A Symphony of Echoes

This book is for Connie and Martin who had faith.

And for Dani who actually did it.
And for Christine.

Peer Reviews for Just One Damned Thing After Another

Seriously?
L Farrell. Chief Technical Officer.

My office. Ten a.m. tomorrow morning, Dr Maxwell. Be there.
Dr E Bairstow. Director.

You really can’t spell for tofee, can you?
T Peterson. Chief Training Officer.

You didn’t put me in it.
Lydia Thighthruster. Housekeeping.

You made me a man?
M Markham. Security.

You made me a woman?
K Black. Liaison Officer.

In what universe can you actually sprint?
I Guthrie. Chief Security Officer.

I think there should have been more of me in it.
Professor A Rapson
Doctor O Dowson
Mrs T Mack
Mrs M Enderby
Et al.      

Prologue

One of the best things about our job is that if you live long enough, you get to choose your last jump.

One of the worst things about our job is that, so far, no one has lived long enough to get to choose their last jump.

The last jump is supposed to be a quiet reward – the chance to enjoy a favourite moment in history – to visit Agincourt perhaps, or see Antony and Cleopatra floating down the Nile, or to hear Elizabeth I addressing the troops at Tilbury. To witness some epoch-making event of your choice. To fulfil a lifelong ambition.

In short, it’s supposed to be enjoyable.

It is not supposed to be a whirling nightmare of blood and pain and terror.

It is not supposed to be about savage butchery, mutilation, beheading, and having half your face ripped off.

It is not supposed to be about dying in a blood-drenched pod, trapped with a monster and no way out.

It is not supposed to be about the paralysing horror of seeing your best friend ripped open to the bone and having to put her out of her pain.

It is not supposed to be about being abandoned and never seeing the sun again.

It’s not supposed to be about any of that.

Chapter One

God only knew where we were, we couldn’t see a thing. A real pea-souper. I said, ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Well,’ said Kal, ‘we’re in Whitechapel, in the right place at the right time. It’s about eleven o’clock on the night of 8th November 1888. Not bad, eh? More accurate than I thought weA would be. I suggest we tuck ourselves away in a pub somewhere and wait and see what happens. They say that tonight’s is his last victim. Maybe that’s because he gets to meet us in a dark alley.’

‘We can’t kill him,’ I said, alarmed.

‘No, but we could certainly scare the living crap out of him.’

I considered. That sounded good.

I
’
d read around the subject. Jack the Ripper famously terrorised London in the summer and autumn of 1888. There were eleven murders altogether, although only five are generally credited to the Ripper – Mary Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth White, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Kelly. Kelly was murdered and horrifically mutilated in the very early hours of the 9th November, 1888 and although there were other killings afterwards, she was generally reckoned to be his last victim. She had lived in Miller’s Court, off Dorset Road, and that was where we were headed.

Contrary to popular belief, we historians aren’t completely stupid. We may have looked like a couple of poor but honest shop girls, but the amount of weaponry we had stashed around our persons was considerable. Although if the combined forces of H Division, the City of London police, and Scotland Yard themselves had failed to catch the Ripper, there was very little chance of us doing so. For Kal, this was a long-held ambition and her last jump. For me, it was just an adventure. I don’t think either of us actually expected to see him.

We headed for the Ten Bells where Kelly was supposed to have spent her last evening. She left, late, to walk the streets, and she would take a man back to her tiny room. Her body would be discovered the next morning by Thomas Bowyer calling for the rent.

It was hopeless. The pub was heaving. There was no way we could pick her out. There could have been twenty Mary Kellys in there and we didn’t want to draw any attention to ourselves by asking around.

Despite the November chill, the inside was hot, steamy, and smelled strongly of people and drink. We ordered a gin each and wedged ourselves in the corner where we got talking to a very jolly man, George Carter.

‘Carter by name, carter for gain!’ he said cheerfully, ‘and my wife, Dolly.’

It turned out he knew the two men who’d discovered Mary Nichols.

‘A shocking thing,’ he said, draining his glass and wiping his mouth. ‘Can I get you ladies anything?’

We declined politely, but he had plenty more to say about the ‘Autumn of Terror’ as it was dubbed by the newspapers and recited details with relish and at great length.

‘Still, it’s all finished now,’ he said with authority, slapping huge hands on his fat knees. We did not look at each other. ‘There are so many coppers around here you can’t fart these days without at least three of them turning up. Carter the Farter, eh?’ Our little party had greatly increased as others contributed their thoughts and reactions and we all laughed.

