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  I let my hand rest on the gate for a few seconds, as I feel a few spots of rain on the back of my neck.

  “Come on, let's get going,” I remember Alex saying, tugging on my arm and leading me along the street. “I don't even like being this close. That house has a weird vibe.”

  I've never, ever gone against Alex's advice before.

  I turn to walk away, but at that moment a shooting pain ripples up my right leg and I flinch. Stopping to lean against the wall for a moment, I stay completely still, terrified that the pain might return at any moment. I don't know how many cuts and bruises I sustained earlier, other than the knife wound to my waist, but I really need a place to curl up for a few hours. I'm sure I'll be fine, but I can't be out on the street like this for too long. Eventually somebody's going to notice me, and they'll see that I'm hurt, and...

  I've got to face facts. The longer I'm out here, the bigger the risk that somebody'll try to help. And help means contacting my parents.

  Suddenly I hear a brief set of footsteps somewhere nearby.

  I turn and look back the way I came. The footsteps have already stopped and I don't see anyone, but I swear I heard five or six clear, distinct steps coming this way.

  My heart is pounding again, and I'm terrified that the guy from the park might finally have caught up.

  Turning again, I see that a dark, narrow alley runs between numbers nine and seven. The scene doesn't look particularly appealing, but then neither does the street. I hesitate for a moment, weighing up my options, before finally realizing that the least worst choice is probably all I have left. Slowly, and with pain in my arms and waist and legs, I turn and start limping along the alley.

  Chapter Eight

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Saturday September 29th, 1888

  My hands are shaking as I hurry along the street. I can hear the shouts and cries of an excited crowd in the distance, as more and more foolish locals flock to the yard. Evidently the people of Whitechapel wish to see what has happened, and the discovery of the whore's corpse has caused quite a commotion.

  “There's been another murder!” a woman's voice shrieks nearby.

  “Hurry!” a man adds. “They've found someone in Dutfield's Yard!”

  “It's horrible!” another woman squawks.

  I hurry onward, listening to the voices that echo all around.

  Finally, once I am sure that I have put enough space between myself and the yard, I stop in another doorway and look at my gloved hands. I am shaking terribly, as if some inner fear has taken possession of my body. No matter how hard I try to calm myself, I find that my hands are jerking violently of their own accord. Never before did I think that I could be so startled, and that my body could refuse to obey the orders of my mind. Yet that moment of discovery in the yard earlier – when I was so nearly caught in the act – has shaken me to my core.

  I could have been arrested.

  The idiot cart-driver turned and ran before spotting me, but that in itself was a miracle. Another miracle was the fact that I managed to slip away before anybody else came to see what was happening. I am not an athletic man, nor am I as quick on my feet as I might have been when I was younger. I quite feel that I was blessed tonight, that some divine force was guiding me and ensuring that I did not end up in a jail cell. I have always known that there are risks involved in what I'm doing, but this is the first time that I have actually come so very close to being apprehended. It takes a few more seconds before I am able to put all thought of divine intervention safely out of my mind.

  “Calm down,” I whisper, still trying desperately to control my trembling hands. “You are an intellectual. You have self-control.”

  And yet nothing works. My hands are shaking, perhaps worse than ever, and I cannot help imagining what would have happened if I had been caught tonight. I'm quite certain that even the miserable cretins at Scotland Yard would have eventually connected me to the two previous killings, and my noble intent might well have failed to convince the police to let me go. They would not understand that the life of my dear Catherine is worth more than the lives of one hundred – no, one thousand – Whitechapel whores, and the pathetic social reformers would undoubtedly have piled in to demand so-called justice. If the police had caught me, I would surely have ended up at the gallows.

  Closing my eyes, I try to find some source of calm in my soul.

  Finally, after several minutes, my hands stop shaking. Whether this is due to my brief meditation, or whether the infernal engine in my body has merely slowed, I cannot tell. All that matters, I suppose, is that I once more have myself under control.

  It is late now, well past 1am, and I should be home by now. Catherine – if she is awake – will be starting to wonder where I am. I can hear shrieks and cries in the distance, and the police are no doubt all over the yard by now. I step out of the shadows and hurry along the street, heading away from the noise. I want nothing more than to go home and recover, yet at the same time I know that I must acquire certain organs tonight. As I pass a local synagogue, however, I feel that my thoughts are too disordered for me to be able to get anything done. Perhaps I shall have to wait until tomorrow, even if this means another night of agony for my dear Catherine.

  And then, stopping at the end of the street, I see the most perfect and unimaginable gift.

  A woman is making her way into a small square. She appears unsteady on her feet, as if she has been drinking. I watch as she walks, and I listen to the sound of her footsteps echoing in the night air, and already I am starting to feel as if fate has guided this wretch into my path.

  No, not fate.

  I do not believe in fate.

  This is merely good fortune, balancing out the ill fortune I experienced a few minutes ago.

