Southend U3A

October 2024

By Gaslight - Pete Norman.

The darkness hung over London like a shroud. The lamps were lit and the lamp-lighter had long since moved on but his efforts were worthless for the cloying smog was absolute – the flickering gas lamps yielding nothing more than a sepulchral smudge across the night.

Only a lunatic would venture out on a night like this . . .

A shadow moved like a wraith along the narrow streets, a creature of the darkness, slipping from cover to cover, feet making no sound; the only evidence that the wraith existed was an almost inaudible humming – a tuneless sound which focussed concentration, in the search for the sound of the footfalls of others.

For an hour or more the wraith silently combed the streets, afraid of nothing and of no one. On home turf, every twist and turn was familiar, every cobblestone which rocked and rang to its own individual note, every window which could reveal a passing shadow, every narrow snicket which could either be a point of escape or attack.

Whitechapel was unusually quiet but silence in itself is not a reliable indication of the absence of souls – whether the deadly or the insane.

Ahead a door opened. The candlelight from the doorway struggled to illuminate the street as the wraith pressed closer to the wall, blending in with the night and watching carefully. Two people emerged and walked quickly away, the woman coughing, choking on the smog, the man with a protective arm around her shoulders.

The wraith stood still and silent until the couple were lost in the distance and then moved out again, always aware that the couple might return at any moment.

Further ahead, the streets crossed; a potential hazard, a familiar hazard; the wraith paused, scanning the night sounds and then, fully satisfied, disappeared down a narrow pathway, emerging a short distance down. As before, the pause was repeated at the other end, only this time there was a light, it was some distance along the street and it was slowly and rhythmically swinging from side to side. The rossers, on their night shifts, liked to make it certain that they were highly visible – they were not prepared to risk their lives for the pittance they were paid.

The wraith carefully moved back down the pathway, sidestepping into a narrow opening behind the houses and slipping between the toilet block walls. After a few minutes the wraith carefully emerged, scanning the street but the policeman and his swinging lantern were nowhere in sight – he would be unlikely to return soon.

A step forwards, a step to the right and the slow journey resumed. Another 30 minutes passed and the wraith was close to abandoning the search but then, a short distance ahead, emerging from the smog was a figure.

The wraith flattened against a doorway and waited. The figure was large and from the dark flowing coat and the bowler hat it was clear that it was male. He was approaching slowly and cautiously, softening his footsteps, scanning the street ahead, making full use of the natural cover.

The wraith, shrouded within a black cloak, the face concealed by a deep hood and deep in the shadows of the doorway, was all but invisible. Silently, the man stepped closer and closer. The wraith stood fast, breath held, a wooden bludgeon held at the ready. The man was almost at the doorway when he stopped and seemed to scent the air but then he passed slowly by.

The wraith took one step forwards and swung the bludgeon. The sound of the blow had subsided before the man hit the ground, lifeless. The wraith turned the comatose man over and pulled out a knife. With the man’s coat opened, the wraith reached in and with one swift movement, separated the man from his masculinity. The offending article was arranged carefully upon the man’s chest – a symbol, a trophy, then the wraith wiped the blood from the knife onto his coat and vanished through the network of narrow paths and alleys.

A short distance away the streets ended and in front, the massive bulk of the asylum loomed dark and sinister. There were no lights visible, the inmates would all be in their beds and the night staff getting drunk in the common room.

The huge gates were locked but the wraith slipped quickly around to the side where a small opening was concealed in the shrubbery. Squeezing through the narrow gap the wraith hurried across the open ground to a door away to the side. A key turned and the door opened . . . being a trusty has certain privileges.

The door was silently closed and she drew a deep breath.

A candle lit, she cleaned the wooden roller and then the knife until it shone and placed them both amongst the other kitchen implements. Then she checked her cloak for any incriminating trace of the man’s blood.

Another ordeal carried out – successfully. She opened a little used cupboard and took out a bottle of gin, which she had liberated from the staff some time before. She poured a measure of gin into a small glass and took a sip. As the fire burned through her throat, she closed her eyes and a familiar image floated through her consciousness.

‘That’s another one,’ she whispered to the image, ‘He might not be the ripper – I don’t know for certain – but he was a man . . . and who else might be skulking through the backstreets of Whitechapel on a night like this.’

She took another sip. ‘And if this really is the one, then, my beautiful sister, then, finally you might be able to rest in peace.’