A/N This is a new story I've been working on. Like all my stories, they're influenced A LOT by different programmes, books and whatnot, so don't be surpised if you notice a familiar plot or something. Anyway, I'm treating this as a Pilot chapter. If you don't like it, I'll stop immediately, ha. But I hope that isn't the case.
Very Important - The locations, names of roads, pubs, and brothels are 70% accurate. I barely know London, therefore have probably plonked a load of streets together which are in fact miles apart. My research hasn't stretched very far. Try and overlook it. The thought was there! Also, my knowledge of murder investigations is purely guess, and from what I've seen on TV, so whoopsie. DESPITE all this, I really hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer - I own nothing.
THIS IS RATED M FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF THIS STUFF OFFENDS YOU.
Cursed with Desire
Chapter 1
The first slice of the jugular vein always soaked his parched palate with flavours that could only be described as euphoric. The struggling hands smacking against his blood flushed, exerted cheeks as he held them down with his own mediocre strength. The snapping of an intruding, flailing limb as he lumbered them to somewhere exclusive, just for them to witness. This was a one man show that only required one audience member.
No reviewers, please. He didn't take kindly to bitter criticism.
You had to have witnessed it first hand, glimpsed the spattering of blood upon the walls, glanced the crystalised shine of human eyes as the life slipped from their brittle grasp, beyond this realm and onto the next. You had to have been there. But you wouldn't even begin to decipher the idea (The outrageous idea!) that a gentleman, such as he, could partake in such an animalistic ritual. But let me enlighten your dark pessimism with the kind of ferocity that may leave you stunned, or perhaps breathless. Even so-called good citizens performed acts as sickening as this, just as bad souls possessed the capability of doing something decent. They all had their reasons, as devoid of justifiable purpose as they may have been.
The latest diary entry was a thick limbed gentleman, whom Vegeta had stalked perilously, like a lion and gazelle, for the longest part of a week before knowing his imminent fate. This particular robust hulk of meat had taken a fond interest in wandering children with little but scraps scattered across their skeletal frames, as they treaded upon even the dankest of crevices for morsels of sodden, shit soaked scraps. During the daylight, London was not a place to pass through alone. Only the brave or depraved took to the desolate alleyways post the strike of the midnight hour. Children would scatter the streets in handfuls, and on the odd occasion, they would return short of one. One unlucky slip of a soul would be accosted by a stout, fleshy man with a scalp that gleamed under the moonlight, his eczema slathered hand reaching out with a scrap of lower-crust bread sitting in the centre. Gripped by starvation, the child would follow, unbeknown with the activities that lay waiting with every step closer. The man would breathe, a rasp of desperation and want rumbling in his chest as he captured his prey, left the child stuck in his silken web to do as he pleased. The child would never see the grey, polluted skies of their deprived Whitechapel life again. The end. But for our chunky attacker, it was merely the beginning to his beautiful story.
Vegeta waited, hidden behind a stationary carriage, its horse and coachman missing. A boy of no more than eight short years, patches of balding scalp showing on his malnourished head, crept out to the purring of our grotesque friend, enticed by the same cunning routine which failed to fail. Vegeta tugged the collar of his coat around his mouth, ceasing his baited breath from snaking into the January air. The distant slapping of horse hooves upon cobblestones emanated from a few streets behind, as the night was still new-born and yet to crawl. But it didn't take many shadows for evil to hide amongst. Surreptitiously devouring the scene and dabbing chloroform onto a fresh handkerchief, Vegeta crouched and played out his second-man role, taking great care avoiding any pools of misguided piss that escaped its pathway between the dips in the cobblestones. The street urchin's large eyes widened even further upon noticing his presence, momentarily distracting Vegeta before he stepped behind the predator, clamped the cloth around his open mouth and let the show begin to the frantic escaping slaps of a child's bare feet upon the grime of death's floor.
