BLACK SHEEP
Chapter 4
The brothers accompany Cyril on a fact-finding trip into the city, and get their first look at some of London's sights - some more pleasant than others.
xxxxx
It was around 9pm when the brothers, accompanied by Cyril, took their first steps outside the Bridge House since their arrival.
The three men had spent a productive day researching every scrap of information they could glean about the dark shadow of hell that Jack had cast across Whitechapel, a poverty-stricken corner of London, all those many years ago; and so, newly recovered from his earlier indulgence, by early evening Dean was clamouring to get out and 'tear the sick asshole a new one'.
So when they stepped out onto the pavement outside the Bridge House, they were well armed with knowledge, with theories and with equipment.
Not, however, with umbrellas.
Dean looked up at the soupy charcoal clouds that tumbled across the sky, scowling as the rain pelted down on them.
"I say it again," he snorted; "when does the sun ever shine in this friggin' country?"
Cyril barged past him, seemingly unconcerned by the rain; "it's night time yer bleedin' gonk; sun wouldn't be shinin' anyway!"
xxxxx
Myrtle, trundled along a latticework of darkened, winding streets, which grew wider and busier as she approached Waterloo again; the soft glow of orange streetlamps, diffused by the falling rain, flickered across the curves of her gleaming black bonnet, and illuminated shimmering rain-soaked pavements.
Dean glanced out of the window, noticing they were already passing Waterloo station again, and tried to hide a smirk as he listened to the agricultural chug of Myrtle's heavy duty diesel engine. If baby was a panther, then Myrtle was some lumpen, half-witted, grass-eater she would hunt.
Feeling Sam nudge his shoulder, he looked across to see that they were about to cross Waterloo Bridge, one of many bridges across the Thames. It was their first sight of the great old River.
Cyril looked back at his fascinated passengers; "we're crossin' the water boys, you had your shots?"
The Winchesters glanced through Myrtle's rain-spattered window and stared mesmerised down the length of the river as it weaved like a silky black ribbon through the city, it seemed alive with the lights of London shimmering and dancing across it's surface.
Their eyes widened when they saw the stately Tower Bridge in the eastern distance; it's twin towers brightly illuminated against the inky night sky, standing proud and tall, a resolute sentinel guarding the pool of London.
Dean's nose squashed against the window as Sam leaned across him to get a better look.
"Dude; personal space!"
xxxxx
Cyril was born in London, just like his father, his grandfather and lord only knows how many generations of Toebones before them. He had lived amongst the thrum of the city his entire life; he had raised his sons in London and he totally expected, hoped even, that he would die in London.
He had crossed one or more of London's bridges practically every single day of his sixty three years, and still the day never dawned that he didn't feel a little flicker of excitement, a tiny lump of pulse-racing joy in his throat every time he and Myrtle took the trip across the water and looked down upon London's beating heart.
Behind him, his passengers heads swivelled to and fro as he pointed out passing landmarks, the Millenium Wheel, County Hall, the gothic majesty of the Palace of Westminster and its famous clock tower, known popularly as Big Ben, which was in fact the name of it's massive bell which for over one hundred and fifty years had sonorously announced the hour across central London.
As Myrtle dodged the traffic, still plentiful, even at the late hour, Cyril called back to his passengers; "that bridge over there," he announced, pointing to an iron bridge a little way along the river; "Blackfriars Bridge, that is."
The name clicked with Sam; "like Blackfriars Pier?"
Cyril nodded; "exactly, the pier's just beside the bridge. That's where the first vic was found," he reminded the brothers.
"We lookin' there?" asked Dean.
Cyril shook his head, "no point; it was four weeks ago, tide would have come in an' out each day since then, washed away anything worth lookin' at."
Finally, Myrtle rolled to a shuddering halt in a small side-street not far from the bridge they had just crossed and Cyril parked her up.
The three men climbed out of the cab into a wall of black drizzle.
Rooting around, Cyril filled his pockets with things he thought he would need; matches, flashlights, crucifix, and a couple of modest weapons.
He turned idly to see Dean standing beside Myrtle casually loading his Glock.
"What you bleedin' doin? He gasped, shoving Dean's hand down behind his back; "yer can't go waving' guns around on the streets of London - guns ain't legal 'ere, you've gotta have licences an' stuff."
Dean stared at the older man aghast as the rain dripped off the end of his nose.
"How the hell d'y hunt then?"
"I'm not sayin' us hunters don't use 'em, we jus' don't bleedin' advertise the fact yer daft sod."
xxxxx
The three men trudged through the misty drizzle, and listened, against the white noise of the city, to Cyril recount his investigations so far. "I took Myrtle up to the old Bailey yesterday."
