The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(18)
As though in a trance, he closed the door behind him, leaving everything as he had found it. He walked towards the exit to the flats, but was seized by a feeling of intense nausea and only just made it to the stone archway. There, half-kneeling, he vomited, retching violently. After he had brought up everything, which was little more than the alcohol he had drunk that night, he leaned back against the wall, his body limp, cold, and weak.
From where he was, he could see the little room number 13, the paradise where he had been so happy, now hiding his beloved’s dismembered corpse from the night. He tried taking a few steps and, confident his dizzy spell had eased sufficiently for him to walk without collapsing, he staggered out into Dorset Street.
Too distressed to get his bearings, he began wandering aimlessly, letting out cries and sobs. He did not even attempt to find the carriage: now that he knew he was no longer welcome in his family home there was nowhere for him to tell Harold to go. He trudged along street after street, guided only by the forward movement of his feet. When he calculated he was no longer in Whitechapel, he looked for a lonely alley and collapsed, exhausted and trembling, in the midst of a pile of discarded boxes. There, curled up in a fetal position, he waited for night to pass. As I predicted above, when the shock began to subside, his pain increased. His sorrow intensified until it became physical torment.
Suddenly, being in his body was agonizing, as if he had turned into one of those sarcophagi lined with bristling nails. He wanted to flee himself, unshackle himself from the excruciating substance he was made of, but he was trapped inside that martyred flesh.
Terrified, he wondered if he would have to live with this pain forever. He had read somewhere that the last image people see before they die is engraved on their eyes. Had the Ripper’s savage leer been etched onto Marie Kelly’s pupils? He could not say, but he did know if that rule were true he would be the exception, for whatever else he might see before he died, his eyes would always reflect Marie Kelly’s mutilated face.
Without the desire or strength to do anything except remain doubled up in pain, Andrew let the hours slip by. Occasionally, he raised his head from his hands and let out a howl of rage to show the world his bitterness about all that had happened, which he was now powerless to change. He hurled random insults at the Ripper, who had conceivably followed him and was waiting knife in hand at the entrance to the alley, then he laughed at his fear.
For the most part, though, he simply wailed pitifully, oblivious to his surroundings, hopelessly alone with his own horror.
The arrival of dawn, leisurely sweeping away the darkness, restored his sanity somewhat. Sounds of life reached him from the entrance to the alley. He stood up with difficulty, shivering in his servant’s crumpled, threadbare jacket, and walked out into the street, which was surprisingly lively.
Noticing the flags hanging from the fronts of the buildings, Andrew realized it was Lord Mayor’s Day. Walking as upright as he could, he joined the crowd. His grubby attire drew no more attention than any ordinary tramp’s. He had no notion of where he was, but this did not matter, since he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. The first tavern he came to seemed as good a destination as any. It was better than being swept along on that human tide making its way to the Law Courts to watch the arrival of the new mayor, James Whitehead. The alcohol would warm his insides, and at the same time blur his thoughts until they were no longer a danger to him. The seedy public house was half empty. A strong smell of sausages and bacon coming from the kitchen made his stomach churn, and he secluded himself in the corner farthest from the stoves and ordered a bottle of wine. He was forced to place a handful of coins on the table in order to persuade the waiter to serve him. While he waited, he glanced at the other customers, reduced to a couple of regular patrons who were drinking in silence, oblivious to the clamor in the streets outside.
One of them stared back at him, and Andrew felt a flash of sheer terror. Could he be the Ripper? Had he followed him there? He calmed down when he realized the man was too small to be a threat to anyone, but his hand was still shaking when he reached for the wine bottle. He knew now what man was capable of, any man, even that little fellow peacefully sipping his ale. He probably did not have the talent to paint the Sistine Chapel, but what Andrew could not be sure of was whether he was capable of ripping a person’s guts out and arranging their entrails around their body.
He gazed out of the window. People were coming and going, carrying on their lives without the slightest token of respect. Why did they not notice that the world had changed, that it was no longer inhabitable? Andrew gave a deep sigh. The world had only changed for him. He leaned back in his seat and applied himself to getting drunk. After that, he would see. He glanced at the pile of money. He calculated he had enough to purchase every last drop of alcohol in the place, and so for the time being any other plan could wait. Sprawled over the bench, trying hard to prevent his mind from elaborating the simplest thought, Andrew let the day go by for everyone else, his numbness increasing by the minute as he drew closer to the edge of oblivion. But he was not too dazed to respond to the cry of a newspaper vendor.
“Read all about it in the Star! Special edition: Jack the Ripper caught!” Andrew leapt to his feet. The Ripper caught? He could hardly believe his ears. He leaned out of the window and, screwing up his eyes, scoured the street until he glimpsed a boy selling newspapers on a corner. He beckoned him over and bought a copy from him through the window. With trembling hands, he cleared away several bottles and spread the newspaper out on the table.