Hours later, and Vegeta sat in the parlour, sipping from his crystal tumbler, feeling the warm liquid pass over his taste buds and singe his throat before burning with satisfaction in the pit of his hollow stomach. The serenity seeped through his pours with every elongated exhale. The calm sense of a job well done, patting him on the back, because nobody else was there to do it for him. And he didn't want anyone else. The fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting shimmers of ember against his cultured skin. Yes, gracing this backwards city with his glorified presence was a blessing. For both its people and his unwavering passion.
Killing subsided the cravings for a set amount of days, before his dissatisfied hands would long for the feel of a soiled soul, to direct them to where they truly belonged. But, like every day, the wretched daylight emerged through the parlour window, glazing every neglected, decorative piece of crockery left upon the dresser, blotting the hypnotic power of dancing flames amongst the darkness, as another day was born. Another day fuelled by pretence, subordinates fawning over his slight unfamiliarity and ways of moving from one place to another. Another day of hiding in the blaring daylight, where he was most exposed.
The streets bustled with coaches, bawdy women and men crowing their best offers, and rampant orphans pick-pocketing when your eyes where anywhere other than everywhere. On an average day, Vegeta would've accepted being approached by at least seven paupers on his lethargic journey from Highgate into the East End, eventually stepping through the Petticoat Lane markets. By wart-encrusted hand number ten tugging upon his sleeve, he had picked the pace up from a leisurely stroll to a raging stomp, shunning anyone else who dared to tread in his pathway. But he was praised, regardless of his ill-timing, every moment he set his clacking shoes upon the echoing floors of the station. The other law enforcers worshipped him and his unusual, alluring façade. The fools.
He plodded, tight-lipped and furrow-browed, past the strip of cells, pensively staring ahead, ignoring the raucous rattle of abuse coming from the caged cretins – or prisoners, he was informed as of late. A soft, yet determined weight landed on his shoulder, tearing him free of his feral motive.
"Valenza. May I take a moment of your time?"
He turned to the unwelcomed bristles of Superintendent, George Edminson's facial hair. The unkempt fluff that was regarded as fashionable on this side of London. A sense of style Vegeta evidently did not need, nor want to possess. If Vegeta wanted to stand out any further, he would have left his face completely free of hair, but a mere dusting of stubble proved remarkably useful in these hindering temperatures.
He turned on his heels and regarded his superior with a hint of malice, before glancing at the half-naked woman, sprawled across the floor, face down, in one of the decrepit cells.
"I daren't say I enjoy being the bearer of grave news, but I must play my role accordingly," he said, stroking the end of his moustache with immaculately clean fingers. "Another officer has been killed."
Vegeta felt his eyes widening before he could stop himself.
"Discovered on Dorset Street. Nothing to be over suspicious about. Clean cut throat, a few deep punctures to the chest, his weapons and trinkets stolen. Seems a reoccurring theme, wouldn't you agree?" Edminson finished his conversations with an unarguable question.
The situation in the East End had mutated into something foul and rancid. The task of cleaning it up was too cumbersome. People were dying, killing or being killed. That was how this life functioned.
"Valenza? These are your team. Dwindling into a handful. Are you in the least bit concerned for their wellbeing?"
Vegeta opened his mouth to cut the phatic conversation dry, when Edminson obliged. "I haven't the energy or the time. I want you to scour the high street for Inspector Englands. I sent him out several hours ago and he's yet to return. Once you've found him, bring him back here, and then I'll assign your next duty." He sighed when Vegeta failed to perform with a glint of enthusiasm. "Another prostitute was found last night. He's killed again. With his acquired taste for whore's in full bloom!"
It seemed that Vegeta's pulse reawakened, throbbing gently in his temples. "And the body?"
"The usual; skin torn, gutted like a fresh trout. An awful sight." Edminson reached into his pocket, and fumbled for a crumpled handkerchief, before liberally mopping his brow. "Blasted whores. They get what they deserve if you ask me. Polluting my streets."