"That's where the second murder happened," Sam confirmed.
"That's right," Cyril nodded; "the Old Bailey is the central criminal court of England and Wales," he explained; "but it was built over a hundred years ago on the site of the old Newgate Gaol - lot of dark and brutal history there."
"Our asshat should feel right at home then," offered Dean grumpily.
Cyril and Sam grinned; the rain was not improving Dean's mood.
"I wen' round the place like a bleedin' bloodhound," Cyril continued, "not a trace of anything interesting."
"What exactly are we looking for?" Dean asked, pulling his collar up around his neck and cringing as a stray raindrop tickled a chilly path down his spine.
"Cyril shrugged, "buggered if I know," he sighed, "something, ANYTHING that might give us an idea of when and where this bastard is goin'ta strike next."
The brothers nodded in agreement as they obediently followed Cyril along the busy road.
"What about the last murder," prompted Sam, "that was only a couple of days ago."
"Yeah, that's where we're going now," Cyril smiled; "c'mon we're almost there."
xxxxx
Eventually, they stopped.
"This is Fleet Street," Cyril announced, seemingly disregarding the fact that they were all standing in front of a long white sign which said 'FLEET STREET' in big black letters.
"For nearly two hundred years, up until about twenty years ago, this used to be where all Britain's national newspapers were produced and printed," he hesitated; "the newspaper reports about the original Ripper attacks would have been written and printed right here all those years ago."
The Winchesters looked up, scanning their surroundings. Aside from the magnificent church behind them, there didn't seem to be anything special about the long straight road, and it's tall buildings which bore down on them.
"What happened twenty years ago?" asked Sam.
"What happened?" Cyril repeated bitterly, "bleedin' progress happened, that's what."
"Some geezer decided he didn't need men to print newspapers, only computers; so all the newsgroups took his lead and headed over to swanky new premises out east," he snorted contemptibly. "Near two hundred years of history wiped out in the space of a twelvemonth."
Sam suppressed a smile, he'd only known Cyril a day and a half and already had him pegged for a 100% gold-plated technophobe.
"That's a freakin' shame," agreed Dean.
Sam grinned at his brother; technophobe number two. He looked up at the imposing buildings either side of them.
"So what's here now?" he asked.
Cyril shrugged; "bleedin' suits," he answered dismissively; "banks and commerce and finance houses. They all turned up and sucked the life and soul out of the place."
"Bleedin' bankers," he huffed sourly.
xxxxx
They began to walk along the street.
"You should have seen this place thirty years ago," Cyril reflected; "it was alive."
His face broke into a smile as he remembered the halcyon days of Fleet Street; "middle of the night while the rest of London was asleep, well as asleep as it gets, this place was buzzin'," he recounted enthusiastically; "vans an' lorries tearin' around, drunk journos fallin' out of the pubs … even the ground was throbbin' beneath yer feet with all them massive presses running three storeys down in the basements of all these places around you."
The Winchester looked around and tried to imagine the scene.
"I used to make a bleedin' mint running the hacks around at night, especially when a big news story was breakin'.
He sighed wistfully; "good days…" and watched as his companions wandered away for a moment, looking around curiously.
They took in the tall, stately buildings which loomed over them either side of the narrow street; after what seemed like an age, they walked back to the older man.
"Where was the girl's body found?" asked Sam.
He pointed to a striking building opposite them; "the basement of that building," he stated matter-of-factly.
The brothers stared up at the building, it's magnificent glass façade, black as jet, curved over them, tapering like the prow of a ship.
"That was the Daily Express Building," Cyril announced, "it still kept the name after the paper left."
"The police couldn't understand how he got in there, or got out again without trippin' the alarm," Cyril added,"but you know what it's like; there's things we know and they don't."
Sam glanced knowingly at Dean and they both nodded in understanding. Hunting was a common language spoken all over the world.
"See, the thing is, London's one of the most low-lyin' cities on the planet," Cyril began, "so there's a whole network of drains and drainage channels down underneath us that have been laid down over the years ever since the first caveman came to live by the Thames and got his bleedin' feet wet."
"Add to that the fact that in a city this old," he continued, "you've got centuries worth of tunnels, vaults, dungeons, cellars, crypts down under there and that's before you get onto more modern stuff like the sewers and gas pipes and the underground with all it's tracks and stations and then the second world war bunkers."
The Winchesters nodded, fascinated, and with a sinking sense of foreboding that all this talk of deep holes underground meant that they were going to be getting dirty sometime soon.
"The fact is, there's just as much stuff going on under London as there is on top of it," Cyril stated; "an' all them bleedin' dark and grubby places is a great environment for all the dark and grubby things we hunt."
"At least they'd be out of the rain," grunted Dean,shivering glumly.
