No Absolution Read online

  No Absolution

  By N.M. Bell

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-363-9

  Copyright 2015 by N.M. Bell

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

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  Chapter One

  The sailor wove his way down the gangway of the cattle transport ship once the heaving mass of beef on the hoof was herded off the reeking vessel. The herd made its noisome way along Commercial Road on their way to the slaughterhouses of Whitechapel and Spitalfields.

  He wiped his nose on the blood-stiffened sleeve of his coat. The stench of cow shit and offal clung to his person as surely as the muck did to his boots. At least the tide was in and they’d been able to discharge the bleeders directly onto the wharf without the bother of messing about with the transport vessels. What a relief to be free of the stinking floating hell, despite the diversion the injured cattle had provided during the long voyage. He headed for the nearest public house, pushing through the thronging crowd of recently landed deck hands and locals.

  One of the women put a hand out to slow him before she got a decent look at his excrement covered garments. Jake shoved her as he passed and was heartened at the sight of her wallowing on her arse in the raw sewage of the gutter. Ignoring the screamed curses, he continued on to the Black Horse for a well-deserved ‘arf and ‘arf.

  Jacob Winncott elbowed his way to the bar through the seething mass of humanity that frequented The Horse. The scruffy patrons quickly hid their glowers after one look at the broad shouldered man who bulled his way past them. Jake revelled in the fear that flashed across the coarse features of the faces in the mass of humanity as it parted before him. Some he recognised as crew from the Swansea Star. A grim satisfaction surged in his gut when they averted their gazes and pushed back into the crowd in their haste to avoid his interest.

  “The usual,” he ordered as he slammed a blood stained hand on the bar.

  “Aye, Jake, ‘arf and ‘arf it is then. You back with that stinking cattle barge ag’in?” The bartender slid the porter and ale mix across the bar.

  Jake nodded and took a long pull on the pint. It would take most of his pay packet to chase the voyage from his memory, at least for a little while. He most definitely needed to get roaring drunk. Throwing his head back, he downed the dregs in the glass and called for another. The voices and press of humanity blurred and swirled around him while Jake busied himself emptying his coin into his gut. Cheap gin seared its way down his throat, the discomfort dragging him back to reality for a second. He peered into the thick walled glass in his hand. Christ, what rot gut. He threw his head back and downed the bilious liquid, allowing his mind to sink into the welcome oblivion it offered.

  “Time, gentlemen. Time!” Harley’s voice cut through the comforting, drink induced fog in Jake’s brain.

  Tipping the last of the harsh spirits into his mouth, Jake pushed himself away from the bar and made his unsteady way across the floor to the door of the public house. He hunched his shoulders beneath the stiff material of his jacket and stepped out into the noxious fog that was as much a part of Whitechapel as the rats and scavenging children. The stuff was so thick he could hardly see a foot before him, and the gas lamp threw only a thin wavering puddle of light, which did nothing to push back the night.

  Moisture collected on the bill of his hat as he set off for his rented room in Spitalfields. He wound his way from the pier area up Dock Street, where he turned right along Cable Street to Back Church Lane. He continued to stagger along the dark garbage filled alleys and narrow passages. Reaching Commercial Street, Jake stopped to vomit in the gutter. Wiping his mouth, he glanced up and down the wider road. He had no wish to run into the bloody Peelers. Seeing nothing through the fog, he made his way to the narrow alley of Plumbers Row. Emerging on Whitechapel Road, just west of the High Street, he turned north almost immediately into Great Garden Street. His tiny cupboard of a room was in a boarding house just south of Hanbury Street and he was relieved to find the doorstep free of drunks or sleeping prostitutes. Pushing open the door, he made his way to his small second story room.

