From Hell to Eternity
The day after the murder everyone was talking about Jack the Ripper. The manner of death and the victim’s profession made the comparison unavoidable.
The body was discovered by two nurses coming off the graveyard shift at the Royal London Hospital. On reaching the staff car park they noticed a sprawled figure which they took for an unconscious drunk. As they drew closer they saw the pool of blood and the extent of the injuries. The throat had been cut and the body disembowelled. Entrails lay like a nest of giant worms over and around the victim’s limbs and torso. The face was hacked into mince. One ear was missing.
Naturally, the tabloids capitalised on the brutality of the crime and the location of the body, turning every doctor at the hospital into a suspect. But any able-bodied person was capable of spilling blood and viscera with no knowledge whatsoever of anatomy.
BLOODY MURDER! cried more than one paper, adopting the lurid style of a Victorian broadsheet. WHITECHAPEL HORROR! RENT BOY RIPPER!
The victim, Ben Garman, had only been on the game a few months. The previous evening he’d left a nightclub after responding to a text message. He wasn’t seen again until the nurses found his body at dawn, his pretty features savagely mutilated.
“There were steam comin’ off his body, like,” said the younger of the two nurses. “So it must ’ave ’appened just as we were leaving ’ospital. Poor lad.”
It was only the beginning. Three nights later a security guard found Aidan Courtley lying in a stairwell near Tower Hill Tube station, his throat slit so wide he was nearly decapitated. Some of his organs had been removed, though not with any apparent skill.
“Frenzied,” was the coroner’s dry observation. “Like a bloody shark.”
Inspector Ralph Miles stared at the dead boy while the police photographer captured the grisly scene from every angle. The press was already turning the events into a circus.
Letters poured in to Scotland Yard, their writers either confessing to the killings or condemning their neighbours. Even the most outlandish claims had to be investigated. It was a frustrating waste of manpower, chasing down false leads and reinforcing the attention seekers.
It didn’t help matters that Courtley was a porn star. Apparently films weren’t enough to fund his taste for white powder and so he hired himself out to discriminating gentlemen on the side. This time the Ripper wasn’t content with straightforward murder and mutilation. Courtley had been stabbed over two hundred times, many of the cuts shallow and superficial. His death had been slow. Protracted. The only mercy was the fact that he was dead by the time the killer emasculated him.
* * *
The boy’s eyes widened when he saw the knife. The blade pressed against his throat and he whimpered softly. A question, a demand. He couldn’t remember, couldn’t think straight. Whatever it was, he didn’t know the answer. All he knew was that there had been something in that drink. His legs felt like rubber and he thought he would faint.
“Look, I don’t—”
The blade jabbed him and he let out a yelp. Warm blood seeped down the side of his neck and into his shirt.
“OK, OK, I see him maybe two – three time. He like – how you say? – pretty boys, pretty like girls. Now I tell you everything, please, you let me go!”
But it wasn’t that simple. Without warning, a hammer blow struck him in the chest, hard, slamming him back against the brick wall. For a moment he stood, wavering dizzily. Then he crumpled to the ground. He felt a crazy sense of relief that his assailant hadn’t hit him in the face. He couldn’t work if his face was ruined. Then he saw the blood, leaping from his chest in rapid spurts.
The blade flashed again and he knew with cold certainty that he was about to die. Although he screamed, he felt no pain. Not even when the point of the knife claimed each deep brown eye. In fact, he imagined he could see more clearly than ever before. The world was suddenly alive with colour and beauty. He was in the presence of an angel.
* * *
Steve Chalmers saw the headline on a discarded copy of the Daily Mail as he joined the queue at Starbucks. MURDER FOR RENT: THIRD VICTIM IN SHOCKING RIPPER BLOODBATH! Beneath the screaming capitals was a photograph of a beautiful Chinese boy with jet black hair and eyes as fathomless as the ocean.
Steve’s stomach lurched and his hand contracted around the paper, his fingernails gouging the image. It was Danny.
All at once he tasted bile. He stuffed the paper into his briefcase and ran to the toilet. He just managed to slam the door and lock it before falling to his knees and clutching the sides of the bowl as violent spasms overtook him. He retched painfully until there was nothing left in his stomach.
At last, shaky and sweating, he clambered to his feet and splashed his face with cold water. His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away. He couldn’t fall apart here. But he couldn’t go home either; Gina was there. He stared down his pale reflection in the mirror, willing himself to calm down, regain control. A few deep breaths slowed his pounding heart and he unbolted the door, dreading the crowd.
A girl in a green Starbucks apron was waiting for him, looking anxious. “You OK, sir?”
Steve forced his lips apart in an approximation of a smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Touch of swine flu.”
She leapt back as though she’d been electrocuted, murmuring apologies and get-well wishes.
“Think I’ll skip the coffee this morning,” he said, “maybe phone in sick too.”
“Good idea,” said the girl, retreating to safety behind the counter.
