Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 22: June 1888.

Twenty-Two: June 1888.

‘Dearheart, welcome… I have no idea who you are, but you know the knock, so you must be in the know…’

This latter was spoken in a fey, arch and over-preening voice, accompanied by a waggle of a finger that had an immaculately manicured nail. Though the speaker was male, Sir Francis could see that he affected to be female. Not just by the falsetto tones and the rouge, but also by the low cut dress that he wore. He could possibly have resembled a dancer at the Folies, if not for the waxed moustache and the carpet of chest hair that coiled over the delicate lace of the dress’ décolletage. Mind, thought Sir Francis, there had been many a dancer at that noble institution that…

The thought was lost as the resemblance struck him: Tristram Bloody Brackley himself. How his grandfather would have wept. No, on reflection he would not have wept: rather, he would have taken a horsewhip to the boy. There again, it seemed that young Brackley would probably enjoy that.

Suddenly aware that he had been standing there for some while, saying nothing, and that the young man before him was beginning to look a little impatient, he roused himself to speech.

‘I am, indeed, in the know as you so capably put it. I have not been to this establishment before, but my usual haunts…’

‘Ah, the blessed Peelers,’ Tristram said with an exaggerated shudder. ‘Yes, dearheart, they can be such a trial. Pity, as many of them look so splendid in those uniforms. Still, we soldier on –‘ he gave what he fondly believed to an imitation of a girlish giggle ‘- and we’ve had our share of those, too, but I digress. Yes, sweetness, we keep on going… Now come in, for God’s sakes, before anyone catches sight of you,’ he finished in a tone that was comparatively far more manly.

Varney had caught sight of some of the activity in the room over the burly shoulders of young Tristram, and so it was no surprise when he entered, hearing the door closed behind him, and took in the full vista. A chatter of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, filled the room. Voices were low, mostly he presumed through habit. It would not pay for many of the people in these apartments to fall prey to the Peelers. Even at first glance, he caught sight of three MP’s, two high ranking Armed Forces personnel, and the Editor of the Thunderer. And Brackley, of course. Their educated voices contrasted with the rougher working class tones of Cockney London. He knew that many of these boys – and they were, with the exception of Brackley, the younger elements in the room. While the older men were in male attire – albeit in various stages of undress – the younger men were in dresses. They were rouged, and made up in parodies of femininity. Many of the younger men were perched on the laps of their elders, or else had their heads buried in those laps.

Not the sort of thing Sir Francis had been privy to, even in the days when he had such lustful desires. But if nothing else had come of his bizarre experiences, it had taught him that people’s peccadilloes were nothing but their own affair. Mind, he’d still run them all through with a red hot poker.

‘Drink?’ Brackley had conjured a balloon of brandy, seemingly from nowhere, which he now waved under Sir Francis’ nose.

‘Thank you.’ Varney took it, even though it would not pass his lips. Speaking of which: ‘I wonder – you are Tristram Brackley, are you not? – if I could have a word with you. In private,’ he added, casting a jaundiced glance around the room.

Varney Versus Spring-heel Jack 21: June 1888

Twenty One: June 1888.

It stood alone in the centre of the workshop. Dull yet gleaming, its iron framework painted in a matt and textured paint that was new to Bekinscot. The spidery skeins of metal that wound around a central spinal column, extending out to form arms and legs that wrapped around themselves until coming to filigree points of fine wires, seemed to be possessed of a vitality all their own. The skull of the thing had a blank space where the face should be, but otherwise extended the filigree motif until it seemed that the shape was comprised of a route map of veins like those that ran beneath any human scalp. The delicate metalwork of the arms and legs was jointed, thin tubes seemingly of rubber connecting these joints to a small engine that was mounted in the middle of the central spinal column.

Haining said nothing while Bekinscot took it in. Fascinated, he moved forward, cautiously, towards the creation in the middle of the floor. He reached out tentative fingers, then withdrew them, as if having second thoughts.

‘It won’t bite, you know,’ Haining chuckled.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Bekinscot murmured. He circled it three times, bending to examine the knee joints, before straightening up and looking Haining in the eye. ‘Well, it’s pretty damn marvellous. William, I’ll give you that… But what the bloody hell is it?’

‘My secret weapon,’ Haining replied.

‘I dare say,’ Bekinscot ruminated, ‘but that doesn’t really answer my question, does it?’

