Part 4 (ditto above)
Spike swaggered over to the bar, Liam a few paces behind him. He sat down on one of the stools, and the bartender immediately walked over, beer in hand. Spike grinned at Liam.
"Isn't that the way it should be?" he said happily. "My friend 'ere 'll have the same." Seconds later, Liam was sitting at the bar next to Spike, who was acting as if he owned the place. Looking around, he noticed it was another one of those strange places where humans and demons went to mix. When they'd seen Spike walk in, conversations were suddenly muted, but for hushed whispers Liam could guess were about the Slayer. Spike raised an eyebrow at the cowering demons. "And that ain't half bad either. They're all too afraid of the Slayer to come after me now. A year ago, you'd have to take a ticket at a place like this, and stand in line to take a shot at William the Bloody." He snorted, almost as if he found something very funny about the nickname. Liam was started to get impatient. It was all very nice and all, sitting in yet another bar, with yet another person who claimed to have known him for hundreds of years, but he really wanted to get to the point, then get out of here and back to the pretty brunette girl.
"I don't want to seem rude, but what exactly did you want to tell me?" Liam asked. Again, Spike started to laugh.
"God, you have slipped right into the gutter, haven't you, mate? When I think of what you were - 'I don't want to seem rude'?" he mimicked. "Now, that was something the Angelus I knew would never have said. Mind you, I don't know about that maniac that came back a couple of years ago. But, y'know, the slayer solved that problem when she sent you to hell..."
"I've... to hell?" They just kept throwing these little bits of information at him, and he wasn't sure he knew what to do with that one. His interruption didn't seem to bother Spike.
"Bloody well wish you'd stayed there. Idiot powers that be. I wonder if those blokes can feel pain? Because I'm sure I'd love to torture them for a while; they're not exactly human, so it shouldn't be a problem. Although, I don't think they'd be in the phone book... maybe under 'all-knowing poncy buggers'..." Spike continued to muse. There was a crash of glasses from behind the bar, and he was snapped out of his daze. Looking at the bemused Liam, who was sitting next to him and nursing an imported Guinness. That was what Spike loved about this place - they had Guinness on tap, and did a mighty fine virgin's blood champagne spritzer. It wasn't his kind of drink, mind you, but Dru had always said it made her feel as if tiny little pixies were dancing around inside her mouth. Whatever that was supposed to mean - from his experience of translating her, it probably meant 'good'.
"Uh... Cordelia, she said you would tell me some sort of story, get the brain ticking over, that kind of thing." Liam felt the need to say something, when Spike drifted off into a strange kind of daze, his eyes glazed over. If Liam had known him at all, he would know that one of Spike's little quirks was that he got quite hazy and nostalgic when thinking about his dark queen. That was one of his traits. Another was that he was a very good story teller. He used to keep Dru amused for hours with his tales.
"So, it's a story you want. Well..." Spike thought back over the time he'd spent with Angelus. A great deal of it hadn't been that enjoyable. Nothing that would kick start poof mark 2's memory. He thought over all the most horrendous things they'd done as a team. Most had faded away as the years had passed, but there was one thing that really stuck in not only Spike's, but a great deal of the world's, memories. The thing that he and Angelus were at the same time most famous and least famous for. That was when something like anonymity got quite pesky.
Spike smiled. If anything would make the wanker come back, guilty as ever, this would do it.
"...I think I have just the thing."
London, 1888
Spike was bored. It seemed as if he was the only one, but he was crawling up the walls. Unlike his cold-hearted darling, he took no thrill in the parties of the Season; he didn't find it any fun at all to flirt with the aristocratic girls, in their corsets and bustles, and find an easy meal in them. The seduction was fun - the first few times. It got monotonous after a while. And Spike wasn't one to fade in with the crowd.
