A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (27 page)

Then she found herself on the ground, the demon looming over her. He crouched, trying to catch her gaze. She kept her eyes averted. Raggedy men and women emerged from the shrubberies on all sides and held her down. Mr. Macklin took a drink from his bottle and blew his poisonous blue flame on her. She choked and gagged on the burning fumes and her belly began to convulse. Her gorge rose up and sprayed from her mouth. Her body caught the blue flame and she screamed with the pain as she burned.

This is a nightmare. None of it is truly happening!
She wanted to awaken, but didn’t know how.

Gleefully, the demon stabbed and gouged her gut with the metal claws on his hands. Then he pierced her chest several times, pried open her ribs, and sang as he peered inside.

“The soul of you, the whole of you, that’s all what you can preach.

“The soul of you, a hole in you, as what your screams beseech,

“When darkness wants to sort you out, no more or less shall do.

“I take my time, and when I’m done, there’s nothing left of you.”

And with that, she knew he searched for her soul, that he rummaged in her chest unable to find her spirit quickly without having first captured her gaze. Although his visits had always seemed like nightmares, Polly’s world had been changed with each one. After his first, she’d known the demon’s entire infernal song. With the second, he’d punished Polly by taking the soul of her unborn girl. This time, he’d have Polly’s own soul if she didn’t fight him. She writhed in agony, unable to escape, yet kept herself from looking Mr. Macklin in the eye.

Perhaps entertained by the song, the homeless had gathered. Sitting in a circle around Polly, they warmed themselves by her flames, as the demon continued his search. One man had a skewer. He pulled a half-eaten sausage from his pocket, stuck the meat on the skewer and began heating it above Polly’s blackened, withering arm. She reached with the arm to grasp the skewer, and the man recoiled, but not fast enough. Polly had him by the arm. He cried out and dragged her away from the demon. Finally, he began beating on her with his free arm.

Another man, a constable, tried to pry her off. “Let go,” he shouted.

Polly wouldn’t as long as the homeless man carried her away from the Bonehill Ghost. Glancing back, she saw the demon rising to bound toward her.

The constable raised his truncheon. “You must give him what he wants,” he said, and brought the club down on her head.

36

Many Need Help

Polly awoke slowly in a hospital ward, pushing through terrifying scraps of recent memory involving the demon. Her gut trembled in an agony of cramps. She found herself involuntarily quaking against leather straps that held her down against a bed. Her sweaty flesh had been rubbed raw where the skin came into direct contact with the leather. The room felt hot as an oven. The shrieks and moans of those in the other beds assailed her ears, contributing to the ache of her pounding head.

Polly couldn’t stop her involuntary movements and tried to cry for help. Her voice came out a mere croaking, as if she’d gone hoarse from too much shouting.

A woman in her middle years, with hair graying at the temples, approached. Although she didn’t wear a uniform, she looked clean and was moderately well-dressed. “Try to remain calm,” she said in an even tone. “You’ve been here for several days. The symptoms will pass.”

Polly decided the woman was a nurse.

“Will you let me up?” Polly rasped, her body still writhing against her will.

“I’m sorry. It isn’t up to me. I’m told your body will flail uncontrollably without the restraints.”

Polly hated the nurse. She tried to spit on her, but couldn’t control her mouth well enough. Without choosing to do so, she began to pant. She felt the pulse of blood through the vessels of her neck distinctly as her heartbeat quickened.

The nurse sat in a chair outside of Polly’s view and leaned away for a moment. “You’ll be better soon,” she said, straightening and placing a cool, damp flannel on Polly’s forehead. “The doctor says you’re suffering delirium tremens. The symptoms are slowly passing. I’ve been with you as much as I can since you were brought in.”

Polly didn’t recognize the name of the illness. The cool flannel felt good. The woman’s soothing voice brought back vague memories of Polly’s mother taking care of her in sickness. As quickly as she’d hated the nurse, Polly loved her. She moaned and strained against her bonds to turn toward the voice. The woman adjusted her chair so that Polly saw her more easily. Still, her eyes could not focus on the nurse’s face.

“A hansom cab struck you in West Strand. A witness said you ran after a coat lying in the road.”

While the coat was a distant memory, Polly recollected with clarity that Mr. Macklin had come for her, that he’d changed from a white-whiskered gentleman into a devilish black figure. If he could assume more than one form, he might be anyone, including, Polly realized, the woman caring for her at present.

She prepared herself to turn away quickly to avoid eye contact. Watching warily for a time, she decided that the nurse was indeed what she appeared to be.

“How long?” Polly asked.

“Five days. You’re in the infirmary of Saint Giles’s and Saint George’s Workhouse.”

The moist flannel lifted, and Polly moaned for its return. She heard the sound of the cloth dipping into water, and the liquid dripping off as the fabric was wrung out. Then she saw the flannel’s blessed return, felt the cool cloth against her baking head.

“Thank you, Miss…?” Polly croaked.

“I’m Mrs. Hooks.”

The master blacksmith’s wife?
If she knew Tom, she might tell him of Polly’s presence in the workhouse infirmary.

“I’m Mary,” Polly said, offering her given name instead of the nickname she’d used her entire life.

“Alexandra,” Mrs. Hooks said.

She had the name of the master blacksmith’s wife. She
was
his wife, a volunteer in the infirmary, not a nurse.

Mrs. Hooks dipped the flannel again and placed the cool, moist cloth back on Polly’s hot forehead.

“Why?”

“They brought you here after you were struck down in the road. There weren’t beds in any other hospital hereabouts. The doctors didn’t know you’d suffer so without drink.”

Clearly, knowing that Polly was a drunk didn’t trouble Mrs. Hooks.

“Yes,” Polly said, “but why do you do it?”

