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Not Mary. Tall, slim, fair-haired, and attractive.

  Not Mary. The last of them. Four dead already, and she was the fifth.

  Four dead, but only three ripped. They only got to cut Elizabeth Strides throat. Someone must have disturbed them.

  Catherine Eddowes had died earlier that same night. Throat cut, disemboweled, and her face mutilated. The killer posted part of her kidney to the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee as if to say, Watch all you like, you’ll never catch me—I’ll keep ripping till I’m done.

  But the bastard wasn’t done. He’d not be done till he’d got five.

  Five. The perfect number, the pentagram, the five senses, the five fingers, and the five wounds of Christ.

  Five, and he was free.

  But he never got Long Liz Stride properly, did he. Never got to cut her open and dig it out of her.

  Only three ripped. And of the five Jonas Troy had found in Whitechapel, just one remained.

  Mary Jane Kelly.

  So what would the Ripper do now? He had two more to find before he could be free.

  Troy turned back to his drink.

  He’ll probably come for me, he thought. Me and Mary left.

  Someone bumped into him, but he ignored them. Stand at the bar of the Ten Bells, you were going to get shoved.

  The pub stood on the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street. On Fournier, back in the 18th century, London’s authorities had built houses for Huguenot weavers and merchants who’d fled Catholic butchery in France.

  But it was the same evil that drove the Papist French to ethnically cleanse their protestant countrymen as steered the recent murders in Whitechapel.

  The same evil.

  Troy drank. In the street, men fought. In the pub, they drank. Somewhere—it might’ve been just outside the doors of the pub, or inside—a fiddler played a Viennese waltz.

  Troy stopped to listen. It had been months since he’d heard such music. The day he-d left Vienna. The day after Mary Ann Nichols had been ripped. The day Troy knew would come.

  Someone grabbed him from behind. He spun, ready to defend himself. But he delayed his punch.

  Mick Perry, descendant of a Huguenot weaver who had fled France, said, “Fucking immigrants.”

  Perry had a bulbous nose and missing teeth. He was short and squat and always had his fists bunched, as if ready for a fight. It looked like he’d just been in one. Blood poured from his mouth, and a welt bulbed under his left eye.

  Troy ignored Perry’s complaint and his injury and said, “What do you know?”

  Perry only turned up when he knew something. That had been the deal. “I don’t want to see you, otherwise,” Troy had told him. Perry was his bloodhound in Spitalfields. His tracker, his eyes and ears.

  “Just been fighting round Dorset Street,” said Perry. “And as we cleared out, I saw someone loiter near Mary Kelly’s lodgings. Thought you’d want to—”

  But Troy was gone, bolting out of the Ten Bells, elbowing himself through the crowd out in the street—hoping he could save Mary from the Ripper.

  Then something hit him across the back of the skull, and his vision went blurry.

  Chapter 4

  ENDLESS NIGHT

  Detective Inspector Frederick George Abberline, leading the inquiry into the Whitechapel murders, had not properly slept for weeks. He couldn’t sleep. It was too dangerous. If he slept, the dreams would come. And you wouldn’t want to dream Fred Abberline’s dreams. They were terrifying. They could kill you in your sleep. Stop your heart and freeze your blood.

  And he didn’t want to die in his sleep. He wanted to die with his eyes open, face to face with his tormentor.

  And since his tormentor was stalking Whitechapel, that’s what Fred planned to do.

  Go eye to eye with him—if he could keep his eyes open—and tell him: “No more atrocities.”

  No more atrocities.

  He began to shake. He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a flask. He drank from it, and the liquid—hot down his throat—jerked him awake. But the shakes continued. He always had the shakes. They were caused by fatigue, drink, and a lack of food.

  When was the last time he’d eaten a decent meal?

  He looked at his pocket watch. Time to go out again and wander the streets. He would do this every night—stroll the alleys and passageways of Whitechapel and Spitalfields till 5:00 am.

  The time drifted. He was usually in a haze. He hallucinated, for sure, because he saw terrible things that he knew were not real. At least, he hoped they weren’t.

  When 5:00 am came, he would wander home and collapse on his bed, only to be awakened perhaps minutes later by the delivery of a telegraph summoning him to the Whitechapel station to interrogate yet another suspect.

  Another maniac. Another lunatic. Another false dawn. At this rate, his bosses at Scotland Yard grumbled, the killer would never be caught.

  Abberline rose from his chair, turning to head for the door.

  He stopped dead.

  The face looking into his was fog-gray, and red rings circled the eyes.

  “Evening, Fred,” said Inspector Walter Andrews. Andrews had been sent from Scotland Yard to help with the investigation into the Whitechapel murders. Hinder was perhaps a better description. Andrews was a short man with red hair. Like Abberline, he appeared to suffer from sleeplessness. His skin and his eyes gave it away.

  Abberline greeted his colleague with a nod.

  “Off out again?” said Andrews.

  Abberline said nothing. He tucked his pipe into his coat pocket. He picked up his briefcase. It was heavy with documents and implements. It jangled as he raised it off the floor. His throat became dry with nerves.

  “What’ve you got in there, Fred?” said Andrews. “The Crown Jewels?”