The other customers cleared a path for him as he made his way back out onto the street. He stopped when he reached the corner and scrolled through the messages on his phone.
see u TMRW! xx danny
He knew he should delete it, knew how incriminating it was. But the thought of erasing all he had left of Danny made him feel ill again. He’d warned the boy, begged him to be careful. There was a maniac stalking the streets of Whitechapel, butchering pretty boys. First Ben and then that gay-for-pay porn star, Aidan.
Steve had erased their numbers from his phone after the first two murders but he couldn’t bring himself to purge Danny from the list. He was the most exquisite creature Steve had ever seen. It didn’t matter that he was half Steve’s age; it felt like love to him. As real as he had once felt for Gina. It hurt; it obsessed; it demanded expression.
He snapped the phone shut and shoved it into his coat pocket. His chest ached with a loss he knew he must hide at all costs. Hastily he devised a plan. He would go to the bank and lock himself in his office. There he would open the paper and read the terrible story of what had been done to Daniel Cheng. After that he would put on his work face and get through the rest of the day, one moment at a time, before going home and trying to hide his grief from his wife.
* * *
“Hey Miles, take a look at this.”
PC Cuthbert held a Nokia phone in one gloved hand. Cheng’s. Miles read the text on the screen.
7 PM Beaumont Hotel. Bring something kinky. I’ve got some E.
It wasn’t signed, but the number was listed in the phone contacts as ‘Steve’.
“Probably not his real name,” Cuthbert said.
But Miles shook his head. “You’d be surprised. Let’s see who answers, shall we?”
He scribbled the number on the back of his hand and called it from his own mobile, although a mischievous part of him was tempted to ring from the victim’s phone, startling the killer with a call from beyond the grave.
After several rings a recorded voice began speaking. “Hi. You’ve reached Steve Chalmers. I can’t take your call right now but…”
Miles disconnected and grinned at Cuthbert. “Steve Chalmers,” he said. “Find him.”
* * *
“Mr. Chalmers?”
Steve wiped his nose and looked up at Susan. His flu excuse had seemed to satisfy everyone’s concern over his red eyes and runny nose.
“What?” he snapped.
She flinched like a kicked puppy. “I’m really sorry to disturb you, but there’s two gentlemen here to see you.”
“Tell them I’m busy!”
“They’re from Scotland Yard.”
All the blood drained from Steve’s face. His throat suddenly felt full of sand but he managed to pretend nonchalance. “Oh? Well, in that case you’d better send them in.”
Susan nodded and vanished into the outer office. Steve sank into his chair, his heart rate increasing by the second, so rapid it became painful. How had they found him? What did they know?
He arranged his features into a welcoming but curious and concerned expression. The face of innocence.
* * *
Miles took in the bank manager’s pallor at once. His tremulous, sweaty handshake. Oh yes, he was hiding something.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the suspect said pleasantly. “I hope no one’s tried to rob the bank.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Sir, I’ll come straight to the point. Your number was found in the mobile phone of a murder victim. I see you’ve already read about it.” He nodded towards the copy of the Daily Mail lying crumpled on the desk.
Steve suddenly looked even paler. “Good lord,” he exclaimed with an unconvincing laugh. “I don’t read that rubbish!”
Both policemen maintained inscrutable expressions.
“I just… picked it up by mistake. At Starbucks. I wasn’t feeling well and I—”
Miles held up a hand. “Mr. Chalmers, we saw the text you sent to Daniel Cheng yesterday. It’s the last message he received. The last before he was killed.”
“What are you implying?” Steve spluttered.
“Sir, I have to ask your whereabouts last night, around midnight.”
For a moment Steve appeared outraged, as though he were about to deny knowing there’d even been a murder. Then he seemed to think better of it and he sat staring forlornly at his hands. “My wife doesn’t have any idea about me,” he said softly.
Miles let his eyes flick to Cuthbert, a silent warning not to interrupt. Steve looked about to crack and it was best to let him talk.
“I was on the verge of telling her all about me, about the boys. But I just couldn’t do it, couldn’t face it. I tried to stop, really I did. But they were just so beautiful, so innocent…” His voice caught as he looked at the torn front page article. His hand twitched, as though resisting an urge to touch the photo of the boy. “I couldn’t stop. Not after I found Danny. He was in the country illegally and I helped him out a little. And in return…”
He seemed to come to his senses then and he stopped himself.
Miles didn’t need to hear the sordid details; he knew the score. A pretty young thing playing up his vulnerability to the gullible older man. The street hustler with no one else to turn to. This uptight little bank manager was a perfect mark.
“Gina doesn’t understand me. She says I’m cold. But she doesn’t know what I’m like with them. How it was with Danny.” His voice sounded pleading now and he swallowed a little sob as he swiped the tissue across his eyes.
“Mr. Chalmers,” Miles said gently, “were you with Danny last night?”
Steve stared at the paper, tears spilling over his cheeks. “No.”
