Username: Skylight Rinoa (Rino-chan)
Story Title: Missing Mary
Summary: At the time of the dreaded Jack the Ripper in Whitechapel, 1888 – a young woman named Mary Watson disappeared, leaving her suitor dreading the worst.
A/N: Written for a competition at Gaiaonline.

The night was cold. Wind howled like an angry demon through the small corridors, the thoroughfares iced, covering the interconnecting lanes of the small place with muck and dirt along with the frost from the night before. It was easy to say that Whitechapel was never a happy place, never a place where people would come and go with ease. Some said it was a cursed place even, which was why the Ripper had unleashed his power of killing and slaughtering and mutilating, creating a legend with the victims of the night. It left London cold and eerie, full of depression and fear, yet one particular man showed no signs of fear for this particular Ripper – instead, he entered the cobbled lanes of Whitechapel and walked easily, hearing his own footsteps echoing through the distance.

He wasn’t scared of the Ripper, this man. This John Ashton who now takes our scene. One could call John a brave man, but none knew of the real fear which lurks in his heart. For he had entered Whitechapel for only one reason – he was searching for his lover – a young woman named Mary who had ran away and disappeared three days ago after a small argument. It wasn’t the best of things to happen in 1888, London, but she was nowhere to be found, leaving her suitor, this John Ashton, dreading the very worst.

His heart ached as he continued to search for her, not wanting to think of the events which might happen to her. John had even went as far as going to the infamous Metropolitan Police Force, but apparently, they were also scared – not to mention busy following false leads led by the press.

In this world, John was alone.

He wanted to call out for his Mary, wanting to let her know that he was sorry and that she could come back to his arms… and marry him. But apparently, calling out her name might be the worst option yet – he knew that. Calling her name out might give the mysterious Ripper a new victim, and John dreaded the very thought of it. The Ripper’s victims had all been brutally killed and mutilated, and if that happened to his beloved Mary, John wouldn’t know what he would do.

He had to be strong. To follow his heart and continue searching for Mary, even if it meant encountering the Ripper himself. He would do it. He would sacrifice himself, just as long as Mary doesn’t suffer the same fate as the previous four Ripper victims. He wouldn’t be able to go through it all – let it be someone else, as long as it wasn’t his Mary.

Not his Mary.

A tear threatened to fall from his eyes, but John blinked it away immediately. No… no matter how terrified he was, he could not cry his tears out. It would ruin his reputation as a gentleman even though he couldn’t care less about it just now. He just couldn’t cry right now, fear of breaking down into sobs which would echo further in the night. It was all too terrible to think of, even more terrible to imagine, so he kept himself quiet, focusing on the surroundings instead. The walls, the streets, the ice and the wind. All the elements of the night occupied his mind, but it didn’t take long for him to find himself thinking about Mary, once again.

This time, it was his cufflinks.

As a gentleman, it was John’s proper duty to be dressed in the best way possible. A white, pressed linen waistcoat, white tie, gloves, handkerchief, a black overcoat and a black top hat. He was dressed for the evening, and looked smart as ever, but none would expect him to have been dressed in the same clothes as he had the night before. It was a full day and he hadn’t even changed – he hadn’t even managed to sleep for that matter, worrying over his Mary. John knew that he looked smart like a typical Victorian gentleman, but nevertheless, he felt so miserable… so dirty, so unclean, and so incredibly cluttered. Perhaps it was because with this particular outfit, he hadn’t dressed up to meet Mary as he usually did. The argument before left him alone for the night, and he only dressed to meet his sister – nothing else. It felt wrong and it felt terrible – the feeling of nothingness which enveloped his heart.

Just as how he was enveloped in the darkness and the cold.

“Ashton!” A young man’s voice echoed in the distance, magnified by the tense silence of the Whitechapel lanes. It was still very early and the sun had not yet risen, but already, this gentleman was running through the old corridors, calling the name of another. “John Ashton!” He called again.

“Ferraby…” A weak voice answered, belonging to none other than John himself. The man was slumped down, cold and tired, resting his back against the wall of a building in Miller’s Court. “Ferraby, what are you doing in a place like this?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

The man named William Ferraby turned abruptly, scanning the areas in the darkness for his friend, but the thick fog prevented him from seeing much. He narrowed his eyes and continued to scrutinize the place until he saw a figure silhouetted in the night, making him breathe a sigh of pure relief. “Ashton…” He said slowly, walking towards his friend where he crouched low to have a better look at him. “We better get you back home.”

“No!” The other man protested immediately. “I cannot, you know I cannot! For Pete’s sake, Ferraby, you know me longer than that – you know I wouldn’t be able to sleep or rest properly! Sitting here would do no difference than being in there.”

Ferraby stayed still, eventually moving his gloved hand to take his friend’s wrist. “Back to my house then. Elizabeth wouldn’t mind you staying for a few days, but you must come.” He pleaded, worried about his friend. “Come on.” Ferraby pleaded, taking his arm as he forced the younger man to his feet.