  “It best be empty or that auld bitch will be right sorry in the morning,” he snarled as he stumbled up the stair. The door to the room at the top of the stairs was ajar. Jake kicked it open and fumbled for a match to light the lamp. After two unsuccessful attempts, the match flared and he held it to the untrimmed wick. The small flame flared sharply before he turned it down. The thin blanket and patched sheet lay in a tangled mess on the pallet. The skitter of retreating rat paws brought a grim smile to his face. Kicking the pallet aside, Jake knelt and pried up the second floor board from the wall. Slipping his hand inside the narrow cavity, he checked the India rubber-soled boots were still secreted there. Withdrawing his hand, he removed the oiled canvas knife safe from inside his jacket. He opened the flap and reverently removed each knife from its carefully stitched sheath. The honed blades gleamed in the wavering lamp light. He caressed each one in turn before returning it to the knife safe in the order he removed it, with the exception of two. His fingers lingered on the small heavy bladed cleaver for a moment. Next to the eight inch knife it was his personal favourite; the solid vibration it sent through him when he split bone with it was exceptionally satisfying in a curiously exciting way.

  “Safe and sound, they are. See, Father? None the worse for that cursed sea voyage. I have kept them from harm and I’ll use ‘em how ye taught me.” He lifted his gaze from the hypnotic play of light on the eight inch knife and raised his head to look up into the shifting shadows of the corner of the room. Father’s face slipped in and out of focus and Jake blinked in an effort to see the features clearly. Death had been kind to Father; he looked no different than the man Jake remembered from his childhood.

  “The knife is thirsty for the blood of the sinners. Go now and slake that thirst, cleanse the sins of the whores. Absolve them of their heinous sins of the body, their preying on the weakness of the men they rob of their manhood.” The command echoed in Jake’s ears, though the apparition did not speak aloud. The occupants of the house slumbered undisturbed around him.

  “Aye, Father. I’m knackered, but the work must be attended to. I’ll go now and let your knife lead me to a hoor what desp’rately needs fer to answer fer her sins.”

  Shaking his head, Jacob took his coat from the hook on the wall and shrugged it on over his working clothes. He retrieved the rubber-soled boots from the hidey-hole and slipped them on. Time enough tomorrow to wash the stink of the cattle boat from him, and if some whore’s blood joined the mess, well no one would be the wiser, would they? At any rate, tomorrow morning he would go to Fleischer’s where his land job waited for him. There would be cattle and horses from the boats to slaughter. He flexed his fingers in anticipation.

  He tucked the knife into the carry case and snugged it under one arm where it was concealed by the folds of the coat. Weariness fled as he drifted silently down the steep stairs and out the unlocked door. It was a good night to hunt; the swirling sulphurous fog clung to the buildings and hugged the slick cobblestones. The rain did little to dissipate the greenish mess.

  Moving north, he reached Hanbury Street. Lightning flashed overhead and the growl of thunder reverberated from the huddled buildings. Pulling his hat lower to avoid the deluge, Jacob slogged on through the downpour. The weather did not make his quest easy, but he persevered. There would be some whore
about who had squandered her doss money and was out looking for punters to replace it, he reasoned. Sooner or later, he would find one. Presently, the rain let up as he passed the Fying Pan Public House at the corner of Brick Lane and Thrawl Street. A woman staggered out the door of the public house and reeled off into the shadows.

  Jake followed her for a bit, waiting for a chance to grab her and allow the woman to atone for her sinful ways. She turned into the door of a Thrawl Street doss house and Jake continued down the street. There would be others out seeking a three penny toss now the bloody rain had let up. There never seemed to be a shortage of sluts ready to lift their skirts. Flames lit the skies, and Jake turned in that direction out of curiosity.

  “Sommat big must be afire. It’ll draw any hoor who’s about, sure as it’ll bring men hoping to skive what’s left.”

