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Chapter 3 - Spring Heeled Jack

You don't make a lot of money being a chimney sweep. Most of the money goes to Old Man Alister. As a journeyman I get a small bit of money every couple of weeks, but a guy has to make a living, right?

After another day of working, thankfully only scurrying up a chimney twice myself, my day off was tomorrow so I decided to make the most of it. Having washed myself up as best I could, patting down my clean clothes, I grabbed my bag and headed on out, keen on squeezing every minute of my free time out of the following hours as I could.

My days off usually started the same way every week; I headed down to the market, saying hi to the people I passed. See, a good chimney sweep is going to be one you remember to call on, and I knew how to play all the angles.

"Oh, yes ma'am, Mr. Alister takes very good care of us. He always puts a good point of the profits toward good food and always makes sure injuries are nice and clean before bandaging them up himself!"

Or...

"Absolutely, sir. Alister's Sweep and Clean is the best you're going to find in all of London! We can get a house done before your missus has come home to use the hearth. Why, if you like, we can even scurry on up and out of the top so she won't even see we were there."

Or, one of my favourites...

"You know McCrackin and Dolmsy? They be usin' weak bristles on their brushes, yes they are. Why, you can't trust a single sweep they do. Gonna be dirty in a fortnight and then you're paying twice you woulda in the first place. You should definitely give Alister your business, he knows how to motivate his boys to work."

Everyone had an angle. Everyone had a sale. But I made sure I tailored each one to each person who would stop to chat with me. I tipped my hat to the pretty girls as I passed them by, I held the hand of the older women when they needed to cross the street, and I passed on what I heard the newsies shouting about to the men who looked like they were going to a place they already needed to be. Sure, I sometimes got a smack on the back of my head, or a wave off, but that didn't mean I stopped.

Now, this part of town is not somewhere a guy, as handsome as I am, would usually go. I didn't have the money to be hanging around a place where gentlefolk roamed, but I always came here with a purpose. I paid for an apple as I entered the market district and walked into Sutherby's. It was a shop that had, oh, just about everything you could imagine...if you could afford it, that is. Teas, herbs, spices, linens, you name it. Nothing super fancy, he didn't do business for any Lords or Ladies as far as I could tell, but he had customers who had money.

The grey feline behind the counter, dressed in a clean white apron and a nice button up shirt was fixing up a shelf of some odds and ends when I entered. "Welcome to Sutherby's, we here -- oh. It's you."

I stood there with my mostly-eaten apple in paw, slowly taking another bite and staring up at the bigger cat. Mr. Jamison was his name, and he didn't like me none. The first time I came into his shop he almost chased me out with a paring knife. But when I showed him that slip, he changed his tune.

Still. It was always fun to just kind of make my presence known. I didn't respond, still biting through my apple, core and all. I tugged the stem out of my muzzle and swallowed, then spat out the seeds. Quickly putting them in my pocket, I smiled.

Mr. Jamison was none too pleased with my antics. He sighed and walked behind the counter next to his register. "Simon," he said, grabbing a small parcel from under the shelf and putting it on the table, sliding it to me. It was a box wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine like always. "Here's the order. Now would you kindly exit before someone with a lick of taste wanders in here and thinks I do service to pieces of coal with tails?"

I grinned and walked over to pick up the parcel, slipping it into my bag. I rubbed my cheek with my paw and smiled, slamming my hand down onto the counter with a wry grin. "Not a problem Mr. Jamison! See you again, same time next week!" When I lifted my paw there was a print in soot right on the clean, polished wood.

I swear I could see the vein bulging on the side of the cat's neck as I ran out of the shop with a cackle. Mr. Jamison had to tolerate me, and if he didn't want to play nice I wasn't going to play nice. Gideon always said if you play nice in a fight you're gonna walk away a loser and with a black eye to remind you of what you got.

The walk from Whitechapel to the College was a long one. It wasn't like I could take a train or a carriage, but honestly I enjoyed the walk. I got to see the city, I got to see how things were moving, and for a little while I felt like I was in complete control of everything and anything.

Walking across London, let alone Whitechapel, is always risky business. There are lots of poor folk who can't rub two shillings together. You learn your lesson the first time you get mugged. It's never a fun experience, especially when they realize you're just as poor as they are. Usually it earns you a punch across the old muzzle just for good measure. Not that it happens to me a lot. Three times. One was bad. That was before Gideon taught me a thing or two about how to defend meself.

Tonight was cold and lonely. The wind was howling and whipping at my clothes, cutting through them to my core. It caused me to shiver and chatter my teeth, but I was almost to my destination. I just had a couple more blocks.

You've ever gone walking at night and feel the whole world around you is missing or asleep? And think you could be the only living thing left alive on this whole planet? The cold is so strong that you don't know what could survive out here for very long. Honestly, tomorrow morning there'd be a slew of dead homeless people frozen solid and curled up in the doorways of houses. It was never a fun thing wandering the streets bright and early. You learned not to look too long. Death was just part of London, I guess.

