Part 6 of 7

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Zeta shudders in her chair as she sways wildly, her eyes blind white orbs. Dwayne and Fidel are the only conscious bodies at the table now and they're scared witless. They're afraid to break the circle in case Zeta can pull their senior officers out of thin air… afraid to do nothing and risk losing their friends… and frantic to rush to Camille and Richard's aid.

But how?

"Dwayne," Fidel gasps in panic, "we've got to help them! You're the voodoo expert, what do we do? What do we DO?"

"Me?" Dwayne gasps back, "How should I know? This ain't voodoo, I don' know whut it is but it ain't voodoo! Oh, I wish we had backup, I wish we had a whole boatload of cops, I wish…" His voice fades as a noise suddenly intrudes. He looks desperately to the nearest window. "Listen! I hear a whistle! Is it the police?"

Fidel's eyes are like saucers. "Dwayne, WE'RE the police! Whatever that noise is, it isn't going to help us, it isn't going to…"

Zeta stiffens and throws her head back, mouth stretched wide in a rigid 'O' as a man's voice pours out. "Sergeant Will Thick of H-division here, warrant number 49889! You men, make haste, follow me, in heaven's name! We've got him! We'll have him at last!"

Before either officer can say a word, they exit the same way as their chief and sergeant have done, face down on the table, hands clenched like death on the people either side of them as Zeta's mouth slowly closes and she resumes swaying as if to phantom music, eyes fastened onto a horizon that nobody else can see.

Over There

Richard is fading. He slumps in defeat, then thinks of Camille and rallies. I can't give up! I can't leave her alone to face a fate worse than death at the hands of this ghoul. I can't do that to her, I can't! With the last ounce of ATP in his cells, he fumbles for Jack's arm across his larynx but he's too weak. Oh, Camille, it's no good, I can't do it, I can't, I can't… I'm so sorry…

Then what might be a shadow-thin hand slides between Jack's elbow and Poole's throat; how he feels it he doesn't know. The impression of the backs of a pair of gloves clamp to Poole's own hands and suddenly the pressure at his throat flashes down to his fingers, his palms, strengthening them. The warmth of good Victorian broadcloth sweeps up his arms and he tears the killer's elbow down and whirls out of his grasp.

"Who wants to be a Brit? I would, you Yank, as do these other gentlemen!" he bellows as other voices echo in agreement. Suddenly it's not just DI Poole facing the most notorious serial killer of all time but four men, five men, six, more, a small squadron of law enforcement whose names Poole knows or can guess at. "Oh yes, you wanker, I recognized that lingo and that accent. You're from New York, aren't you? That means Abberline is correct in thinking your name was…" He pauses, hearing Chief Inspector Abberline inside him shout out in triumph.

But now Camille is by his side, formidable in herself and somehow more than just herself. She catches at Richard's arm, stepping in front of him, snarling, "It's over, Jack, or whoever you are! And here's some more fancy words from our time. I don't want to say them, but I took an oath to uphold the Law and so… 'You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.' Do you understand these rights as I have stated?"

Crap on that, screams someone inside her head, furious at her recitation of the modern police caution, 'e gutted us like sheep so let's us gut 'IM!

A clatter in the passage, a shrill police whistle, and Poole gives way, pulling Camille with him deeper into the Court. The thing spins, holding the knife aloft, facing the influx of two men in the uniform of the Saint-Marie police, utility belt batons in hand.

"Halt!" roars Fidel Best. Inside him, William Thick and at least eight more sergeants itch to get their hands on the thing before them. A dozen more constables deploy in and around Dwayne Myers, jostling for the honor of guiding his baton as he advances. The Ripper is surrounded, outmatched, cornered, a monstrous parody of a rat in a trap.

As Jack is enveloped in 'smokies', as Fidel and Dwayne block his escape, the Ripper gives an unholy shriek, "POOLE! This is awll yawr doin'! Curse yaou!" Quick as a snake, he spins and hurls the knife. The wail of pain as it does so tells Richard that this might be the first time the two 'partners' have been separated this side of death.

The knife is well thrown and hums a high, sure note, slicing the air on its way to Poole's heart. He has just enough time to review every stupid decision he's ever made in his life as things seem to slow down. Oh, great, of all the fates I ever imagined, this is NOT one of them. Mum was right; this life-long fascination of mine will be the death of me. He closes his eyes and, surprisingly, his last thought isn't an unpleasant one. He will take the memory of Camille Bordey down into the dark with him. He finds that extremely comforting, all things considered.