Vegeta smoothed back his hair, subtly glancing again at the sprawled woman, who was lying as still as the dead.
"Valenza. I want you to go to the Silver Spoon House brothel and find out any delicate information about the victim … her regular working hours, regular customers, what she charged … her preferred position, I don't care. Just come back with something useful." And he stormed down the corridor, taking his hat from his sweltering head and muttering unintelligible utterances to the stone floor.
Vegeta knew exactly who George Edminson was. Granted, he had only been graced with the pleasure of his company for a fist full of years, but he had the honour of meeting men like him before. Also had the intense pleasure of trapping the air in their windpipes before casting them off to the life after this life. At first glance, you would assume he was a gentleman, but, ah, didn't you wonder that about Vegeta? And found yourself to be falsely lead down a narrow corridor with no way of running back? Once you opened that ominous door at the end, you glimpsed reality. You saw Edminson draped across semen smeared sheets, his undergarments twisted unfashionably around his knobbly knees as a working sixteen year old girl moistened his prick. And at the same time, adjacent to this picture, you saw his beloved, yet sheepish, wife and daughter, sitting at the dining table, elated with pride for their hard working 'gentle man'.
On his way out of 'H' quarters, Vegeta grabbed Inspector Simmons, who was engaged in a useless spat with an unrelenting prisoner, whose choice of weapon was his own, yellow saliva. Simmons reeled back, outrage crumpling his already aging features as he prepared himself for round two.
"You waste your time on this?" Vegeta said, pulling Simmons away by the sleeve of his distasteful, grey overcoat
The prisoner took one look at Vegeta, eyes blazing like a raging forest fire, and yelled, "Muddy water swims in your veins, immigrant."
"This brute has just branded with me with every name under the sun, is now having a pop at you, and you think I should leave it?" Simmons admonished.
"Let him rot. It's none of your concern." His so-called colleagues had minds a similar size to that of a grain of sand, leaving evidence all around them. It was his duty to pick up after them, as well as himself. But Simmons was an honest man.
"Well?" Simmons said, pulling at the fabric on his newly creased coat. "You're here for a reason, Valenza."
"The prostitute."
"Which one? There are thousands in Whitechapel, if you've failed to see." He laughed haughtily, and they both walked out of the building and into the tick, foggy afternoon, the roar from the throngs of people making it difficult to converse without straining your own vocal chords.
"From Silver Spoon House. The body was discovered last night."
"Ah, that one," Simmons said, gazing out upon the mass of people with a sense of grandeur in his stance, like he had conquered what was before him. "Yes. Charlotte Wright. She was a pretty one … I think. And you seldom get many of those around these streets." His face reddened, leaving strange blotches over the expanse of weathered skin. "That is the circulating gossip, of course."
Vegeta smirked. "Of course," he muttered before descending the stairs. As he mentioned before, Simmons was an honest man, regardless of the crimson hue across his cheeks. Whether he bedded streetwalkers was none of Vegeta's concern. If asked, Simmons wouldn't lie about it. Closed doors were always slammed shut for a reason, and Vegeta didn't like to pry. Unless, of course, he had to.
Face down in a puddle of his own drying drool, Inspector Englands snored, emitting a sound like a blue bottle trapped in an empty jam jar. The bar tender, an unkempt man with shoulder length copper hair, failed to notice the line of inebriates, all either asleep or drowsily rocking back and forth, only to smack their foreheads on the bar and wake up again. There was – like every establishment in Whitechapel – an undertone of urine in the air, and Vegeta hoped it wasn't fermenting from Englands' hunched body. Vegeta hadn't failed to notice that there was a small child playing a three-stringed violin at the other end of the bar, letting the mistuned creaks clog up the already dying atmosphere.
"Wot can I getcha, sir?" the bar keep shouted, wiping a glass clean with a soiled cloth.
