3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

S PRING-HEELED JACK SIGHTED ON LONDON STREETS declared the newspaper that Hugh picked up as he went about his shopping later that day for his day off. He puzzled over that for a moment. He had heard of Spring-Heeled Jack. The first records about him had been over fifty years ago, in 1837, with various sightings over the years in different areas of the country. He paid his coin and picked up a copy of the paper to read it. ‘Demonic spectre has remained unseen for a number of years, but several recent sightings have been verified by multiple individuals in the greater North Western London area.’

There was an artist’s sketch on the front of what Hugh assumed was meant to be Spring-Heeled Jack. A figure, dressed in a gentleman’s style coat and breeches, with a long, black cape, looked human enough. But the face was oddly sharp and angular, the eyes blazing even in the pencil sketch. And from the forehead of the mysterious creature sprouted two large horns, as if Spring-Heeled Jack were a manifestation of the devil himself. Hugh studied the drawing intently. He thought that Jack was meant to look monstrous and evil, and he was certain he would not want to meet Spring-Heeled Jack in a dark alley while on patrol. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite as demonic as Hugh thought the papers meant him to be. He couldn’t say what, and he skimmed the article instead, though he stopped short when he read the description.

‘The spectre takes the guise of a tall, pale man, with eyes that resemble wheels of fire. His cloak gives the impression of a large bat or bird of prey, made all the more spectacular by the large, iron claws the miscreant has on the tips of his fingers.’

The vision of the five deep rips in Christopher’s flesh came to Hugh’s mind. Spring-Heeled Jack, suddenly spotted in London after an absence, and then a young man turns up with slashes as if from a great clawed hand. Hugh frowned thoughtfully at the drawing again. It could just be a coincidence, of course. It was convenient to attribute unnatural sightings and attacks to a supernatural creature so those responsible did not have to be found and brought to justice. There were enough monsters with human faces walking the streets of London without adding a demonic, horned beast to their ranks. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t someone masquerading as a spectre to hide their identity either. Hadn’t people fifty-odd years ago thought Spring-Heeled Jack to be an Irish Marquess in disguise or something like that?

Further down the page was information about the death of Christopher O’Malley, who was listed as a ‘rent boy’ which Hugh knew was a tasteful way of saying that the young man was a prostitute. The paper speculated that Christopher might have been a victim of Spring-Heeled Jack due to the nature of the slices across his flesh. Reporters had gotten wind of that detail quickly. But beyond that, there was very little about the murdered young man. Just one more dead body in the bloody gutters of London.

He was passing the local cemetery, and Hugh felt the heavy sensation of eyes watching him once again. He lifted his head from the paper, scanning the area intently, first the street, then the gravestones beyond the wrought-iron fence that demarcated the cemetery from the street. There were many people about, as it was a fine October day, but no one seemed to be giving him much heed. He lifted his head to even look at the rooftops of the buildings nearby and the mausoleums in the cemetery but found nothing out of the ordinary. He felt the prickle on his skin though, and he hurried past the cemetery and turned down another street. He was not one to be spooked by the idea of ghosts and other beasties from beyond the grave; he had never met a ghost, or any other such creature. But that did not mean that he knew all there was to know about their existence.

The feeling of eyes on him once more abated, and Hugh started to crumple up the newspaper to throw it in a bin. But his hand caught as he looked at the picture of the mysterious Spring-Heeled Jack, and he instead folded up the paper under his arm and took it back home with him.

When he returned to The Yard the next evening, there had been no new developments on Christopher O’Malley’s case. Dr. Ledbetter’s autopsy had revealed nothing more that could help determine who the killer was, and the body had been taken away to be buried in one of the local potters’ fields. That left Hugh with an ache inside of him. The young man had had no one to turn to, no one who could pay for a proper funeral and a plot where he might rest in peace. If he could have afforded it himself, he might have done it. But, as it was, all he could do was make a silent promise that he would find whoever killed Christopher and bring him to justice.

