keeping the punters away,’ Escott remarked to the shop manager, with a weak smile. The manager didn’t appear convinced.
Harris watched the shifting fog through the window. Anything could be out there. For a brief moment, he imagined the shop packed, a television crew in attendance, perhaps even some out of work actors in Victorian costumes milling around…..no, this whole retro thing was bollocks. They needed cutting edge stuff. Dark fantasy. Horror was so outmoded. Abused children. Battered women . Fucked up adolescents. A third rate Jack The Ripper take-off was passé. It would have been twenty years ago. Poor old Wayne. He didn’t have a clue. He’d suggested that they attempt to revive the Western, for Christ’s sake!
Harris shrugged his shoulders. Escott would have to go. Jemima Hartley, the publicity manager would crucify them over this. Wayne was such an idealist, an optimist. He mollycoddled people like that ridiculous old drunk Wilson, a hack if ever there was one. Just because some shite the ancient boozer had churned out thirty years ago was changing hands on internet auction sites for silly money, Escott thought that they could create a new cult, or revive an old one. Fat chance! People wanted more for their money these days.
Wayne Escott felt the blush burning his cheeks. Willie had promised! Now he was going to look a complete berk in front of Harris. A bad report from the manager would drop him in it with that cow Hartley. And he was fairly sure that Peter Harris had plans of his own, that didn’t include his partner. Oh well, he owed it to Wilson, for all the pleasure the juvenile Escott had obtained from those Wilson potboilers. He still had a tatty copy of Curse Of The Witchfinder. Worth up to 50 quid, allegedly. He’d never sell it. Never! Plans to have it republished on the back of the success of the Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter series were fast disappearing. Why did he agree to the old pisshead being given a small advance? He was probably slumped at the bar of one of his Godawful East End drinking dens, instead of coming up West to meet his adoring public.
The empty shop almost laughed at him. The manager looked at his watch. Wayne watched sadly as Peter Harris glared at him, picked up his bag then slipped through the shop doorway, disappearing into the fog. Off to grass his failed project to La Belle Hartley, all Escott’s fault, I told him, he wouldn’t listen, etcetera, etcetera. Wayne felt like crying.
‘*************************
Harris debated whether to drop into the office and rubbish Wayne to Jemima. No, leave it until later. The publicity team were meeting at the Roof Gardens in Kensington that evening. He’d do his dirty work there. Grinning, he headed towards the health club.
Returning to his flat, Harris felt invigorated. The workout had cleared his head. Wayne Escott and his out of date ideas were history. He would do the necessary back-stabbing tonight, then see Hector Waddell tomorrow with regard to his vision for the way forward. It might get to the ear of Sir John…
A luxurious bath, a quick hand shandy, scented oils, expensive after-shave, even more expensive men’s fragrance, a knock at the door…
Peter Harris frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Conscious of his nakedness under the white towelling dressing gown, he moved to the front door and looked through the spyhole. Some idiot done up in a cloak and top hat. A practical joke by Mr Escott! Who would have thought him capable? Not Harris, who unlocked the door, and opened it, expletive at the ready.
The knife slashed his throat, and the boot slammed into his midriff, propelling him back into the room. He fell on his back, air expelled through the hole in his trachea, hands clutching at the wound. The black cape swirled above him, the dark shadow crouching and placing a black medical bag on the floor beside his head.
Harris gargled on blood. A black-gloved hand reached into the bag and removed first a machete, then a hacksaw.
The hand then removed the top hat. Harris’ eyes widened but he couldn’t form any words at all. The knife descended.
‘******************
Wayne Escott woke with a hangover. A teetotaller, he’d succumbed to the lure of brandy last night. Not much, but enough to send him into pleasurable oblivion for a few hours.
He’d stayed until the bitter end at the bookshop. Not one customer. No show from that bastard Willie Wilson. The manager huffing and puffing about a certain publishing house.
Fuck ‘em. Wayne surprised himself. First drinking, then cursing. Crikey, he’d be taking drugs next. Or getting a girlfriend.
The telephone rang. Here we go. Superbitch Hartley. All fired up on tell-tale Harris’ lies.
He picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr. Escott?’
‘Yes?’
‘Detective-Sergeant Mullholland, City Of Westminster Police. Mr Escott, do the names William Wilson and Peter Harris mean anything to you?’
‘Y-yes,’ said Escott, warily.
‘We’d like to speak to you.’
‘***************************************************
Hector Waddell twiddled his thumbs. Jemima Hartley made him uneasy. She was standing by the window, looking out at that damned fog.
‘It wasn’t entirely a success, then?’ he barked, trying to conceal his nervousness.
‘A disaster,’ she drawled without turning around. ‘Not a single sale. The manager was furious. I think I’ve pacified him.’
‘Down to that drunkard?’
‘Not entirely, although he didn’t even turn up. I believe that Wayne Escott should be blamed, if anyone. It was his project.’
Jemima was thinking about Peter Harris. She’d been sure he’d turn up last night. The fact he hadn’t had made her think they might have all been wrong about Escott’s penny-dreadful horror series. She’d been delighted to receive the voice-mail from the irate bookseller. She had plans for Harris. He was just the kind of ambitious, thrusting young man she enjoyed chewing up and spitting out. She was surprised not to have seen him this morning.