The hour was considerably advanced when we eventually got up to go. He was a decent man, was George Carter. His wife prodded him and he said, ‘Now then, you ladies. Are you all right to get home? If not, there’s Jabez here, or my son Albert, or Jonas Allbright; they’re all good lads. They all work for me and you can trust them to see you home safe and sound. I know we’ve had no more of it these last few weeks, but I have girls of my own and I don’t let them walk the streets these days. Just say the word.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Carter, said Kal, ‘but we’re not far away. Round the corner, just past …’ she cast round for a name, ‘Castle Alley.’

‘Well, if you’re sure of it, we’ll say goodnight to you.’ With loud cries of goodnight and promises to meet again, we got away. Setting off at a brisk walk, we hardly weaved at all.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Kal, leaning against a wall and fanning herself. ‘What was in that gin?’

‘Lots more gin?’ I said, helpfully. It had tasted like the landlord had made it in the bath and while he was still sitting in it, too.

‘You didn’t drink much, did you? You know what you’re like.’

‘Just a few sips. I stopped when my lips went numb.’

‘Right,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Let’s get –’ and something came silently out of the fog, moving quickly, indistinguishable. I got a split-second impression of a long white face and black clothing. There was a nasty smell, but that was nothing unusual in this time and place. And then it was gone.

We looked at each other.

‘Do you think …?’ I said. ‘What’s the time?’

‘It’s well after two. It could have been him, I suppose. I certainly didn’t like the look of him, did you?’

‘No,’ I said slowly, staring into the swirling fog. ‘No, I did not.’

‘Come on, then.’

And we were off.

Except we weren’t. You can’t run on wet, slippery cobbles when you can’t see your hand in front of your face, but we made the best speed we could down the rubbish-strewn street, peering down alleyways and into doorways. Looking for Jack the Ripper.

And then we found him. Or rather, he found us.

We ran. My God, how we ran.

We ran until I thought my lungs would explode. We ran down dark, narrow, noisome alleyways, slipping and sliding on God knows what. We ran down deserted cobbled streets, their surfaces greasy with rain and heavy traffic. My stupid skirts kept wrapping themselves around my legs. My bonnet was falling off. And the bloody corset and bustle we’d had to wear for that authentic S-shaped silhouette were both likely to be the death of me.

Gas lighting had come to Whitechapel, but the lamps were few and far between, and we couldn’t see clearly, each glow being just a faint nimbus in all this heavy fog. We blundered into piles of lumber, rubbish heaps, crates, and each other. We fell down unexpected steps. We fled, headlong, down empty streets that should, according to the newspapers of 1888, have been packed with policemen from H Division, but were not. My own frantic heartbeats pounded in my ears. It wasn’t blind panic because we’re historians, and therefore we don’t do blind panic. But it wasn’t far off.

It was our own fault. We’d brought this on ourselves. This was Kal’s last jump. Her lifelong ambition – to see Jack the Ripper. Full of overwhelming confidence and conceit, and certain no 19th century monster could take on two modern historians armed with attitude, curiosity, and an overdeveloped sense of immortality – we’d gone looking for him.

And we’d found him. A figure rearing up suddenly out of the fog; right up close and more than personal; an ill-defined shape smelling of blood and decay and reaching out – for us. Suddenly, the chase was on and we were running. Running, although we didn’t know it at the time, for more than our lives.

When we stopped being the hunters and became the hunted.

We flew through the maze of Whitechapel streets and alleyways, up and down steps, confident we would soon lose him in the choking, throat-rasping pea souper. But we didn’t. It seemed that wherever we went, he was there first. A shape in the fog from which we would wheel away and try another way out. We thought we had only to get back to our pod to be safe.

But we weren’t anything like as clever as we thought we were. Because, in all that running, all that falling, all that headlong dash to get back to safety, it never occurred to us at all. We just thought we were running for our lives.

When actually, we were being – herded.

As we ran, we looked and listened – every sense we possessed pinging off our surroundings. Alert for any sound, any movement, anything at all that would give us the slightest idea where he was. Because he was here. Somewhere, not far away, he was here. Possibly, even close enough to reach a hand out of the darkness and …

Kal skidded to a halt, I crashed into the back of her, and we both fell into a handy doorway. My chest heaved, trying to take in enough oxygen to fuel my screaming muscles. My legs trembled. I leaned forwards, put my hands on my knees, and fought for breath in my bloody corset.

‘We can’t stay,’ panted Kal. ‘We’ve got to keep moving. If he catches us – we’re done.’

I nodded. However, we were still alive and that was something. More than could be said for Mary Kelly, anyway. I reached into my muff and looped my stun gun around my wrist. I had pepper spray as well and I was more than happy to use both.

‘Come on,’ said Kal, urgently. ‘The pod’s this way.’

Off we went again, but more carefully now, partly because we thought we had his measure and partly because we were exhausted. Kal led the way and I followed behind, watching our backs.