Cyril smiled, "so over the years, generations of hunters have built their own underground network, linkin' a load of them different places to make life a bit easier for us when we're down there."
"Cool," Dean was genuinely impressed.
"Mostly the law don't know about it," Cyril explained; "and the ones that do, don't ask."
Sam smiled; "very wise!"
xxxxx
The three set off, the Winchesters following Cyril's lead as they ventured further along the street.
"Fleet Street gets it's name from the River Fleet which runs along it."
Sam glanced at Dean who looked utterly perplexed and was clearly just itching to point out the fact that there was no river in sight.
Cyril rolled his eyes; "underground," he added.
"It's a tributary from the Thames," he explained; "little more than a stream. Now it's just part of London's drainage system."
"Some of those hunters tunnels run between the River Fleet and the basements I told you about," he continued; "I think he used one of them to get about, and that's what I wanna go get a look at."
"You wanna go down there?" Dean confirmed pointing at the ground.
"Yeah," Cyril replied.
"You wanna go down in some freakin' drain."
"Yup!"
Dean sighed; "awesome."
Reaching inside his jacket for three small flashlights, Cyril smiled; "look on the bright side son, you'll be seein' parts of the old city the tourists normally don't."
Dean grunted sourly.
"Oh well, we're already soaking," Sam sighed, looking up into the leaden sky at the relentless drizzle; "what the hell!"
xxxxx
It was scarcely half an hour later that the bewildered brothers found themselves following their guide along a surprisingly large brick culvert; it's massive vaulted chambers and dark arched ante-chambers reminiscent of a cathedral except for the six inches of murky, frigid water splashing around their feet, and an active population of rats which would have made a very poor congregation.
Sam's eyes darted around as he took in the awe-inspiring dimensions of the place.
At the same time Dean's eyes were attached firmly to his feet as he warily stumbled around the massing banks of small, writhing bodies that populated the edges of the water.
That, along with the pervading smell of mould, stagnant water, and dilute sewage wasn't exactly benefiting his still delicate stomach.
They hadn't been walking long when Cyril gestured for them to stop; "we're right under the Express Building," he whispered, trying to keep the echo down; "through there is the hunter's tunnel to the basement.
He pointed his flashlight into an impenetrably black archway which swallowed ther beam of light like a gaping black maw
The three men set to studying the entrance to the tunnel, and every inch of the damp, mould-crusted walls around it.
xxxxx
Dean had gone wandering off a little way, idly scanning the tunnel when he saw a shape a few yards ahead of him through the gloom, half submerged in the water.
Squinting through the darkness, he turned the flashlight on it and his heart sank.
"Sam! Cyril!" he half called, half hissed.
He pointed to what he had seen, "looks like your third meatsuit," he mumbled to Cyril.
They stood looking down at the body that lay at their feet on the edge of the water. It was a young man, his face blackened by the demon's exit, his clothes drenched in blood. None of it his own.
"Damn it!" Cyril roared angrily, and rubbed his head; "I had a feeling we might find some poor bastard down here."
"I'll ring the water authorities anonymously," he sighed, "they can come and get him; we can at least make sure he gets back to his family."
They stood in silence, still staring through the blackness at the body.
"I hate this bleedin' job" Cyril growled, and stomped off back the way they had come.
"I don't hate the job," Dean sighed, glancing at Sam who looked genuinely shaken; "I hate the things that make us do it."
xxxxx
Making their way back along the Fleet was tougher than the trip in as they were working against the current; but eventually, they made their way back to the manhole they had entered through.
Climbing out, the Winchesters stood round, huddled against the rain as Cyril replaced the metal cover, and shook their wet boots out onto the equally wet ground.
Cyril had disappeared towards a phone box to make his call; "I'll make this call, then we'll head back, I need a bleedin' drink." Sam guessed that drink wouldn't involve ale if Dean had anything to say about it.
He looked up wearily through the misty drizzle at the tall illuminated façade of St Bride's Church, it's magnificent spire looking over Fleet Street like a protective beacon.
For centuries it had been known as the 'Church of the Press'; London's spiritual home for the printing industry and the written word, but now it was just another church; diminished like the famous street it watched over.
Diminished like the hope of any success amongst the three despairing figures that stood before it.
xxxxx
Cyril, emerged from the call box; "right, lets go, my girl's waiting," and they began the walk back to Myrtle; at least there would be a kind face and a hot meal waiting for them back at the Bridge House.
They paused for a moment as Cyril's phone rang.
He picked it up, smiling a greeting to the voice on the end of the phone, but the smile fell rapidly as he took in the terrible news that it was imparting.
"Shit," he croaked weakly; "there been another one."
xxxxx
tbc