Haining laughed out loud, clapped his hands together as he moved into the centre of the room. While Bekinscot watched with bemusement – albeit an impressed bemusement – Haining circled around the iron construction, pointing out relevant areas as he spoke.

‘An outer skeleton, my dear chap. I got the idea from study of our insect brethren. Many of them have their skeleton on the outside of the body as a kind of protection. An excellent idea, as we are all aware how frail is the flesh. You see the way in which the jointed sections on the arm and leg allow for movement… similarly, the webbing structure over the skull affords a large amount of protection –‘

‘Yet the face is open to attack,’ Bekinscot observed.

Haining allowed himself a smile. ‘Ah, you will see soon enough, dear chap. I have considered this possibility… but all in good time. Meanwhile, you will observe that the spine of the machine is attached to a lightweight engine. Still hefty, although the nature of the construct spreads and takes some of the load. Nonetheless, it shall hopefully be the first of many such developments to make the engines contain greater power for smaller size. Eventually, this damned thing will make me another fortune… but not until I have fulfilled its primary purpose. The engine powers the hydraulics that move the limbs, which also has the effect of adding that pressure-per-pound to augment the strength of whoever wears the skeleton.

‘With this, the wearer is able to move at greater speeds than the average man, to lift greater weights, and to climb with a greater ease and fluidity than is otherwise possible. It can turn its wearer from a man into a superman.’

Bekinscot peered at the construct. ‘Remarkable. But surely it’s too heavy to wear?’

Haining shook his head. ‘Heavy, yes. Too heavy? No. I have conducted trials to obtain the optimum weight. The alloy I have been developing loses only a little of the strength of iron, whilst a comparatively large weight is shed.’

‘Then you have used this thing?’ Bekinscot asked, slightly shocked.

Haining looked bewildered. ‘Why of course, dear boy… How else will I be able to destroy the foul creature?’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 20: June 1888

Twenty: June 1888.

He made his way through the busy streets as the shadows lengthened under gas lamp, and the streets grew more raucous with the cries of those who had been steadily imbibing. In the West End, the theatre crowds milled around the imposing lobbies, waiting for their carriages to take them either to their homes, or on to meals in expensive restaurants, and thence to gaming rooms. It was a world that he had once known, and in which he had revelled. Yet where had it got him in the end? To this point. And would he find what he was looking for within that realm? No. The gaming rooms were too well guarded, the restaurants far too open and public. There were other places where those such as the man he had once been could seek their pleasures. Pleasures of a more solitary kind.

He had already imbibed from a female this night. He needed something stronger. Not just the richer blood of the sleek, well-fed and rich, but something which carried the strength of a male.

With a baring of his hideous fangs that may possibly have been a smile, he acknowledged to himself that he knew just such a place.

It was off Jermyn Street. A rich, respectable area which housed, behind its painted and varnished doors, any number of things that men would pay to keep hidden. Including, in one block where the concierge would turn a blind eye for a few sovereigns, a molly house. Here, he knew, he could gain the privacy he needed. And there would be little trace of those to whom things might… happen.

He entered boldly, rapping on the front desk with his whitened knuckles. The concierge shuffled from his quarters, casting a curious glance back to wards his dog, a small terrier, which would not accompany him as normal, but now stood hard, teeth bared in a low growl.

‘Excuse my Fred, sir,’ he said ingratiatingly, ‘but he’s sometimes shy of strangers.’

‘No matter,’ Varney said imperiously. ‘I have no concern for dumb animals.’ Which includes you, he added to himself. But, aloud, he continued: ‘I have come in search of a friend’s sister, who I have been told now resides in these quarters. A Molly, by name. My friend – you may have heard of him – is Tristram, Third Earl of Brackley.’

The concierge gave a knowing grin. Dammit, thought Varney, the man almost tapped his nose. Impertinent little shit.

‘I know who you mean, sir,’ he said slyly, winking. ‘A very well-known gentleman in these parts. As is his lovely sister. You’ll find her on the third floor, rooms 17-24. Knock once, then three in quick succession. She has many visitors, some of them not very welcome. I’m sure you understand.’ He indicated the staircase with a nod, and held out his hand, expecting a tip. It was, after all, usual procedure.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ sniffed Sir Francis Varney, going on his way and pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand.

‘Wanker as well as a bugger, then,’ the concierge muttered at Varney’s retreating back.