The house was a nice one. Three stories, narrow but nicely kept. Its windows glowed yellow and warm on the first floor, much like most of the houses on this road. I guess there was life in this part of London, just hidden inside from the bitterness that was quickly making it hard to move my fingers and wiggle my ears.

I climbed the steps and knocked on the door using the metal gargoyle door knocker. Three loud bangs. I stood there, hands gripping my satchel bag and looking around, watching as my breath billowed out of my muzzle with each breath. I had my tail curled around my legs, as if it was doing anything to keep the cold at bay.

Where was he?!

Finally, after what felt like an hour, I heard the door latching open from the other side. It cracked open and for a moment all I could see was a black nose and the glowing eyes of someone much taller than me. My instinct was to take a step back, but Gideon always said you held your ground if you were afraid. You only ran if you knew you was going to die. Call me brave or stupid, but I didn't feel like I was knocking on Death's door just yet.

After a moment of staring at me the door opened wide and I saw him. The older raccoon -- passed his prime but not old quite yet. He wore a nice suit that looked to be made of suede or something more expensive than my whole hide. Perched on his muzzle was a pair of gold rimmed glasses, making his eyes look extra-large when you stared right at him.

"Simon!" the raccoon exclaimed to me. "You shouldn't have come in this weather, or this hour, my boy." He stepped a foot outside and held up the candle he'd been holding, peering up and down the road. "The roads aren't safe at this time of night. Come in, come in." His hand was on my shoulder, gently edging me inside as he closed and locked the door. I peeked over my shoulder and saw him take one more look outside before ushering me further into his home.

It was so blissfully warm! I rubbed my paws together and sighed contently, walking to the "library" where we usually met. Down the hall, second door on the right. Inside was a world of treasures I had never even heard of until I started this little errand. There was a large fireplace set in the wall, roaring and brilliant in all its light. The walls were lined with shelves, either crammed with books as thick as bricks or other treasures from places far off. There was a large desk in front of a drape-covered window, maps and documents littered about it like the clothes in our dormitory back home. In front of the fireplace were two sitting chairs, high backed soft looking things that I could curl up in and sleep until spring if anyone would let me. Between them was a small table with some books and a tea set placed out. That made me quirk a brow and turn.

"Professor Bensley, if you didn't expect me to come tonight then why'd you get the tea set out?" I asked while I dug around in my satchel, pulling out the package and handling it over to the raccoon.

The professor grinned wryly and fished out of his pocket a few coins, slipping them into my paw. I quickly bit one and then pocketed it. I knew how much it was just by their feel, and Bensley always overpaid. He thought I could always use more food and I wasn't one to disagree with a professor.

"I wasn't expecting you but that doesn't mean one shouldn't be prepared for the unexpected, my young pupil."

He was working the package open. Inside were tins of various foreign teas. Bensley always worked through his tea like I went through water after a hot day on the job. I watched as he opened up a green tin and began to make tea. He put the tea leaves into the tea pot and then poured the hot water from the metallic teapot that had been hanging near the fire. That done, he replaced the kettle and covered the pot with a pillow of sorts. He said it kept the heat in.

"Sit, sit," he said, motioning to the opposite chair as he lowered himself in. "You didn't see anything suspicious on your way here, did you my boy?"

"Suspicious?" I asked, sitting down in the plush chair and picking up one of the cookies laid out neatly on a tray next to the tea. I was always allowed three cookies. I could earn more if I made the conversation "enlightening" as Bensley liked to call it. "I mean, I saw some gangs and stuff. The working ladies down by --"

"No, no," he said, cutting me off and lifting a paw. "Did you see anything...strange? On the rooftops? Or the shadows?"

Frowning while I ate my cookie (chocolate!) I sat back, curling my tail around myself. I thought back to my trip over here. "No," I said after swallowing a half muzzle full of chewed cookie. "Like ghosts or demons or witches?"

"Nothing so imprecise, my boy," Bensley said, sitting back and looking at the window as the wind, seemingly to also enjoy the flair for the dramatic, howled and made the house creek. "Nights like this are nights when people are most at risk."

"I know. From the cold. But anyone who can is all tucked up like a button inside already. Anyone outside is just gettin' from A to B or trying to find a place where the wind don't hurt so much."

"No, no," Bensley said again, sighing. "The thing I am talking about is no blip of the weather, or the loss of heat. The thing I was worried you may have encountered goes by the name of Spring Heeled Jack."

Thinking back on this moment, I had so many witty ideas, so many off the cuff remarks much later that would have worked out well here. But for once I was silent. Bensley didn't talk like this. Not ever since I had met the professor wandering around Whitechapel lost and looking like someone who had too much money and not enough street sense.

