Tanner lingered in the air as Ether Dust, mixing with the smog and the fog and the stinking tobacco smoke that polluted London’s air. Jack stood in the shadowy alleyway. Tanner swirled around his body, seeing now the stains on his grubby black frock-coat. The blood of his victims. Jack rubbed his hands together to warm them. His fingerless gloves revealed stubby fingers with blackened filth around the edge of the nails. In its leather sheath was the blade he had used to cut his victims’ throats. In his pockets were a few coins they had been carrying, taken as souvenirs of their murders.
What kind of man chose murder when there were other options available? Tanner thought about that poor girl in the attic window. Now, he understood the look in her eyes. Not the sadness of a ghost imprisoned, but the bewilderment of a girl whose life had been taken for reasons far beyond her own understanding.
‘Come on out,’ snarled Jack. ‘I know you’re ’ere. I can smell you lot out. Death has its own stench, don’t it.’
Tanner materialised in front of him, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with dark anger.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Jack.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ replied Tanner.
‘What? Talking to you?’
‘You’re killing people.’
Jack shrugged. ‘What d’you care? I’m getting you ghosts, ain’t I?’
‘I never asked for murder.’
‘You asked for help and that’s what you’re gettin’.’
‘Help as a Talker.’
‘Talk? Who wants to talk to a whining ghost? You expect me to persuade and negotiate when there’s short cuts available?’ Jack pulled his knife out and jabbed it through Tanner’s chest.
In spite of himself Tanner flinched.
‘Anyway, I’m only killin’ them with no lives,’ said Jack. ‘Drunks, urchins, whores. They should ’ang a medal on my chest. I’m cleanin’ up London.’
‘They’re calling you the Kitchen Killer,’ replied Tanner.
Jack smirked. ‘Jack Toop, the Kitchen Killer,’ he said with a wistful smile. ‘Yes, that’ll do.’
‘They’re closing in on you, Jack. The police have your name. Reeve told them you killed that copper.’
‘Did he?’ breathed Jack. ‘He’ll live to regret giving me up, he will. Then he’ll die to regret it too. Give us another of your addresses and I’ll drag his body inside. That way I can go visit his ghost and he can watch as I take over his empire.’
‘I will not be a part of this,’ said Tanner.
‘Suit yourself. You’ve served your purpose now. I had my suspicions that it was him but I had to know for sure. Reeve’s goin’ to get what’s coming to him. I want him to look into my eyes while the blood drains from his body.’
‘I hope they catch you.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Jack mockingly. ‘You should be proud of yourself. You’re the first ghost that ever proved useful.’
Jack stepped into the street and was swiftly gone in amongst the crowds. Tanner thought about the five lives ended because of him. The dead liked to speak of being ghost-born to make it sound more pleasant, but Tanner knew that nothing could sweeten the violence of death. He remembered his own. He didn’t know the name of the sickness that killed him, but the pain of death lingered on in his memory. Nothing that could happen in life hurt like the feeling of having it torn away. Refusing the Unseen Door and remaining a ghost was to retain the memory of that pain forever. That was why the pull of the door was so hard to resist; it promised to wipe away that pain.
Tanner turned. Something had caught his eye.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
A ghost materialised. He was a well-dressed man, with a thin moustache, and greasy slicked-back hair. He smiled.
‘What do you want?’ asked Tanner.
‘Bonjour,’ said the man.
‘Eh?’
‘Typical ignorant English ghost,’ said the ghost.
Tanner didn’t like the way he looked at him. He began to turn to Ether Dust but felt two cold metallic hands suddenly clamp around his wrists, preventing him from escaping. ‘What you playing at?’ he demanded.
‘I am not here to play, Monsieur Tanner,’ replied the man. ‘I am here to work.’