But that is NOT his fate! It never was and it never will be!

Five outraged women and Camille leave the cobblestones as if by magic, her hand overlaid by the tattered, ghostly gloves of others as together they pick the knife clean out of the air, a bare hand span from Poole's chest. A deft flip and now THEY are armed and still more dangerous. They stalk towards the wraith where it twists desperately in Honoré custody, hissing low and deadly in multiple voices, "Oi, Jack, remember that Caution the lady copper gave yer?"

Jack's writhing stills momentarily. He is unable to disincorporate with the dozens of sergeants and constables smothering him both in shadow and in flesh. For just a moment, human eyes show a spark of awareness beneath the smudge of a limp-brimmed hat. "Yeah?" he mutters, "Sawmpthin' abawt me rights?"

The women slowly press the flat of the knife against their left hip. "Yeah, yer rights. Well…" Their hand whips in a roundhouse sweep that shears a smoky throat, almost decapitating the thing that calls itself Jack. The hat falls away, the eyes blink several times, the mouth under the tatty mustache moves but no sound comes out. The red kerchief around its neck gently slips down its chest, cut cleanly in two. Camille's smile isn't her own as her body steps back, "… we took a vote, five t'one, an' we decided you don' deserve none."

As the misshapen body sags, Fidel and Dwayne lower it roughly to the noisome cobbles. Richard steps past the silent Camille, plucks up the kerchief, and gently takes the knife out of her slack fingers. He wipes the blade on the cloth purely by force of habit, then holds it up to stare at it for a moment, uncertain what to do with it. Before he can think, the blade slips out of his fingers; not fallen but taken into the grasp of those who still share his body: Abberline, Reid, Moore, Andrews, Beck, Helson. Poole suddenly realizes that he doesn't grudge the loss of evidence. These men of old have been looking for this knife for a very long time. Their dedication and persistence deserve such a reward.

Poole absently folds up the bloody handkerchief and holds it out to Camille but she's in no state to take it as she starts to shake, stammering, "I didn't..." Poole quickly tucks the cloth into her pocket and slips his arms around her, the first time he's ever felt confident enough to offer physical comfort to this indomitable woman. She stares at him with stunned eyes. "I would never... it wasn't me… they did it, not me."

He hugs her and murmurs low, "I know, I know. You weren't in control, but…"

The lifeless body on the ground, partly human at best, starts to hiss and boil. The air around it violently smugs up as foul black tentacles twist and turn, fighting for cohesion, coiling obscenely and reaching for anything to save itself. The corporal humans dance back hurriedly, watching the thing struggle for continuation, then suddenly the whole writhing mess implodes as if rushing down a plughole.

Camille feels ghostly petticoats being ripped away and her hair flies loose from the bonnet's confines amid a sense of joyful freedom. The mass of woollen broadcloth peels off Richard Poole and his men, leaving them feeling lighter in weight but somehow, less official. Around them the whole of the faux Whitechapel squirms and then begins to unravel to the sound of a high exultant voice singing 'A Violet from Mother's Grave'. Shadows erupt from everywhere and soar into the clearing sky.

"Camille!" Poole gasps as the cobbles begin to heave under them. She turns in his arms and reaches out to Fidel who clutches at Dwayne and together the Honoré team hang on to the only substantial things now in this evaporating pocket of a place; each other. The sole lamp on the wall between Nos. 1 and 2 flips, then spins like a firework and vanishes, leaving nothing but convulsing sparks in the inrushing flood of darkness…

…that splits open to reveal the homely table and unnaturally tidy kitchen of Camille's place. They cling to each other around the table, dazed and unsteady, as if drunk. Zeta is well out of the way, pressed up against the kitchen wall, every hair on her head standing on end.

There is one beat of silence and the catching of collective breath before, "That's IT!" Zeta trumpets, "I'm goin' back t' readin' tea leaves an' predictin' future spouses an' how many children yer gonna have! This is my LAST séance!" She pauses. No one protests, so she gathers up her skirts and flounces out of the room. The front door slams; exit, stage left.

END –part 6

Note:

ATP: Adenosine triphosphate is an organic compound that provides energy to drive and support many processes in living cells, such as muscle contraction, anaerobic exertion, and being strangled by Jack the Ripper's haunt.