Waddell hummed and hahed. Escott’s father had been a big noise with the publishers. That’s why he’d been given a chance. Personally, Waddell hated him, as he had his father and would be glad to send him packing.
His intercom buzzed, and his secretary intoned ‘Wayne Escott, Mr. Waddell’ electronically.
Waddell sighed, and leaned back in his executive chair. Jemima Hartley smirked and faced the door.
A pale and shaking Escott staggered into the room.
‘Sit down, Escott,’ spat Waddell, concerned at the state of the young man. Had he been taking substances?
Escott sat, and put his face into his hands.
‘Now, let’s not beat around the bush. Yesterday was disastrous. I think Mr. Wilson should return his advance, and…’
‘He’s dead.’
Waddell paused, bristling at being interrupted and trying to comprehend Escott’s comment.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Wilson’s dead. And so’s Harris.’
‘Peter Harris?’
Both men turned to Jemima, who realised that she’d spoken more fervently than she realised.
‘Yes. Peter Harris.’
Both Waddell and Hartley remained silent, watching Escott, who took a deep breath.
‘I’ve just come from the police. I had to identify the bodies. They found my card on Willie’s body. He’d been….hacked to death on the Embankment by Westminster Bridge. Peter was in his flat. He’d been taken apart. Dismembered. The killer had removed the spotlights from that stand he had and put his head and hands…’
‘All right, all right,’ said Waddell, hastily. ‘We’ll take your word for it. Do the police know who did it?’
‘If they did, they didn’t tell me.’
‘Wayne, you’re tired and upset. You’d better go home and rest,’ soothed Jemima. ‘We’ll take this up again tomorrow.’
Wayne nodded, and wearily heaved himself up from the chair. He left the office without another word, or a glance back.
Waddell patted his forehead with an immaculate white folded handkerchief.
‘Good Lord, Ms. Hartley. This is quite shocking.’
‘Good publicity though.’
‘What?!’
‘Come on, Hector. They were trying to flog some Jack The Ripper pulp drivel. Now the author and one of the publicists have been …’ She paused, searching for an appropriate word. ‘..well,…ripped, it’ll be marvellous. We can…’
‘I forbid it!’ Hector practically screamed. ‘You cannot embroil this house in an ongoing murder hunt!’ He mopped his brow ever more frantically.
‘I’ll have to see Sir John. You know how he hates scandal of any kind.’
‘Have it your way, Hector’ sighed Jemima. As she left the office she mentally listed various journalists who might be interested in a free lunch. What a turnup for the books! They might be able to do something with that tawdry little hack work after all!
‘******************
Detective Sergeant George Mulholland watched the CCTV footage and frowned. He’d watched it a number of times, but still found it hard to take in. What on earth was some clown dressed in a top hat and cloak doing entering the block of flats where Peter Harris had been murdered? They’d checked the occupants. No fancy dress parties, actors, no-one overtly eccentric. The image was fuzzy, distorted. You couldn’t make out any discerning features. And there was no sign of whoever it was leaving.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. The door to the security office opened and Detective Constable Ojeleye entered.
‘Any luck, Calvin?’
‘Not really, Sarge. Escott’s story checks out. He and Harris had organised a book signing for Wilson in Victoria Street. Wilson didn’t show, and nor did anyone else. Harris pissed off early, and Escott stayed ‘till closing time. The manager wasn’t happy. I’m not surprised. No-one reads this tripe any more.’
He tossed a slim paperback book onto the desk in front of Mulholland. The malevolently grinning figure of Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter stared at the detective. Resplendent in black top hat and cloak, brandishing a large carving knife and a black medical bag.
‘You OK, Sarge?’
‘******************
Sir John Pendlebury sat back naked in the leather chair and sipped champagne. The She-Male Order Catalogue (his favoured escort service) had confirmed that Hannah was available that evening, and would be delighted to attend to his needs.
He needed something to take his mind off that fool Waddell squeaking about murder and scandal. What did he know? Sir John smiled cruelly. Little people. They just didn’t have a clue about the ways of the world.
The door in front of him began to open He blinked as the incense fumes stung his eyes. A tall man wrapped in a black cloak entered the room, traces of fog curling about him. He placed a black medical bag on the floor and advanced toward Sir John.
‘You’re not Hannah,’ said the knight.
A black gloved hand appeared from beneath the cloak clutching a Kukri.
‘Good evening, Sir John,’ he breathed, tipping his top hat
‘*****************************************
Mulholland and Ojeleye stared at Jemima Hartley. She smiled sweetly back.
Mulholland sighed and scratched his head. He looked at the pile of newspapers.
‘This isn’t going to help our investigation,’ he said.
‘I assure you that our conversation was strictly off the record. I can’t imagine why he printed it or how the other newspapers picked up on it.’
‘I’m sure,’ grunted Ojeleye.
‘Thank you, Ms Hartley. That will be all, for now.’ Mulholland attempted a smile and failed miserably.
Jessica swept out on a cloud of Poison.
Ojeleye laughed harshly.
‘Something amusing you, Calvin?’
‘That ladyboy pissing his pants last night. Or should that be her pants.’
‘This isn’t funny. Pendlebury might be…have been a disgusting old perve, but he’s society. The Chief is gonna be on our necks now. And we’ve still got nothing to go on.’