Vegeta approached Englands, hoping the red-faced bar-keep would understand without any more pollutive talk. He didn't want to rouse suspicion. Despite nothing out of the ordinary taking place, it didn't take much for a brawl to spurt in a public house such as this, even at this time of day.
"Been sat there all day, he has. I've a right mind to throw 'im out." The man paced forward, but stopped to put the freshly wiped glass back onto a wonky shelf.
Vegeta looked at all the other drinkers in the room, noting the strong must of unwashed bodies clinging to the air. There was little doubt that they had ever left this place at all. Englands was a picture of perfection compared to these drunkards.
"Even my Caroline couldn't get him to wake … and she has an irresistible charm," she bar-keep grinned, gesturing to a grossly overweight, scantily clad woman in the corner of the room, asleep with her skirts ruffled over her waist and her pubis on show.
Vegeta swallowed the bile and shook his head, turned and hauled Englands' arm over his should, prizing his face away from the sticky wooden panel of the bar. His sack coat was slicked with a silvery slime that Vegeta didn't want to come into contact with, so he pulled his body as far away as possible, while hoisting him to his feet.
"Get up, you embarrassment," he hissed.
Englands shook his head erratically, blond curls peeping from under his hat, and he scrunched his gunky eye lids. "Gerrofff me, you scoundrel!"
"Be quiet. It's four in the afternoon and you are intoxicated—paralytic, for Christ's sake!"
Englands' hat slipped from his head and landed softly onto the floor boards. Vegeta allowed him to successfully, yet unsteadily, bend down to retrieve it, before grasping his arm again.
"I do not have to listen to you, devil," Englands said, finally peering out of one blood shot eye to see Vegeta's stern features. "Oh, my dear friend!" He threw his arms out, nearly toppling backwards. "Why didn't you say it was you? I was moments away from beating you down."
Vegeta rolled his eyes. "God forbid. Stand straight." He placed a hand on Englands' back to steady him, before letting go, but as soon as the contact dissipated, as did Englands' balance. "For the love of the Lord," Vegeta muttered, grabbing him again.
As of late, Englands had proven himself to be a liability; drinking, failing to turn up for duty. Yet Vegeta couldn't disregard the minor swelling in his chest at seeing this man in such a dreadful state. He couldn't possibly relate to his torment. It was impressive, in fact. Only two months prior, Englands lost his one year old son to pneumonia, and now his wife had taken ill. It was the cruel hand of fate, and it had bizarrely taken a keen interest in the Englands family, regardless of the other deserved trollops that sauntered around the Whitechapel streets.
Ultimately, Vegeta decided against taking Englands back to H quarter, knowing Edminson would struggle to sympathise, especially when he had his own perfect life in Notting Hill to contend with, never mind the thirst in his loins to quench. Vegeta took Englands on the top deck of the bus, to the other passengers' dismay. Englands regurgitated white lumps of half-digested porridge and failed to retain the contents of his bladder until he arrived home. But as dusk settled, and they clambered onto the peaceful streets of Muswell Hill, Englands began to resemble a man with a fraction of common sense.
"It was a foolish mistake," he gurgled, wiping the cold vomit off his cheek and proceeding the smear it onto his exposed waist jacket.
Vegeta said nothing, rather let the scene play out as they turned down Greenham Road.
"I shouldn't have come back for duty. But it's so bloody boring at home." He sniffed. "Home is where the women spend their time. Not men. Not I. I'm a decent fellow. Don't you agree, Valenza?"
He grunted a response. It was better to not feed the fire at this moment, not when more pressing matters were peering over the horizon of his mind's eye.
Englands stopped, swung his arms out. "But look at you, sir. Everything built up for you to take. Life adores you. And the women … they weep with need for you. I've seen it. I have seen it!"