As he climbed the stairs, deciding to ignore that which he had not been meant to overhear – yet also glorying in the old mans sheer impertinence – he reflected on how fortunate it had been for him to pick up a little gossip about the grandson of a man, now long dead, that he had once known. It made it so much easier if you could enter by the front door, rather than the back. Apt, in the circumstances…

He reached the door to number 17. Faintly, he could hear carousing, and the squeals of those drunk on more than wine.

Smiling once more to himself, he gave the knock.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 19: June 1888.

Nineteen: June 1888.

‘You can’t do that. It’s… insane, for God’s sakes. Inhuman.’

Haining whirled on Bekinscot. ‘Inhuman? In God’s name, man, what do you think she is right now? What do you think she has become? Your Elizabeth… my Lillibet… she does not exist now, nor has she existed for some time. What little there may have been of her, whatever residual traces of her past life and her being that may still be in there, get less by the day. You saw her tonight. There is virtually nothing left that is of her. God alone knows that I have tried to move the heavens and the earth to change all that. But so far I have failed. There is not much time left. It has taken me this long to gain the knowledge and prepare myself. Time is fast running out. The grains of sand in the timer have almost slipped away. The Lord alone knows that I am fortunate for him to have returned at this time –‘

‘Fortunate!’ expostulated Bekinscot, unable to believe what he had just heard.

Haining, stopped in mid-flow, paused for a moment. When he continued, it was in a milder tone, with the flickerings of a wry smile crossing his lips.

‘Yes, fortunate. That may seem a strange choice of words under the circumstances, old friend, but believe me it is one that I choose wisely. My best chance of gaining my revenge on him by taking her back, and by expunging him from the face of the earth, comes rarely. To manufacture the serum and take it beyond the experimental stage, I know that I need some of his foul blood. More, it is beyond the realms of the science and into that of the occult. There is a power that his kind have hold over their chosen victims. To banish that, I must banish him. Only then will I be able to bring her back. And I know – yes, know, dammit – that he has been avoiding London for some time. He fears me because –‘

‘Because you have bested him once before?’ Bekinscot murmured.

Haining gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Best? No, if only I could have; then this would not have been necessary, and she would have been returned to me – to us – long ago. But he did not best me. It was – at most – a hard fought and bitterly bloody draw for me. But he did not defeat me, and that is the thing. His pride does not admit of that. And he is so used to his little victories that he cannot comprehend a situation where he does not emerge clear victor.’

‘Then he is scared,’ Bekinscot whispered.

‘Perhaps unsettled would be a better word,’ Haining mused. ‘But that may be all the edge that I need.’

By this time, the two men had left Elizabeth far behind, and had passed through the laboratory housing the animals. Bekinscot indicated the area that they had just vacated. ‘I do not approve of what you do there,’ he continued in the same mild tone as before. ‘But I think I may understand, now.’

Haining assented. ‘It gives me no pleasure to experiment on dumb animals. Pains me at times. I do not like being a butcher. But he has made me that way, of necessity. To find the key to the blood, I need to experiment. This is bad enough, but I quail at me fellow humans. Come to that, where would I find willing subjects? But, thankfully, I fear the necessity may be coming to an end.’

‘For your conscience – for I know you are a good man – I hope so,’ Bekinscot said quietly.

‘Thanks you, Haining replied in an equally soft voice. Then, brighter as they approached the engineering workshop: ‘But this – this, I feel, will astound you…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 18: November 1885.

Eighteen: November 1885.

How I got out of that stableyard, I do not really know, even now. The relief that flooded over me as the mob entered, and were not hostile to me, must have sapped me of what little strength I had left. I babbled out what had happened, even though as the words breathlessly left my lips I knew that they were almost beyond belief. Almost: the first men into the yard had seen the flight of the fiend, and they knew that I did not lie.

And then there was Elizabeth. The man who had spoken to me first then helped me towards the dark corner where she lay.

My God: the blood was everywhere, gouts of it appearing to stain her dress and cloak. Yet even so, her face was pale and wan, with no sign of torment or torture, only the faraway look of one who has glimpsed something no living being is meant to see. There were two puncture marks in her neck. Holes of about a quarter inch in diameter. A vein, at that: no attempt had been made to rip her carotid artery. There was a precision about the placement that was almost medical. This was not an attempt to take her life: rather, it was a deliberate attempt to drain her of blood whilst still keeping her alive. The gore no longer flowed freely, now that the suction of the fiend was no longer being applied.

