Hands of the Ripper (23 page)

‘Hardly surprising.’

‘What was surprising was the voice she was using to do it.’

‘“The voice”? What are you talking about?’

‘Dissociative identity disorder, isn’t that what you lot call it? Anna hears voices and they trigger changes in her personality. Douglas Reece was the first of those personalities to take shape, presenting himself that very night. When they dragged her into the hospital she was shouting at the staff in a man’s voice – or as good an approximation of one as a girl of four could make. Over time more and more personalities developed, most benign, some, like Reece, the trigger for violent behaviour. As she grew older, her control of them increased, mainly under the instruction of Aida Golding.’

‘Who used her as a prop for her seances?’

‘Absolutely. Hateful little beast, isn’t she? Not an ounce of morality in her.’

John shook his head. He was thinking about the voice he had heard outside the house, the night he had found Anna standing in the rain. But it hadn’t happened again, had it? Was she better away from Golding’s influence?

‘She’s better now,’ he said to Probert, hoping very much that that was true.

‘We on our own?’ asked Davinia once she was back at the table. ‘I could have sworn I heard someone else up here.’

Anna didn’t dare to speak. She stared at Bad Father, watching him as he licked the pastry crumbs off his finger.

‘She doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m here,’ he said. But that wasn’t altogether true was it? As soon as he had spoken, Davinia’s face pulled a confused expression and she looked at Anna.

‘You what, love?’ she asked, ‘you got something stuck in your throat?’

‘Stuck?’ laughed Bad Father, ‘you’ll soon have something stuck in you, all right.’

‘It’s clever,’ said Davinia, ‘I’ll give you that. Very good. Is that what I heard? Were you practising while I was upstairs?’

‘I don’t need practice,’ said Bad Father, ‘I know what I’m doing. I’m doing what poor Henry would have wanted.’

‘Now love,’ Davinia said, ‘don’t get nasty. I’d rather you didn’t bring my Henry up, I’m very sensitive about him, you know.’

‘Oh God,’ Anna couldn’t believe her eyes, her hands grasping at her face in shock.

‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Davinia, ‘you don’t have to fret, I’m just saying.’

But it wasn’t Davinia Harris’s words that had so shocked Anna, it was the appearance of a fourth person at their table. Another man, but one who made no secret of his time spent in the grave. His flesh was powdery layer upon layer, great chunks missing to expose the darkness within. It was as if he were made of old plaster. As he leaned forward it was with a dusty crunch of decaying bone.

‘Look at him,’ said Bad Father, ‘and he was hardly much worse when he was alive. Drained day by day. A shadow of a man. All because he lived with that.’ He inclined his eyes towards Davinia.

‘Sandy, my love,’ said Davinia, ‘you’re starting to worry me now. Do you want me to call someone?’

Anna looked first to the resurrected Henry and then to her own Bad Father. The latter placed his finger to his lips and slowly shook his head. Anna realised there might yet be an opportunity for her to make everything all right.

‘I’m fine,’ she said to Davinia, ‘sorry. I just … sometimes I …’ Try as she might, she couldn’t think of an excuse for what the old woman had heard.

Davinia took pity on her, ‘Forget about it, dear. Finish your tea and we’ll say no more about it.’

‘She’ll certainly be better for being away from Golding,’ Probert agreed, ‘though you’ll forgive me if I point out that someone as damaged as she is can hardly be cured overnight.’

‘No,’ John agreed. ‘Of course not. She’ll need a lot of time. And a lot of help.’

‘Help you can hopefully give now that you know what you’re facing.’

John nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Forget it,’ Probert got to his feet. ‘I don’t make a habit of giving two shits about anybody but myself but I thought I’d try it for once.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, I cannot begin to tell you how much I loathe Aida Golding.’

‘You and me both,’ agreed John.

*

‘Well,’ said Davinia with a good deal of forced cheerfulness, ‘I can’t sit here chatting all day. I’m sure we’ve both got things to be getting on with.’

Anna nodded. She was scared to speak unless absolutely necessary, convinced it might encourage Bad Father or Henry, who were both still at the table with them. Henry had dipped two crumbling fingers into Anna’s teacup, a greasy swirl of oil spreading out from where the desiccated stumps were rehydrating themselves.

