Ripper

The meagre light cast by the moon threw shadows over the smoggy graveyard. A lone, knarled tree stood to one side; long finger-like branches hanging over the wrought iron gates. A flurry of wings. A crow landed on one of the crippled extremities of the ancient tree. The crow, he held something in his claw. A shiny black beetle. It squirmed free, running along the branch, only to be imprisoned by the crow's scaly claw. The crow tossed the beetle into the air, swallowed it in a gulp. Then, a steady CLOPPing rhythm. The crow fluttered away.

Horace sat in the cart, being almost ejected from his seat every time it hit a cobble. The man opposite him was reading yesterday's paper, dated 31st august, 1888 and titled 'Jack the Ripper Strikes Again!'

"Some ghastly photographs, eh?"

No answer. So he tried again.

"This 'ripper' character has the entire east end living in fear. I'm surprized the authorities haven't had him hung yet!"

The other man finally looked up from his paper and cocked his head quizzically at Horace. "What if they haven't caught him yet?"

The coach slowed down and stopped at the end of a dark, secluded alleyway. It was deserted save for two lone figures, one about to board the cart and one waiting at the end of the lane.

The man with the paper squeezed out past the man entering the cart.

"In a hurry?" the man entering said. The other man's answer was a cold glare.

The door shut, and the cart was on the move again. The two men now riding in the cart were an odd pair. One, Horace, looked reasonably wealthy, with rings on his fingers, sugar-stained teeth, and a mildly rotund body type. The other man, who had now introduced himself as John, looked like his wallet may have been a touch lighter. His waistcoat and shirt were simpler, not adorned like Horace's. Also, he only wore one ring on his right hand, a wedding ring. His trousers were a bland grey-black colour and his face was wrinkled with stress. Even though he was middle aged, streaks of white were running through his hair. As they travelled through Whitechapel the windows became more clouded with vapour, the moisture from the smog condensing onto the glass.

"So... where are you headed?" John asked.

"Home. Been doing business in Whitechapel." Horace answered. "Just had to collect some rent" he added hastily, upon seeing John's expression. Suddenly the cart stopped and began to rock from side to side. After a while the rocking subsided.

"You there!" Shouted Horace, banging on the roof of the cart with his cane. "What in god's name has happened to this cart? I'm going to be late home."

No answer.

"Should we go and investigate?" John suggested.

"You first" Said Horace, as he lit a cigar. "My doctor said it would calm my nerves." He added in response to John's disapproving glance.

"Your cowardice supersedes even your wealth."

The two men exited the cart only to find that the smog was so thick they could barely see their own hands, let alone anything else. They fumbled around for a while, trying to reach the driver's seat. When they finally got up, the driver's seat was empty; the driver must have left without them.

"But why? We were paying customers, and I reckon he could have drawn a little extra from you as well."

Just then, as Horace was preparing a witty remark, he stepped in something that made a sickly squelching noise.

"What in the name of...?"

He bent down, hoping to see what it was he had stumbled upon. He stooped further, dreading what might come looming out of the smog at him.