“Many need help,” Mrs. Hooks said. “I’m sorry you’ve been so miserable.” Genuine sympathy emerged with her voice.

How can it be as simple as that?
Polly wondered.

She watched Mrs. Hooks. The woman didn’t look for a reaction to her words.

Yes, for Mrs. Hooks, that is all there is to it.
People needed help, never mind who they were or what they’d done in life.

Polly felt an odd pang of envy. She became curious about the source of the calm the woman possessed.

“I’m a volunteer here in the infirmary for a week at a time. They have a bed for me. Other times, I lend a hand in the workhouse proper. The work helps me feel grateful for what I have in life.”

Despite the distraction of Polly’s bodily torments, she’d heard Mrs. Hooks clearly. When the woman left in the evening, that was the last Polly saw of her. Mrs. Hooks’s words stuck with Polly much longer.

She suffers this place of misery, and gains solace by helping the less fortunate.

The concept wasn’t new to Polly. She’d seen in the woman’s eyes that the endeavor appeared to have borne fruit—Mrs. Hooks seemed at peace with herself. Polly suspected that for the first time in a long while, God had sent her a message.

Several days later, she was transferred to the Strand Workhouse, Edmonton, where she remained for a little over a month, regaining her strength. She was given light sewing duties and slept in the infirm ward. Over that time, thinking about the message, a growing religious fervor turned her suspicion into conviction: Mrs. Hooks had brought her word from God.

The Bonehill Ghost didn’t torment Polly just because she drank. He was after her soul. The Lord would not allow Mr. Macklin to pursue her if he favored Polly. He would protect her from the demon if not for her selfish ways. With sufficient selfless acts she might be redeemed in the eyes of the Lord, and perhaps in her own, as well.

* * *

As soon as she got back on her feet, Polly began looking for ways to make life easier for those suffering. She hoped that, as they were lifted up, so she would be. Her first success came when she found a pair of shoes for Mrs. Weir, a seventy-year-old woman who entered the Strand Workhouse barefoot on the same day as Polly. Mrs. Weir’s twisted feet suffered a crippling arthritis. The best the infirmary had done for her was to wrap her feet in bandages. Polly found the shoes in a bin full of the clothing of those who passed away in the infirm ward. They had belonged to an unusually tall inmate. Because of their large size, they were adapted easily to fit Mrs. Weir’s misshapen feet. The smile on her face when presented with the shoes was like sustenance to Polly after a long fast.

When Polly had regained much of her health, she was transferred to the Lambeth Workhouse since that had been the union where she first entered the relief system.

37

Paupers

Polly folded the letter from her father and put it away in a pocket of her uniform. The only important news the correspondence provided was that her eldest, John, lived with Papa again. She had not informed her father of her situation within the Lambeth Workhouse, but he’d known about her previous stay in the institution. That must have been the reason he’d thought to write to her there. Although he expressed concern for her well-being, she hadn’t responded to him.

Sipping her broth and shuffling her feet to help wake them from a tingling slumber, Polly looked up at the overcast spring day outside the tall windows set too high on the brick walls to reveal more than sky.
Good morning,
she said silently toward the gray clouds. Then she glanced at the messages painted on the walls beneath the sashes in blue letters two feet high— “God is good. God is just.”—and nodded in silent agreement.

Thank you, Almighty God, for this sanctuary, and for protecting me from the Bonehill Ghost. I know the dull life I endure here is fitting punishment for the selfishness of my past.

The high-ceilinged dining hall of the Lambeth Workhouse had the atmosphere of a house of worship. Since the saying of grace before the meal began, no one had said a word. They were all too intent on drinking their broth. Polly found the chamber peaceful in the morning, even with the strong odors of the infrequently washed bodies that filled it, the inarticulate moans of those among the gathering who suffered, and the murmur of their respiratory and gastric functions. She sat elbow to elbow with six other inmates, on a bench meant to provide seating for five, before a table wider than need be, considering the amount of food it was required to hold. Several rows of ten identical tables and their complement of benches filled the hall, and all seats were occupied by hungry souls.

Despite the ache in her hips and shoulders from sleeping on a straw mattress too thin to protect her forty-three-year-old body from a hard wooden bed, Polly smiled as best she could. The women facing her, young and old, some inexpressively sad, others resigned or despondent, avoided looking at her. Given their situation, she knew her smile made them uncomfortable. Still, she intended to provide others all she had that was uplifting.

The woman to her left, Laura Scorer, appeared to be under the weather. Since Polly would feel hunger pangs before the noon meal whether she finished her breakfast or not, she poured some of her own broth into the woman’s cup. Laura smiled sadly and opened her mouth to say something. Instead, she eagerly downed the liquid food as if it might be taken away any moment.

The gift of broth was a small matter. Polly looked forward to a greater effort she made each evening; providing reading and writing lessons for the Dobson twins, young women too old to be included in the schooling provided for the children. Great or small efforts, all were good works that would see Polly through until God was ready for her.

May of 1888 had come, and Polly felt good about herself for the first time in many years. She had returned to her habit of praying for others. Life in the workhouse became harder each day as her body slowly failed her, yet the institution provided protection from her own worst excesses, in part because alcohol, the poison which brought forth her self-serving, grasping nature, wasn’t allowed inside the institution.

Clearly, her sins, especially those committed in her selfish pursuit of drink, had attracted the Bonehill Ghost to covet her soul. She believed that each of her selfless good deeds made her spirit less appealing to him. With patience and further sacrifices for others over time, she knew he would lose interest in her and she would be redeemed in God’s eyes.

Chaplain Emes gave the after-breakfast devotion. While putting her hands together in prayer, Polly gently rubbed the aching joints of her digits, careful not to crack open the painful whitlows at her fingernails that came from endless hours of picking oakum.