Last night’s events might have amused his DC, but Mulholland had found them disturbing. Sir John had a small mews flat off the King’s Road. Cobbled street. Imitation gas lamps. What with the bastard fog, it was like going back in time. To make matters worse, he’d started reading that stupid novel. Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter, syphilis-crazed madman, surgeon to the Royal Family, medic to the poor, was down on whores. He was searching for a particular prostitute who had given him his disease, but wasn’t particularly efficient in his search. He’d wiped out one poor lady of the night on the Westminster Embankment, taken apart another in the upstairs room of a Bawdy House in Victoria, then chopped up a high-class concubine in Chelsea….
Mulholland groaned.
‘You OK, Sarge?’
‘******************************
Hector Waddell walked nervously through the fog. Ridiculous! 17.05 and you could hardly see a hand in front of your face. He’d already lost sight of the building where he worked. No chance of a taxi in these conditions. Aware that he might slip on the kerb, he tried to make out the paving stones as he walked. Keep in the centre of the path.
Sir John – murdered! Who would have believed it? Waddell had half-hoped that if there was to be another victim from their world , it would have been that pipsqueak Escott. Failing that, the Hartley harpy.
Inevitably, head down, he bumped into someone. Realising that, at his eye level, he was staring into a man’s chest, he looked up, doffing his bowler equitably.
‘I do apologise, my good…’ Waddell coughed and gurgled.
The top hat made the man even taller. He towered over the publishing executive. A black-gloved hand reached into a black medical back, and emerged, clutching a huge Bowie knife.
‘****************************
Wayne Escott and Jemima Hartley looked down at the remains of Hector Waddell.
‘It’s him,’ they said in unison, their voices echoing eerily in the morgue. The pathology technician covered the body parts.
Jemima’s weight pressed against Wayne’s side.
‘Oh Wayne,it’s horrible.’
Escott firmly grasped her arm and hauled her upright, pushing her away.
‘Anything else?’ he snarled at the two policemen.
‘Nope. You’re free to go. Thank you for your co-operation,’ said Mulholland, almost concealing his sarcasm.
Wayne Escott stalked out of the room. Jemima Hartley had transferred her vapours to Ojeleye.
‘It was horrible, Calvin,’ she moaned, clutching the top of his thigh for support.
Mulholland raised his eyebrows and left the morgue. On impulse, he decided to keep an eye on Escott. The youngster had disappeared into the fog. The policeman made his way slowly but surely toward Wayne’s flat.
‘*********************************
Jemima clung to Calvin as they left the police station.
‘I need you now,’ she whispered in his ear. The policeman led the way through the fog to an unmarked police car. He unlocked it and they clambered inside.
‘Where to?’ he asked with a broad grin.
‘Here,’ she replied, massaging his groin, and pulling down his zip. Calvin gritted his teeth as the publicity manager’s head descended.
‘Christ!’
He looked around. The car was hemmed in by the thick white fog. Calvin relaxed and began to enjoy Jemima’s ministrations. A dark shape formed outside the car. He gradually realised that it was a man, wearing top hat.
‘shit!’
‘What’s wrong?’ There was a hurt tone in Jemima’s muffled voice. She decided to use her teeth to encourage a reaction.
‘It’s him! Ouch! Jesus, woman!’ Calvin wrestled his limpness away, and zipped up, catching a bit of skin on the way.
‘Ffffffff!’ He shoved the car door open, and stepped out.
All Jemima could see was his broad back. She squealed as the tip of a cavalry sabre penetrated the suit jacket, spraying warm blood around the car interior.
Calvin, eyes and mouth gaping, fell back, fingers grasping the door frame. The caped figure waggled the sword. Calvin groaned and vomited blood.
Jemima watched the razor sharp tip disappear. The fog-shrouded man casually lopped off both the policeman’s arms, as though demonstrating the sharpness of his blade. The hands remained clutching the car, as the body was hurled aside.
Jemima pressed back against the passenger door as the man plucked off the severed extremities one by one with his sabre. He then wiped the sword on the late Calvin Ojeleye’s jacket, replaced it in a belt sheath and pulled himself into the car. He closed the driver’s door, and opened the black medical bag on his lap.
He produced a scalpel and held it up.
‘You look at though you could use a doctor , my dear.’
He winked. She fainted.
‘*************************************************
Mulholland paused outside the door of Wayne Escott’s flat. He fished a set of burglary tools from his jacket pocket. Better check first, he thought, and knocked on the door. To his surprise, it opened.
‘Yes?’ An exhausted looking Escott looked him up and down.
‘Oh….hello.’ Mullholland replaced his tools surreptitiously and gave the younger man a sickly grin.
‘I was just passing and…’
‘…thought you’d check up on me,’ finished Escott. ‘Come in.'
Mullholland followed him into the tiny, dingy apartment. In the miniscule living room an old teak chest was thrown open and browning wrinkled papers were spread around the sofa and the floor.
The detective wrinkled his nose.
‘They’re Willie’s papers. Willie Wilson. Who wrote the book?’ supplied Escott.
‘Oh yes?’ returned Mulholland, non-commitally.
‘He did a fantastic amount of research. Unusual for him. His landlady let me have these. He spilt scotch all over them, but there’s some incredible stuff in here!’
