Pariah Page 3

  They did. He saw it in their eyes. He saw it in their souls.

  Chapter 8

  THE WELL

  From hell, it said, and it was signed, Jack. It was a letter published in a local newspaper. The letter that gave him his name. Like he told Mary before having her killed, he thought it was a good name.

  But hell. What did they know? Their squalor. Their suffering. Their poverty. It was nothing—nothing to the real hell.

  He knew the real hell.

  And he wasn’t going back there.

  So he ran, pelting along the dirty streets.

  They followed him.

  Bastards.

  Never let him be. Always on his tail. Curbing his freedoms.

  They reined him in, just like they’d been made to do.

  He fumed as he ran through the fog. It swirled around him. It was damp on his skin. It was cold. It reeked of the river.

  Shitty old river, she is. Just like the Euphrates.

  He thought about the man he’d drowned. The man whose case he now carried. A brown briefcase brimming with blades—blood-covered blades. Knives to cut and knives to gut. Knives to hack and knives to scalp. Knives to saw and knives to slash.

  He wouldn’t get to use them all. He cursed. He raged. His pursuers were gaining on him. He could hear their feet tramping through the streets. He could hear them call his name, his real name. An unspeakable name. A name so powerful it would burn off a man’s skin. A name known only to them.

  To them and to Him.

  He who made them.

  He who made Jack.

  Shapes moved around him in the fog. Men grunted and women cried. Curses flew. Police whistles pierced the night.

  He kept running. They kept coming.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Their torches flickered in the fog. The buildings cast shadows.

  He quickened his pace. His chest ached. Someone had put a knife in there, driven it deep to where his heart was—or where it should’ve been.

  He had no heart.

  Heartless. Soulless. Shameless. No guilt. No conscience. No regret.

  Only desire.

  They’d smashed their way in just after he’d devoured what had been ripped out of Mary Kelly. The one who had done the ripping stood covered in blood while Jack ate. And it was then that they stormed the lodging house. There were twelve of them, led by Jonas Troy.

  Troy, the seer of seers.

  The bastard of bastards.

  God’s own cunt.

  One of Troy’s horde had stabbed Jack. They’d manhandled him, trying to fight him to the floor, Troy ready with his iron. But Jack kicked off. He got loose. He raised hell. He slashed and hacked and flailed, red mist falling, white rage burning.

  He barged his way out of the door, out into the street—and started running.

  He had no idea what had happened to the one whose mind he poisoned. The one who’d done the ripping. It didn’t matter now.

  Get away, that was all that mattered.

  Find shelter. Get your strength back. Find a mind to warp. A mind willing to rip for him. A mind willing to murder. Then find a fifth—Jonas Troy or that detective inspector.

  He was also one of them.

  Rip them open. Cut it out. Devour it.

  Jack turned down an alley. Pitch black and stinking of piss. Shit-colored water running in the gutters. Brick buildings covered in mould and damp. The brick gone black with smoke and age. Along the other side of the road ran slum properties. Doss houses for human debris. Inside the buildings, babies cried and women screamed.

  He ran down a side street and came into a yard.

  Trapped.

  He froze.

  A well stood in the middle of the yard.

  He turned to leave the way he’d come, but shadows flickered in the narrow passageway, and raised voices told him they were here.

  The fires of their torches flared as they spilled into the yard.

  He backed up.

  Twelve of them. They circled him.

  “Go quietly,” said Troy.

  “I’ve never gone quietly,” he said.

  They mobbed him. He struggled. He hated this. He feared it. The dread was mounting. They had him. “Nooooooooooo . . . ” he screamed.

  Why can’t I be free?

  They forced him to the ground and spread-eagled him.

  Troy loomed over him, brandishing the iron. He held it up to heaven and shouted a prayer. Lightning sliced the night. It struck the iron. Troy lit up. The iron became red hot. The fire of God. The flames of hell. Jack writhed with dread.

  “Hold him still,” said Troy.

  He fought against them.

  Troy brought the iron down and pressed it to Jacks left palm.

  Blinding white pain seared through him. He arched his back and screamed. He cursed his maker and cursed him again when Troy burned his right palm.

  When he was done, Troy ordered Jack bound.

  His skin was melting from his hands and his feet, and from the gash in his side, beneath his ribs, seeped a black, tarry fluid.

  They tied him with chains and hoisted him to his feet.

  Troy said, “You are bound by the five wounds of Christ. Only blood can unbind you. And five deaths will free you.”

  “Fucker,” said Jack, drooling and sick with pain.

  Again. A-fucking-gain.

  How many times had he suffered this?

  How many times?

  The wounds of Christ. The casting down.

  “Throw him in the well,” said Troy.

  They lifted him and took him to the well.

  “I will butcher your children’s children,” he shrieked as they dropped him into the pit.

  Chapter 9

  NEVER ENDING

  Jonas Troy looked down into the well. Darkness looked back up at him.

  A hand on his shoulder made him start.

  “It’s all right, Troy,” said the detective inspector. “It’s done. That’s him gone.”

  Troy said, “He’s not gone.”

  “As good as gone.”