He was out on patrol that night when he heard a scream from nearby. His mind instantly filled with images of Christopher’s ruined body and the puddle of blood on the sidewalk as he ran towards the sound. A woman in a dark dress stood, staring up at the rooftops overhead. Several other people were approaching her as well, as they must have heard her scream. “Ma’am?” he asked.

She turned to him, her face pale in the lights from the streetlamps. “It was him! Spring-Heeled Jack!” She pointed towards the rooftop. Hugh craned his head back, but there was nothing that he could see on top of the building.

“What happened?” he asked.

She looked frantically around. “He… he was standing on that railing.” She pointed to one of the fire escapes above her head. “When I screamed, he climbed up the rails faster than a monkey, and then he was on the roof and gone.”

“How do you know it was Spring-Heeled Jack?” Hugh asked. The small crowd was looking cautiously about, as if Jack might suddenly land in their midst.

“He looked like his picture in the paper,” the woman said, clutching at her breast. “A great black cape, horns like the devil, and those eyes. Like a raging inferno inside of them.”

“Witchcraft,” muttered someone in the crowd, and Hugh let out a huff.

“Come now, ladies and gentlemen. This is 1890. Witches certainly don’t leap around fire escapes in London.” He gave the people a reassuring smile. “I’m sure that whomever you saw was probably a burglar, ma’am, and your scream scared him off.”

The woman looked uncertain, but a man in a bowler hat stepped up and offered her his elbow. “Come along, Minnie, let me escort you home.” She nodded and took the man’s arm. Her departure seemed to break the hold on the group, and they set about their business. Hugh watched them all go. He lifted his eyes to the rooftop once more and thought that he might have seen a shadow move there in the darkness that the streetlights did not reach, but then it was gone again, and he was alone once more. Hugh circled the block several more times on patrol, keeping an eye out in case someone was trying to break in somewhere, but the rest of the night held no spooks or spectres amidst the quiet streets.

Hugh woke up and prepared for work the next afternoon with a feeling inside of him that something important was going to happen. He didn’t know what, or if it would be good or bad. But he had learned to trust his gut in his time as a constable. He was on extra high alert as he walked his patrol in the early night gloom. The fog was particularly thick tonight, a real peasouper.

He heard a soft sound off to his left. Nothing unusual, just a slight rustle. Probably just an alley cat, but something itched inside of his brain and told him that he should go look. He stepped off the sidewalk and into the alley, made all the darker by the air that felt like he could cut it with a knife.

Something was crouched in the dimness. Something larger than an alley cat. A dark silhouette with hunched shoulders. It took Hugh a moment to realize why the shape looked so odd before it hit him. There were horns protruding up and out from the form’s head. His heart skipped a beat.

The figure turned to him, and even through the darkness, Hugh could see the bright red of the creature’s eyes, as if two bonfires blazed inside of them. The glow cut through the fog as the figure stood up from where it had been kneeling. Hugh realized with more than a little panic that the creature, even without the horns, was almost a foot taller than he was. He couldn’t see distinctly in the dim light, but he could see too that the shoulders were very broad.

The shape took a step closer to him, and then another, and Hugh felt as if his feet had grown roots, tethering him in place. He could see more clearly now; the figure was indeed very muscular. He wore black trousers and boots on his bottom half, but his top half was covered only with a scandalously tight white oilcloth that seemed to cling to him in all the right places. He had a black cape around his shoulders that flowed like water in the soft breeze as he moved.

Now that he could see, Hugh realized that what he had thought to be a mask with horns attached was indeed mask-shaped on the man’s upper face, but he had never seen one that blended so seamlessly. It folded into the creature’s sharp cheeks and up over his forehead into slick, black hair. The mask was bone white, as if the man’s face were covered by his own skull, though his dark eyebrows stood out in stark contrast on it. And his eyes held that strange, firelight blaze in them. He was tall and lean, and Hugh couldn’t stop a soft inhale. The creature… man… whatever he was, was beautiful. Ethereal and haunting and more than a little frightening. And there was only one person he could be. “Y… You’re Spring-Heeled Jack,” Hugh said, his voice oddly high and nervous.