The policeman watched Escott’s eyes light up, his face flush and his voice become louder. A fanatic, he thought. Poor sad sod. Mullholland’s eyes wandered around the stacked bookshelves. Living in a fantasy world.
‘You see, Sergeant, Doctor Emanuel Slaughter was a real person. And Wilson was convinced he was actually Jack The Ripper. Willie wanted to tell his story, but as fiction. So no-one would know. He wrote the Slaughter stories over thirty years ago. My dad….my dad wouldn’t publish them. It was what broke Willie. More or less ended his writing career. Why he became an alcoholic. Carrying all these secrets. I never forgave my father for that. I loved his books. I swore if I ever had a chance to bring him back….’
Escott grabbed some of the stained manuscripts.
‘It’s all here. All of it! Slaughter was involved with a secret society. The Forefathers. They were alchemists, Freemasons, black sorcerors. Don’t you realise? The murderer? It actually is Doctor Slaughter! Resurrected!And he’s killing anyone who would stop his story being published!’
Escott’s spittle flew into Mullholland’s face. He felt the heat of the young man’s passion. Barking mad, he thought. He’d come to this flat with half an idea that Escott was the murderer, dressing up, and killing his workmates. The fact he was in the flat had almost dissuaded the copper. But now…’
‘The fog. The fog. Don’t you see…?’ Mulholland back-pedalled slowly towards the door, as the possessed Escott moved forward.
‘What about the fog?’
‘Have you seen the weather forecasts? There is no fog!’ Escott beamed. Mulholland thought he’s right. No mention of fog in London, yet they’d been hemmed in the past few days.
‘It’s his fog. His personal miasma. It cloaks his deeds. His ripping.’
Mulholland opened the door and prepared to leave. He’d just give the poor sap a parting shot, then stake out this place.
‘When I made Detective-Sergeant, Mister Escott, my boss gave me a tour of the Yard. I saw the Black Museum. And I saw the contents of the Macnaghten file. The real one, not the one made public a while back. And…’
A movement outside the door caught his eye, and he whirled, in time to see a top-hatted figure outside the door. The meat cleaver bisected his skull, stopping between his eyes, atop the bridge of his nose.
Mulholland fell back into the room. Doctor Emanuel Slaughter swept into Escott’s flat and closed the door.
He took off his top hat, and placed his medical bag on the floor.
Wayne Escott had backed up to the farthest wall and was staring into the face of death.
‘Willie?’
‘I’m not Willie. I’m Doctor Slaughter.’
Escott edged forward.
'You look like…’
Slaughter removed a long skewer from his bag and thrust it through Escott’s foot, pinning him to the floor.
Escott screamed and blinked tears from his eyes.
‘Come on, Willie. It’s over. I’ll help you. I…don’t!’
Slaughter bundled up the crumpled papers and stuffed them in the trunk. He flicked a match on the open lid, and dropped it into the container. A great flame flared up.
‘No! No! That’s priceless! It…’
Slaughter regarded Escott.
‘I’m not Willie. I'm Doctor Slaughter. And I don't want my story told.’
He began to take knife after blade after knife from the bag.
‘You’re the last, Escott. We’d better do something special with you. Remember how the book finished?’
Escot tried to run. The skewer had loosened slightly. He hopped round in a pathetic circle, ending up facing the Doctor once more.
‘I never finished it,’ said Escott, hanging his head in shame.
Doctor Emanuel Slaughter tested the fineness of his flaying knife and roared with laughter.
END
The F In Fog
Wilson walked out of Waterloo Station on the bridge over York Road. He approached the Shell Building and tutted in surprise as he realised that the thoroughfare had been closed off and he would have to retrace his steps or descend the stairway to York Road itself.
It was a number of years since he’d last visited the city and he’d forgotten how everything could change.
He trotted down the stairs, and as he walked towards what he remembered as County Hall, he was amazed at the complete transformation. All manner of eating-houses, shops and tourist attractions seemed to have sprung up. The signs bewildered him. Aquarium? Dali Museum? He felt dizzy.
Wilson felt more on solid ground as he approached the Embankment and Westminster Bridge. They couldn’t tamper with the river. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets as a chill wind whistled between the buildings.
He could hear the waves of the river lapping at the walls now, but a thick fog concealed the water itself. In fact it concealed virtually everything. He could just make out the top of the Westminster Clock Tower housing Big Ben . Of the bridge itself there was no sign.
This must be what it was like in the days of the pea-souper, he smirked. He walked along the Embankment towards the bridge, surprised by the absence of people. It was mid-morning. He expected some visitors to England’s shores to be out and about.
Wilson then noticed the silence. Apart from the sound of the gentle lapping from where the river should be, there was nothing. He could hear his breathing, and the beat of his heart, but nothing else save Old Father Thames.
He walked on. Surely he should have reached the steps up to the bridge by now? His breathing had become louder and more ragged. The fog had swirled above him, blocking out the grey sky.
‘Hello?!’ he shouted involuntarily, making himself jump.
He stood stock still, listening. Straining his ears. He couldn’t even hear the water anymore. He began to edge forward slowly, stretching out his hands, hoping to touch a wall, or to ward off anything concealed within the fog.
He froze as he heard footsteps coming towards him. Quiet at first, progressively louder. Click-click-click. High heels?