  “The poison he spreads has infected the world. Because of that, he can always call out to it. He can summon it and make it work for him. Just like he did with the fellow who killed Mary.”

  The detective inspector tutted. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

  “You should lock him away.”

  “He’s a man of high regard.”

  “He is a murderer,” said Jonas.

  The detective furrowed his brow.

  Troy said, “Many men of high regard have been used by that monster to kill us, inspector. To rip us and . . . and gouge out. . .”

  He trailed off. He stared down into the abyss. He heard voices. The voices of the dead. The voices of the victims. The voices of the seers.

  Those who went before. Those murdered at his command.

  They hailed him. Hymns wafted from the deep. Hymns to Jonas. They called him “saint” and “angel”.

  But the praise was empty. It meant nothing. Words and songs. He knew, ultimately, he would fail. All mortals fail.

  We die, he thought. But evil never does. It goes on and on, never ending.

  “He’ll be back one day,” he said.

  “Get it out of your mind for now,” said the detective inspector. “You’re hurt, and you need to see a doctor.”

  “What about the knife-man?”

  “Well deal with him.”

  “Who, the police?”

  The detective inspector nodded.

  “What will you do?” asked Jonas.

  The water sucked him down and he funneled through the arteries of London, plunging deeper, deeper into the city’s guts.

  The
chains bit into his flesh. The wounds on his hands and feet and side pulsed. His rage bubbled.

  Bastards . . . bastards . . .

  The voice of a child said, “Locked again in the womb of the earth, locked again until blood gives you birth . . . ” and the child’s voice laughed.

  “Fucking bastard,” said the one they’d called Jack. “Let me loose.”

  “You are bound, my Evening Star,” said the child’s voice.

  He was hauled through the dark water. It plugged his throat. It filled his lungs. It swelled his stomach.

  “I am the lord who gapes,” he screamed, “let me go.”

  “You can’t make me, you can’t make me . . . ” sang the child’s voice.

  “I am the lantern of the tomb . . . ”

  “You can’t make me, you can’t make me . . . ”

  “I am the moth eating at the law . . . ”

  “You can’t make me, you can’t make me . . . ”

  “I am your—”

  The water whirled. He wheeled, his voice stolen from him. The swirling pool drilled him downwards into the earth, driving him into the chalk and the lime, burying him. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. Instead, the rage blossomed inside his head, his mind screaming, I AM YOUR OFFSPRING . . .

  Part Three

  HOMECOMING

  Chapter 10

  STAMPING GROUND

  WHITECHAPEL, LONDON–9:22 PM, FEBRUARY 25, 2011

  If it had been anyone other than Charlie Faultless walking down this street dressed in the Paul Smith navy blue suit, the Patrick Cox shoes, and the Yves Saint Laurent shirt and silk tie, they probably would have been mugged by now.

  But Charlie Faultless wasn’t just anyone. He had an air of menace—something about him that made it clear you’d be messing with the wrong fella.

  The way he walked made you eye him up but stay well back.

  He might not be tough. He might just look it. But a mugger had to make a split-second decision. And a swagger, a strut, and scary eyes that were different colors made all the difference when it came to making a choice—to mug or not to mug.

  With Charlie Faultless, the right decision was to walk away and choose another victim.

  Good call. Because the swagger, the strut, and the scary eyes weren’t just show—he could back them up.

  Faultless wasn’t big. Five-nine, a hundred-and-sixty-eight pounds. Lean and sharp-edged, as if he’d been cut from flint.

  But he was pit-bull tough. You kick off with him, he’d not let go till one of you wasn’t moving much—and it wouldn’t be him.

  You could put him in an expensive suit, give him the handbook on how to behave in company, forge him into one of the best investigative journalists in the country, but Charlie Faultless still had the cold blood of a street fighter racing through his veins, the black heart of a villain beating in his breast.

  And this was the place that made him. The Barrowmore Estate, E1.

  It had been fifteen years. Nothing had changed. Graffiti and burned-out cars. Overgrown grass on a piece of open ground. Rusted swings and a climbing frame. Youths loitering, transmitting menace. The smell of booze and fags on the air. The stench of charred metal from the cindered vehicles and petrol and oil fumes from their gutted engines. The reek of dog shit from the hybrid beasts used as weapons by drug dealers. Satellite dishes festooned the tower blocks. Laundry flapped on the balconies. Snatches of arguments wheeled on the breeze.

  He stopped outside a row of shops. Most of them had been boarded up. But there was a Costcutter convenience store, its windows protected by metal grilles. A burglar alarms red light winked above the door. Bracketed to a tree outside, a CCTV camera gazed down at the pavement. Along from the Costcutter, a takeaway offered fish and chips, pizzas, and kebabs. Further down stood a greasy spoon called Rays that offered a full English for a fiver and chips with everything.

  Faultless looked around. The patch of open ground lay on the opposite side of the road. Litter was strewn in the grass. The smell of dog shit filled the air. It was obviously the place to go when your frothing, mad-eyed weapon needed a crap. Smell or no smell, it didn’t put off the trio of louts swigging beer on the acre of ground. Faultless eyed them. He gripped the strap of his Gucci shoulder bag. The three wise men might just fancy it—and the MacBook tucked inside.

