Part 1 (1/2)

Savage.

by Richard Laymon

PROLOGUE.

Wherein I aim to whet Your Appet.i.te for the Tale of my Adventures.

London's East End was rather a dicey place, but that's where I found myself, a fifteen-year-old youngster with more sand than sense, on the night of 8 November 1888.

That was some twenty years back, so it's high time I put pen to my story before I commence to forget the particulars, or get snakebit.

It all started because I went off to find my Uncle William and fetch him back so he could deal with Barnes. Uncle was a police constable, you see. He was a mighty tough hombre, to boot. A few words-or licks-from him, and that rascal Barnes wasn't ever likely to lay another belt on Mother.

So I set out, round about nine, reckoning I'd be back with Uncle in less than an hour.

But it wasn't in the cards for me to find him.

The way it all played out, I never saw Uncle William again at all, and I wasn't to set eyes again on my dear Mother for many a year.

Sometimes, you wish you could start from scratch and get a chance to do things differently.

Can't be done, however.

And maybe that's for the best.

Why, I used to pine for Mother and miss my chums and wonder considerable about the life I might've known if only I hadn't gone off to Whitechapel that night. I still have my regrets along those lines, but they don't amount to much any more.

You see, it's like this.

I ended up in some terrible sc.r.a.pes, and got my face rubbed in more than a few unG.o.dly horrors, but there were fine times aplenty through it all. I found wonderful adventures and true friends. I found love. And up to now, I haven't gotten myself killed.

Had some narrow calls.

Run-ins with all manner of ruffians, with mobs and posses after my hide, with Jack the Ripper himself.

But I'm still here to tell the tale.

Which is what I aim to do right now.

With kindest regards from the Author Trevor Wellington Bentley Tucson, Arizona 1908

PART ONE.

Off to Whitechapel and on to America

CHAPTER ONE.

The Gentleman, Barnes.

It was a lovely night to be indoors, where I sat all warm and lazy by the fire in our lodgings on Marylebone High Street. I had survived the awful tedium of studying my school lessons (needn't have bothered with those, really), the servant had gone off to see her sweetheart, and I was perking up considerable with the help of Tom and Huck, who were hatching wild schemes to help Jim escape from Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally. Tom was an exasperating fellow. He never did anything anything the easy way. the easy way.

Keen as I was on Mr. Twain's book, however, I kept an ear open for the sound of footfalls on the stairs. And I kept not hearing any. There was just the sound of rain rapping on the window panes.

Mother should've been back some time ago. She'd left directly after supper to give her Thursday night violin lesson to Liz McNaughton, who had but one leg due to a carriage mishap on Lombard Street.

Though it was mean-spirited of me, I found myself wis.h.i.+ng Liz had kept her leg and lost an arm. Would've put a damper on her violining. That way, Mother would've been spared the ch.o.r.e of paying her a visit on such a rough night, and I would've been spared my worries.

But worry I did.

I could never rest easy when Mother was away at night. I had no father, nor any but the foggiest memory of him, as he'd been a soldier attached to the Berks.h.i.+res, and was fetched up dead by a Jezail bullet at the battle of Maiwand when I was just a sprout. Growing up fatherless, I had a morbid dread of losing Mother as well.

So while I wondered what had delayed her return that night, I conjured up a whole pa.s.sel of dreadful fates queuing up to have a go at her. Even in more normal times, she might have been run down by a hansom or attacked by cutthroats, or met some other terrible end. But these were not normal times, what with the Whitechapel murderer lurking about with his knife.

While most of the folks in London knew only what they read in the newspapers, I was quite well versed on all the grim particulars of the Ripper's atrocities due to Uncle William, who worked out of the Leman Street police station. He had not only gotten a firsthand look at two of the victims right where they fell, but he took a keen delight in regailing me (when Mother wasn't about) with gory descriptions of what he'd seen. Oh, his eyes merrily flashed with mischief and relis.h.!.+ I've no doubt he was quite amused at how I must've blanched. However, I was always eager to hear more.

Tonight, awaiting Mother's return, I wished I knew nothing nothing of the Ripper. of the Ripper.

I told myself there was no reason to fear that he might strike her down. After all, one-legged Liz's flat was no closer to the East End than our own. The Ripper would have to roam far from his usual hunting grounds before coming into our neighborhoods. Besides, it was still too early in the night for him to be out stalking. And he only killed wh.o.r.es.

Mother certainly ought to be safe from him.

But I made my head sore with worrying. By and by, I set the book aside and took to pacing the floor, all in a bother. I'd been at this a while before a door shut down below. That was followed by heavy, staggering footfalls on the stairway. Mother's step was usually quick and light. Curious, I hurried out and peered down the stairs.

There, struggling beneath the weight of Rolfe Barnes, was Mother.

”Mum!”

”Give us a hand.”

I rushed down and took the other side of the rascal. He was soaked to the bone and stank of rum. Though he hardly seemed able to keep his legs beneath him as we wrestled him up the stairs, he mumbled and growled, deep in his cups.

”We aren't taking him in in, are we now?”

”We most certainly are. Mind your tongue, young man. He might've perished in the street.”

And such a shame that would've been, I thought. But I held my tongue. Barnes had a habit of turning into a brutish lout after he'd taken a few sips, going foul of mouth and mean of temper. However, he'd fought at my father's side in the second Afghan war. The way he told it, they'd been great chums to the bitter end. I always reckoned him a liar on that score, but Mother wasn't about to find fault with the man. From the very start, she'd treated him like a regular member of the family.

Not that she was gone over him. She had the good sense, at least, to reject his amorous advances (so far as I know). Even after declining his marriage proposal some years ago, however, she'd never turned him away from our door.

And tonight, by all appearances, she had dragged him through it.