Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

‘No. It is a hard-reset. A tiny physical switch is flipped and it’ll stay flipped until someone physically gets into her head and flicks it back on.’

‘Can you make something zappy like that from the bits we’ve got lying around?’

‘There’s no need. You already have one.’ Rashim nodded at one of the boxes of gadgets and spare parts piled beneath the desk, still patiently waiting to be sorted through.

‘When we were packing up, I was emptying that old filing cabinet,’ he shrugged. ‘I found one in there. I thought you knew we had one?’

Maddy rolled her eyes; yes, of course they had one. She’d never used it. Never thought to. It had sat in the filing cabinet with all the other junk, waiting to be useful.

Well, now it was.

‘All right, let’s get it out, check the thing works. Meanwhile…’ She turned to address the bank of computers. ‘Computer-Bob, start charging up; the sooner we go back and get this done, the better.’

‘Maddy, what if that taser thing doesn’t work?’ asked Liam.

‘You’re taking Bob along, aren’t you? I’m sure he can handle little Becks.’

‘Aye. But… she’s quick. She’s very agile.’

‘Look, Liam, if for some reason you guys can’t incapacitate Becks — if Bob can’t wrestle her to the floor… or she looks like she might be doing a runner — she’s got to be killed. Do you understand? If her mind has gone wonky, she’s a contamination worry. More than that… whatever crazy stuff she gets up to may attract attention to this moment in time. She could blow our cover. Either you grab her and taser her, or you take her down.’

She looked at Foster’s old pump-action shotgun leaning against the wall in the corner. Although why she still thought of it as his, she didn’t really know. ‘You should take the gun along with you. Just in case you need it.’

She was expecting an argument from him. She knew Liam was fond of her, it, the unit. She knew he’d have reservations about gunning her down in cold blood.

‘Aye, the gun.’ He eyed the weapon nervously. ‘Good idea.’

Or actually, on the other hand… maybe he wouldn’t.

12.32 a.m., 9 November 1888, Whitechapel, London

Liam was soaked to the skin. This dark little corner of Miller’s Court where they’d chosen to huddle and wait for Jack the Ripper offered little protection from the fine rain. It was as if God was hanging over London with a giant fine-nozzle plant spray, gently wafting aerosol clouds of moisture down on to the city. Moisture that seemed to find its way into every nook, crack and crevice.

They were beneath a lean-to: little more than four rotting posts of wood supporting a roof of rain-slick slate tiles that all seemed to be conspiring to channel bulbous, greasy drops of rain on to Liam no matter where he chose to crouch.

In the stillness of the early hours, the only sound to be heard was the soothing symphony of a rain-damp city fast asleep: the soft hiss of persistent drizzle; a dog far away with an intermittent worrisome bark; the soft cooing of pigeons tucked away under guttering, pleased with themselves for being dry.

Liam groaned.

‘You must remain very still,’ whispered Bob.

‘My legs are killing me. I’m cold, I’m wet and I’m getting pins and needles.’

‘Nonetheless you must be still,’ said Bob.

He sighed and resumed his uncomfortable vigil on the narrow entrance to this godforsaken courtyard. They’d been huddled here since 11 p.m. Watched a steady procession of drunks stagger home and noisily fumble their way through front doors. A dozen or more dosshouses seemed to have openings on to this place. And everyone, it seemed, in each dosshouse, seemed to enjoy drinking the night hours away.

‘Bob, what’s the time?’

He consulted his internal clock. ‘12.32 a.m.’

‘Maybe we missed it? Maybe it’s been and done?’ He looked at the small dark square that was the window on to Mary Kelly’s downstairs room.

Maybe she’s already in there? He shuddered at the thought of that. Beyond the pale ghost of a net curtain was a small bedroom that quite possibly resembled an abattoir right now. A body almost unrecognizably human slowly losing the last of its warmth. Dots, commas and question marks of blood in arterial lines up the walls, now drying and crusting.

‘Information: someone is approaching,’ said Bob.

Liam heard the clack of footsteps. A shadow cast by one of the gaslights on Dorset Street danced down the rat run, then a moment later the long shadow was followed by the outline of a woman. He could hear the woman’s soft voice, chattering to herself. Clearly, utterly, completely, passing-out drunk.

Mary Kelly.

She stopped outside the front door to her dosshouse, pushed the creaking door in and staggered clumsily inside.

More footsteps, quick, light, pattering down the rat run. Liam saw a long, thin shadow dancing along the wet brick opposite, then a man came into view. Tall and slim, a top hat cast a shadow across his face. He was wearing a thick cloak, but Liam managed to catch a glimpse of a leather surgeon’s bag under one arm. He quickly stole across the courtyard, and caught the front door to Mary’s dosshouse with the toe of his boot before it slammed shut.

The man wrestled the door open and Liam heard a muttered exclamation from the hallway inside. The man pushed his way in and the door shut behind him. A moment later there was life in the room to the left of the front door. A gentle orange bloom appeared behind the tatty net curtain. Liam saw foggy movement going on inside: shadows cast up the walls, across the low ceiling.

‘Jay-zus, this is it,’ whispered Liam. ‘That poor lady’s going to die in a minute. Not just die, Bob, but die horribly!’

‘Affirmative.’

A gnawing sensation had been eating at Liam for the last few hours. That there must be some other way to put history right. ‘Ahh, this feels all wrong, so it does.’

‘We must not intervene,’ cautioned Bob.

Liam ground his teeth. His mind was replaying those two horrific photographs that Maddy had presented him with earlier, but now colouring in the black and white with vivid reds and intestinal purples. But then… wasn’t something else meant to happen? Wasn’t Becks somewhere close by? Perhaps mere seconds away from altering this scene somehow? Saving Mary Kelly? Killing this evil, psychopathic predator.

Where the hell is she?

‘Ah Jay-zus! I can’t do this. I can’t just let that poor lady get carved up right in front of my eyes.’

He’d started to get to his feet when a shrill scream came from behind the fogged window. He saw a lurch of movement obscured by the net curtain and the scream was cut off. A shadow sliding across the ceiling, a sudden jerking movement, then another, and another, and another.

Liam felt the acid burn of bile in his throat, his stomach rejecting food.

Ah Jay-zus, I’m letting this all happen!

He heard a soft keening moan from inside the room.

‘Oh God, she’s still alive!’

Enough.

He got to his feet.

‘Liam!’ growled Bob, reaching out for him.

‘Stuff this, I can’t just watch!’ He ducked out from under the low slate lean-to and darted across the small courtyard, the shotgun in his hands and ready to use.

And it was then, just then, that he noticed a figure to his right, striding quickly down the rat run towards him.

Both Liam and the other figure stopped. The figure wore a dress and a bonnet. Her face, what he could see of it, was so very familiar.

‘Becks? Jay-zus! Is that you?’

12.37 a.m., 9 November 1888, Whitechapel, London

Faith’s mind was all of a sudden inundated with too many simultaneous decision loops running, each one of them furiously demanding all of her processor time.