Page 18 of The Business of Blood
“I want to see my deeds through your eyes, Fiona.”
“What?”
“I want you to tell me, in precise and illicit detail, what you thought of my work in Whitechapel today.”
A spear of renewed terror pierced my guts, and I crumpled a little in spite of myself. My hands instinctively went to my middle.
A sharp pain at my throat did for my posture what no nun at St. Brigit’s ever could as the knife nicked my flesh.
“Don’t you dare drop your hands!” he hissed.
My hands snapped right back up into his field of vision, and I cringed at the note of panic lacing his voice. It was imperative that I do what he said. If I didn’t keep him calm, chances were my throat would be opened from ear to ear.
I frantically searched my mind for the words and panicked when I couldn’t produce any. I’d all but allowed Inspectors Croft and Aberline to talk me out of truly believing the Ripper had anything to do with Mr. Sawyer’s death. Once Hao Long and I discovered the turquoise beads, I’d credited Mr. Night Horse with the deed almost exclusively.
“Erm,” I stalled with a shaky, throaty sound that died when I felt a little trickle of wetness slide into my collar. Blood. I attempted to swallow and failed, which was all right because my mouth was as dry as the piles of sawdust in the mill yards.
“They…they don’t think the Ripper is responsible for—”
“ThatI!” He gave me a rough jerk.
“Thatyouare responsible for the…for what happened to Frank Sawyer.”
“What doyouthink, Fiona?”
It could have been the provocative way he said it, or the fact that I was fairly certain morning would dawn on my corpse, sliced to bits, in that alley. Whichever, it occurred to me that this might be the only time in my life anyone had asked me that question.
My opinion mattered to Jack the Ripper, did it? WhatdidI think?
“I don’t—didn’tultimately suspect you either,” I confessed with more confidence than I thought myself capable of in such a moment. “I mean, the other people you…killedwere women, and posed in a rather lewd sort of way, weren’t they? Even though you castrated Mr. Sawyer, you put his trousers back on before you hung him upside down and all. No one could quite make sense of it.”
I tended to be a rather terse and quiet individual, not as much as Croft, but more than most. Until my nerves started to rattle. Then people in my direct vicinity looked for just about anything to use as a gag.
I prattled on as I was wont to do. “And you didn’t take any of the organs, did you? I mean, you admitted to frying and eating half of Catherine Eddowes’ kidney, and you sent the other half to the chairman of the Vigilance Committee. Youalwaystake something. Why not take from Mr. Sawyer?” The last was posed as more of a curious query than a demand.
The sensation that I was not a part of this moment somehow spurred me, along with a feckless sort of lunacy. I stood in the safety of the gas lamps, watching some other terrified, bespectacled Fiona Mahoney babble nonsense to her nemesis. I even silently screamed at her to shut her idiot mouth before she landed us both in our graves.
She didn’t, though.
Ididn’t.
Everything bubbled out of me in a great, chaotic deluge. My bicarbonate exhilaration mixed with the acidic vinegar of my hatred created a frothy confession that overflowed all reason.
Here he was. Finally.
Jack thesoddingRipper. The malevolent killer who’d eluded the finest police force in the entire world for two full years stood right. Behind. Me.
I even told him about the beads, invited him to reach into my bloody pocket should he wish to inspect them.
He didn’t.
He didn’t move at all, nor did he say anything negative or affirmative. His breathing sped up as I talked, and I occasionally felt a hitch or two in his chest as though I’d revealed something significant.
I thought about other things while I talked. About how badly I needed a wee, and then instantly after that, I dearly hoped Inspector Croft never saw my corpse—though more because of the wee and such than the blood. For some reason, relinquishing control of my bladder and thereby my dignity in front of him seemed like losing a contest I hadn’t been aware of until now.
And I hated to lose.
I thought about how I missed the ocean and wanted to see it again. And how I’d intended to take a lover someday but couldn’t bring myself to do so. I thought about Aidan, and the cavern in my chest where I kept him opened. How much easier would it be for him to lose me than the other way around? He had the church. He had God. He had his faith and his endless reserves of grace.