Wilson sighed and relaxed slightly. A woman. The pace of the footsteps picked up, and he discerned a heavier tread behind them. His body tensed. He could hear breathing. Feminine gasps, and a deeper, grunting sound.
The clicking became a scrabbling, and Wilson gasped as an ear-piercing scream leaped out of the fog at him. He looked left and right. Still nothing could be seen. He tried to control his own breathing, and the hammering of his heart.
‘Hah! I’ll teach you.’
The disembodied voice came from below him. Another shriek, followed by a slow gasp, and the sound of ripping.
The fog moved, revealing the stone paving of the Embankment. Wilson felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he watched an ever-increasing pool of scarlet liquid form.
The fog swirled and eddied. Wilson bit his lip. The rouged face of a young woman, the throat opened. A knife held in a black-gloved hand. A familiar face beneath a top hat.
‘You! But… you’re not…not….’ Wilson’s agitated voice trailed off limply, as the dark figure straightened and moved toward him.
‘***********************************
‘Where the heck is Wilson?’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘It’s his own signing, for Heaven’s sake.’
Harris sighed.
‘I told you this horror stuff was a non-starter. Even tarting up Victorian decadence for the Nasty Generation.’
He picked up a slim volume and waved it at Escott.
‘ “Doctor Emanuel Slaughter – The Westminster Ripper?” Come on, Wayne, they want psychological stuff now. Not this.’
Wayne Escott drummed his fingers on the table, and cast a nervous glance at the bookshop manager.
‘Keep it down, Pete. If you were so against this, why wait ‘til now to whinge? Give Willy a chance. All our research showed this was the way to go. Now calm down.’
Pete Harris surveyed the empty shop. He walked slowly to the window.
‘Your research’, he muttered, adding ‘Filthy bloody weather,’ in a louder voice.
‘It’s what’s keeping the punters away,’ Escott remarked to the shop manager, with a weak smile. The manager didn’t appear convinced.
Harris watched the shifting fog through the window. Anything could be out there. For a brief moment, he imagined the shop packed, a television crew in attendance, perhaps even some out of work actors in Victorian costumes milling around…..no, this whole retro thing was bollocks. They needed cutting edge stuff. Dark fantasy. Horror was so outmoded. Abused children. Battered women . Fucked up adolescents. A third rate Jack The Ripper take-off was passé. It would have been twenty years ago. Poor old Wayne. He didn’t have a clue. He’d suggested that they attempt to revive the Western, for Christ’s sake!
Harris shrugged his shoulders. Escott would have to go. Jemima Hartley, the publicity manager would crucify them over this. Wayne was such an idealist, an optimist. He mollycoddled people like that ridiculous old drunk Wilson, a hack if ever there was one. Just because some shite the ancient boozer had churned out thirty years ago was changing hands on internet auction sites for silly money, Escott thought that they could create a new cult, or revive an old one. Fat chance! People wanted more for their money these days.
Wayne Escott felt the blush burning his cheeks. Willie had promised! Now he was going to look a complete berk in front of Harris. A bad report from the manager would drop him in it with that cow Hartley. And he was fairly sure that Peter Harris had plans of his own, that didn’t include his partner. Oh well, he owed it to Wilson, for all the pleasure the juvenile Escott had obtained from those Wilson potboilers. He still had a tatty copy of Curse Of The Witchfinder. Worth up to 50 quid, allegedly. He’d never sell it. Never! Plans to have it republished on the back of the success of the Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter series were fast disappearing. Why did he agree to the old pisshead being given a small advance? He was probably slumped at the bar of one of his Godawful East End drinking dens, instead of coming up West to meet his adoring public.
The empty shop almost laughed at him. The manager looked at his watch. Wayne watched sadly as Peter Harris glared at him, picked up his bag then slipped through the shop doorway, disappearing into the fog. Off to grass his failed project to La Belle Hartley, all Escott’s fault, I told him, he wouldn’t listen, etcetera, etcetera. Wayne felt like crying.
‘*************************
Harris debated whether to drop into the office and rubbish Wayne to Jemima. No, leave it until later. The publicity team were meeting at the Roof Gardens in Kensington that evening. He’d do his dirty work there. Grinning, he headed towards the health club.
Returning to his flat, Harris felt invigorated. The workout had cleared his head. Wayne Escott and his out of date ideas were history. He would do the necessary back-stabbing tonight, then see Hector Waddell tomorrow with regard to his vision for the way forward. It might get to the ear of Sir John…
A luxurious bath, a quick hand shandy, scented oils, expensive after-shave, even more expensive men’s fragrance, a knock at the door…
Peter Harris frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Conscious of his nakedness under the white towelling dressing gown, he moved to the front door and looked through the spyhole. Some idiot done up in a cloak and top hat. A practical joke by Mr Escott! Who would have thought him capable? Not Harris, who unlocked the door, and opened it, expletive at the ready.
The knife slashed his throat, and the boot slammed into his midriff, propelling him back into the room. He fell on his back, air expelled through the hole in his trachea, hands clutching at the wound. The black cape swirled above him, the dark shadow crouching and placing a black medical bag on the floor beside his head.
Harris gargled on blood. A black-gloved hand reached into the bag and removed first a machete, then a hacksaw.
