City of Shadows

Chapter 58

1 November 1888, Whitechapel, London

Faith found herself standing in a narrow courtyard. Dark, damp, grimy brick walls on all four sides of her that rose up to eaves that overhung and narrowed the dull grey sky. A washing line ran across from one wall to the other, from which faded, wrinkled and threadbare rags of clothes hung limply like forgotten dried berries ready to drop.

Rain spattered on her upturned face as she took in her surroundings. She blinked fat drops of it from her eyes as her mind silently assessed the present situation.

[Information: translation error]

Her first thought was how lucky she was not to be partially merged with something. A dense urban environment like this — the odds were probably even between empty and occupied space. She turned her mind quickly to situation-assessment.

The rapidly decaying tachyon particles told her some of the story. She’d been misplaced spatially by — at her quick assessment — one or two miles. She was unable to be sure whether she’d also been misplaced in time: an overshoot of days, weeks, months. It was, of course, a distinct possibility. She had no idea at all when in time this rogue team had decided to head back to, but she was pretty sure, running the figures in her head, that she couldn’t have over — or under — shot by much time. Days or weeks at worst.

Immediate matters first, though. She needed to blend in to whenever this was and certainly not be the cause of any unnecessary temporal contamination or undue attention. Then, when she was suitably dressed for this world, she could run the calculation in her head and work out precisely how far — spatially — she was from the intended location. There was no way of knowing in which direction she’d been offset, but if she could calculate a more precise distance then she’d have a viable search radius to work with.

Faith looked around the small courtyard. The ground was cobblestones covered by mud and rotting vegetable peelings. Here and there mildew-covered nuggets of faeces — animal or human, she couldn’t tell. Clearly this small space was a dumping ground for the effluence and night-water that was tossed out of the small grimy windows that punctuated the towering walls all around this enclosed little courtyard.

She noticed a long wooden pole with a crudely fashioned hook on the end, leaning against one of the walls. That, presumably, was how the clothes were retrieved from the washing line. She also noted in one corner a small wooden door that hung pathetically on failing, rusty hinges.

It took her no more than a few minutes to retrieve the rags and change out of her modern clothes. She bundled them up under her arm and would figure out a way to dispose of them later. Her bullet-shattered lower arm and hand she wrapped up in a linen shawl. The blood had already coagulated and dried. It would eventually heal: the skin would re-grow, the bone and tendon beneath would re-knit.

The doorway took her into a narrow walkway between damp brick walls, covered by a slanted roof of slate shingles that tapped with the rain. At the far end she could see the grey light of this dull day. And a wide street by the look of it.

At the far end she emerged on to a broad cobbled road; rows of three-storey red-brick terraced homes, identical and equally as drab and squalid-looking as those that had surrounded the dingy space she’d just arrived in. The street was busy with people — people who didn’t look occupied. Women sitting on doorsteps looking on as their children played in the street. A pair of men smoking long clay pipes, standing beside an open fire in a grate, poking it to stir the dying embers to life. All of them in rags.

She saw a sign. Presumably the name of this street; flaking paint on rusting tin — GREAT DOVER STREET.

Faith crossed the street towards the fire, approaching the two men. They didn’t notice her coming until she tossed her clothes from the year 2001 on to the glowing embers. The synthetic fibres of her JC Penney office clothes flared up almost instantly.

‘Hoy! Watcha think yer doin’, love?’ Both men turned to look at her.

‘Fuel,’ she replied evenly, ‘for your fire.’

One of the men grinned around the stem of his pipe. ‘Well, hello, m’dear.’ His red-rimmed eyes — one of them opaque like a boiled fish-eye, a cataract — looked her up and down approvingly. ‘Now there’s a pretty, pretty thing.’

Faith offered her hesitant smile and picked what she considered the most appropriate response. ‘Thank you.’

‘You ’ungry, love? Want sumfin’ to eat?’

It had certainly been a while since she’d had a protein refuel. ‘Yes. I am hungry.’

Both men looked at each other and grinned. Then the one with the clouded eye turned back to her. ‘Well, I got a nice bit of fish back in my ’ouse. An’ some cheese.’ He took a step towards her.

Faith stifled the urge to adopt a combat stance and chop at the man’s neck with the side of her good hand.

Blend in.

‘So ’ow ’bout you an’ me ’ead back to my gaff.’ He nodded to one of the terraced houses close by. ‘I only live over there. I’ll give yer a proper feed, love. Eh? Put some colour in ’em cheeks of yours.’

‘Fish and cheese?’ Faith cocked her head. Protein and fat. Perfect fuels for her body chemistry. ‘Those are both suitable food types. Thank you.’

The man took his pipe out. ‘Tell you what, love, ya don’t ’alf talk funny.’

Her lips flickered uncertainly. ‘I am new in this place.’

‘New? Another foreigner, eh?’ He reached and put an arm round her narrow waist. Faith decided to accept the overfamiliar gesture — for the moment. It didn’t appear hostile or threatening so she let it pass.

‘Come on, then, deary, come along with ol’ Terry.’ He pulled her to him so that her hip bumped clumsily against his leg. ‘I’ll look after ya, my dear.’

He tugged her firmly in the direction of his house and Faith had begun to take a few steps with him when a female voice barked out.

‘You leave that poor girl be, Terry Matchins!’

He stopped and turned. ‘Ah, not you!’ He spat a curse at her.

Faith saw a woman who could have been any age between twenty and thirty-five — so very difficult to tell. The woman’s skin was ruddy with rose-coloured splotches, several teeth missing and the rest an unpleasant vanilla colour. She was short and slight with auburn hair tied up in an untidy frizzy bun.

‘You better let her go! Or I’ll box yer ears!’

‘She’s comin’ round mine for a bit o’ supper. Ain’t ya, love?’

The short woman addressed Faith. ‘Love, that dirty ol’ goat’s not goin’ to feed yer anything that you’d want to eat. Terry ain’t got nuthin’ indoors but dirty intentions. He’s bloomin’ bad news is what ’e is!’

Faith turned to look at him. ‘Is this woman correct? You have no food?’ A cold glare and her face so close to his presented a challenge that unsettled the man and his firm grasp on her waist loosened. ‘I… I just thought you was lookin’ a bit peaky, love. I thought — ’

‘I know exactly what you was thinkin’!’ snapped the woman. ‘Go on, sling yer hook!’

The man bared brown teeth at her. ‘I’ll slice yer up one day, Mary! Next time yer so drunk ya don’t know it’s night or day, I’ll give yer a ruddy scar to remember!’

‘Yeah, yeah! So you’re the Ripper, are you?’ She stepped forward and pushed him. ‘Go on with ya! Go pester someone else, you rancid old fart!’

The man laughed and shrugged, and returned to his friend beside the fire.

The woman offered Faith a hand. ‘He’s right, though, you do look awful pale, love. I got some leftovers from yesterday.’ She frowned firmly; a face that wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Come on, let’s fix you some food. You look awful poorly.’

Faith extended a hand to the woman. A handshake: she’d learned that gesture of formal courtesy from Agent Cooper. ‘Thank you. I am Faith.’

‘Faith, is it? Well, since we’re doin’ introductions, I’m Mary. Mary Kelly. You’ll be safe with me, love.’ Her ruddy face split with a smile that even Faith was able to judge with a fair degree of certainty was entirely genuine. ‘Perfectly safe.’