Perhaps, if they had not seen the fiend, they may have believed that I was the foul monster responsible. Yet I was not covered in blood – save my own, and that from obvious wounds – and there were dark mutterings from within the mob about previous events that had yielded such sights.

I thought nothing of this at the time, only being concerned with staying conscious and getting my beloved to safety. It was only after, when I had recovered, and had time to reflect, that it struck me as odd that I had never read of such events in the newspapers, nor heard of them. Certainly, when I asked for a cab to be called, there was no cry for a Bobby to come to the rescue, nor to investigate. I know the people of the East End have no great love for the Metropolitan Police, but even so, I was – upon reflection – startled at their instinctive decision to keep the authorities away.

How many of these attacks had occurred before that night?

But all this came later. Now, I sought only flight. A cab had been summoned, and I climbed into it. But barely: my vitality was so low that I only just managed to heave myself inside. Elizabeth, her wounds covered and cloak arranged by the mob so that the gore did not show, was bundled in after me. The cab took flight, its horse startled by a slap on the flanks. It was a number of streets before the driver calmed it enough to ask my destination. I directed him to Eaton Square.

His face had the look of one who had been terrified: he could not look me in the eye as he spoke, nor as I paid him, let alone spare a lance for Elizabeth.

As my butler and footman – who had been summoned by my feeble but insistent knocking – aided Elizabeth to a bedchamber, I poured myself a Scotch and considered these facts. First, I had not been followed by any of the mob, which – with the prospect of blackmail in view – I would have expected. Secondly, no attempt had been made to rob either of us, at our most vulnerable. And lastly, there had been urgency – terror, almost – about their desire to get us away from the area.

The key to Elizabeth’s immediate future, I was sure, lay in resolving these riddles.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 17: June 1888.

Seventeen: June 1888.

With a satisfied and salacious smack of the lips, Sir Francis Varney stepped back from the now drained whore. The force of him pressing against her was all that had been keeping her upright, and not that he stood apart, she slipped down the wall, landing in a crumpled heap. Her skirts and petticoats arrayed around her thighs, her legs bent at the knee at an unnatural angle, and her head slumped down onto her chest.

Sir Francis stepped forward and lifted her head, delicately taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Her lifeless eyes were wide and staring, her rouged cheeks like those of a doll now that only pallor lay beneath. Her mouth was formed into a moue of surprise that contrasted sickly with the violent red slash of a smile where her throat had once been. In his desire to feed, this had been no delicate manoeuvre; the precision of a surgeon had been lost to the animal lust for food.

He sighed. She had been pretty. But still a whore. Still common. Part of the herd. For that was surely what the mass of humanity did constitute: a herd that was there purely for fodder.

He sniffed the air. There was a scent that was less than pleasing. Looking down, he could see that the woman had voided both bladder and bowel in the midst of death. The liquid ran around his feet, forming runnels over the cobbles.

He sniffed again: this time in a gesture of disdain. ‘Tis a pity she was a whore. Such beauty, in more noble surroundings, may have been worth saving. Cultivating. Infecting rather than destroying. There had been those who he had chosen to save in such a way. Whether it be for the use they may serve, or purely for his pleasure. But class would always tell. A lady would not soil herself in such a manner.

Darkness clouded his brow. There had been one who had been worth saving, and who had got away. He had wondered what had happened to her. The fool who had been with her – ah, now there was a conundrum. He could prove troublesome if ever their paths should cross once more.

But now was not the time to ponder on such matters. She may have been a gaudily dressed slattern of dubious morality, but her blood had been sufficient to slake the thirst. He felt her life flow through him, and his strength and vigour become renewed. Now he could hunt in earnest.

Sir Francis Varney, the kindly – if ugly – man who had seemed to be such an easy mark, let fall the head of the whore who had hoped for so much. It slumped back onto her chest. He stepped back once more, tutting to himself in a mildly irritated manner as he wiped her waste from his shoes and onto a drier area of cobbled alley.

A quick check in either direction to see if he was unobserved – not that it mattered now he felt strong again – and he strode off, away from the Piccadilly end of the narrow alley, and out into another busy thoroughfare. A spring in his step at the expectation of a night’s activity, moving amongst a populace unaware of the evil in its midst.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 16: June 1888.

Sixteen: June 1888.

‘Lillibet…’

Bekinscot’s voice was hushed, a mix of horror and awe as Haining pulled on a thick silken cord, drawing back the heavy velvet drapes that shielded her even from the enclosed world that was now her home.