The hand then removed the top hat. Harris’ eyes widened but he couldn’t form any words at all. The knife descended.
‘******************
Wayne Escott woke with a hangover. A teetotaller, he’d succumbed to the lure of brandy last night. Not much, but enough to send him into pleasurable oblivion for a few hours.
He’d stayed until the bitter end at the bookshop. Not one customer. No show from that bastard Willie Wilson. The manager huffing and puffing about a certain publishing house.
Fuck ‘em. Wayne surprised himself. First drinking, then cursing. Crikey, he’d be taking drugs next. Or getting a girlfriend.
The telephone rang. Here we go. Superbitch Hartley. All fired up on tell-tale Harris’ lies.
He picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr. Escott?’
‘Yes?’
‘Detective-Sergeant Mullholland, City Of Westminster Police. Mr Escott, do the names William Wilson and Peter Harris mean anything to you?’
‘Y-yes,’ said Escott, warily.
‘We’d like to speak to you.’
‘***************************************************
Hector Waddell twiddled his thumbs. Jemima Hartley made him uneasy. She was standing by the window, looking out at that damned fog.
‘It wasn’t entirely a success, then?’ he barked, trying to conceal his nervousness.
‘A disaster,’ she drawled without turning around. ‘Not a single sale. The manager was furious. I think I’ve pacified him.’
‘Down to that drunkard?’
‘Not entirely, although he didn’t even turn up. I believe that Wayne Escott should be blamed, if anyone. It was his project.’
Jemima was thinking about Peter Harris. She’d been sure he’d turn up last night. The fact he hadn’t had made her think they might have all been wrong about Escott’s penny-dreadful horror series. She’d been delighted to receive the voice-mail from the irate bookseller. She had plans for Harris. He was just the kind of ambitious, thrusting young man she enjoyed chewing up and spitting out. She was surprised not to have seen him this morning.
Waddell hummed and hahed. Escott’s father had been a big noise with the publishers. That’s why he’d been given a chance. Personally, Waddell hated him, as he had his father and would be glad to send him packing.
His intercom buzzed, and his secretary intoned ‘Wayne Escott, Mr. Waddell’ electronically.
Waddell sighed, and leaned back in his executive chair. Jemima Hartley smirked and faced the door.
A pale and shaking Escott staggered into the room.
‘Sit down, Escott,’ spat Waddell, concerned at the state of the young man. Had he been taking substances?
Escott sat, and put his face into his hands.
‘Now, let’s not beat around the bush. Yesterday was disastrous. I think Mr. Wilson should return his advance, and…’
‘He’s dead.’
Waddell paused, bristling at being interrupted and trying to comprehend Escott’s comment.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Wilson’s dead. And so’s Harris.’
‘Peter Harris?’
Both men turned to Jemima, who realised that she’d spoken more fervently than she realised.
‘Yes. Peter Harris.’
Both Waddell and Hartley remained silent, watching Escott, who took a deep breath.
‘I’ve just come from the police. I had to identify the bodies. They found my card on Willie’s body. He’d been….hacked to death on the Embankment by Westminster Bridge. Peter was in his flat. He’d been taken apart. Dismembered. The killer had removed the spotlights from that stand he had and put his head and hands…’
‘All right, all right,’ said Waddell, hastily. ‘We’ll take your word for it. Do the police know who did it?’
‘If they did, they didn’t tell me.’
‘Wayne, you’re tired and upset. You’d better go home and rest,’ soothed Jemima. ‘We’ll take this up again tomorrow.’
Wayne nodded, and wearily heaved himself up from the chair. He left the office without another word, or a glance back.
Waddell patted his forehead with an immaculate white folded handkerchief.
‘Good Lord, Ms. Hartley. This is quite shocking.’
‘Good publicity though.’
‘What?!’
‘Come on, Hector. They were trying to flog some Jack The Ripper pulp drivel. Now the author and one of the publicists have been …’ She paused, searching for an appropriate word. ‘..well,…ripped, it’ll be marvellous. We can…’
‘I forbid it!’ Hector practically screamed. ‘You cannot embroil this house in an ongoing murder hunt!’ He mopped his brow ever more frantically.
‘I’ll have to see Sir John. You know how he hates scandal of any kind.’
‘Have it your way, Hector’ sighed Jemima. As she left the office she mentally listed various journalists who might be interested in a free lunch. What a turnup for the books! They might be able to do something with that tawdry little hack work after all!
‘******************
Detective Sergeant George Mulholland watched the CCTV footage and frowned. He’d watched it a number of times, but still found it hard to take in. What on earth was some clown dressed in a top hat and cloak doing entering the block of flats where Peter Harris had been murdered? They’d checked the occupants. No fancy dress parties, actors, no-one overtly eccentric. The image was fuzzy, distorted. You couldn’t make out any discerning features. And there was no sign of whoever it was leaving.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. The door to the security office opened and Detective Constable Ojeleye entered.
‘Any luck, Calvin?’
‘Not really, Sarge. Escott’s story checks out. He and Harris had organised a book signing for Wilson in Victoria Street. Wilson didn’t show, and nor did anyone else. Harris pissed off early, and Escott stayed ‘till closing time. The manager wasn’t happy. I’m not surprised. No-one reads this tripe any more.’
