Mayhem (22 page)

Yet here I was, finally sending letters to colleagues asking of any travellers who might be presenting strange symptoms after visiting Poland. I had already checked the records in my own hospital and found nothing. I told myself I was carrying out the searches simply because I had promised the two madmen I would, but that was not entirely true; my own behaviour told me otherwise, and I was something of an expert in analysing human action. I could hardly ignore my own.

I no longer walked by the river if I could avoid it.

Even with only laudanum to bolster me, I would look first around the heads of those I met before I
looked into their eyes. I avoided shadows, and never walked in those left by others.

*

When night came, I could still feel that awful disquiet. I remembered how Kosminski had reached into my mind and led us to the priest. I felt the dead women gathering around me in a throng, demanding I comply.

Inspector Moore was wrong: the killers had not moved on, nor had they died. There was still something not quite right in the air of London. Perhaps they were sleeping or resting, replete after such a bountiful previous year.

In the dark, I believed in the
Upir
, and my sleepless hours were so much longer and lonelier than those of the day. During the days, when the night’s thoughts would linger, I wondered if madness were infectious. I decided that, if anything, I was doing the research because I wanted to
disprove
the story the priest had told me, however convincingly he had relayed those awful facts. This would make me sit taller at my desk. But still I wrote the letters, and still I found my heart beating excitedly when I received replies, only to feel bitter disappointment when there were no names to further the chase.

As the weather turned from miserable to crisp and frozen, I returned to the hunt. It had always been my passion, but now I found it vital to my well-being, regardless of the exhaustion that had become
my constant companion. The freedom of riding out relieved both my anxiety and my frustration, and for a few hours at least I could become lost in the thrill of the chase, a hunt that had far more chance of success than those with which I was professionally engaged.

*

I gathered up the next batch of completed letters and smiled as I pulled on my coat to go and post them. I would hunt again tomorrow, and the very thought lifted my spirits. I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

Juliana joined me occasionally, and she had agreed to come along the next day. Her new husband encouraged her in it; he was not a huntsman himself, and there was obviously nothing improper in our friendship, so he declared himself glad that she had found something she enjoyed so thoroughly, that was good for both her spirits and her constitution. He was busy with both work and the renovations to the house in Chelsea, and Juliana was not a woman to occupy herself with visiting ladies and sewing alone. Although he had promised she could do some bookkeeping for him, this had not as yet happened, and I often sensed that I was not alone in taking out my frustrations with the world around me through the ride.

Still, if I could provide that for her, then I was happy. There was very little in my life of thrills or excitement;
both the hunt and Juliana’s company offered me those.

*

She was always flushed and smiling on the way home: truly radiant. I was not the only one to notice; I had seen several of the gentlemen of the hunt looking her way approvingly, and not only for her skill on a horse. She was a beauty, even if she failed to realise it herself. I wondered if young Harrington knew how lucky he was to have her. I hoped he would not let his affections slide now that they were married. Her loneliness still worried me, and that was how our conversation started that afternoon.

‘And how are you finding married life?’ I leaned back on the seat. It was a personal question, but our friendship had settled into something beyond the bounds of polite formalities and we were relaxed in each other’s company.

‘Very good,’ she said, then added, ‘Well, James is very busy and he has made so many plans for changes to the house that I think we shall be living at my father’s for the best part of a year, but I am glad he decided that we should move there. I’m sure his parents would have wanted it.’

‘How did you and he meet? I can’t recall you ever told me.’

‘I’m not sure I did tell you,’ she said, smiling at the memory. ‘We met in the park – I was out walking, and there was a sudden downpour.’ She smiled. ‘We stood
under the same tree together for a while until the rain passed, and then he walked me home. As it happened, the rooms he had rented were only a few doors down from our house.’

‘It sounds very romantic.’ It was so easy for the young – chance meetings, with all the possibilities of the future wrapped up in a shy smile and a first hello. I wondered why that changed as we got older – perhaps we no longer saw the potential for good experience in others, only the possibilities for complications and trouble. The idea of upsetting the routine balance of our lives no longer feels appealing. The young, of course, know no different.

‘I cannot remember the last time I took a walk in the park simply for its own sake,’ I said, a little wistfully, ‘and I can safely say I have never sheltered under a tree with a stranger and have it lead to love at first sight.’

She laughed aloud at that. ‘I never took you for a romantic, Thomas – but I must correct you, for it wasn’t love at first sight. We were simply friends at first. I don’t think he felt any immediate attraction to me, not in that way.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said. ‘I imagine he was just shy. He seems a reserved kind of chap.’

‘That might be true,’ she said, ‘but it was only after meeting my father that he began to court me properly. I noticed a distinct change in his behaviour.’ She smiled at me, her eyes all warmth and intelligence, and once again I was struck by this young woman’s depths. In
many ways she was far older than her years. ‘I think after the loss of his own parents he wanted to find a new family of his own – parents he could love as well as a wife.’

‘He has certainly done that.’

‘Yes, he has – although both he and my father work too hard.’ She looked at me more closely. ‘As, I think, do you.’

I shrugged in acknowledgement. ‘It is the nature of the beast,’ I said, meaning that medicine in itself did not allow for much relaxation, but as the words came out I found myself thinking of the priest and Kosminski and the
Upir
they hunted. What would Juliana think of me if she knew of my involvement with such men – if she knew that I was hunting something not quite man and not quite devil, and telling neither her father nor the police what I was doing?

We turned into Juliana’s Chelsea street and I rapped my stick on the roof of the hansom to get the driver to stop.

‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she said, and kissed me on the cheek before climbing down. ‘We must arrange a dinner at my father’s. We’ll be back there again soon, once the wallpaper arrives.’