‘I’ll pay,’ insisted Davinia. ‘It’s been lovely to have someone to talk to.’

She got up and headed for the stairs, Anna cautiously following. Bad Father and Henry stayed in their seats.

At the till, Anna thanked Davinia, still glancing around but finally daring to believe she had left their demons behind.

Out on the street the bustle of people and the heavy traffic served to knock away some of the fear she had been feeling. Watching the big double-decker buses, delivery vans, speeding taxicabs and motorbike couriers that whizzed past as she and Davinia reached the main road, Anna couldn’t believe that this was a place she could be haunted. This was the noisy, electric, petrol and steel real world. This was not the muddled confines of your own head or the lonely, empty night.

‘Drive like lunatics, don’t they?’ said Davinia, shaking her fist at a white van that nearly clipped the kerb at the crossing. They’ll kill someone one day.’

‘Indeed they will,’ said Bad Father and Anna screamed as she saw the crumbling remains of Henry leap forward and shove his wife into the road. There was a pointless squeal of tyres from the traffic as Davinia bounced off the bonnet of a UPS van, connected face-first with the rear window of a taxicab and then flipped back to be folded and pressed flat beneath the braking wheels of the traffic that, even now, was rear-ending each other in an attempt to avoid the inevitable.

Anna screamed. After a pause while the information soaked into the crowd around, she was joined by the sound of other, horrified voices. She ran. Nobody watched her go, they were all focused on the road, a great sweeping wave of people descending on the site of the accident, to help, to look, to
know
. There’s nothing that fascinated people more than looking at death, Aida Golding knew that.

She ran back through the market, twisting and turning at random as the city squatted over her. Her lungs tightened, her head whined like metal against metal. Finally, turning into a small green square, she tripped and came to land in a pile of damp leaves. She lay there, a scared animal waiting for the predator to move on. But the predator was there with her, its fingers sliding in-between the leaves to poke and prod at her. ‘We got her!’ Bad Father chuckled. ‘And soon we’ll have them all!

John walked out with Probert, agreeing that he’d keep in touch, knowing that was a lie.

‘I hope it’s all right,’ said the peer. ‘It would be nice to
think
she could get back on her feet after everything Golding’s put her through.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said John, ‘at least she’s safe from her.’

‘For now.’

‘For ever, there’s no way she knows where I live. I’m ex-directory and they won’t give out addresses here. Unless you’ve told her?’

‘No, and I never would. Still, as far as Golding’s concerned I’d never be sure of anything. If she wants to find you – and I’m sure she probably does – then she will.’

Fourteen

The Life and Death of Shaun Vedder

Eighteen months ago

‘PSYCHOLOGY, EH?,’ THE
old woman said, shifting
in her bed and releasing a gust of flatulence from within the yellowing sheets, ‘what’s the point of that?’

‘It would help me understand you,’ Shaun might have said but, tired and not in the mood for a long argument with his mother, he chose to say nothing.

‘I mean, Christian’s got sense, hasn’t he?’ she continued, ‘he’s getting a City and Guilds in electricity. He’ll be straight into a job with that. Psychology? Waste of three years, if you ask me.’

‘I didn’t’ was the next thing Shaun could – but did not – say.

‘Still,’ his mother relented, ferreting in an eiderdown for her Silk Cut, ‘keeps you off the streets.’ She found the pack, lit one and sent a mushroom cloud of smoke up towards the light brown ceiling. ‘And the less money you have the less smack you can afford.’

‘Pot, mother,’ Shaun finally chipped in. ‘I was caught smoking a little pot, not doing smack.’

‘Pot, smack, they all sound fine until you end up on
Jeremy Kyle
slapping your wife about.’

‘I won’t end up on
Jeremy Kyle
, Mum.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you will. No bloody drive, that’s your problem.’

Sixteen months ago

‘You Shaun?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Bobby, we’re sharing.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yeah … Hope you don’t fucking snore.’

Fourteen months ago

Shaun watched as Mr Pritchard began to map out a diagram on the overhead projector. For a couple of minutes he was lost in the sweep of the bright red pen reflected across the white wall of the lecture hall. He wished Mr Pritchard could just draw on it all day, filling the whole room with spirals and squares and circles and—

‘Shaun?’