He tossed a slim paperback book onto the desk in front of Mulholland. The malevolently grinning figure of Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter stared at the detective. Resplendent in black top hat and cloak, brandishing a large carving knife and a black medical bag.
‘You OK, Sarge?’
‘******************
Sir John Pendlebury sat back naked in the leather chair and sipped champagne. The She-Male Order Catalogue (his favoured escort service) had confirmed that Hannah was available that evening, and would be delighted to attend to his needs.
He needed something to take his mind off that fool Waddell squeaking about murder and scandal. What did he know? Sir John smiled cruelly. Little people. They just didn’t have a clue about the ways of the world.
The door in front of him began to open He blinked as the incense fumes stung his eyes. A tall man wrapped in a black cloak entered the room, traces of fog curling about him. He placed a black medical bag on the floor and advanced toward Sir John.
‘You’re not Hannah,’ said the knight.
A black gloved hand appeared from beneath the cloak clutching a Kukri.
‘Good evening, Sir John,’ he breathed, tipping his top hat
‘*****************************************
Mulholland and Ojeleye stared at Jemima Hartley. She smiled sweetly back.
Mulholland sighed and scratched his head. He looked at the pile of newspapers.
‘This isn’t going to help our investigation,’ he said.
‘I assure you that our conversation was strictly off the record. I can’t imagine why he printed it or how the other newspapers picked up on it.’
‘I’m sure,’ grunted Ojeleye.
‘Thank you, Ms Hartley. That will be all, for now.’ Mulholland attempted a smile and failed miserably.
Jessica swept out on a cloud of Poison.
Ojeleye laughed harshly.
‘Something amusing you, Calvin?’
‘That ladyboy pissing his pants last night. Or should that be her pants.’
‘This isn’t funny. Pendlebury might be…have been a disgusting old perve, but he’s society. The Chief is gonna be on our necks now. And we’ve still got nothing to go on.’
Last night’s events might have amused his DC, but Mulholland had found them disturbing. Sir John had a small mews flat off the King’s Road. Cobbled street. Imitation gas lamps. What with the bastard fog, it was like going back in time. To make matters worse, he’d started reading that stupid novel. Doctor Emmanuel Slaughter, syphilis-crazed madman, surgeon to the Royal Family, medic to the poor, was down on whores. He was searching for a particular prostitute who had given him his disease, but wasn’t particularly efficient in his search. He’d wiped out one poor lady of the night on the Westminster Embankment, taken apart another in the upstairs room of a Bawdy House in Victoria, then chopped up a high-class concubine in Chelsea….
Mulholland groaned.
‘You OK, Sarge?’
‘******************************
Hector Waddell walked nervously through the fog. Ridiculous! 17.05 and you could hardly see a hand in front of your face. He’d already lost sight of the building where he worked. No chance of a taxi in these conditions. Aware that he might slip on the kerb, he tried to make out the paving stones as he walked. Keep in the centre of the path.
Sir John – murdered! Who would have believed it? Waddell had half-hoped that if there was to be another victim from their world , it would have been that pipsqueak Escott. Failing that, the Hartley harpy.
Inevitably, head down, he bumped into someone. Realising that, at his eye level, he was staring into a man’s chest, he looked up, doffing his bowler equitably.
‘I do apologise, my good…’ Waddell coughed and gurgled.
The top hat made the man even taller. He towered over the publishing executive. A black-gloved hand reached into a black medical back, and emerged, clutching a huge Bowie knife.
‘****************************
Wayne Escott and Jemima Hartley looked down at the remains of Hector Waddell.
‘It’s him,’ they said in unison, their voices echoing eerily in the morgue. The pathology technician covered the body parts.
Jemima’s weight pressed against Wayne’s side.
‘Oh Wayne,it’s horrible.’
Escott firmly grasped her arm and hauled her upright, pushing her away.
‘Anything else?’ he snarled at the two policemen.
‘Nope. You’re free to go. Thank you for your co-operation,’ said Mulholland, almost concealing his sarcasm.
Wayne Escott stalked out of the room. Jemima Hartley had transferred her vapours to Ojeleye.
‘It was horrible, Calvin,’ she moaned, clutching the top of his thigh for support.
Mulholland raised his eyebrows and left the morgue. On impulse, he decided to keep an eye on Escott. The youngster had disappeared into the fog. The policeman made his way slowly but surely toward Wayne’s flat.
‘*********************************
Jemima clung to Calvin as they left the police station.
‘I need you now,’ she whispered in his ear. The policeman led the way through the fog to an unmarked police car. He unlocked it and they clambered inside.
‘Where to?’ he asked with a broad grin.
‘Here,’ she replied, massaging his groin, and pulling down his zip. Calvin gritted his teeth as the publicity manager’s head descended.
‘Christ!’
He looked around. The car was hemmed in by the thick white fog. Calvin relaxed and began to enjoy Jemima’s ministrations. A dark shape formed outside the car. He gradually realised that it was a man, wearing top hat.
‘shit!’
‘What’s wrong?’ There was a hurt tone in Jemima’s muffled voice. She decided to use her teeth to encourage a reaction.
‘It’s him! Ouch! Jesus, woman!’ Calvin wrestled his limpness away, and zipped up, catching a bit of skin on the way.
‘Ffffffff!’ He shoved the car door open, and stepped out.