In the eight years he'd been one of the undead, he'd seen very little. And it irked him. He wanted to travel the world, see all of those things his old, dead acquaintances had prattled on about before mocking him. Not just the United Kingdom - he wanted to see everything. He'd already lived in the snobby part of London all his life, and it was starting to grate at him. The British Empire was spreading its tentacles all over the globe; it would be unbelievably easy to board a ship, and go anywhere he desired. But all the time Drusilla wanted to stay in London, he'd stay with her. He had her to thank for his release from his pitiful life; he'd never be able to repay that debt. Instead, he had resolved to spend as long as he could seeing to it that her madness never got her in trouble or hurt, and caring for her if it did.
Dru loved the banquets, and balls, and theatres of London. She loved to get dressed up according to the latest abominable, masochistic fashion, and parade around with the two handsome men she spent most of her time with one her arm. She enjoyed the looks of envy she received from the younger girls, the lust from the young men, and the disgust from the older, more 'respectable' members of society. Spike took great pleasure in hurting those people who had the gall to insinuate that his princess was a whore, and accuse her of all kinds of strange things; he also had no objections to helping them depart this life. That, in itself, gave Dru the most pleasure of all. She had her Spike as her protector; it didn't matter to her that most of the rumours were started by Angelus in the first place.
Angelus took some sort of perverse thrill in spreading false rumours about Dru's origins. Neither Dru or Spike were sure why; it was probably because he so enjoyed the 'bloated, manly' look Spike got when he heard the stories, and the numerous ways in which the unsuspecting pawns died. Angelus and Spike were about as different as it was possible for two men to be - Spike was bored out of his skull in London, and Angelus was having the time of his unlife. He enjoyed the debauchery, and the sin, and everything about the slightly dingy, yet somehow incredibly alive city. He loved to seduce the girls at parties, leading them on a pretty dance before getting himself a fresh, young, on occasion virginal meal. He had no intention of leaving the place so soon.
It was late August, and chilly and damp - not at all unusual for London in the summer. Darla had left for Europe earlier in the month, saying that she had places to be, people to eat. Spike was both glad to see the back of her, and sorry that she'd left him behind. Darla was strictly Angelus' property, but that didn't mean there had been no fun had. A vampiric family was different than a human one, and, if you took the arrangement literally, far more incestuous. He would have loved to have gone with her, but his affections lay with his dark queen, and she refused to leave the bright lights of the chandeliers of the city. Still, he was glad Darla had gone. Angelus was so much more fun without her. When Darla was around, he behaved like a whipped nancy boy, agreeing with all the things the vampiress suggested, and beating Spike up when he had to convince him to join Darla's pathetic little schemes. Now that she was gone, the three of them could have a marvellous time.
"Bloody marvellous," he said to himself, slightly sarcastically.
Spike sat staring out of the window of the town house. It was eleven o'clock at night, and rain was pelting down on the street, and Dru had insisted on staying in, or else it would ruin her hair. He still wondered how on earth Angelus had obtained this place - Dru had mentioned one day how she loved Hyde Park, and all the pretty little people who walked through it, and the next thing he knew, they were moving into an elegant townhouse on Park Lane, in one of the most expensive districts in London. He had to hand it to Angelus - he could certainly pick out the rich ones from the flock, and charm them out of their house and their life. Though not necessarily in that order.
Lost in thought, he nearly jumped as he heard the voice behind him.
"They're not going to jump up and waltz, you know. It's certainly been a long time since I met a vampire as interested in lamp posts as you seem to be," Angelus smirked. "I suppose, you never were the most interesting lad..."
"Oh, sod off." Secretly, Spike hoped that Angelus might ignore him, as usual, and stay to irritate him further. At least it was more interesting than staring out across an empty park. Angelus just chuckled.
"Now, now, my boy, such language hardly seems befitting amongst such finery!" he said, gesturing around the lavishly overdecorated parlour. Spike rolled his eyes.
"You never did have any taste when it comes to anything," he muttered.