Miles waited, but Steve didn’t offer more. “The text mentioned a meeting at the Beaumont Hotel, 7 pm,” he prompted. “Did you go there?”
Steve nodded miserably. “We were supposed to meet in the bar but Danny never showed. I rang him but only got his voicemail.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“No, I hung up.”
Miles nodded like a priest hearing a confession. He didn’t dare resume cop mode while the man was unburdening himself so freely. “What did you do after that?”
Steve hung his head. “Just stayed in the bar and drank. I don’t even know how long I was there. The bartender called me a cab. I must have passed out when I got home.”
“Did you give Danny drugs last night?”
“I told you, I didn’t see him!”
“Did you also know Ben Garman and Aidan Courtley?”
Steve’s face crumpled like a child’s. “Yes,” he sobbed. “But I didn’t kill them either. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t!”
Miles had heard enough. It was time to play Bad Cop before the suspect turned to stone or demanded a lawyer. “Mr. Chalmers, I’m afraid I’m going to have to inform you of your rights.”
“I’m not a murderer!” he cried. Then he wept quietly while Miles cuffed him and led him out of the bank and into the waiting police car.
Steve spent two nights in jail before his wife bailed him out, assuring Inspector Miles that he’d been home with her when the murders took place.
* * *
“Want a drink?” Gina called.
“Yes, please,” Steve said, desperate to obliterate his senses.
Gina returned from the kitchen with a bottle of J&B and a pint glass. She poured him a generous measure.
Steve took two hefty swallows, enjoying the burn as it slithered down his throat like a living thing, clawing furrows along the way. He imagined it was searing away the horror of the past few days.
He drank fast and greedily, eager to be drunk, and Gina topped up his glass as soon as it was empty. There was something bothering him about the whole situation. Of course, he’d known he hadn’t killed those boys, but he didn’t have an alibi. Why had Gina lied for him?
As he finished the second glass he caught her watching him. An unsettling smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“I knew about the boys, Steve,” she said coolly. “Did you know that one of them actually rang the house once looking for you?”
No, Steve hadn’t known that. He set the empty glass down with a thump, watching as tracers of light seemed to follow the wake of his hand, like a tiny comet.
“The first one was so easy,” she continued. “Surprisingly easy. I mean, once I screwed up the nerve to do it, to make the first cut. Was it like that for you too? Screwing up your courage for the first time, I mean?”
Steve looked at her blankly, as though she were speaking a language he only vaguely understood. He seemed to comprehend on some rudimentary level what she was telling him but at the same time he was weirdly detached from his emotions. Fear was there somewhere, fluttering at the back of his mind.
“I couldn’t believe how easy it was. It was like I’d been born to it. The second one was awkward, though. I told him I wanted to hire him for a custom porn shoot but the little prima donna kept raising the price on me. Tried to screw me over too. So I made him suffer. Made it last as long as I could. And it felt good, Steve! You’ve no idea how good it felt! Oh, I’ve really got a taste for it now.” She laughed, a girlish giggle that was even more disturbing than the confession.
Steve was dazzled by the colours her words produced in his head. His eyes drifted to the empty glass as the fog lifted for a moment. Then it blanketed him with darkness.
When he opened his eyes she was still talking. He was praying. No, he was on his knees, but he certainly wasn’t praying. He didn’t know how he’d got there.
“That last one, the Chinese boy, he didn’t fight at all. He went like a willing sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. Steve managed to turn his head enough to see his predicament. He was kneeling on the floor, bending forward with his elbows resting on the seat of a chair. He couldn’t move.
“Duct tape, in case you’re wondering,” Gina said icily. “I suspect you’re not the willing victim type.”
His mind was still cloudy but he strained against his bonds. Gina didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m not surprised they never caught Jack the Ripper,” she said. “He was good. He knew what he was doing, going after East End whores. No one cares what happens to them. He was ridding the city of an undesirable element. Just like I am. But there’s one last thing I want to do. I want to be remembered like he was.”
With sudden lucidity Steve realised that she was holding a knife. He made muffled sounds of protest through the strip of tape across his mouth, but his murmurings were cut short by a sudden searing pain in his right side, just underneath his rib cage. He screamed behind the gag, struggling impotently against the tape. It felt like being turned inside-out. Then, to his further horror, he felt Gina plunge her hands into the wound, felt her shoving his insides out of the way as she reached up underneath his ribs. Blood fountained from the wound.
Lights flashed behind Steve’s eyes and his entire being became a single scream of agony.
“There!” Gina said. She displayed her trophy to him – a ripe kidney, sitting in her hand like a fistful of blood. In delirium, he watched as she placed it on the table and neatly sliced it in two.
“Seems a pity to waste half of it on the police,” she said, “but if you’re going to pay tribute…” She dropped one piece into a box, where it landed with a wet thud. “This half, however, is mine.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and before Steve finally lost consciousness, he heard the clatter of pans on the stove and smelled something cooking.