All Jemima could see was his broad back. She squealed as the tip of a cavalry sabre penetrated the suit jacket, spraying warm blood around the car interior.
Calvin, eyes and mouth gaping, fell back, fingers grasping the door frame. The caped figure waggled the sword. Calvin groaned and vomited blood.
Jemima watched the razor sharp tip disappear. The fog-shrouded man casually lopped off both the policeman’s arms, as though demonstrating the sharpness of his blade. The hands remained clutching the car, as the body was hurled aside.
Jemima pressed back against the passenger door as the man plucked off the severed extremities one by one with his sabre. He then wiped the sword on the late Calvin Ojeleye’s jacket, replaced it in a belt sheath and pulled himself into the car. He closed the driver’s door, and opened the black medical bag on his lap.
He produced a scalpel and held it up.
‘You look at though you could use a doctor , my dear.’
He winked. She fainted.
‘*************************************************
Mulholland paused outside the door of Wayne Escott’s flat. He fished a set of burglary tools from his jacket pocket. Better check first, he thought, and knocked on the door. To his surprise, it opened.
‘Yes?’ An exhausted looking Escott looked him up and down.
‘Oh….hello.’ Mullholland replaced his tools surreptitiously and gave the younger man a sickly grin.
‘I was just passing and…’
‘…thought you’d check up on me,’ finished Escott. ‘Come in.'
Mullholland followed him into the tiny, dingy apartment. In the miniscule living room an old teak chest was thrown open and browning wrinkled papers were spread around the sofa and the floor.
The detective wrinkled his nose.
‘They’re Willie’s papers. Willie Wilson. Who wrote the book?’ supplied Escott.
‘Oh yes?’ returned Mulholland, non-commitally.
‘He did a fantastic amount of research. Unusual for him. His landlady let me have these. He spilt scotch all over them, but there’s some incredible stuff in here!’
The policeman watched Escott’s eyes light up, his face flush and his voice become louder. A fanatic, he thought. Poor sad sod. Mullholland’s eyes wandered around the stacked bookshelves. Living in a fantasy world.
‘You see, Sergeant, Doctor Emanuel Slaughter was a real person. And Wilson was convinced he was actually Jack The Ripper. Willie wanted to tell his story, but as fiction. So no-one would know. He wrote the Slaughter stories over thirty years ago. My dad….my dad wouldn’t publish them. It was what broke Willie. More or less ended his writing career. Why he became an alcoholic. Carrying all these secrets. I never forgave my father for that. I loved his books. I swore if I ever had a chance to bring him back….’
Escott grabbed some of the stained manuscripts.
‘It’s all here. All of it! Slaughter was involved with a secret society. The Forefathers. They were alchemists, Freemasons, black sorcerors. Don’t you realise? The murderer? It actually is Doctor Slaughter! Resurrected!And he’s killing anyone who would stop his story being published!’
Escott’s spittle flew into Mullholland’s face. He felt the heat of the young man’s passion. Barking mad, he thought. He’d come to this flat with half an idea that Escott was the murderer, dressing up, and killing his workmates. The fact he was in the flat had almost dissuaded the copper. But now…’
‘The fog. The fog. Don’t you see…?’ Mulholland back-pedalled slowly towards the door, as the possessed Escott moved forward.
‘What about the fog?’
‘Have you seen the weather forecasts? There is no fog!’ Escott beamed. Mulholland thought he’s right. No mention of fog in London, yet they’d been hemmed in the past few days.
‘It’s his fog. His personal miasma. It cloaks his deeds. His ripping.’
Mulholland opened the door and prepared to leave. He’d just give the poor sap a parting shot, then stake out this place.
‘When I made Detective-Sergeant, Mister Escott, my boss gave me a tour of the Yard. I saw the Black Museum. And I saw the contents of the Macnaghten file. The real one, not the one made public a while back. And…’
A movement outside the door caught his eye, and he whirled, in time to see a top-hatted figure outside the door. The meat cleaver bisected his skull, stopping between his eyes, atop the bridge of his nose.
Mulholland fell back into the room. Doctor Emanuel Slaughter swept into Escott’s flat and closed the door.
He took off his top hat, and placed his medical bag on the floor.
Wayne Escott had backed up to the farthest wall and was staring into the face of death.
‘Willie?’
‘I’m not Willie. I’m Doctor Slaughter.’
Escott edged forward.
'You look like…’
Slaughter removed a long skewer from his bag and thrust it through Escott’s foot, pinning him to the floor.
Escott screamed and blinked tears from his eyes.
‘Come on, Willie. It’s over. I’ll help you. I…don’t!’
Slaughter bundled up the crumpled papers and stuffed them in the trunk. He flicked a match on the open lid, and dropped it into the container. A great flame flared up.
‘No! No! That’s priceless! It…’
Slaughter regarded Escott.
‘I’m not Willie. I'm Doctor Slaughter. And I don't want my story told.’
He began to take knife after blade after knife from the bag.
‘You’re the last, Escott. We’d better do something special with you. Remember how the book finished?’
Escot tried to run. The skewer had loosened slightly. He hopped round in a pathetic circle, ending up facing the Doctor once more.
‘I never finished it,’ said Escott, hanging his head in shame.
Doctor Emanuel Slaughter tested the fineness of his flaying knife and roared with laughter.
END