Dr Demontig - Serial Killer

Dr Demontig

  Serial Killer

  By J Scaddon

  Copyright J Scaddon 2015

  www.jscaddonbooks.co.uk

  1.

  Spitalfields, London, February 1879

  The flame danced around on the candle wick and made the shadows swing to and fro across the dank, mouldy walls of this little room. The room was no more than twelve foot in either direction, and was only lit by the golden glow of that single candle. A dirty sheet was pulled over the only window, and not a trace of moonlight ebbed through. The floors were made from bowed wood and a single bed was pushed up against the far wall. In the bed lay a young boy, no more than five years old. He was asleep. Next to him lay a young girl, only a few years older. She had pulled the woollen blanket up to her chin, and she watched and listened as her mother and father talked to each other in hushed voices. Mother sat on the lone wooden chair in the room, whilst Father pulled on his waist coat and his cap. They were all tattily dressed, as was common. Poverty was rife, and the single room they lived in was their home. For now. There was nothing else present in the room, other than a small wooden table, which had a half-eaten stale loaf of bread sat within a square of cotton. Next to the bread, curiously, was a number of small books, tied together with and an old stretch of string.

  “I must leave now, my dear. I have to be at the dust yard soon or I will be docked before I have even earned.” The man reached up to his thin ragged coat which dangled lank from a hook on the wall.

  “What are you doing at this late hour?” said the mother.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot in my excitement to tell you. I was walking down at the docks this morning. No-one had work for me. But I walked past the dust yard on the way back and heard a man being told to leave. He had been stealing items recovered from collections. He was beaten fiercely by his governor. I went straight to him. I helped him up, and then went and offered my services in his place.”

  “Well at least the master will now have an honest man in you.”

  “I will be gone most of the night,” said the father. “But I may make a few pennies from it, which will secure our rent for a while. And if I work hard, it may be a permanent wage.”

  The woman’s eyes brightened as the man smiled at his wife, proudly. This was the best news she had had for a long time. Life was very hard, and anything that promised some security would be something to welcome.

  The man kissed his wife, and then knelt beside the bed and kissed his two children on their foreheads.

  “Father,” whispered the young girl. “Will you be out all night?”

  “I will be home long before sunrise. I will be here when you wake up. But you must get some rest now. You all have to be up for work early as well. Remember we have only paid until six o’clock. We have to leave by then.”

  “Oh dear,” said the mother. “When will you sleep?”

  The father stood up and straightened his cap. He placed his hands on his hips and sighed.

  “If this becomes a permanent job then we can rent a room for the whole day. Until then, I will have to find somewhere to sleep later. But that is not for you to worry about.”

  The man went over to the door and opened it to leave. He stopped and turned to his family and smiled at them. He then continued out through the door and into the cold, crisp winter night.

  The street was quiet and empty, although the sound of the slum was still ever present in the air. People could be heard merrily singing, whilst others screamed and cursed. Some areas of the Spitalfields slum would never sleep. Many would spend all their free time at the taverns and brothels, if only to keep warm and away from the meaningless existence that reality brought. Alcohol was a demon that ruined lives, but that was often far better than life in the slums, sober. There was always a danger out on the streets at night. The only safe place was behind a locked door. At least, for the night worker, a clear head would give him the advantage, should a situation occur.

  The man walked down the empty cobbled streets and the sound of drunken depravity gently faded out as he marched further and further away from it. The buildings either side of him were made of filthy red bricks, and each one resembled the next, for miles in front of him. The odd window would be lit by candlelight, but most were in darkness. The sky was clear, and the moonlight flickered off the wet cobbles before him. The cold bit deep into his skin, as his coat was no match for the harsh winter. He could not afford anything more substantial. And if he could, then he would give it to his wife or daughter to wear. He knew that hard work would soon see him warm again.

  He turned up an alleyway to cut over to the next street. The alley had no gas lights and the tall buildings shaded the pathway from the moon. He walked cautiously into the shadows, and braced himself for what may lurk within them. The sound of his boots echoed against the sides of the buildings that surrounded him. They were now the only noise that he could make out. His pace quickened slightly as the end of the alley, and a gas lamp, caught his eye. The darkness was now all consuming and felt like it was encircling his body. His pace quickened again. As he came to the end of the alley, he felt a tug on his arm. He swung round with his fist raised.

  “Alright, alright!” said a shocked looking lady, who jumped back out of reach. The lady was dressed in a dark shawl, and looked tired and old. Her eyes were glazed, and her eyelids drooping.

  “I just wanted to ask if you are looking for business tonight, Sir,” said the woman.

  The man didn’t respond. He just turned and walked away.

  “What are you? A Mary?” Shouted the lady. “Fuck you!”

  The man ignored her and continued on his journey. She cursed at him loudly, but then finally disappeared off back down the alleyway. The man was now walking down another empty street. This street was long and straight and the man could see several hundred yards in either direction. He often checked over his shoulder, but again, the only noise was the clacking of his shoes on the hard cobbles. But, could another set of footsteps be heard? The man stopped. The footsteps stopped. He looked around, but the street was still empty. He went on, but could still hear more than just his footsteps. He was sure that there was someone else. There was a slight offset in the echoes. He stopped again. The footsteps stopped. He turned round to look down the street, and tried to focus in the dim light. His eyes searched for any sign of movement. As he concentrated hard into the darkness, he felt a small dull pain to the side of his neck. Everything went black.