FICTION BY STEVE RASNIC TEM

Steve Rasnic Tem's writing career spans over 45 years, including more than 500 published short stories, 17 collections, 8 novels, and miscellaneous amounts of poetry and plays. His collaborative novella with his late wife Melanie, The Man On The Ceiling, won the World Fantasy, Bram Stoker, and International Horror Guild awards in 2001. He has also won the Bram Stoker, International Horror Guild, and British Fantasy Awards for his solo work, including Blood Kin, winner of 2014’s Bram Stoker for novel. In 2024, he received the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award. 

Visit his website HERE

MONKEYS
by Steve Rasnic Tem

All of a sudden it were morning, and Maude couldn’t hear herself think what with all the rattling carriages going about. She swore some days all that metal on stone shook the nerves right out of her, and she had to scream inside her head to rid herself of the sound. Most mornings she weren’t up to dick. She needed breakfast and a drink, but mostly a drink. Drink enough and you didn’t think too much about the state of your belly.

Polly offered her some bow wow mutton and the little she had left from her pint. Maude thought she’d have to spit that foul mutton out but knew she shouldn’t, less she pass out in the street.  Besides, Polly were her chuckaboo, and Maude didn’t want to be rude. Polly’d talk your ear off, a real church-bell, but if Maude weren't too drunk she liked to listen. She didn’t have nobody else to talk to these days, and Polly was kind. Yesterday she give Maude a bag o’ mystery right from her pocket and Maude was grateful to eat it. She learned a lot about goings on in the Chapel from dear sweet Polly. And she trusted what Polly told her. She knew Polly wouldn't sell her no dog.

“You best watch yourself, Sweetie,” Polly said after their eating was done. “The Ripper got another Judy last night. Mary Kelly, member her? We used to see her at the Queen’s Head. They say he butchered her like a pig. Tore up every sweet piece.”

“Oh, Polly. Folks is always throwing the hatchet. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” But even as she spoke, Maude believed ever last word.

Maude needed fortification, so she searched the place till she found Old Charlie, who always seemed to have a bottle on him by whatever means. It didn’t take much cuddling to get him to give it up. That, and a quick peek at her crinkum-crankum. Still, she didn’t want to cheat him, so she give him a little of her quail-pipe. Then he played some with her kettle drums till he passed out again. 

By the time Maude got outside the doss she was surely half-rats, and on her way to being tight as a boiled owl. It were a fine start to her day. There was a small crowd a few steps down. One of them foreigners had his self an ape. No, a monkey. Maude seen one before, not that long ago. Oh, he’d done all manner of tricks, that one. He wore a little red military hat—he was quite the gentleman, bowing to all the whores. Then later she reckoned he’d had too much to drink, and went after their faces. Now the coppers muscled them out, if they saw them, them and all them other animal acts. Most of them foreigners with their singing dogs and dancing monkeys and painted pigs. Some mores had canaries doing clever things, some mores had mice.

She didn’t blame the monkey because of the drink. Only a put would give an animal a drink, not to mention it were a sad waste of liquor. But she knew the feeling—more than once she’d felt like tearing a face off after a drink or three. Not that it stopped her from drinking. She reckoned it wouldn’t a monkey neither, once it got a proper taste.

But she liked them monkey acts well enough. This one here didn’t have no liquor—she reckoned the word got around that it weren’t the best idea. But the way it eyed her bottle—she tried to keep it hid. This one’s clothes was plain, no better’n one of them street arabs, really. Course she still didn’t get too close because of them big yellow teeth, but also because both the monkey and the foreigner handling him stank like shite. But oh how that little monkey could dance, and he’d play fight with you with his little wooden sword!

Shame the way the coppers would chase them out. He weren’t out to cause no trouble—he was like an artist or something. He could make her smile, and that was no common feat these days. You’d think the coppers would have better things to do with their efforts, what with the Ripper about and all.

They got all kinds of entertainers coming through the Chapel, men what would dress up and do some foolishness for a coin or two. Most of them weren’t no real acts, not like you’d get in the music hall if you could afford it, but good enough for a minute or two she reckoned, just to distract you from whatever vile circumstance you was in.

Yesterday on the corner she saw a Billy Barrow in his cocked hat and red feather, wearing some kind of a soldier's coat.  The day before there was this old gent in a painted face in three or four ladies’ dresses (she reckoned because of the cold). He sang songs in a high-pitched geezer’s voice, and in one or two he weren’t too bad.