  You ain’t having it, thought Faultless. No one’s having it.

  Not even the Hodder & Stoughton publishing exec Faultless and his agent just had a curry with in Brick Lane. If they wanted the MacBook, or, more specifically, the proposal it contained, they’d have to better the offer made by Macmillan.

  Faultless turned away from the three youths and looked up the road.

  The sight made him shiver.

  You’re jumpy tonight, Charlie boy, he told himself. But he knew why.

  The four tower blocks glimmered against the dark sky. They were each fifteen-stories. Fifteen floors of misery. They were built in a quadrangle, the centerpiece of Barrowmore. They were named Swanson House, Monsell House, Bradford House, and Monro House. Surrounding the tower blocks were more flats. Rows and rows of two-story, red-brick, pre-fab housing, raved about in the 1960s, railed against in the 2010s. Streets of these bland, clinical boxes—hailed as modern and stylish when they replaced the slums—snaked around the estate. The buildings were now damp and filthy. They were as soiled as the tower blocks looming over them, as grim as the warehouses lining the estates forgotten corners.

  Staring up at the towers, Faultless thought about the regeneration projects that had redeveloped much of the East End. Money poured in. The tower blocks were demolished and replaced by low-rise housing. Cool Britannia swooped—artists, musicians, actors. Galleries opened. A busy, lively nightlife evolved.

  It was bright, it was buzzing—it was a grand illusion.

  Because if you wave a magic wand, your sleight of hand will never hide every secret.

  Some places you’ll miss. Some secrets will stay hidden. Secrets like the Barrowmore Estate.

  Faultless cringed. He nearly turned his back on the tower blocks and walked away—headed up the road that led back to Brick Lane and Commercial Street, back to civilization and sanity.

  But he steeled himself. He had to do this. He had to cleanse his soul. He needed closure. He needed answers. He needed to repent.

  “Hello, chief,” said a voice behind him.

  He wheeled, ready to kick off, fizzing with tension. This was his old stamping ground, but he’d not been back since 1996—not since he’d been forced out. But time wouldn’t have healed the wounds he’d opened. It had probably made them fester.

  And there was a good chance the Graveney’s would still be out for his blood.

  “Twitchy, ain’t you, chief,” said the voice, from behind a veil of smoke.

  Chapter 11

  THREE WISE MEN

  The cigar smoke cleared and showed an old man with snow-white hair that reached down over his shoulders. His raven-black eyes sparkled as he smiled at Faultless. He scratched the tuft of beard on his chin and said, “This kind of place makes a fella twitchy, I guess. You agree with me, chief?”

  Faultless narrowed his eyes, studying the man. His face was speckled with the signs of age. He wore a leather waistcoat. Tattoos swathed his arms and his torso. Faultless stared at the images and lost himself in them as they appeared to move on the old man’s body.

  He snapped out of it, feeling himself flush. He furrowed his brow and searched his memory, because the old man’s face seemed familiar.

  “You all right there, chief?” said the stranger.

  “Yeah, top notch. Do I know you?”

  “Might do.”

  Faultless thought about introducing himself, but he hesitated. Bad blood made him think twice.

  He asked, “You lived here long?”

 
; “Not round here, no. Elsewhere, though. Very long.”

  “Moving up in the world, are you? To Barrowmore?”

  The old man said, “Up, yeah, that’s right. Way up. A long way. You ain’t got a couple of quid for a can to go with my cigar, have you, chief?”

  “Spent all your pension on the Havana, mate?” said Faultless, still trawling his mind for a match of the old man’s face.

  “No, I killed a man for it.”

  “Well, if you need a smoke, you need a smoke . . . ”

  The old man chortled. “That’s right, chief. Now, have you got a couple of quid for a pensioner to have a night-cap?”

  Faultless gave him some cash. The old man winked at him and went into the Costcutter. Charlie shook his head, tutting at his own gullibility and dismissing the feeling that he’d seen the elderly man before.

  Mind playing tricks, he thought. Stress of being back.

  He turned to walk away but stopped in his tracks, the three wise men blocking his path.

  Not men really—they looked about sixteen.

  The betting was they weren’t very wise, either.

  “What you got in the satchel, mate?” said one of the boys. He was your generic yob—pasty-faced, hooded-top, a swastika tattooed on the back of his hand.

  Faultless glared at the youth, and the boy faltered.

  “Here,” the lout said, “you got one brown eye, one blue eye. You a freak or something?”

  “I’m a freak, son,” he said. “You know how much of a freak?”

  “You what?” said the youth as one of his mates—maybe wise after all—was saying, “Leave it, Paul. He looks weird.”

  The third lout was already drifting off. He was tall. Well over six-five, but piss-thin. He reminded Faultless of that old toy, Stretch Armstrong.

  Faultless, fixing on the first youth, the troublemaker, said, “You take advice, Paul? Is that your name? Paul? Take your mate’s advice and leave it.”

  But he knew he was wasting his time. Still cocky, the lad called Paul said, “What’re you going to do if I don’t, fucker with your suit on?”