We stopped at a junction and took a few seconds to try to get our breath back, listening to the eerie, wet silence. We stood back to back. I screwed up my eyes in an effort to penetrate the thick tendrils of yellow-grey fog coiling around us.

Then, faintly, in the distance, we heard it again. A tiny sound.

Behind us.

Moving as quietly as we could, we set off. Ignoring historical accuracy, Kal had a small torch. It was almost useless. The fog just swirled the light back at us. Thick and dirty-yellow, it tasted of cheap coal, stung my throat and made my eyes run. I’d read about these pea-soupers. Thousands of people in London died every year from lung complaints. And don’t even get me started on The Great Stink.

‘God knows what this is doing to our lungs,’ said Kal.

‘Thank God I can’t breathe properly. Otherwise I might be dead by now.’

‘Oh, stop moaning. I bring you for a nice night out and all you do is complain.’

‘When I’m coughing up half a ton of black sputum tomorrow …’ and there was that sound again. Closer this time.

‘Down here,’ said Kal and we stood at the entrance to a long, narrow alleyway with high, windowless walls on each side. We’d have to go single file. I felt the hairs on my neck lift. The alley was very black and I really, really did not want to go down there.

‘Do you think the fog is lifting?’

Actually, I thought it was. I thought I could make out a small, light patch ahead, which, if the god of historians was with us, might be the exit.

‘OK, are you ready?

‘Kal …’

‘Yeah, I know. But he’s behind us and the pod is this way. We just have to get through this next bit and we’re home and dry.’

We both took a deep breath. She went first, with the torch. I walked behind her with my hand on her shoulder, half-turned, so I could watch our backs. I had my stun gun and a deep sense of unease.

Only too aware of how sound could carry, I whispered, ‘Are you armed?’

‘Torch and gun.’

‘You brought a gun?’

‘You didn’t?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Don’t panic. It’s contemporary. Remington Derringer. They were known as muff pistols.’

‘That does not make it all right.’

The fog shifted above us. We both looked up. I had the impression we had just missed seeing something. When I looked down again, I couldn’t see the light at the entrance to the alleyway behind me. Something blocked the way. Something stood behind us. Something big. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I always knew that one day we would bite off more than we could chew.

‘Kal, something’s behind us.’

Her arm appeared over my shoulder with the torch. Suddenly, shockingly close, I had the briefest glimpse of something wet and white, glistening in the flashlight. It moved with unnatural speed, knocking the torch out of her hand and brushing past us. It pushed me hard, but I managed to stay upright. I set my back against the wall, stun gun raised, covering us both.

‘Kal,’ I said, urgently. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m here,’ she said faintly, close by. ‘I think I’ve been stabbed. I’m bleeding.’

Every instinct I had told me to get out of that alley. To run. To flee blindly. Anywhere. Just get out. Get away. I took as deep a breath as I could manage in my stupid Victorian costume. Then another.

Historians don’t panic.

Although we do.

I bent, found the torch, and switched it on. Contrary to all convention – it still worked. Flashing it up and down the alley, I could see nothing near us. For some reason I checked above as well. Looking ahead, I could see the exit. Closer than I thought. The fog
was
lifting.

‘Can you run?’

‘Oh yes. It’s only my arm.’

We moved as fast as we could. Kal had hold of my arm and I relied on her to guide me because I was going backwards.

Again, I swallowed down my urge to run flat out. This narrow space was a death trap. We would be caught here. Crushed between these blind walls with no room to move. Nowhere to run. We were kicking aside litter and debris as we went.

‘Nearly there,’ whispered Kal and, with heart-stopping speed, the light at the end of our tunnel disappeared again.

I just had time to shout, ‘Kal, he’s back,’ and a shape was upon us, looming above, smelling of blood and earth. I zapped him and he fell back with a hiss.

‘Move,’ I said, pushing her. ‘Go, go, go.’

She took off and I followed, running crab-wise, watching her back as she was watching mine. Trying to cover all angles at once, heart pounding, desperate
, desperate
to get out of this enclosed space.

It was such an old movie cliché. To die on her last assignment. I wasn’t going to let it happen to her. I was scared, and when I get scared, I get angry. Nothing would happen to Kal. I would get her back safely. I swore it to myself.

We erupted out of the alley into a wider street, skirts bunched high. Kal had her pistol. I had my pepper spray. We stood, back to back, staring into the night, ready to take on anything that followed us out.

Nothing happened. Nothing followed us out of the alleyway. The street was empty. A few dim lights showed in nearby houses, but all good citizens were in bed. It was just us on the streets. I stood panting, my ribs struggling in that bloody corset. Where did he go? How could he disappear? Had the jolt from the stun gun seen him off? He would not be used to women who fought back. We circled slowly, back to back. Nothing. We circled again. Still nothing. We were alone. Slowly, my breathing and heart rate returned to acceptable levels.