  I watch as the woman disappears from view, and then I quickly hurry across the street, stopping again when I see her crossing the square. The scene is almost perfect, with just enough light from a nearby street-lamp to let me imagine performing my work. In fact, I honestly feel that if some divine power had sought to provide the perfect opportunity for me, this is precisely the scene that would be laid out. The woman even stops for a moment, standing unsteadily near the shadows, as if she is waiting for me to go and end her life.

  It is at times like this that I almost understand why weaker men believe in God.

  The woman starts walking again, and I know now that I must seize my chance.

  I set off after her, walking at double her speed as I make my way across the square. I look up at nearby windows, but there is no sign of anybody watching. Ahead, the woman is heading into the shadows, as if she has some instinctive understanding of where I would like her to be when I slit her throat. She seems not to have noticed me at all, and a moment later she stops again. I am tempted to believe that perhaps she knows now that I am here, but in truth she seems to be a drunk wretch and – as I step up behind her and take the knife from my pocket – I realize I can already smell alcohol on her person. Any ordinary woman, in possession of their senses, would have noted my approach already.

  Perhaps my earlier failure was a stroke of unexpected luck, if it meant that the mass of idiots and police officers has swarmed toward that yard and away from this particular street.

  Suddenly the woman turns, and I take this as my cue to strike.

  I hit her hard across the side of the face, causing her to stumble away. Grabbing her by the shoulder, I twist her around and place a hand over her mouth, just in time to keep her from calling out. Then I wrestle her to the ground, easily succumbing her drunken flailing as I adjust my grip and press the knife against her throat. I cannot see her too well in the dark, but I can feel the blade pressing against her neck, so I push and slice. I immediately feel hot blood flowing out across my hand. Her struggles become more violent for a moment, and she tries to bite the palm of my hand, but finally she falls limp in my arms and I lower her down onto the cobbles.

  My heart is pounding, but when I l
ook around I see once again that we are completely alone here in this little square. Whereas I was interrupted before, this time I might be able to complete my work.

  I roll the woman over, and I'm just about able to make out her dead stare. There is blood all around her mouth, and I suppose I must have caused her to hit her chin on the ground when she fell.

  No matter.

  Reaching down, I start cutting through her paltry garments until I have exposed her abdomen. And then, after looking one more time to ensure that we are not about to be disturbed, I begin to cut deep into her body so that I might extract the parts I need.

  Chapter Nine

  Maddie

  Today

  The overgrown bushes rustle as I step into the pitch-black garden at the rear of the abandoned house. I can't see anything at all, so it's a surprise when I feel leaves brushing against my face. I hold my hand up to protect myself a little, and to make sure that I don't walk straight into a tree branch, as I fight my way through the undergrowth. This garden is so dark and wild, I feel like I'm forcing my way through a jungle.

  Finally, as I feel a set of cracked paving stones beneath my feet, I stop and look up at the rear of the house.

  Since there are no street lights around, all I can see now is the vast, dark shape of number nine Cathmore Road silhouetted against the dull orange glow of a London night sky.

  Rain is starting to fall heavier and harder than ever, and I can feel my shoulders getting wet. I can't really afford to let my clothes get soaked, so I haul my backpack onto the ground and crouch down. After unzipping the top, I reach inside and fumble for a moment, before finally pulling out the small flashlight I brought when I left home. The two ends have become slightly loose, so it takes a moment for me to screw the thing back together, but eventually I switch the light on and a small but useful beam shines through the rain. At least the battery is holding out for now.

  I aim the flashlight toward the house, but all I see are more boarded-up windows.

  Getting to my feet, I turn and start looking around. At first I see nothing but overgrown bushes, but finally the beam of light catches the edge of a small wooden building. Struggling to fight my way through the weed-infested garden, I head along what I think used to be a garden path, and after a couple of minutes I reach the shed.

  Or rather, the structure that used to be the shed.

  As more rain falls, I shine the flashlight's beam around and see that the shed's roof has collapsed under the weight of some fallen branches, which have collapsed into the structure and almost entirely demolished one of the walls. I peer closer, but I can already tell that there's no way I'll find any shelter here. Figuring that maybe I could lift part of the broken roof and use it as a basic form of covering, I reach out and try to move the slab of wood, only to find that it's far too heavy. I crouch down and shine the flashlight under, hoping to perhaps find a little hole I can wriggle into, but there's nothing. This was a dead-end and now I'm starting to get really soaked.

  “The worst thing is when you get really wet,” I remember Alex telling me once. “You can get sick, Maddie. Really sick.”

  Turning, I look around the garden, double-checking that there's not a second shed. Realizing that there's nowhere to hide out here, I turn and start trudging back through the garden, while trying to think of anywhere else in this part of London where I could maybe go and take cover. I guess there was a bus-stop along the road, and at least I'd be able to stay dry for a few hours, although I'm still jumpy and worried that the guy from the park might show up. Even now, as I shine the flashlight around the overgrown garden, I'm a little nervous in case he's here.

  And then, suddenly, the flashlight's beam catches an uncovered half-circle window at the back of the house.

