Entering the Ten Bells public house was like stepping back in time. There was a reason it was the doctor’s favourite haunt. Until 1988, the public house was known as the Jack The Ripper in homage to one of the most famous serial killers to prowl the streets of London. On the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street, the pub’s first floor offered a generous view of the East End. Although the exterior had been modernised, upstairs held a decorative charm harking back to Victorian gin palaces, making the doctor feel very much at home. He had always felt he had been born in the wrong era. Fantasising about days of old, he sipped his port, staring at the nineteenth-century decorative tiling gracing the walls.
It was good to get out – take a break from the young lady who had been taking up all of his time. Touching the tips of his ears, his long black scarf provided ample concealment. A pair of tinted glasses and a black woollen hat completed the ensemble. He had been cooped up in that derelict building for far too long.
Attracted to its murderous history, he had frequented this East End pub long before he fulfilled his fantasy of killing prostitutes of his own. The area was diverse enough that his looks drew little attention, and he enjoyed his time there, musing about the infamous killer and how his legend had lived on. His thoughts led to ripper victims Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly. Both prostitutes, they frequented the pub during the autumn of terror, which took five women’s lives. There were many theories as to who had been responsible but the possibility of a surgeon appealed to Doctor Tanner the most. Crossing his legs, he ignored the cocktail drinkers and trendy music as he immersed his thoughts in the past.
Later, as he stepped out onto the streets, he was grateful for the light smattering of rain. It afforded him the excuse of using an umbrella, which shielded him from the attention of the people he was trying to avoid. He would finish off his visit with a stroll down Brick Lane.
The paradox of beauty and death had always fascinated him, and the variety of artwork on display often took his breath away. Every sense was assailed: the smell of street food and curry houses; the hustle and bustle of the streets – vibrant, colourful images which stayed with him long after he had left. Each visit had something to offer, as freshly painted works of art lined buildings, walls and warehouses – an inspiration and a joy to behold.
But to Doctor Tanner, there was no better canvas to work on than one that carried the essence of a soul.
The son of a mortician, he had grown up amongst the dead. Schooled from home, he was seldom in contact with the living and, when he wasn’t helping his father with the embalming process, he was assisting his mother in applying make-up to the recently deceased. His mother took great care with her subjects. Gently she positioned them, her thumb on their chin as she applied a coat of lipstick to disguise the blueness of their lips. The soft powdering of blusher, a careful application of mascara, everything about her was warm and gentle – just like the princesses that occupied the fairy stories she read to him as a child. But as he lay in bed, his thoughts had floated to the bodies of the deceased, prepared for their eternal sleep. Doctor Tanner sighed as the memory infiltrated his consciousness. He missed those days when he would sneak downstairs to the funeral parlour after their grieving families had gone, to read them one last bedtime story. How he had wanted to transform them into something better, as his mother had done, make their lifeless bodies the very embodiment of art. But the death of his parents hardened him, and his fascination turned to violence as he was left to face life on his own. With them, his uniqueness had been celebrated, but after their joint suicides, he was cast out into the world, a world which did not welcome someone like him.