Vegeta wanted to button Englands lips together, preferably with a thick, steel nail, covered in rust, which would hopefully lead to a nasty infection. But not enough to kill him, even though, presently, that looked like the kindest act to perform. Vegeta would heartily disagree with Englands' declaration. Life was not offering him to take whatever he pleased. Not when the only thing he wanted to take was life. Over and over. And women? They posed little threat to his other, more powerful desires. That particular carnal quarrel could be dampened effectively and quickly; and methodically. Whereas his other passion required a more … meticulous approach. A tender touch and a hushed step.
"This is my home? Oh yes, quite right, it is." Englands dipped his shaking hands into his coat pocket, pulling out a key, but decided against it, instead rapped loudly on the solid wooden door. "Bethany – open the door, will you?" He turned to Vegeta, whose arms were folded tight. "A quick brandy? Whisky?"
This man was relentless with the perils of alcohol. "No. Get some rest," he said, and left Englands just before he heard the latch being removed on the front door.
Back trampling upon the roused soil of Whitechapel high-street, Vegeta set a course for his next vulnerable target, dipping into the alleyways he had grown unusually fond of. Like an aged wine, or vintage whisky. Eventually coming out onto Wentworth Street, he glanced left and right at the dimly lit stretch of road, with the distant murmur of public houses, overruled by the squawking streetwalkers, emerging into the darkness. It didn't take long before a hideous, skimpy girl, clinging onto a green, moth-eaten shawl, stood in front of him, rolling up her skirts.
"For you, sir? Anything for only a shilling."
Did they not understand the risks they took, wandering about in the darkness in the midst of several brutal murders? The bitter wind forced this girl's teeth to chatter, while she barricaded herself with the bravado she needed to earn a night's wages. But for all the effort, Vegeta would never touch something so grotesque. Her white lips were surrounded by clusters of scabs and yellow crust.
"How old are you, girl?" Vegeta looked over his shoulder. It wasn't wise to take to these streets. He didn't want to be recognised.
She gulped, and he watched her slender throat move with agitation. "Twenty years."
A lie. She didn't look a day over fifteen. He frowned, noting several other women were creeping closer to him. If he didn't move on now, he's be swamped, or robbed. And he couldn't complicate things any further than they already were. He stepped aside her ethereal frame, and moved on through the drizzling night.
Moments later, Vegeta thumped his fist twice on the front door and took a generous step backwards, allowing his eyes to drink the outside of the building, the red painted bricks, the rusted sign barely reading 'The Silver Spoon.' No room for inconspicuousness now. Here, he was victorious, as he was everywhere else. But here, he felt it. Really felt it.
A bearded man, with very grey eyes, his facial hair hiding his youth, opened the door, stared at Vegeta before nodding and stepping aside to let him in. The veil of warmth wrapped around his damp body, sending a visible miasma of his own sweat into the air. The door was clanked shut, bolts and all, and the bearded man slinked down the corridor and into a side room, giving Vegeta space to act. With long strides, he walked down the red-walled corridors, smelling the pungent aroma of opium snaking from under the locked doors. At the end of the corridor was a large, mahogany table, with a big woman sat behind it. Her raven hair was coiled into a tight knot on the top of her head, and although she knew of his presence, she ritualistically took her time to acknowledge it.
She was scribbling on a piece of paper with a charcoal stick. The stick popped onto the paper, and she lifted her watery gaze to meet him. Her eyes crinkled with delight. "Ah, Mr Rimmer, I see you've taken to my establishment. You know my girls cherish your company, oh, so they do."
Stiffly, he slapped three shillings on the table. Conversing was not his favourite past time activity, especially not with the likes of this woman.
"A man of few words," she said, in a sugary sweet tone, while her eyes glued themselves to the shiny coins on the table. "But … actions speak louder than words, Mr Rimmer, wouldn't you agree?"