She was beautiful. But not in the way that she had once been: the sweet innocence that had once suffused her features had changed beyond all recognition. The bloom of youth and health was replaced by a sallow, saturnine pallor that made her skin glow almost translucent in the glare of the recessed gas lamp, secreted behind an iron grille.

As the curtains parted, she was reclining on a chaise lounge, her breast moving heavily and rhythmically as she drew in breath. There was carpet beneath her feet, and the walls on three sides of the chamber were papered and painted. As much as possible, the chamber resembled a salon, albeit one bereft of furnishings other than the chaise and a bed. The bed seemed rarely used.

It was only when one took a closer look that evidence of her disease – in every sense – became apparent. Beneath the chaise, and scattered across the floor, were discarded silver platters. Strewn with meat bones that had been sucked dry. Smears of dried animal blood stained the carpet around, and as she rose and strode across the chamber, there were signs of such stains down the black velvet of her dress. The corners of the chamber, seen dimly through the gaslight, revealed that the paper and paint had been clawed away to the thick Dorset stone which had been used to reinforce the natural stone and clay walls.

She came up to the thick plate glass, shot through with thin iron rods, until she was almost eye to eye with her uncle. Bekinscot came closer – as close as he dared – and raised a sleeve to wipe the mist of his breath from the glass.

It was only as he did so that he realised there was no mist on her side of the glass…

‘Uncle… my dear, sweet Uncle… It is so long since you last came to see me. I have been so lonely, so sad… You promised me that you would stop William doing this to me. That you would make him see that he was foolishly mistaken…’

Her voice was wheedling, sweet, yet somehow simpering. It was as though she had taken to the boards, rather than voice true feelings.

‘I… I said no such thing…’ Bekinscot was taken aback. Her eyes were large and dark, and seemed to be boring into him. She was his niece, yet not the girl he had known. Neither was she the sickly semi-conscious invalid he had witnessed on his last visit. Now, behind the caricatured exterior, there seemed to be a sexual predator, seeking to suck the life from him.

Of course he knew that this was what she had become; he had seen the results of William’s researches. But knowing this rationally, and what he now felt when faced with Elizabeth… These were two completely different things.

Before he had a chance to reconcile the stirrings that he knew to be wrong, he was jolted by her change in manner. Her face was no longer faux-sweet. Now it darkened into a turgid rage, her eyes flaring hate and her lips drawing back into a snarl. Without warning, she flung herself at the glass, just as the dog had done. Bekinscot stepped back, and felt Haining’s hand on his shoulder.

Screaming, Elizabeth turned away from them and flew to the rear wall of the chamber in such a way as to appear to glide, rather than run, across the floor. She ripped at the paper and paint, gouging out chunks until the Dorset stone was revealed. There should have been blood; her fingers should have been ripped to the knuckles. And yet there was no sign of any damage to her.

She turned and let fly with a string of curse and oaths, yelled with a venom that was frightening in its fury. The words were obscene beyond anything that even a man of the world such as Bekinscot could comprehend.

‘She has been like this for three days now,’ Haining murmured softly. ‘That is how I know he has returned. She wants to join him. I may let her.’

Bekinscot turned with a jolt: what did William mean?

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 15: November 1885

Fifteen: November 1885.

For what seemed like an eternity, we stood facing each other. The exertion of hefting the hammer and striking home had drained me to the point of exhaustion. I felt that I could pitch forward, face first onto the slick cobbles, and that the only thing holding me aloft was the power of his eyes. There was an intense, burning anger in them that flared briefly, before dimming to cold flame of disgust. A smile flickered across his lips.

‘I was going to make it quick, but now I think not. You’ve annoyed me very much, little man, and for that I shall drain you to within an inch of your poxy worthless life. And then, my odious little enemy, I shall make you watch me desecrate your woman even more. It will be the last thing you will see before you pass on to eternal damnation.’

I swore he would come to curse that over-confidence, for his words and the slickness beneath my feet reminded me that at least a part of it was the blood of my beloved. I could hear her breathing, mixed with small sighing sounds of pain and confusion, coming from the darkness. It would drive me on, true: but with my weakness, what could I do?

My salvation came from the most unlikely of sources. As the fiend took a step towards me, there were voices from the street that intruded upon the seemingly cloistered world of the stables. Angry voices, three or four in number, perhaps more. Then I remembered the hammer that had been flung across the cobbles, and out into the street beyond. Perhaps it had landed amongst passers-by that would now, having taken umbrage, attempt to seek out the perpetrator of the unwarranted assault.