  Abberline said, “I have to leave, Walter. If you’ll excuse—”

  “We need to sit down and chat, Fred.”

  “Chat?”

  “You, me, and Moore.”

  Henry Moore was the third inspector sent with Abberline and Andrews.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Abberline. He was the eldest of the trio, the most senior—promoted to inspector in 1873, when he was thirty. It would’ve made Martha proud. Tears welled at the thought. She had died five years before his elevation, only two months after they were married. It was TB that killed her—a hacking, withering death. Although he’d married again—sweet, dear Emma—his heart still ached for Martha.

  “Think about it?” said Andrews, frowning. “What’s to think? We’re no closer to catching this chap. We’ve got suspects coming out of our arseholes. None of them fits the bill. We’ve got panic on the streets. We’ve got the press baying, and even Her Majesty’s fretting, they say. What’s to think, Fred?”

  Abberline’s skin goosefleshed, and he shivered. A tingling sensation ran through his fingers. “Come along, Walter,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I must go, now.”

  “Where’re you going, Fred? See your whores?”

  Anger flared in Abberline’s breast. He said nothing, containing the rage behind pursed lips.

  Walter Andrews went on. “They say you give ‘em money, Fred. Is that true? You pay for it?”

  “I give them a few shillings so they can have a bed for the night.”

  “So you can have a bed, more like.”

  He leaned into Andrews, going nose to nose with him. “I spent fifteen years in Whitechapel. I know these people. I know these streets. You should count yourself lucky, Walter. It is only by the grace of God that you were born in pleasant Suffolk, you know. You could have been the wretched offspring of some poor unfortunate. And you know what they do with their offspring, Walter? Leave them on street corners or toss them into the Thames. That’s what they do.”

  For a few seconds, they looke
d each other in the eye, neither giving way.

  Then, Andrews laughed and turned away. “There you are, Fred. A right preacher. Ranting on. Off you go, then.”

  Abberline stayed where he was. He wasn’t going to allow Andrews to dismiss him. “Well speak tomorrow,” he told the other inspector. “First thing.”

  He strode away towards the stairs at the far end of the office.

  Behind him Andrews said, “If we don’t catch this chap, we might have another body to discuss.”

  We might, thought Abberline. And he quaked with dread.

  Chapter 5

  THE SHAPES OF SCREAMS

  “Hello, Mary,” he said. “You’ve got a fine pair of tits on you. I might have him cut them off, keep ‘em as a souvenir.”

  The door stood open. He lurked on the threshold, a silhouette framed by the darkness. The street behind him was empty. The night was quiet. The fog rolled in. The cold came too. And then him, stepping into the light, bringing with him an odor of decay. The flame of the lamp quivered. Mary stepped back. The door slammed shut. She swore he’d never touched it. She pressed herself up against the wall. He took off his top hat. His hair moved as if it were snakes. His chalk-white face made her bladder sag. It was horror. It was dread. He was a human leach. But he wasn’t human. He was something else. He was evil.

  Evil itself.

  Mary tried to be brave. “If you’re here to kill me, kill me.”

  He laughed. It made her spine watery. He placed a brown, leather briefcase on the floor and sat on the bed. His cape flapped. In its folds, contorted faces appeared, their mouths making the shapes of screams. Dozens of them seemed to be trapped in the material, each one in agony.

  But then they were gone.

  The light, she thought. The trembling flame casting shadows, surely.

  Surely . . .

  “Sit,” he said.

  She slithered down the wall and sat on the floor.

  His gaze drifted over her lodgings.

  “You live miserably,” he said. “The lot of you. Is it worth it?”

  “To stop you, yes.”

  “I could give you thrones. I could give you palaces. I could give you empires.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Well . . . perhaps. But I could give you more than this.”

  “You bring fear and death—that’s all you can give.”

  He said nothing. He made a show of checking his nails. But they weren’t manicured. They were long and yellow and cracked. Talons that could rip you open.

  Mary said, “You think you’re strong, but you’re not. We can find you. We can always find you. We always have.”

  “You’re a whore.”

  “You’re scared of us.”

  “A slag, a tart.”

  “You’ll never be free of this place, and tonight . . . tonight will be the last night of your freedom.”

  He shook his head. “You could’ve been the fifth, Mary. Unfortunately, I was hindered when I courted dear Elizabeth. Never mind. There are more of you, and they will come.”

  “They’re hunting you.”

  “Good—let them hunt. I welcome them. Any pussy among them, Mary? Any cunt I can cut out and keep?”

  Mary said nothing.

  Then he said, “You know what they’re calling me? Jack. A working man’s name. A human name. You can call me that, if you like. But I like this name, too.” He pointed to a brass nameplate on the briefcase. “Stole it from a fool I killed. Drowned him, I did. Went down with him. Down into the gray, cold depths of the Thames. Shitty old river, she is. Just like the Euphrates.”

  “You can kill them, but you can’t kill me. You can’t kill us.”

  “I can’t, Mary . . . ”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Mary held her breath.

  The man on the bed said, “Come in.”

  The door opened slowly, and a figure stood there. Terror raced through Mary’s veins. Her heart pounded. She began to whine, knowing death was very near.