Pleased with my silence, he continued. "Simon. For decades there have been stories about a...man, or a thing, roaming the streets at night. Sometimes in poorer places, sometimes in the middle-class neighborhoods. But each time the witnesses describe the same thing. A being tall and slender wearing a black cloak and helmet with eyes as red as coals and fire billowing from his muzzle, assaults women. Claws of metal that RIP and TEAR at fabric and flesh alike...that leave horrible scars across bodies."

Stunned I was. I sat silently, eyes wider than usual and listened.

"They call this man...this thing, 'Spring Heeled Jack' because he can jump higher than no ordinary man could ever get. He's no rabbit. Too tall. No visible tail, no fur markings, nothing to give us a clue as to what this demon could possibly be. Just that he can move about London like a creature not of this planet."

I swallowed what was left of my cookie and cleared my throat. "Professor," I said, coughing a few crumbs out of my muzzle. "That's... that can't be true. Things don't exist like that. It's just stories! We tell 'em all the time. About magic and knights and stuff. Ain't real. Stuff like that, it's just a story."

"Is it?" Bensley asked, sitting forward. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left arm as he held my gaze. "I would ordinarily agree with you, my young scholar, however I have been on this planet longer than you have, seen things...things that make me question science sometimes. I am a bright man but I cannot ignore what my eyes saw...or my body felt."

The Professor showed me his forearm up to the elbow. Across the arm were three wide scars, the fur having attempted to grow over the ruined flesh. They looked like they hurt. The cut was too big for a knife wound. It looked like someone who got into a claw fight, but that was illegal, especially for someone like Bensley. You don't use claws when you have an education.

"When I was a younger man, a stupider man, I was escorting one of my fellow students home. We were accosted by this...thing, this Spring Heeled Jack. He made a slash at my companion, but I jumped in the way. For my trouble I got four scars. The three on my arm and the one in my mind, Simon. I will never forget that night, or what I saw. It haunts me like a spectre, waking me up in the dead of night in a cold sweat. I swear sometimes I can hear the tapping on the window pane, the soft click and brush of a metal claw."

I watched as the professor sighed and slumped in his chair ever so slightly. "I am also embarrassed to admit that my scars ache. As a man of knowledge I know that the cold weather can cause old pains to return to the body. But there are stories, legends, of wounds caused by things you do not fully understand, either men of unique and supernatural purpose or creatures so unknown that you would be hard pressed to pluck it out of a creative artist's mind. There are stories like this in many different cultures and I would be remiss if I did not...entertain the possibility that I may be feeling him."

"Y...You mean...he could be wanderin' 'round London?" I laughed nervously, leaning back in my chair to look far more relaxed than I felt. "You're just trying to scare ol' Simon, ain'tcha? W-well, you know I don't spook easily, professor."

Bensley rubbed the old scar on his arm. "'Let me in, Dominick,' it says. 'I am here to finish what I started. Let me in.' This is a level of fear I pray you never experience, my young friend...Simon?"

I'm not a coward. On the contrary, I got my share of bumps and bruises when a smarter guy woulda run away. But you can't show fear to those that want to hurt you. They just do it worse. But this...this scared me. Dominick Bensley, the smartest man in all of London (or so he says) scarred and terrified? This man had walked down Whitechapel with nary a fear about being mugged and stabbed. He spoke in front of hundreds of people at once, who had been too far away places and done dangerous things. But here he was, scarred and scared. That sent a chill down my spine like never before. A man like Bensley knew the world in ways I could only dream of. If he was scared of what was out there, what did that mean for the little guys like me?

"Simon!" Bensley shouted, holding his hand up in front of my face, snapping his fingers. "Snap out of it, boy! It's all right."

I managed to gasp out a held breath, dropping my cookie, and stared at the old raccoon.

"You're messin' with me, right?" I asked, smiling a little bit. I watched as Bensley poured a cup of tea for the two of us, handing me my cup. It rattled in my hand against the saucer and I had to quickly put it down. "That's just...Iunno, a scar from India or China or something right?"

Bensley frowned, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I only wish it was. There is something out in the city, my boy. Something dark and dangerous. It has been more active lately than ever before and you need to be extra careful at night. From now on, when you're supposed to make a delivery, I want you here before sundown until I can tell you otherwise."

I was able to slowly nod my head. I gulped again. The image of this thing bouncing off the rooftops of London with vicious metal claws, on my rooftop, trying to get in...

"Good!" the raccoon said, slapping his knees with both his hands. "Now that I've properly terrified you, let's focus on this week's lesson, shall we? Let's see how your cursive has been coming along."

I tried to focus that night on my free lessons. Bensley had been so kind. He had taught me how to read and write, taught me my numbers and about the world (a little) but this lesson was harder to focus.

Whenever it got quiet between us and all I could hear was the crackling of the fireplace, I swore I could hear the sound of something tapping, wasting to get in.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.