  Hurrying along the narrow lanes, he strode in the centre of the cobbles to avoid the overflowing effluence of the gutters. Before too long, he found himself at the Shadwell Dry Docks which were engulfed in flames. A woman left the outskirts of the crowd. Jake marked her progress, and slipping into the welcoming shadows, he followed her. At the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street the woman stopped to chat with a drunken ladybird who leaned on the wall for support. Using the chiming of a nearby church clock to cover his footsteps he moved close enough to realise the stewed woman was Polly Nichols, and probably the same woman he had followed from the Frying Pan. It was fate, putting her in his path twice in one night, so it was. Father’s knife, which seemed to have a mind of its own, danced across his vision, the weapon shining and slick with the blood of inequity. One of Father’s favourite words: inequity. He waited impatiently while the two women finished their discussion. He thought briefly of taking the first woman he followed from the dry dock fire, but he couldn’t ignore the coincidence of running across Polly earlier in the night and her showing up under his nose again. No, it must be her. Look’it her. Blowin’ about leading another pur sod inta sin so she can pay fer a spot to lay hersel’ down in a doss house. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I mun let His hand guide mine in this.

  He heard the Nichols woman refuse to accompany her friend back to the boarding house, complaining she had squandered the cost of her night’s lodging three times that night already. She made a further idiotic comment about the ridiculous hat she wore, now bedraggled with rain. The woman moved unsteadily east along Whitechapel Road and Jake flitted through the shadows behind her, the rubber-soled boots making no scrape on the cobbles. Without pausing, he reached into his coat, opened the oil cloth package and felt the knife fairly leap into his hand. Patience, ye’ll swim in ‘er blood soon enough. Gotta bide me time. Make sure there be no chance o’ being interrupted like until she is blessed by Your mercy. The church clocks chimed three-thirty before he got his chance. As the woman staggered along Durward Street, approaching Buck’s Row, Jake increased his pace. He came alongside Polly who drew back in surprise and almost fell. She clutched at his arm and a sly smile lifted her lips.

  “Aye, it’s only you, then Jake. You put the heart across me, coming up out of the dark like that. Have you got a fancy for a toss? I need the cost of me doss. It’s a bleedin’ miserable night, so it is.” She peered up at him in the gloom.

  “‘Tis not your body I am interested in, but your soul,” he informed her.

  A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “What the hell are you blethering on about? Do you want a toss or not?” She pulled away from him and swayed unsteadily on her feet.

  Jake took her by the arm and pushed her into the gateway of the nearby stable yard that served the Brown and Eagle Wool Warehouse across the way. He stepped behind her and freed the shining blade from its hiding place. Polly leaned forward, placing one hand on the wall to steady herself, while the other fumbled to raise her skirts to allow him access to her privates. Her skirts hitched high enough, she demanded her three pennies and stuck a hand back toward him. He shoved her forward, forcing her to use both hands to support herself. Jake grabbed her by the shoulders and exerted force just below the collar bones to cut off the blood flow. Polly’s body crumpled as she lost consciousness and he lowered her to the ground. One hand gripped her throat, the fingers of his hand digging into her chin. Her mouth opened in attempt to draw breath and he jammed his fist upward. The whore’s tongue protruded through the gap of her missing teeth and the woman grunted. With one swift movement, he drew the knife across her straining neck from just under her ear and slashed deep across her throat. Violently, he freed the instrument of salvation from her neck and plunged it back into the flesh beneath his hand. Jake was careful to turn the head and cut so the arc of blood from the large artery was away from him and didn’t splatter on his clothes. The cattle blood was dry now, no need to attract attention with fresh blood all over him. The blade cut deeply, severing the large vessels on both sides of her throat. The knife skittered a bit in his hand as it hit the vertebrae at the back of her neck. Blood spurted from the wound, the hot metallic scent brought saliva to his mouth and he licked his lips. The woman’s body convulsed as the knife freed the blood and the evil from her soul and body. Careful to avoid getting any new blood on his clothes, he left her head and spread her legs, bending the right one upward at the knee and moving it to the side. She lay almost under the window of the nearest cottage, her hand by the gate post to the yard, but no sign of life came from within the building. Jake allowed a small smile to escape his lips. The Almighty was looking out for him as he went about his sacred duty. Surely the ease of his victory was proof of that. He kicked the black straw bonnet aside and noticed absently how the puddled water soaked into the cheap velvet trim. He knelt between her legs and held the knife up before him; the blood ran down the shaft mingling with the rain.