‘That would be lovely.’ I could still feel the softness of her lips on my skin and I did my best to ignore the effect that had on me.

I watched her walk away towards the house. Her shadow was stretched out against the pale steps as she
reached the front door. It was just a shadow, an empty space denied light – how could anything exist between her and it?

The
Upir
. My rational brain was taking charge after the ride in the brisk fresh air and once again the whole thing seemed ridiculous. I sat back against the seat as the cab moved on.

I knew exactly what Juliana would think if she knew of my secret activities.

She would think I was mad.

28

Paris. November, 1886

James Harrington’s Diary

I am not myself. The illness that plagued me in Poland lingers, and I am exhausted from lack of sleep. I have barely rested since the morning I awoke, two days after our flight from the village, and found Josep dead. Since then my journey has been swift and constant, as if I could somehow run from the memory. And maybe I have managed it, in part at least, for the immediate horror I felt on seeing him like that beside me in the cart – with no mark of malice on his body but his eyes wide and mouth stretched open in a silent scream of terror – has faded. I still think of the dream I had that night, however, and I cannot help but shiver, especially now.

I dreamed I was leaning over him while he slept – it was so vivid; even now I can see the images as clearly as ever. His mouth was hanging slack and he was snoring, lost in a deep sleep. I could hear animals rustling through the leaves as they hunted in the dark. There was a slight prickle on my skin from the cool air. I noticed that the strange little talisman he carried with him – the same symbol that had been painted
on the village doors – had rolled to the floor from his pocket. I felt a weight on my back and something caught my eye, just beyond my left shoulder. In my dream I twisted round this way and that, but whatever it was remained constantly just out of sight, though I could feel its weight, a heaviness from the base of my neck to the bottom of my spine. I reached behind, but there was nothing to touch. I shook myself, but still the sensation remained. The weight pushed me forward, until I was once again leaning over my travelling companion. I could feel his breath on my face. And then his eyes suddenly opened.

After that, the dream must have ended, for I have no recollection of anything but slumber. I did not report my companion’s death – who would I tell, out there in the wilderness? – but instead dragged his body deeper into the woods and left him there. In truth, I feared that if I found someone to tell, I might never get home.

By the time I had reached France, although I was sickening again, I had begun to convince myself that Josep’s death and my dream were linked: we had both been through the ordeal in the village, and their superstitions had taken their toll on us. Perhaps Josep’s heart gave out with his own fear in the night – that would be understandable. Even younger men than he died when their hearts failed suddenly. And my dream was most likely my own subconscious working through the past few days’ events; that Josep’s death
and my dream occurred on the same night was not that much of a coincidence; it had been only two days since we’d left the village, after all.

I arrived in Paris in quite good spirits, glad to be nearly home. Since my chest was weakening again and the strange blotches were appearing upon my skin once again, I decided to check into a hotel for three or four days to get some proper rest before heading home. I sent a telegram to my father, to let him know my plans, and to request that he wire enough money to cover my stay, my last few pounds having been spent on some respectable clothing on my arrival in the city, then I settled into comparative luxury and tried to put my ordeal behind me.

At first it was easy. Sleeping in a comfortable bed and eating fine food made the village in Poland feel like a bad dream itself.

But I cannot shake this dreadful hunger that plagues me, and I awoke this morning with the weight on my back returned, and something dark and awful filling a spot at the edge of my left eye, as if there were something creeping over my shoulder. I spent a long hour in front of the hotel mirror, but no matter which way I twisted, I could see nothing there. I wondered if there might be something wrong with my spine, and that was making me feel this way, or perhaps it might be a symptom of this strange illness that I was suffering? Despite the knocking of my heart, I convinced myself both of these things were causing
my discomfort, and promised myself that I would go to the finest doctors in London when I got home. There would be a cure for this, I had no doubt, and within weeks I would be laughing at the dark fears that were starting to creep in on me.

*

But there was no explanation for where I found myself this afternoon. I was in a workshop in a place called Montrouge, far from my hotel and hitherto unknown to me. I was also wearing my travelling clothes, not one of the new suits I had bought so I would not embarrass myself among my fellow guests at the hotel. There were instruments laid out on a table on one side, butchers’ and doctors’ tools, all designed for cutting or hacking. As I looked at them, my mouth watered and I tasted river water. Red flooded the shadows behind my eyes and I felt an
eagerness
that I was sure did not belong to me. My neck felt wet, as if a long tongue were somehow wrapping itself around my throat. I was sure there was something staring out from behind my head.

I left the place and returned to the hotel. I was shaking – I am
still
shaking. The hunger is worse than before, and the blotches on my skin are now so purple that one of the hotel staff asked if I wished to see a physician.

I will cut my rest here short and return to England. First thing in the morning I shall set off for Calais. Perhaps this is just madness – perhaps the ridiculous
superstitions of the villagers have combined with Josep’s death to somehow infect my consciousness: perhaps my mind is playing games with me.

I had planned to stay in my room tonight, to lock the doors and try to sleep, but my mind will not rest. Rereading my words, I no longer know what to make of all this. I think I shall go out, find some wine and people and life and laughter, and distract myself from my own dark thoughts.

My horror at Josep’s death has been replaced by a more sinister thought:
What if he and the villagers were right?
What if something terrible did come out of the river and attach itself to me?

What if I am now the
Upir
?

29

London. April, 1889

Elizabeth Jackson

‘I’ll get you the money,’ she said, ‘honestly. He’ll come back. He’s working away – he’s coming back with the rent, I promise.’

‘He’s not coming back and you know it.’ Mrs Paine’s arms were folded firmly across her chest. ‘And in your condition you’re better off without him. If you’re going to take up with a man, don’t pick one who beats you when he’s drunk – you’ll be beaten all your life.’