"On the contrary, my boy; I think you may find that you're best describing yourself. Now, what did I come in here for? Ah, yes..." Spike didn't move, but started to really listen. Whenever Angelus stalled like this, it meant that he had something particularly devious in mind. In fact, when Angelus even decided to speak nearly civilly to Spike, he wanted something or the other. And for Angelus, slight barbs about lamp posts and intelligence were civil. "Drusilla and I were supposed to be attending the ball taking place near the Palladium; to be honest, I'm not particularly upset it was rained off - the people who attend such things tend to be awfully boring," to illustrate, he yawned theatrically. "And I had something else planned."
Now Spike turned around. He tried hard not to appear too eager, but he was still a young vampire; he knew that the older man was about to unveil a plot for some hideous carnage, and it made him want to yell at the wanker to get on with it.
"Oh yeah?" he said, his voice sounding slightly strained. That just made Angelus grin all the more.
"I seem to remember you mentioning something about, wanting to be... famous? Well, I think I might have just the thing..." Now Spike couldn't help but outwardly show his enthusiasm. It seemed like the prancing prat might have some entertainment lined up... he listened carefully as Angelus revealed his plan.
It was still raining as Spike walked down Buck's Row just after two o'clock. It was the nasty, English type of drizzle, so he'd put on a cloak, which would also be very handy in obscuring his identity. Whitechapel was one of the seediest, most grimey parts of the East End. He remembered someone describing it as 'an evil plexus of slums that hide human creeping things'; he wasn't about to disagree. Even though he was an evil thing himself, he couldn't help being repulsed by the area. The dark streets were usually lined with prostitutes and drunks who had just been tossed out of the public houses. The people who socialised in the upmarket, 'posh' parts of London liked to imagine that there wasn't a part of their wonderful city where whoring was an acceptable profession, but here it was. Angelus had decided that they could cause an uproar of sorts here, drawing attention to the dregs of society, and still remain anonymous. The dregs of human life he found here didn't bother Spike as much as the fact that he'd voluntarily left Angelus with Dru, but he had been that bored.
Today, the street was emptier than usual. There was still the occasional prostitute standing on the pavement, calling out to him, but he had yet to choose his victim. Spike knew that if a woman hadn't earned enough money that day to pay for a bed for the night, she'd find someone who would share his in return for certain... favours. As he reached the end of the road, he saw one girl who was prettier than the others, if that was possible, and walked over to her. She grinned at him.
"'Ello, love," he said, grinning back. He almost felt sorry for the girl; little did she know... Well, almost, he thought.
"'Brutal murder in the East End'," Angelus read aloud from the paper. "'A woman, identified as Polly Nichols...' Identified? I thought I told you-"
"Hey, I followed your instructions to the letter, mate," Spike said. He was thrilled, and a bit surprised, that it had made it into the morning paper. It was only the East London Observer, which Angelus had somehow managed to acquire a copy of, but still. It was on the cover of the tabloid. They'd work on moving up to the starry front pages of the broadsheets.
"Ah, yes, indeed you did. 'Police Constable John Neil reports that when he found the body, blood was oozing from her throat, which had been slashed from ear to ear with a long bladed knife, with the possible failed attempt to decapitate her.' Got to hand it to the journalists; they can give full credit to our wickedness. 'Mysteriously, there was little blood to be found, even though the corpse had been further mutilated.' Blah, blah, horrible, blah, obscene, sick sociopath..."
"Give me that," Spike said, tired of Angelus' abridged version. Scanning the article, he found a part he found very amusing. "'The crimes were obviously the work of a demented being' - well, 'being' is probably the right word - 'as the extraordinary violence used is the peculiar feature in each instance.'" Spike stopped, and shot Angelus a look. "Each?" Angelus shrugged.
"So maybe I got a little hungry, and decided to watch you work. It was too tempting to get in on the act, ya know, get into the papers for meself!"
