Stuart Millard
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[FREE REPOST] The Holly Bears a Berry
🕑 Added 2024-12-22 09:25:18 +0000 UTC
[NOTE: members of the Fiction Tier may have read this last year, but I thought I'd do a repost for everyone, to spread a bit of festive cheer]
Boots crunched on frost down five stone steps. He gripped a gloved hand to the rail, pulling a scarf tight around his face against the bracing air when he reached the bottom. Barely four o'clock and already dark. A movement caught his eye at the end of the street, where the tree on the corner had been fashioned with a ruffle of silver garland, shimmering in the lamplight, its bent branches gently swaying under the weight of red baubles. London had been home for the entirety of his life, under the glorious reign of Victoria, and each passing year, Christmas seemed both earlier and larger, like damp spreading across a ceiling.
At this season, the high street was oft of a bustle; even now; even with everything that was occurring. He supposed people wanted to show that they weren't afraid. Bad liars, to a man. They reeked of fear. Stank of it. An increased police presence meant to put the people at ease. Leant conspicuously on walls, weaving through market stalls with that ponderous walk, chins high, arms behind their backs, as if they're doing something. As if they're in control. Tipping his hat, he wished “good evening, officer” and received a solemn nod in response. Stupid piss-arse, with his little stick and whistle.
Pausing at a news stand, covers spoke to a city's obsession, Penny Dreadfuls depicting the killer, eight feet tall, arms raised and cape billowing, face in shadow, stood over a cowering strumpet. A headline cried RIPPER'S GHOSTS, with a story positing victims had been sighted haunting the places of their death. One could even find, for a fee, hucksters offering grisly walking tours. In daylight, mind. Piffle. He did not believe in ghosts, even after listening – at some length – to stories from those with reputations he considered otherwise impeccable, who swore on the Holy Bible that they'd not only seen spirits, but spoken with them.
For most men, it would be an uncanny thing to walk the streets and hear one's name on the lips of strangers. Most men. Granted, it wasn't his actual name, but that which the press had bestowed. He didn't mind. Used it himself in that letter to the peelers. Simple-minded spellings scrawled left-handed like a shy love note. It seemed the nation's favourite pastime was to speculate upon his identity. A Jew or a lunatic or a prince – fat chance – or perhaps a doctor, due to the precision of the cuts; the clinical speed of the butchery. At least on that, they were correct. He was no longer practising (not in any official capacity), but thanks to a wealthy patron, had been through medical school. However, hardly three months past qualifying, a large inheritance made an easy decision of living as a man of leisure. Over the decades, he'd filled all that free time with many hobbies, but none so fun as the most recently acquired.
“Timothy, I trust you are well.”
He glanced around to see an old friend from the bridge club. “Barnabus. I am surviving. Yourself?”
“I try!” The friend smiled, eyebrows raising as if to say “I must be obedient!” as he followed his good lady wife away into the crowds. When Timothy turned back, he flinched at a loud, braying laugh, deposited right into his lughole from a man chattering away to a small group, making a scene of himself. The laugh of someone who wants the world to know they exist. Well, I see you, and oh, how I'd love to gut you. He pictured himself opening the wretch from cock to chin, and everything inside falling out. Remarkable how it all fits. One would never be able to get it back in. He gave the fool his hard shoulder as he barged by, offering an “apologies” that he did not mean, and a facial expression which told as much.
It came with the next step. A stabbing pain in the shin. That's where it always starts, moving up to the knees, and then the hips. It's the cold. He tried putting it out of his mind. Simply acknowledging it was happening made him feel self-conscious; old; though anyone who'd seen him as a child would scarcely believe such a remarkable improvement. They had thought he wouldn't make it, family physician giving poor odds of seeing his tenth birthday. But see it he did, thanks no doubt to the rich uncle who'd cared not for the expense of putting him before every top specialist; thanks to the way he'd looked after the family, made sure they never wanted for a thing. He wasn't a real uncle, not by blood, but had been rightly described as a second father to the boy.
Today he bore no evidence of any youthful impediment barring a slight limp; barely noticeable, other than times of physical duress or, like this evening, particularly cold weather. The pain brought it all back; memories of wanting to play with other children, unable to keep up, and one eternal image, burned on the inside of his skull like a photograph, of mother turning away to hide her tears after he'd knocked out three teeth on the floor. The calipers had finally come off on his fourteenth birthday, though to this day, an old crutch sat beside the front door in an umbrella stand, as a reminder of the life he could've had. “Irregular gait.” That's how the witness had described it. That's what made him feel worse of all. Very nearly didn't get away in time.
You could feel it, under the music and the jollity. Shifty eyes, tight chests. Is he here, among us? Shall he strike again tonight? Am I safe in my bed? A quartet of excited children pushed by, innocently shrieking; laughing. Had he ever really been that young, he thought. That small? Let them enjoy it while they can. Christmas is for the children. Attempting to recapture that excitement as an adult is merely a fruitless chase for nostalgia; for a scent or a sound to take your hand and lead you back through time.
He would once again be alone on the day itself, kept company by his own memories of Christmases past. Of a knock on the door and a turkey bigger than he was. Of playing the Minister's Cat with a room full of family. Of Uncle Ebenezer dancing on the table.
Enough of this. Time for home. Perhaps some roast chestnuts to keep the hands warm. The seller was a boisterous fellow, whose cry of “sample me nuts!” could be heard for a hundred yards. As Timothy reached the front of the queue, the chestnut man asked “what'd you reckon, squire?” before running a finger across his own throat, eyes crossed and tongue lolled in a grotesque facsimile of death. “Jack gonna give us another 'fore the New Year?”
“I would not dare hazard a guess,” he replied, taking the hot bag and holding the man's gaze for a half-second too long.
But if he decided it so, they would die. As he had not.
Comments
Alison Eales
Still think this is one of your best. 'Eight feet tall' is a particularly nice touch
John Churchman-Conway
A ripping good yarn
