The doctor shuffled on the rotting mattress, shifting his bones to get comfortable. Underneath the material of his long military coat, small warm bodies stirred. A set of whiskers brushed against his own, a long black tail slithering across his neck as the rodents sharing his space settled down. The storm had brought them inside seeking warmth and shelter. He had not turned them away. Their bellies full from the food that he had brought them, they had kept him company as he plotted his next move. Surrounded by newspapers he had scanned each word under torchlight, absorbing the titles that referred to his victim as a young prostitute who had been transformed before her death. It had filled him with warm glee to see his art spoken of in the nationals. Not that they saw it as art, not yet. But they would, he would make sure of that. He must have fallen asleep around three when his flashlight dimmed, and his eyelids turned leaden. Waking up with his faithful creatures wrapped around him, he no longer felt alone.
It was not as if he didn’t have a home to go to – however his flat in Shoreditch no longer felt safe. The people who disfigured him had left him with nightmares, and it had taken some time to feel back in control. His art was a testament to his recovery, and his victims gave him strength. Not that he saw them as victims, empathy was not an emotion he was familiar with.
Even throughout his childhood, he had known he was different to the others. As his friends buried their pets in makeshift graveyards, he threw his bug-eyed goldfish down the toilet. He remembered wondering, as he urinated on him, how long it would be before he could persuade his mother to buy him another one. Pets, like people, were disposable objects. There were too many of them in the world, and the loss of a few would make it a better place.
Just because he didn’t care about his fellow human beings did not mean they were not a subject of great fascination – and in what other occupation would he be able to place his hands on real-life subjects? He smiled at the thought. People were so trusting back then. Over the years things had changed. The respect faded, and he was forced to move his profession into the shadows of the darkness. Illegal abortions were highly paid, and it was something he developed a great fascination for. Word got around that he could be trusted. Soon he was employed by darker characters to treat gunshot wounds and life-threatening injuries. He had even dabbled in facial reconstruction. He had treated them all and been well paid for it.
Now he was an outcast. Money was no longer a necessity, and he was at least free to treat his betrayers with the contempt he felt.
He had already lined up his next work of art, and he could not wait to get his hands on her. He stroked the fur of the rat nestling underneath his coat. Like humans, they could turn on him without a moment’s notice. That was what he liked about the creatures that visited him in the night: they never pretended to be any more than they were, and he trusted them more than they deserved. Like the rats, he had learned to walk in the shadows and immerse himself in a community that rejected him long ago. With his long grey hair and oversized coat, he prowled the night with his head low, his offensive features hidden away from view.
He had known April for some time now. Granted, she recoiled beneath his touch, but he worked hard to demonstrate a gentle and grateful side to his nature, much unlike the brutish behaviour of some of her younger clients. And when that failed the promise of more money always won them over in the end. He slid himself upwards, freeing the rats as they squeaked and swooped for cover. Shaking his leg as he stood, he loosened one from within the thin material of his trouser leg. Its long yellow teeth embedded in the stitching as it attempted to nip him on the way down. Like a footballer, the doctor kicked out, releasing it across the room. Skittering on its back, it hit the skirting board with a thud.
Shaking the stiffness from his limbs, the doctor walked across the room and ran his hand over the rusted surgeon’s chair. It was time to prepare. Today was the day, and he had something very special lined up for April. His eyes crept over to his scalpel, which glinted in the dim light. It was good to be reacquainted with his old friend. Killing the girl in the park had been unplanned but he had enjoyed submerging himself in violence again. It had given him the confidence to move on to greater things. He had something even greater in store for his next masterpiece. His thin lips stretched into a smile. It would be the talk of the East End, and there wouldn’t be a newspaper in the land that would not want to cover it.