Shaun snapped out of his daydream, having slid forward on his seat and nearly fallen on the floor.

‘Sorry,’ he said, spilling his books and sending his biro flying several rows forward.

‘You all right?’ Mr Pritchard asked, smiling.

He was a gentle man, Shaun thought, a nice man. There was no malice in that smile. The same could not be said of the sniggering from all around him.

‘Wanker,’ someone whispered and there was a ripple of laughter.

‘Fine,’ he replied, gathering his books and reaching forward to take his pen after it had been passed back up to him. ‘Just slipped. Sorry.’

‘Surprised he doesn’t stick to the fucking chair,’ someone else whispered, he thought it was Bobby. ‘Cunt never washes.’

One of the girls released a theatrical ‘Ewww!’ before Mr Pritchard held up his hands.

‘Enough,’ he shouted, ‘you should be paying attention to me not Mr Vedder.’

He began to explain the diagram and Shaun grew more and more embarrassed, skin glowing hot in the dark as he knew everyone was thinking about him.

Twelve months ago

‘Vedder, can you keep your shit over on your side?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Place is a fucking mess.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No way am I sharing next year, certainly not with you anyway.’

‘No.’

‘Place smells like fucking vegetables.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Like a broccoli rolled over and fucking died in here.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Whatever.’

Ten months ago

They thought the common room was empty when they started to talk.

‘You’ll never guess.’

‘Tell me!’

‘I can’t, it’s too embarrassing … seriously I was
wasted
. I’ve never been good on vodka, I think I’m allergic or something. I passed out in the garden once, knickers on my head, sat in leftover barbecue food. I had burger dimples on my bum, gave me a rash.’

‘Who was it?’

‘No, seriously, if anyone found out I’d have to leave Uni. My reputation would be screwed.’

‘You haven’t got a reputation, well, you have … but not a good one.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I didn’t even know what I was doing. It’s like I was half asleep and the next thing I know I’m snogging some bloke and he’s got his hand down my jeans.’

‘Yeah right, I’m sure you didn’t encourage him at all.’

‘Well, maybe I was trying to cadge a few joints off him, I can’t remember. It’s the vodka. I’m allergic. Oh I could die …’

‘Who was it?’

There was a pause.

‘Shaun Vedder.’

There was a longer pause.

‘Fuck!’

Both girls burst into hysterical laughter and Shaun,
sat
on the sofa just around the corner, wished he could crawl between the cushions, bury himself in sponge and dust, and never, ever, come out again.

Eight months ago

Shaun sat in the gardens and smoked. He knew the place like the back of his hand now, knew all the best places to keep out of sight and wish the rest of the noisy bastards away.

If only he could stay here.

He’d tried to change. Cut his hair, wear more modern clothes, tried to talk about the things everyone else seemed to talk about. They’d despised him all the more for it. He’d despised himself too.

The only one who had seemed at all impressed was his mother. ‘Finally,’ she said, ‘he gets himself a haircut and uses a comb. What next, I wonder? Might he get a job?’

At least he had his own room now. Somewhere he could get inside and shut the rest of the judgemental bastards out.

He was becoming lonelier by the day.

‘Hi, Shaun.’

Shaun dropped his joint in panic as Mr Pritchard appeared, strolling past on his way to the IT department.

‘Hi,’ Shaun replied, uncertain as to whether he should pick it up or ignore it. Could Mr Pritchard smell it? Was it obvious from the look on his face?

‘Pick up your joint, Shaun,’ the lecturer said. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’

Shaun did so, thanking him awkwardly.

‘You all right?’ Mr Pritchard asked. A question Shaun wasn’t used to.

‘Fine,’ he lied, ‘just getting some peace and quiet, you know?’

‘I know. It shows. Your last paper was excellent.’

‘Thank you, I liked it. The subject, I mean. It was interesting. It’s all interesting.’ Shaun floundered, not knowing what he should be saying.

‘It’s not
all
interesting,’ Mr Pritchard laughed. ‘Some of it’s deathly dull, but we have to cover it.’

‘Overall, though,’ said Shaun, ‘I’m glad I chose it. As a subject.’

‘Good!’ and with that Mr Pritchard grinned and carried on walking towards the IT block.

It was the first conversation Shaun could remember that hadn’t involved, in one way or another, him being insulted.