[The Game] One Night In Whitechapel

Chapter 17

'You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.'
- Plato

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Whitechapel, London. Sunday, 30 September, 1888.

'This is not good' said Michael, surveying the closing mob of police officers. There was something undefinably sinister about late 19th century police uniforms which gave Michael the willies. Then again, he thought briefly, it could also have been the drawn truncheons.
'Stay calm' said Gabriel, raising his hands.
'Identify yourselves now' barked a rough voice.
'My name is Victoria...' she began only to be cut off.
'Shut your mouth whore'
'Okay, now let's not get carried away here' Gabriel said with a smile.
'And you, shut your mouth before I shut it for you' the voice snapped. 'You' it said, a hand pointing at Michael. 'Where are you from?'
'Dublin' said Michael quietly.
'Fucking Irish' the voice said to a chorus of mutters. From the dark a large figure stepped forward, the faint glow of a street light revealing his face. A cruel, moustached visage came into focus, a red scar on the left cheek, rising up to a slightly closed eye.
'Sorry?' Michael said. The truncheon hit him full force across the upper-body, sending him clattering to the ground.
'Okay, now steady on' said Victoria. 'There's no need for that.'
'Oh really?' said the officer in gleeful condescension. 'You fink, do ya?' he said, raising his arm to level a blow at her. He never made it. Before his hand had been fully raised, Victoria seemed to be behind him, twisting his arm in an un-natural direction. He screamed. And then all hell broke loose. The next thirty seconds saw a flurry of limbs as officer after officer was sent flying. Looking up from the ground, Michael could see Gabriel standing there, waiting for an opportune moment to get involved, but at the rate that Victoria was kicking arse one would not be forthcoming. A final phalanx of three of them rushed her, only to be met with a series of violent kicks to the head which sent two flying and the third on his arse with blood pouring down his mouth and chin. Victoria stood still, her arms lowering down to her sides. Around her lay a heap of groaning bodies.
'Fucking fascists' she snarled at them. 'Some things really never do change do they?'
'Let's go' said Gabriel, dragging Michael to his feet and taking Victoria by the other arm. He set a quick pace, dragging them down the street and into an adjoining yard.
'Michael, do you have any sense on a jump point?'
'Yes. It's faint, but I think it's that way' he said pointing up a street to their right.
'Let's get the hell out of here' Gabriel said as the sound of police whistles started ringing through the air.
'What the hell is going on?' Victoria asked. 'What the hell was wrong with them? It's like they were looking for a fight.'
'Not sure. But if I'm right, we've just stumbled into the middle of a serious mess' Gabriel said, tilting his head to the left.
They made their way quickly, heads turning, watching for any more cops. Suddenly Gabriel stopped, raising a hand to signal for silence. After a few moments, he motioned with his hand that they turn in through a wide gate near them. They made their way into a yard, the blackness enveloping and hiding them. As they did so, an appaling feeling of fear and horror overcame Michael - something visceral, horrid and scabrous squirming through the spaces inside his head. He could feel that the jump link was nearby, but that something beyond evil was guarding it. He shuddered.
Noiselessly they moved, creeping through the shadows, keeping close to the wall. Gabriel stopped, slowly extending his arms around them both and drawing them deeper into the shadows. They waited, silencing their breathing. Something was getting closer. Michael closed his eyes, reaching out, breathing through the space, sensing the streets around them. He could see the cops, see the streets, see a child sitting in a doorway. A working girl nervously peering through a cracked bottle-green window. A gentleman's club, the air thick with smoke and the laughter of the gin-plastered. A silent cat watching the streets below. A lone man stumbling in a drunken stupour, his legs pumping like automated pistons following a silent homing beacon. But there was something else. Something darker than the sky above. Something so sickening he struggled to keep the bile down. A sound, coming closer. No, something else. The sound of a pony and cart coming down the street and towards the entrance of the yard. Creaking, clattering, scraping it came, swinging off the street towards them.
It stopped and they could hear a man stepping down from the carriage. His footseps were faltering but he was getting closer to them. Suddenly, there was the brief flash of a match being lit, its light momentarily illuminating the mans face and beneath him a scene of unimaginable horror. A body. A woman. Dark hair. Lying on her side. Her face a contorted mess. Blood spattered in all directions, oozing through the gaps in the stones beneath her, her eyes wide open, staring straight at them. The light of the match only lasted a few seconds but it was enough for Michael to see the gaping double slash on her throat, the thick dark blood bubbling from the wound. The man ran, screaming, calling for the police.
Gabriel, seized them both, readying himself to run. And then two things happened which would haunt Gabriel and Victoria for days afterwards. The first was the sound of Michael's voice. In their heads. No words spoken. No sounds uttered. No phonemes formed. Simply the sound of his voice, speaking, commanding them, deep inside their minds.
'Don't. Fucking. Move.' he told them.
They froze. Across the yard, from beneath the shadows of an ill-lit archway, a hand emerged. Behind it, uncoiling into the gloom, a figure slowly crept into the moonlight. It was impossible to discern any features from where they were, but they could see that it was a man, large, strong with broad shoulders, dressed in a large black cloak, a burnished top-hat and black leather gloves. He stood panting on the spot, his chest heaving, staring towards the prone body. He didn't see them, the darkness shielding them from sight. Not that he would have noticed them, Victoria suddenly found herserlf thinking, if they had been under a stage light. His focus was fixated solely on the body between them. His fury was obvious. A curse of pure rage escaped his mouth, the voice coarse and guttaral and then, with a sudden jerking, insect-like movement he ran, bolting down the street with remarkable speed.
Michael burst from his hiding spot and took off like a flash.