With some slight resistance from John, they then walked away from Miller’s Court and exited the areas of Whitechapel in less than an hour, moving at a slightly faster pace than what they would usually do. As soon as they were out from the area, Ferraby couldn’t help but sigh and he hailed the first cab he saw. “Baker Street.” He told the cabbie, helping his friend to enter first before himself.

The cabman spared no time and instantly whipped his horse, taking them through the lanes of London. As they were whisked, neither William Ferraby nor John Ashton spoke, fear of being heard from the Ripper. They were careful and they were scared, relying on each other’s presence for the warmth they needed in their hearts. Needless to say, both gentleman were then much relieved as they reached the end of Baker Street, knowing that at last, the atmosphere was less gloomy, less deadly.

When William Ferraby knocked on the door of his home, he was instantly greeted by one of his maidservants who then turned to call his wife, Elizabeth Ferraby. With a hand around John’s back, William Ferraby entered his house and sat his friend down on a comfortable armchair in the sitting room, asking for a bottle of brandy from one of his servants. Both men were shaking, but John’s face had gone to an incredible pale shade which looked ghost-white, leaving the Ferrabys in deep worry.

As soon as the brandy came, Ferraby pushed a glass into John’s hand. “Drink it, come on – it’ll help you with your shock.” He said.

“Have you found her?” Elizabeth whispered, wanting the answer even though she half-dreaded it.

“No.” John answered, taking small gulps of the liquor. “I searched the Whitechapel lanes, but I saw nothing. I wasn’t expecting it anyway… Mary’s clever. I doubt that she would be wandering in there as I had done.” He said, trembling slightly. “Forgive me, Eliza, for coming here at such a late hour.”

“Fear not, you may stay as long as you want. The servant room is ready, John, so you might want to sleep soon.” She smiled lightly, squeezing his hand with her own.

John’s light blue eyes moved across to gaze at her brilliant green ones and he nodded, satisfied with the situation. “In that case, I might as well for I do not think there are other things to discuss for now. Goodnight, Eliza – and you, Ferraby. Thank you.” He smiled weakly, turning to ascend the stairs in the house he knew so well.

He woke up with a start, feeling a dreaded chill in his heart which enveloped his body. John sighed and looked around, recognizing the room after a while and his gaze moved to his side where, as he had predicted, the servants had placed a fresh set of clothes, no doubt belonging to the master of the house. His own clothes had disappeared, but John wasn’t worried. He climbed out of bed and started to dress, knowing that this would be another long day.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Eliza, but I fear that my time here is very limited.” John apologized sincerely, his tone betraying his emotions much to his dismay.

“You’re going to… search for Mary – again?” Elizabeth asked, quite worried for her husband’s closest friend.

John nodded once and stepped forward to kiss her hand, doing a gentlemanly courtesy to mark his leaving. “I fear I must. I cannot rest at ease until I find her, Eliza.”

“Will you come back here for the night, John? Please say you would – I do not know how it will be if you don’t.” The young woman asked, almost desperately with her worry.

John gazed at her for a moment and sighed. “I will.” He answered, giving her a light smile. She was too kind for him to take advantage of, but a word would be able to answer it all.

They both knew he would not come.

With the wind blowing fiercely against his skin, John continued to call out his Mary’s name again and again, as though howling like a wolf for her to come back. The night before, John hadn’t dared to mention his lover’s name in public, fear of losing her there and then, but he was starting to get desperate. He knew that he couldn’t wait any longer – especially not now, but John knew that whatever happens, he’d search for his Mary until the very end. After all, they had to meet, sooner or later, whether to marry or to separate, but currently, the only thing which worries John was to have his Mary alive and well. He couldn’t cope with the thoughts and he was haunted enough to last for a lifetime, but he knew that he couldn’t give up. His Mary needed him…

Didn’t she…?

John was starting to have doubts in his mind, so he decided to keep quiet and alert, not wanting to risk anything from happening. The young gentleman knew the areas of Whitechapel well enough already, which wasn’t surprising considering the amount of times he had actually been there since his lover’s disappearance. Once again, John crossed the road of Miller’s Court and continued his journey, slowly but with determination.

The wait seemed to last for a lifetime and when John stopped, he realised that the sky was starting to lighten up. It didn’t matter to him, of course, but John was starting to get tired and hungry, so he turned away from the road he took and walked to the opposite direction, sighing deeply to himself. “Mary… where are you…?” John sighed to himself, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

It was then when two voices reached his ears, stopping John in his tracks as he turned to listen;

“Mary… it was Mary, wasn’t it?” A woman’s voice sounded behind a thin wall, quivering with what seems to be fear and immense sadness.

The other who answered the woman was another woman, almost with the same voice but hers flowed rather smoothly. “Fifth victim… poor Mary. So young and innocent – I cannot believe it.”