Changing his name was a necessity. Playing two roles allowed him to manage his duties in the field and behind closed doors systematically, and parallel to one another. You've probably taken Vegeta for a hypocrite, no? Bad-mouthing his superior, when he was rolling around in the same pig pen. Well, you would have to wait to see if your assumptions were to be true. Vegeta was not a straight forward man.
"Charlotte Wright."
The woman gulped, scraped her chair out from beneath her, and walked over to a barred window. "'Fraid not tonight," she clipped, her crimson lips pinching together painfully.
"When?" he said, taking his hat off, and fisting the hollow centre of it.
The woman spun round. "She won't be returning."
A rhythmical banging a groaning suddenly started from the floor above, but the noise was so familiar … to both of them.
"And the reason?" he pushed, goading her.
"You know very well why, sir," she said, sighing and sitting back down again. "Don't act so coy. The whole of London knows." And she whispered. "The Ripper," before shuffling the papers together that were strewn across the table, making sure to misdirect them from the three shillings that persistently sat in the centre.
"Pity," Vegeta said, placing his hat back on firmly. "Any clues as to how this fate caught her?"
She cocked her head, her fixed hair remaining plastered to her scalp. "He's been haunting these streets for months, picking girls one by one and pullin' their throats out. Now he's starting on my girls." Her cheeks flushed with blood.
This topic obviously struck a raw nerve. But, also, the heat in this room was unbearable.
"Any strange-looking gentlemen enter your establishment recently?" he said, dabbing his brow with the colder side of his hand.
She laughed. "Oh, beautiful man, this is a whore house. You're the prettiest needle in this haystack, dear." With a clawed hand, she picked up a dusty bottle of wine, popped the lid off and poured it into a small glass. "Are you a Runner, or sumfink?" she said, scrutinising him over the rim of her glass.
He smirked. "Just a humble customer."
"Well, Charlotte cannot satisfy you tonight, tomorrow night or any night after that. 'Spose you'll have to try another flavour tonight, Mr Rimmer."
Each time she drawled his pseudo name, there was a small smirk working against her usually pursed lips. In a way, he respected this woman, and didn't think twice about underestimating her discrepancies. A man with deep brown eyes, dark olive skin and black hair walks into a whore house and claims his name to be Rimmer, wasn't the most convincing of acts. But this woman, nodded, winked and allowed the show to go on. No qualms. No nothing.
"No. Not tonight." He turned to go, when a door unlocked and a broad man, reeking of drying body odour, exited, tipping his hat to Vegeta in a brotherly acknowledgment of the act that had taken place moments ago. All of a sudden Vegeta felt rather nauseous. The need for rest was burning in his temples. Or perhaps it was the heat?
"Another job well done," a sarcastic, seething, and foreign accented voice said.
Vegeta tore his eyes away from the man, who was just leaving, and picked up upon a shocking sight. A woman stepped out onto the corridor, draped in an emerald, Chinese-styled sleeping gown, her pink nipples visible through the thin material. She leaned languidly against the door frame, her long legs extended, bare feet pressing into the polished flooring. A long coil of damp-looking aqua hair tumbled over her left shoulder, while the rest of it was bunched and dishevelled on the top of her head. For a split moment, her eyes roamed over Vegeta's face, before disinterest took a hold of her and she yawned, her mouth gaping wide open.
He couldn't take his eyes away from the intriguing sight. But he had to.
"I've changed my mind," he said, taking another two shilling out and placing them on the table. "This girl will suffice for tonight."
The blue-haired woman locked eyes with him, a trace of enticement flashing in them, as she pulled herself away from the door frame to stand straight. Alarmingly, she turned her back on him, giving him a glimpse of her pert backside, before she slammed the door shut, cancelling the trance he had found himself captured in. This girl, he had never seen before. And he had tried all of them. It was only right for this exotic-looking creature to bare herself to him, too.
"You'll have to allow her to prepare for your company," the sickly tone of the older woman said.
"I'll wait," he said, and took himself to the shadowy waiting room, plonking himself on a velvet lined armchair.