Left. Right. Twist. Turn. Jump and up. Kicking off the side of a house, Michael split the air open and moved twenty feet ahead of the sprinting figure, north up Berner Street. He landed, toppling over and rolled upright, straightening himself for the fight. And saw nothing. Above him, the sound of a tile giving way on a roof startled him. He saw a black-cloaked figure leap across a space between two buildings, moving towards Commerical Road, the tell-tale flash of light sparking behind him as he moved.
'Motherfucker' Michael said, taking off at a sprint again. He used a water-trough as a launch-pad and used the small leap to propel himself up into a rip that spat him out on the roof behind the figure. He was one building, one rooftop ahead. They ran, leaping, moving, shifting the space between them and the next landing point. Michael was gaining on him, but he could see that the man was skilled. He moved with the speed of a professional, twisting through the space with guile and economy.
'Hey. Fuckface!' Michael screamed at him.
The figure stopped. Turned. It's shoulders heaved, pausing in disbelief. A snarl could be heard as it turned and sprinted away again. Michael went after him, running as fast as he humanly could, splitting the air and crashing onto the rooftop, rolling upright he started running again.

Up Commercial Road they went, building after building flashing below them, roof tiles spinning off into the streets below with distant clatters. The man sped up, making larger and larger jumps, risking injury and mishap as he did. Michael could sense the anger, the hate growing in him. Then suddenly he wasn't there anymore. Michael skidded to a stop, frantically looking around him. Then he saw him.

Below. On street level, sprinting between the streetlights. Making for New Road. Michael pulled himself back a few feet, clenched his teeth and ran, throwing himsel off the side as hard as possible. He waited, letting his weight open the rip and propelling himself into it as forcefully as he could. Inside, he grabbed at the thread and pulled with everything he had, pushing to maximise the jump. He burst out on to a rooftop on the corner of Nelson street, hitting the ground with a bang, skidding to a stop, dust kicking up. He stopped and looked down. The man was still below him, at street level, moving at an amazing speed. He barged a man and a woman out of his way, their hollow shouts echoing into the empty black streets around them. Michael paused, using his elevated position to see what the man did next, where he moved to. The figure disappeared momentarily and then re-appeared two streets away, on Walden street turning on to Turner street. The hospital. The bastard was going for the London Hospital. Michael took off, rooftop to rooftop, jumping as fast as he could. He crashed out on to a slippery rooftop, just in time to see the figure flip over a ledge and right itself on the roof of the hospital. He saw Michael and stared, his eyes reflecting a beam of moonlight. Although Michael could not discern any features that he might have been able to later describe, he could see enough to see that this man hated him with every fibre of his being, perhaps more than he had ever hated anything or anyone before.

They glared at each other, both pausing to see what the other did. A chill wind blew, coats and cloaks gently moving in the air. Soundless. Motionless. In an instant, the man spun on his heel and took off. Michael followed. Left. Right. Twist. Turn. Kicking off a wall, Michael side-shifted through three walls and emerged in a ward on the third floor, sending a man flying as he passed. He ran and dived out an open window, the scream of a woman behind him. Down, on to Whitechapel Road. Running and running he kept after him, his lungs screaming, legs shaking, hands trembling, his heart thumping like a jackhammer. On they went, up Mile End Road, Michael closing all the time. In a desparate lunge the figure twisted left, kicking off a kerb and upwards on to the side of a building on the corner, a darkened brewery. Two girls standing on the corner screamed as Michael almost flattened them. Up Cleveland Way he went, panting for air. Right he bent, kicking in a rotten door and leaping up a wall onto a house at the side of the brewery. He caught a glimpse of a plaque above the door which said "1863". He ripped through onto the roof, a piece of glass shattering below him. One stretch and he had him, his hand catching the tail end of the cloak as he prepared to jump again. The figure spun on it's heel, wildly slashing out with a knife. Michael managed to avoid the blade and caught the man's wrist with his left hand. With his right, he threw the hardest punch he could muster, followed with a kick from his right leg, aimed at the knee in an attempt to break a bone. The punch landed but the kick didn't. Instead the man deflected the kick and drove his head into Michael's chest, trying to run him backwards off the edge of the building. From below them the barking of dogs and police whistles could be heard coming close. Someone was screaming the word 'Murder!' over and over again. Michael twisted, launching another punch at the man's face. It connected with a crack, the figure reeling backwards and suddenly, unexpectedly plummeting off the rooftop.
'Shit' Michael hissed, scrambling to the edge. He looked over the lip to the street below. An empty street glared back up at him. At its far end, a trio of police officers came sprinting around the corner. Michael pulled back and slumped to the ground, wheezing. He lay still, catching his breath, his chest heaving in exhaustion. He closed his eyes. And tried to slow his pounding heart.

Some minutes later a pair of bodies made their way to the roof. Gabriel and Victoria.
'What the fuck do you think you are doing?' Gabriel asked. Victoria stood behind him hands on her hips, staring at him in a condition somewhere between enraged bafflement and genuine relief.
'Chasing that bastard.'
'Do you have any idea who that was?' Victoria asked.
'Of course I do' Michael said with a laugh.
'And it seemed like a good idea, did it?'
'It was worth it' said Michael, still panting.
'For what?' asked Gabriel.
'To get this' he said, holding up a polished, but now crumpled top-hat.
They stared at him. 'What the hell did you want that for?' asked Gabriel, incredulous.
Michael reached inside the inner brim and with a tearing sound pulled out a folded up piece of paper.
'For this' he said simply. 'Our jump link out of here'.

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