  I freeze, convinced that the window must somehow be part of the place next door, but deep down I already know that's not true. As the beam of light blasts through the rain-filled air, I see that a wooden panel appears to have fallen away from one of the windows, and that the latch appears to have been left open. The window itself is partially open, as if long ago somebody thought there was no point fixing it properly, not if a wooden panel was going to be put in place. The glass is broken, and with several large shards still jammed in the frame.

  I step closer, until I'm right beneath the window, which is set a little way up in the house's rear wall. Too high to reach easily, but not too far to climb.

  “All I know,” Alex's voice whispers in my memory, “is that for as long as I've been on the streets, everyone has known to keep away from that house.”

  I'm sure she's right. I'm sure I should just trust Alex. After all, I've never, ever gone against her advice. At the same time, I can't help remembering another thing she told me earlier:

  “No-one ever goes in there, no matter how desperate they are. Everyone knows to keep well away. Even the junkies and the addicts don't dare. They feel it too. They feel the utter evil in that house.”

  If that's true – and Alex never lied – then the house should be completely empty.

  One of the dangers of entering a new place, even if it seems abandoned, is that you never know who else might be inside already. After all, I can't be the first person who's noticed this house, or who's come into the garden in search of shelter. In most cases, a house like this would already have squatters in every room, and at best I'd end up trying to haggle for some space on the floor. At worst, I'd find that the people here aren't very nice. But if Alex is right – and she's never been wrong once, not so far – then this house should be completely abandoned. It should be safe, if only for a few hours.

  “Can't you feel the evil here?” Alex asked me all those months ago, when we stood out the front of the place. “Can't you feel it reaching out to you?”

  My answer now is the same as my answer back then.

  No.

  I don't feel any evil at all.

  Maybe for once, Alex was wrong. Or if not wrong, then at least... overreacting a little? Besides, she's gone now, so I guess I have to start making my own decisions.

  I've got to ignore Alex's advice some day, so why not now? Especially if the alternative is freezing in the rain.

  I hesitate for a moment, still trying to think of somewhere else – anywhere else – I could go instead. Finally, however, I realize that this is really my best option, so I look around and try to figure out how I'm going to climb up to the window. There aren't a lot of possibilities, but there's a fence I could probably scale, and I'm not too bad at keeping my balance. Deep down, there's a part of me that still thinks this is a really bad idea, but staying out in the open is an even worse possibility so...

  Wincing as I feel a flicker of pain in my waist, I haul my backpack off my shoulders and lift it up until it's on the sill at the bottom of the window. I hesitate again, aware that there'll be no going back after this moment, but the truth is that I honestly don't have another option. Finally, therefore, I push my backpack through, and I quickly hear the sound of it hitting the floor inside the house. Some of the shards of glass break, too, but they don't shatter as they land.

  And then I start climbing up the fence, taking care not to slip as more and more rain comes crashing down.

  Chapter Ten

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Saturday September 29th, 1888

  Lifting the kidney from the dead woman's abdomen, I take a moment to reach my knife around to the underside and cut away the final pieces of tissue that are connecting the organ to its host. The blade is a little dull, so I have to slice again and again until finally I feel the tissue tear free. Once that is done, I set the knife aside for a moment and hold the kidney up, so that I might better judge its quality.

  The organ is warm and wet with blood, and I believe – despite the poor light – that it is in a decent condition.

  I set the kidney on the piece of apron cloth that I prepared, next to the part of the woman's uterus that I managed to remove. Blood is already staining the fabric,
and I cannot help but wish that I had come better prepared. Still, as I turn back to look at the woman's open abdomen, I know that I must remain focused on the task at hand. For one thing, I must remove her right kidney as well. For another, I am starting to wonder whether I might take her liver after all. There seems no reason to waste any part of her that might prove useful.

  She is a drunk, yes, but the liver seems remarkably well-preserved. In fact, I might be able to -

  Suddenly I hear footsteps.

  Startled, I turn and look back across the dark square, terrified that I am about to be interrupted. I wait for some sign of a passing police officer, or perhaps another loathsome merchant trader who might indolently wander across my path, but a moment later I realize that the footsteps seem to be leading away again. Still, I know that sooner or later somebody will come into the square, so I must finish harvesting this whore's organ's as quickly as possible.

  Reaching down, I start digging through her guts again, attempting to find my way to her remaining kidney. In an operating theater, of course, I would have no trouble at all. Matters are a little different out here in the cold, dark night, and I must confess to becoming momentarily lost as my fingers sift through the mass of guts. Finally, however, I locate the second kidney, and I reach for the knife.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps again, this time coming from another direction. I freeze for a few seconds, before looking around as I realize that these footsteps seem to be coming closer, echoing all around me in the cold night air. I remain completely silent, hoping against hope that I am not about to be disturbed, but I can already tell that some cursed fool means to enter the square. I want to stay and extract the remaining kidney, but I am already starting to panic and finally – barely even knowing my own actions – I fold the old apron shut and gather the kidney and uterus, before getting to my feet and hurrying along the side of a building. With luck, I shall be able to return in a moment and take the other kidney.