  The newcomer entered. He looked Mary in the eye. Her jaw dropped. “Not you,” she said, “please not you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said, his voice quaking.

  “Rip her,” said the man who liked being called Jack.

  Chapter 6

  ANOTHER NIGHT, ANOTHER RIOT

  His head ached. Blood dripped from his scalp on to the pavement. He crawled along through the moving forest of legs.

  He heard someone say, “Come back, here, you bastard,” and never thought it was directed at him. Not until the agony of a leather boot smashing into his thigh was followed by the same voice saying, “I told you to stop, you fucking Jew.”

  Jonas Troy rolled on his back and writhed in pain, clutching his leg.

  Above him stood a policeman, wielding his truncheon. Around him, men fought. The noise was deafening. The violence was brutal. Not only fists and feet, but knives and broken bottles were being used. And Troy glimpsed one fellow cracking another over the head with a brick. The crowd swarmed. It came close. Too close. Feet stamped near Troy’s head. The bobby swung his club to clear space for himself.

  He looked down at Troy again and said, “Now get up, you; you’re under arrest.”

  “What for?” said Troy.

  The policeman, a big bear with claws and whiskers to match, grabbed Troy’s jacket and then lifted him off his feet.

  Like being on a swing as a child, Troy wheeled in the air, and his belly tumbled.

  The bobby bashed him against the window of the Ten Bells. Troy’s head snapped back. Glass smashed. His nape stung, shards piercing his skin. Blood ran warm down his back. He was dizzy, seeing double. His thigh was numb, and he thought he might not be able to put any weight on his leg. And to prove his theory, it buckled when the constable put him down roughly.

  Troy staggered away. The bobby followed—cheeks red, huffing and puffing, bashing over the head anyone who came to close.

  Troy said, “Tell me why you’re arresting me.”

  “You’re a Jew troublemaker.”

  “I’m not a Jew. I’m not a troublemaker.”

  “Shut your mouth—and stop trying to get away from me.”

  “There’s a woman . . . ”

  “There always is.”

  “She’s in danger.”

  “It’s them that are dangerous round here, mate.”

  “Constable, you can come with me.”

  “No, mate, you’re coming with me.”

  He nailed Troy—cracked him on the shoulder with his truncheon. But Troy threw a punch. The right hook caught the policeman on the jaw, making him stagger but not dropping him. Troy’s hand hurt now. He shook it, grimacing. He’d broken his knuckles on the constable’s face.

  The bobby shook off the blow. “Assaulting a police constable is a serious fucking offense, son. You’re getting a hell of a thrashing when I get you back to the station.” Rage reddened his face, and he snarled at Troy, attacking.

  No choice, he thought; I’ve got no choice.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and told the constable, “Forget about this. Let me go.

  I’m warning you—forget it.”

  “Don’t you fucking threaten me, Jew.”

  The constable charged. He ran straight into the knife and dropped to the street, writhing and clutching his belly.

  “Keep your hands there,” Troy told him, blood dripping from his knife. He wheeled, ready to sprint down Commercial Street towards Miller’s Court, but he stopped in his tracks.

  Standing a few yards away was a young girl. But she was not an ordinary girl. She was a vision. She was a ghost. He could see right through her. But she was still staring at him. He looked at her face, and he thought he knew her. He studied her clothes. They were unlike anythi
ng a girl would wear—to start with, she wore trousers and a strange, peaked cap with the letters “NY” emblazoned on it.

  Troy reached out for the girl, and she reached for him.

  He felt a connection. He felt as if she were part of him. As if she were his future.

  Then he saw into the girl’s heart and knew everything about her. And with that knowledge, he realized that the war he was fighting today would be fought again tomorrow and for many tomorrows to come.

  “Go and save her, little seer,” he told the girl, and then he ran past her, looking into her face. He saw himself in her features. The girl watched him. He kept looking at her and bumped into someone. He staggered and got ready to defend himself.

  “Murdering police constables, now, are we, Mr Troy?” said the man he’d bumped into.

  Troy quickly looked back and the girl was gone, and then he spoke to the man. “He’s going to kill Mary Kelly, detective inspector.”

  The policeman raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  Chapter 7

  REMAINS

  As Troy and the detective inspector hurtled down Commercial Street, others of their kind joined them in the race to save Mary Kelly from the Ripper.

  But Troy knew they were too late. He could sense it.

  Another seer was dead.

  Another one ripped.

  Another soul lost to the darkness.

  Four, now. Four ripped since the evil was freed a few months before. One more, and it would be five.

  The perfect number. The pentagram. The five senses. The five fingers. The five wounds of Christ.

  As he ran, he was in pain. Covered in blood and aching all over after the policeman attacked him, he was operating on adrenaline.

  He looked over his shoulder. Eleven others accompanied him, all running silently. He thought, It could be any one of us— we could be the fifth.

  “Wait,” he said and slowed down.

  “Jonas, what are we stopping for?” said the detective inspector, out of breath.

  “He’s killed her,” he said.

  “You don’t know that,” said a black man.

  “I know,” said Troy. “And you know, too—all of you.”