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LONDON - 1888
Thick fog clung to the district like manure on a blanket, making it harder to peer through the gloom of Whitechapel’s dark and grungy streets. A pitiful group of urchins, their bony frames covered in sodden rags, ran past him. One, a boy who looked due for his annual bath, bumped into him.
By instinct, Khan caught the boy's wrist and squeezed as the lad's nimble fingers swept across his jacket pockets. A pained yelp of surprise escaped the mouth of the urchin. He would have cried louder and longer if not for Khan's cold stare that subdued the boy.
"Sorry, sir." The boy yelped and struggled to free his fist from Khan's iron grip. "It was an accident, sir."
Khan prised the youth's fingers apart to check they held nothing. For a moment, he studied the boy's ruddy face, a hodgepodge of muck and bruises.
"You're one of Taylor's urchins?"
Mention of the name stopped the boy's struggling. "I dunno him, sir." As soon as the words left his lips, he resumed struggling against Khan's steel grip.
Earlier, Khan had spotted the pickpocket amongst Bob Taylor's army of children, so he recognised the boy's lie. Taylor enlisted young orphans as pickpockets and thieves; he cultivated such fierce loyalty, not one child betrayed him to authorities if caught. Khan hated lies, but he allowed a smile to flick across the corner of his mouth still. If the boy showed intense allegiance to Taylor, then Khan's association with Taylor was safe. Khan leaned forward to study him closer, allowing a pale finger of distant gaslight to cross his long gaunt face. The lad gasped in fright at Khan's obsidian eyes staring at him from deep eye sockets.
"Mr Khan!" The boy's astonishment was clear. "I didn't recognise you, sir. I'm sorry."
Khan remained silent, regarding him for another second. The other kids had stopped running to watch things from an adjoining street corner; Khan could feel their shifty gazes. He glanced across at them, and they withdrew back into the shades of evening. Khan released the child who lingered, unable to decide whether he should run away or keep staring at the giant he only recognised by name and mysterious reputation.
He dropped his head to the lad's level. "Boo!" In a flash, the boy scampered away, stumbling with frightened feet after his friends. Khan smiled to himself. He was fond of children, but he didn't want them hovering around him either.
Khan often kept to himself, and evidently, the youngsters saw him earlier with their boss, Bob Taylor. The king of the pickpockets spoke little of his clients - one reason Khan talked to him. If anyone knew the woman Khan sought, it was Taylor.
With his mind refocused on his personal task, Khan hurried along the street past three drunken seamen and into the fog. Although he looked towards the ground, his keen ears picked up every footfall, jostle, cough, and laugh from the surrounding people. His shadow loomed in front of him, long and black, and he watched the bounce of his head with each long stride his gangling legs took. Streetlights became scarcer the further he walked into the poverty-stricken area, so his shadow blended with the gloom in time. Soon his echoing footsteps accompanied him and wisps of mist touched him with tentative fingers.
Before long, the sailors' drunken cursing and singing faded behind him, and private thoughts occupied his mind while the amorous vapours caressed him. London's history, steeped in mystery and hidden wonders, held many secrets, and his quest had led him here. But, those same oddities attracted more questions that piled up against him.
Terrified shrieks resounded through the narrow alleyways ahead of him. His eyes narrowed, peering through the hovering fog. It was hard to pinpoint the sound's source which seemed to move in separate directions. Then another scream. This time from another direction. The trouble with Whitechapel's streets, alleys, and lanes, was sound could echo across long distances. The pea soup fog hindered him further. He stopped walking and allowed the mist to cloak him.
The frightened voices approached from ahead. Hairs rose on his neck in anticipation. Khan stood against the wall, waiting to see who came near. Before long, the screaming became voices, and he realised it came from a group of children - the same he encountered earlier. They raced past him, not noticing his tall frame skulking in the shadows. Their voices sounded scared, terrified even, but that meant little. They could have picked the wrong drunk's pocket, and he may have been chasing after them.
Khan paused upon hearing another voice coming from the place the children left. Another child, thinner than a toy kite's struts, raced by as though chased by the Devil himself. When he passed, Khan moved through the mist again, heading through Fashion Street past the doss houses. Dim lighting from inside the overcrowded residences trickled onto the fog to create an eery atmosphere. The aura of death mixed with the semi-darkness and his senses heightened.
Somewhere he heard a dog barking, and another dog started too; it sounded like a fight, perhaps over a scrap of food.
The sound popped through his chest, and his heart jumped with the adrenaline spurt. Another scream punctuated the air, laced with the terror of an imminent end and pitched high like a steam train's departure whistle. He cocked his head to listen, trying to catch its direction, and another scream ripped through night fog; a woman's scream. He took off, bolting as fast as limited visibility allowed him without tripping or colliding with hidden objects. Blood churned through his veins, pumped by an excited heart as he ran through the streets.
Then he spotted them. Two shadows outlined against the paler backdrop of fog lit by a gas streetlight. They circled each other in a chase - a chase of death. A tall man in a top hat and long coat that reached knee level. A shorter woman held in the man's grip as they danced a deadly waltz. Khan's heart jumped more, pounding hard as a racehorse's hooves, and he raced towards them. His fists balled tight, thumb locked over fingers, when he reached them and struck hard.
Khan meant to shout something as he pushed hard against the large man, but he managed only a grunt. The attacker was broad, thick-set, and appeared taken aback at another attacking him. Although he couldn't see the man's face, Khan thought he tried protesting, but he ignored it. Something metallic dropped, hitting the cobblestones. A knife. Khan ducked under the man's swinging arm and hit hard at his stomach. It was like hitting a stone wall. The assailant was fit, maybe a sailor, and two strong hands reached around towards him, tried to grip, but Khan stepped away as quick as a fly.
Still ducking, Khan rammed the man with his whole body. A grunt reached his ears, and the woman's assailant dropped to the hard cobbled path. A streetlight's finger touched the woman's would-be assailant's face revealing crazed eyes glowing crimson. Khan kicked the man's hat away.
Something seemed odd. The man lay still on the ground. A rivulet of blood ran from his body towards Khan's feet. He wasn't breathing.
Khan's mind concluded the large attacker was too easy to defeat. He turned, facing the woman. The next scream that filled his ears was his own as he saw the glint of steel plunging towards his own heart. The blade sliced his chest, he heard piercing ripping of flesh, and darkness stole his vision. As he died, he realised something.
He had attacked the wrong killer.
He would deal with that upon his return.