The horned man laughed, spreading his arms wide and bowing low, like an actor at the end of a Shakespearean drama. “At your service.” He said the words with much bravado and pomp, upon a stage only he could see. His voice was low and lyrical, and Hugh could feel it in the marrow of his bones, like a plucked string on a cello.

Hugh stared at the horned man for a moment before remembering that Spring-Heeled Jack had been crouched over something when he arrived. He shifted to look behind Jack. In the dimness, it was hard to see, but something was sprawled on the ground in a dark pool.

“Most unfortunate,” Jack said, turning his head to follow Hugh’s gaze to what he assumed must be a human. It was too large to be a cat or dog. He stepped aside for Hugh to see better. Despite his better judgement of approaching Spring-Heeled Jack, Hugh slipped past him, pressing himself against the brick wall as he did to keep as far away from Jack, until he could see clearly.

It was another young man, similar in age to Christopher O’Malley. Close in age to Hugh. His hair was red, made darker by the clumps of blood and other things that clung to it. His eyes were brown and stared at nothing, jaw slack. His skin was fair and his cheeks slim. He had long lashes, with a large freckle under his right eye. His trousers were around his ankles, and his shirt and vest had been ripped open to expose his chest underneath. His head was barely attached to his body by his spine, the young man’s throat nothing but a gaping mass of blood and meat. He didn’t have to check for a pulse to know that this boy was no longer amongst the living.

“You killed him.” The words left his throat before he thought about them, turning to Spring-Heeled Jack, who stood watching him.

“I did not!” Jack sounded indignant.

“You were leaning over him just now,” Hugh said pointedly.

“Just because that is where you found me does not mean that I am responsible for his death,” Jack said. He held up one of his hands in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. Hugh realized that at the tip of each finger was a sharp, iron claw; and Jack’s hand was covered in blood.

Bears don’t have thumbs. The words rang in Hugh’s ears. But Spring-Heeled Jack does. He took an involuntary step back from those claws, wondering if he was about to join this anonymous young man in a pool of blood in a stinking alley.

Jack watched him step back, then glanced at his hand. “Oh, fife and fiddlesticks, I forgot about these things.” He put the hand behind his back and gave Hugh a smile that in any other situation might have been charming. “Please do forgive me.”

Jack was turning out to be the politest murderer Hugh had ever met. “Why did you kill him?”

“I already told you, Hugh Danbury, I did not kill him,” Jack replied, his tone light and patient.

Hugh stared at him. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you,” Jack said with another dashing smile.

Well, that wasn’t unsettling or anything… Hugh was torn between finding out why this strange apparition knew his name and doing his duty. Duty won out. “Spring-Heeled Jack, or whatever your real name is, you are under arrest under suspicion of murder.”

Jack let out a heavy sigh. “Oh dear, we are really not off to a good start, are we?”

Hugh wondered if he would be able to arrest Jack on his own. Somehow, he doubted it. He grabbed his police whistle and blew a long, sharp blast with it that echoed off the building walls. Jack flinched, his hands flying up to his ears. “Purgatory’s penguins, that is incredibly annoying,” he said.

Hugh glared. “Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

“Why, Hugh, darling, we’ve only just met!” Jack said, giving him a wink. “Isn’t it customary to at least offer to take you for a drink first?”

Hugh felt his cheeks go red. Sometimes it was hard to determine if a salacious remark was made in seriousness when one met a new potential partner and was trying to decide if making a move would result in a punch in the face or worse. But there was no mistaking that one. The musical rumble of words went down his spine like a cold raindrop and settled low in his belly. He reached for his truncheon at his side to distract himself from focusing on the tease. He did not want to get into a scuffle with a horned man who was so much taller and broader than him, but he might not have a choice. “I said, put your hands behi-” A whistle blast answering his own sounded from what sounded like less than two blocks away, cutting off his words. At least reinforcements were coming.