“Where was she killed?”

“Miller’s Court last night. Her skin was removed, I was told, but I didn’t get the full details.”

The other woman gasped and it seems as though she had tried to stifle the sound with her hand. “My god… are you sure it’s Mary? How do you know it’s Mary?”

“Fits the description perfectly. Blonde hair, dark eyes, the fair complexion… who else? She does seem to be very agitated lately – perhaps she had something to do with the Ripper.”

“No, never! Mary would never –”

“You never know.” The voice cut the other one off, followed by a deep sigh. And from there on, it seemed as though the women started to move away because the voices then began to fade, slowly.

So his fears were correct then, after dreading it for so long. That his Mary was truly gone, gone at a place which he had crossed not only once, but countless times before – even last night. Miller’s Court, the place was called… and there, his love was brutally killed and her beautiful body mutilated by some madman the police wasn’t able to capture. The thought itself made him ill and John leaned his hand against the wall, coughing with pain as he tried to get rid of the ache in his chest. However, such an act was impossible for a pain in the soul, so John turned and rested his back against the cold brick wall, sliding down as he fell onto the frosted dirt; tears welled up in his eyes.

Miller’s Court. Miller’s Court. How many times had he crossed that damn place, for goodness’ sake, calling his lover’s name again and again, not knowing that he could have just burst into one of those rooms and save her from being killed. The thought itself made John clutch his head in anger and depression, feeling as though he himself had killed his one and only true love.

John couldn’t remember anything else which happened after that, for everything became a sudden blur to him. He could remember a familiar voice shouting his name, followed by someone suddenly taking his arms and hoisting him over their back, carrying him away. He could remember the voice talking to him in a hurried tone, again and again, that everything would be alright and that he shouldn’t have gone off like that. He felt himself being whisked away in a cab, going faster and faster away from the Whitechapel lanes, but John couldn’t care less.

Sure, he was only nineteen, but he loved Mary with his heart and wanted to marry her…

Before he knew it, John found himself in a house, and a glass of brandy was pushed into his remote and cold fingers, but John didn’t hold the glass. He let it loose in his hands, so someone else took it and helped him with his unnecessary drink, and he could feel another hand squeezing his knee. “You’re in a bad state, John. Very bad state… The news must’ve shocked you, but sitting there on the ground like that isn’t the best idea to do.”

John looked up to see none other than his loyal companion, William Ferraby. “Heh… Ferraby.” He smiled slightly, realizing that for once, his friend had called him ‘John’ rather than ‘Ashton’.

“Yes, it’s me, and you’re soaked to the skin. Come on, let’s get you bathed and dressed… your clothes from last night are prepared.”

“But, Mary –”

“Come on.” Ferraby said again, helping John to his feet. “I heard what happened to Mary… but please, just follow what I say for now.”

John raised his head slowly as a knock was heard on his bedroom door. He swept a hand through his hair and composed himself, taking a small breath. “Enter – who is it?” He asked.

“Ferraby. John, there’s someone here to see you.” The voice answered, opening the door. William Ferraby looked at him and gave a slight smile, receiving a nod from his friend. “Alright then… wait there.” He said, turning towards the door. Someone was there, because John could hear Ferraby lowering his tone somewhat as he spoke to the mysterious visitor, eventually nodding and holding the door open. “John… Your visitor, Mary Watson.”

Admitting that you were broken is never an easy business. That, my journal, was how I saw myself at that time, broken and heartless, until Ferraby announced Mary’s appearance in my rooms that day. Needless to say, the meeting was a silent one, both of us in deep shock with what had happened and even though I had asked her more than once, Mary would never tell me what had happened during those dark Ripper times. My wishes of wanting another victim other than my Mary became true, but that doesn’t mean I’m proud of it. For I have death-wished another’s passing and also, they were killed and mutilated when I was nearby. Had I entered that apartment in Miller’s Court and saved the final victim, I wondered if my Mary would then be affected or not…

The one killed came under the name of Mary Jane Kelly. Unlike my Mary, she was twenty five – my Mary was only eighteen. And unlike Mary Watson, Mary Kelly was a prostitute. Nevertheless, I was scared and young, so inexperienced with my life to actually wish the death of another. And for that, I am ashamed of myself.

Mary and I are truly married now, but still… I cannot say what had really happened to her that night. The experience and fear I had to undergo is something I shall never forget. It’s a truly remarkable, brilliant, yet bone-chilling experience and the history of these Ripper times shall go on to the future, no doubt. I do hope no more killings will happen… for it is strange and tricky business, not to mention so utterly terrifying.

It is time for me to put my pen down now. Mary just came to me then, giving me a soft kiss on the lips. But as she did so, my hand moved to her elbow and I could feel, right there… something like a long scar made from a sharp weapon, running down her arm…

John Ashton.