"Second victim, Martha Tabram. Stabbed... 39 times? Isn't that a little excessive?"
"Made the papers, didn't it?" Angelus smiled nonchalantly. Spike nodded in agreement.
"Indeed it did. 'The two murders have startled London for the reason that both the victims were the poorest of the poor, and no adequate motive in the shape of plunder can be traced. Cruel, silent death has been personified in the figure of a faceless prowler of the night.' They reckon it's the same bloke, did both. Never thought I'd be confused with you. For a start, I'm much better looking," Spike smirked. Angelus grabbed the paper back, noting Spike trying not to flinch as he inflicted multiple paper cuts. He found another part of the article he'd been quite pleased with.
"The best part: 'In the squalor of crowded tenements, narrow darkened slum streets and alleys, the Whitechapel murderer has found a perfect place for his work.'" Angelus gave a self satisfied smile, which made Spike want to punch him. He always took credit for the most evil things they came up with, just because it was generally Angelus' idea in the first place. "'There was no-one, and no clues found in the vicinity. The killer, due to the violent nature of the murders, is known by the police as Jack the Ripper-'" Angelus stopped, and thought over the interesting new pseudonym. "What d'ya think, Spike?"
Drusilla, who had been rocking back and forth in her chair, listening to the conversation, suddenly wrapped her arms around Spike. "Ooh, Spike my love, I'm very proud of you. The city buzzes, like lots of bees, all talking about you. Bzzz," she added for emphasis.
If his princess was happy, Spike was happy. Fame was what he had wanted, and he was definitely enjoying it. Jack the Ripper. He could get used to it.
"Wait... this story is supposed to make me want to... revert, to my old self?" Liam asked in disbelief. He'd never heard anything like this. It was sadistic, and disgusting, and characteristically, all the demons in the bar were straining to listen in. Spike pretended not to notice, but loved an audience, and was playing up to them. Sometimes he'd talk very quietly, just for the satisfaction of seeing the demons fall off their stools while leaning in to overhear.
"No, mate, we don't want that poof back, we want the other one. As much as I prefer the dastardly version, last time we met, he was just a little... well, he was a nutter, and I hated the bastard. So I take it my story's not working?" Liam shook his head. He really didn't want to hear any more of this.
"Heh, was mainly for my own amusement, anyway. Alright, fine. Quick summary: three more fantastically brutal murders, two of them exactly at the same time - it was always fun to confuse the Victorians - police never worked it out. Bleeding idiots, the lot of them. Got all frantic, suspected any bloke who breathed near the area. Wouldn't ever suspect a pair of supposed toffs, mind you. Got into all the major papers, town criers yelling 'Whitechapel! Another 'orrible murder! Mutilation!'" Spike sighed as the nostalgia overtook him. "Some of the best days of my life, those were. When Angelus and Dru started to get worried that we might be caught, we hopped over to Germany. Mind you, the description they were giving - 5'4", dark hair, moustache, Jewish."
Liam was getting bored now. Spike had been prattling on for hours, and he just found the story offensive and disturbing.
"Could we go back to that... that occult store?" he asked, trying not to sound too desperate.
"Alright, and so endeth the tale. How about we have just one more drink before going back and letting the watcher bore us to death? Oh, and don't mention my other persona to him - he puts that in the diaries, and the mystery's gone. It's what makes Jack so famous. No-one knows, and everyone wants to guess." Liam sighed. This man... vampire really did have an ego the size of Britain. But the drink... he'd been running dry for far too long.
"One more, then we go," he said cheerfully.
"Right. How's about I tell you about me and Dru's little stay in Transylvania? Russians are quite tasty, y'know." Off Liam's look, Spike got the impression that he'd told enough Tales from the Crypt for night. "Obviously, you don't want to know. Fine. Criticise my skills of story tellin', hit old Spike where it hurts. Barkeep!" he yelled in his best poncy English accent. Just one more drink. That was all.
To be continued....