  “For you, Father. Does it please ye that I carry on yer work? I just want ta please ye and the Almighty,” he intoned and closed his eyes. He only spared a moment before turning back to the job at hand.

  Working with quick precision, he set about finishing the actions necessary to save the miscreant creature’s soul. The large brass buttons on the brown coat glimmered wetly in the rain as he shoved it upward and lifted the linsey dress beneath it. The knife sliced cleanly through the undergarments and left the lower abdomen obscenely bare. His hand trembled with the effort to control his rage and when the point of the blade pierced the skin of her belly he gave himself up to the holy anger within. The wound gaped blackly in the dim light and the stink of human excrement stung his nose. Several cuts appeared across the lower abdomen and then he ripped the instrument of her salvation into her body and slashed upwards. He observed the knife slice the flesh as if seeing it from a great distance. The first deep incision veered to the right, cutting through the groin and skittering over the left hip. Jake lifted his arm again and plunged the weapon into the centre of the body just above the pubic hair and reefed it upwards along the middle line of the belly, until it ground against the breastbone.

  He sat back to steady his breathing and admire his handiwork. As his breathing settled, he became aware of the distant scuff of leather boots on cobbles and the muted sound of two men conversing. Bloody hell! There was still work to do here; reluctantly Jake rose to his feet. The sound of horses’ hooves splashing through the puddles in the road and the rumble of cart wheels brought his head up sharply. Bloody hell! He wasn’t finished yet; the organs that gave women their hold over the weakness of man were still intact. The sound of hooves came closer and a man mumbled something to the creature. Jake straightened and slid the knife back into hiding. With a regretful look at his unfinished work he slipped into the shadows. He hesitated a moment longer as Father stepped out of the deep shadows and stood looking down on Polly. His eyes glittered in the dim light and held Jake in thrall. The voices came closer and shapes appeared in the fog. Jake shook his head, when he looked back, Father was gone. Wasting no more time, he left the gateway and melted into the welcoming shadows.

  Moving swift
ly along the narrow street he flitted through the rainy night into a narrow back alley. There was barely enough room to walk without sidling sideways, but the cobbles beneath his feet would leave no tracks. He emerged finally into the narrow lane of Wood Builders and moved quietly to Little North Street headed toward the brewery.

  The shrill of police whistles split the relative quiet of the early morning as he moved further away from the stable yard and he allowed himself a triumphant smile. Let them admire his work; let them wonder who performed the service of releasing the evil from the woman’s body. They would never catch him while God Himself protected the servant in His work. Jake continued to wind his way through the stinking alleys and lanes until he arrived at his boarding house. Letting himself in, he climbed the stair, taking care to avoid the creaking boards. Once in his room, he removed his clothes and replaced the special boots in their hiding place. Next he opened the knife safe and painstakingly cleaned Father’s knife. He made sure to wipe each of the blades in turn, even though he had only used the one. Finished with his ablutions, he sank thankfully onto the bed. The night was moving on and he needed to be ready to work at the slaughter yard before dawn. He sank into the sleep of the righteous.

  The black veil wavered and billowed, obscuring his vision. Ineffectually, he tried to brush it from his eyes. His stomach curdled into a sour lump of fear at the realisation the coalescing darkness was part of the air around him, not a blowing veil he could easily sweep aside. Even with his eyes closed, the blackness danced across the inside of the shuttered lids, shot through with sulphurous yellow and sickly green lights. Mam’s voice, soft with the Irish brogue, whispered his name and it seemed fingers stroked the matted hair from his brow.

  “What has he done to you, a storin? God forgive me for not being strong enough to save you,” Mam’s ghost whispered in his dreaming mind.