Having seen off one enemy, could I contend with an angry mob? Would I be swapping one danger for another? I had to take the chance.

‘Help! In here! My fiancée and I are being attacked!’

It was feeble, both in word and in the power I was able to bring to my cries, but enough. A confused clamour of voices, and they came closer. Through the gloom, I could see a dark mass, an indistinguishable mob moving in from the street.

He had the strength to best them all. I knew that. But the fact that he had been skulking in the shadows suggested to me that he preferred to conduct his business in private, and would not welcome such an intrusion. He glanced towards the mob, then shot me a look of pure venom, baring his fang-like teeth with a hiss, before running for the wall at the far end of the yard.

Even after years of reflection, I cannot quite believe that what I saw was a true reflection: instead of leaping, jumping to gain height and then climbing, he appeared to glide up the wall, as though he were merely walking vertically as he would horizontally. Within a moment he was over the wall, briefly a silhouette against the night, before disappearing as though he had never existed.

From the curses and cries at my back, I could tell that the encroaching mob had likewise been unable to believe their eyes. But at least that prevented them from turning on me as the man who had thrown a hammer amongst them. That, and perhaps my obvious injury.

‘You okay, guv?’ one of them asked hoarsely, his breath stinking of hops, as he took hold of me. Despite his coarse manner, I was grateful, as I could feel myself slump. I could barely mutter one word.

‘Elizabeth…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 14: June 1888

Fourteen: June 1888.

‘ ‘Ello, darlin’, looking for someone?’

Her voice was like a corncrake, already old beyond her years. Worn by gin and the vicissitudes of her chosen life. The eyes darted him up and down, assessing his worth as a victim. Ah, if only she had realised that he was doing exactly the same to her as he approached. He was aware that, beneath the cloak, he seemed to be an ugly, saddened old man, frail and worn himself by the passing of years. Not pleasant if he looked in the mirror, but a useful disguise. Although, he reflected, as he no longer cast a reflection he had little to worry about on that matter. So a satisfactory result all round, then…

‘My dear,’ he hissed sibilantly as he reached her side, taking her arm lightly and feeling the slight pull of resistance. (Oft-times they resented this familiarity before the passing of coin. Silver or gold soon oiled the waters.) ‘I felt sure that I recognised you – but no, I was mistaken. You resemble my grand daughter, and I wondered what she should be doing abroad at such a time. But now I see that I was wrong. And yet, I do wonder what an innocent such as yourself is doing at such an hour. Mayhap I could escort you home?’

She simpered. ‘Why, that is so kind of you, love…’ she caught herself ‘…ly of you to think of such a thing. I was on my way home having been detained. An escort would be most welcome.’

He smiled. It was a gruesome sight, he knew, and he relished the way that she tried – and only just failed – to hide her disgust. But she was a game girl, he would give her that: as she took his proffered arm he knew that she was thinking that she would play along with any queer game he chose. It seemed almost a shame to sacrifice her to greater things. But then, that was the lot of her class; and low-class whoring was all she was fit for. In a way, he would be putting her out of her misery.

‘Penny for ‘em, sweetheart?’ she asked, dropping into her usual ways, as they left the thoroughfare and made their way down a narrow side street and into a dingy passage that passed between two streets now empty, at this time, of trade. Except the oldest.

‘I was merely wondering,’ he asked in best querulous tone, ‘where it may be that you reside? Have we far to go?’ For this is the best spot, he added to himself.

The girl turned him round on the cobbles so that she had her back to the wall. She no longer resembled an angel. Particularly not as she lifted her skirts and dirt-edged petticoats to reveal the bare treasure beneath.

‘Home is where the heart is, love,’ she said in a tone that held no such thing within it, ‘and you can have it to your heart’s content for the usual.’ Then, as he moved forward and she dropped her dress: ‘But only after you’ve paid, see?’

He grinned. It was without humour. ‘My dear girl, there is only one fee. And I set the price.’

Too late, she realised that he was not what he had seemed. She tried to scream, but her throat muscles, paralysed by fear, refused to respond. She tried to sidle away from him, but her legs were like lead, and he was too quick.

Hot, foetid breath, the burning pain of her flesh being torn, and a searing white light as her life’s blood gushed forth into his gaping maw: these were the memories that she took with her to eternity.