Jack sighed. “I do apologize, this is not how I intended for us to meet, and I’m afraid this situation is too fraught. But don’t worry. I’ll be watching you.”

And then Jack had leaped up, planting his heels against the wall of the brick building to push off of it, and he soared up five stories over Hugh’s head to the rooftop and vanished over it. Hugh was left gaping at where he had been only seconds earlier, the man suddenly gone in a snap of black cape.

He was still staring when Constable Michaels came running to the mouth of the alley. “Who’s there? Identify yourself!” he barked.

“It’s Constable Danbury,” Hugh said, shaking himself from his stupor. “I’ve found another body.”

“Bloody hell,” Constable Michaels said, his lantern lifting to cut through the fog a little, and Hugh held up a hand to shield his eyes. Michaels approached him, looking at the bedraggled corpse on the ground. “Well, that ain’t from no footpad.”

Hugh shook his head. “Definitely not a robbery,” he agreed. He debated if he should tell Michaels about Spring-Heeled Jack, but he realized that the words sounded mad even in his own head. He wasn’t even sure he believed them himself. He cast another glance up at the rooftop, but there was no sign of movement anywhere, other than a few windows open and heads sticking out to observe the carnage in the alley.

Michaels sighed. “Well, another one for the backyard butchers. I’ll go get the mariah.”

Hugh wrote up his report for Sergeant Reardon without including anything about Spring-Heeled Jack, just mentioning that he had heard a suspicious noise, went to investigate, and found the dead body with no one else around. He had a feeling that Reardon would not take kindly to him blaming a strange, spectral figure that only a handful of people had seen. The man already disliked him enough.

As he walked home in the wee morning hours before the sun had even started to show itself on the horizon, he wondered about Jack’s parting words. “Don’t worry. I’ll be watching you.” The words sent a shiver down his back. Who was this peculiar man who knew his name and could leap five-story buildings like hopping over a mud puddle? Was that the mysterious presence he had felt watching him the last few days and nights? And, if so, why? Why was Spring-Heeled Jack, or whoever he actually was, watching him? And not only watching, but following him? Did Jack know where he lived too? That thought nearly sent him running, but he kept his head high and tried to look calm as he walked, his fingers grasping his truncheon lightly in the event he needed to defend himself. But he reached his rooms without any interruption or feeling of unease. He pulled the curtains of his bedroom window closed to block out the daylight that would soon be creeping in before he slid into his bed.

He slept, and he dreamed of the handsome, dark-haired man with horns following him into an alley and pushing him against the wall, their bodies pressed together in all the right places. The spectre’s body was hot and firm, holding him with ease. The bulge in his trousers pressed between Hugh’s legs, rubbing against his own. Spring-Heeled Jack leaned in, and his lips met Hugh’s mouth in a searing kiss. His hand, now suddenly devoid of blood and claws, slid down between them to squeeze at his prick inside his trousers, and Hugh couldn’t hold back a gasp. Jack’s mouth trailed across his jaw to his neck, planting a row of kisses down it as his hand stroked over his police uniform, squeezing and rubbing at his need with a desperate urgency. His hips bucked into the touch as Jack’s tongue slid over his neck, up to his ear, giving the lobe a nip before soothing it with his tongue. He moaned, holding onto Jack’s broad shoulders as the hand continued to move up and down his length, still trapped inside of his blue constable uniform. His pleasure was building quickly, each stroke bringing him closer and closer to sweet bliss. Jack pulled back and gave him a saucy wink just as Hugh spilled himself inside of his pants, Jack’s large, warm hand continuing to massage and caress him through the fabric…

He woke up in a sticky mess. Get ahold of yourself, Hugh chided as he cleaned up himself and his sheets. You have a job to do. But that didn’t make the image of Jack winking at him any less prominent in his mind.