Not that all them performers was welcome, as far as she was concerned. Last month there were a feller in a devil’s suit dancing and following her around, sniffing at her. No joke—whenever he got close enough to her she’d hear him sniffing and smelling her so hard it was like he wanted to suck her right inside. Of course she’d been drinking so maybe the poor feller was just sick with the crud and couldn’t help his sniffing. Or maybe—him dressed up like a devil and all—he weren’t there at all. Or maybe, it being the Chapel, he were the real Devil his self, there to give her a personal invite to Hell.

The shouting came at her like a bunch of broken church bells. Here come them raggedy boys again, them street arabs. They was more of a bother than the flies or the rats, and almost as many, buzzing in her ear, running over her shoes. They was like a whole tribe of monkeys, them boys, but worse. And the ones that was sick or lame, or been beat too bad, they’d just lie around in the corners of the alleys all day, touching on each other for comfort. It were a sad thing to watch.

“Hey you old dollymop!” one of them little cheeky bastards shouted as he came running by, and slapped her on the nancy. She swung around and tried to kick the ape, and nigh near dropped her bottle. You couldn’t feel sad for them monkeys long, now could you, what with the pranks they pulled. “I ain’t exactly amateur!” she shouted. It were the only thing she could think of to say. She didn’t follow. That bunch looked eager for mafficking, so she stayed clear.

Not that it were their fault, she reminded herself. Anywhere you got lots of whoring, you got lots of them street arabs as a result. One begets the other—the ones what got no wheres else to go, homeless and barefoot. Half of them died before they were old enough to stand proper. And those were the lucky ones.

And they weren’t all that scared of Jack, not that she could tell. “Watch out! I be the Ripper!” one of them shouted, and the rest went running away giggling like hens.

She looked sadly at her empty bottle. She didn’t remember finishing it. After a while drinking was like breathing. Whoever thought about how much air they breathed? Whoever made it their business to count? Maude knew she oughtna drink so much. It got her into some terrible scrapes sometimes. That was how she met her last husband, weren’t it? Ran into him in the pub. He could be right handsome, had a door-knocker of a beard. A bit of a gal-sneaker and too much of a tot-hunter, but he could say some awful pretty words. Said he couldn't help his self, he were a man who loved a bit o' jam. He always wore a nice coat, and a pair of gas-pipes showing off what he had to offer a gal. But sometimes he'd hit Maude in the sauce box or up on the face and she'd cop a mouse, and that would hurt her earning for a time, although most of her customers weren't that particular, long as she showed them a good backside.

She heard a shout and looked down the lane, saw them monkeys go batty-fang on an old man. She wanted to be bricky about it but she was too scared about what they might do to her. She didn't stay around to watch.

The rest of the day she went walking and scrounging, more walking than scrounging because times was hard and the competition were fierce. She’d never been good at either begging or thieving. What she was good at was best done in the dark, without folks looking on. Even in the Chapel folks could be modest at times.

She guessed that was one thing she had in common with the Ripper. Plying her trade in the dark. She still had a little bit of shame in her. Did he?

She knew that Mary Nichols. She got hers late August, or maybe September. Annie Chapman was September for sure--Maude seen her walking around the day afore. It happened that fast, like the Ripper was the Lord’s very judgement. That slapped her a bit. There was always clergymen around, ministering to unfortunates such as herself. Could one of them holy men be the Ripper, delivering God’s own last judgement?

Last winter they lost Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson. Course nobody knew about the Ripper then. Maybe he done them, too. Maybe he’d been doing whores long as she’d been alive, and before. She’d never trusted them churchmen—never would. She’d heard tales from other whores about the things they liked to do in the dark what weren’t no joke. The question was, why wasn’t God doing something about it, unless like everybody else in London he’d given up on them poor Chapel folk.

She cut through a court and stumbled over a couple of them street arabs, lying together on the side of the lane. They looked like nothing but a pile of rags until they started moving and panting. She hated to see it, children shouldn’t be up to such doings, but times being what they were children was doing everything adults did, including all manner of crimes and evilness, including murder. So what’s a little adult comfort when the young ones were suffering, long as it was for each other and not for some nonce? Where was the harm? Maude would have to let God sort that one out.

A bunch of them monkeys come running down the lane then and near knocked her down. She couldn’t see their faces but she reckoned they was just more of that same bunch. They was everywheres today, and either their faces was too dirty to see what they looked like, or they had them rags wrapped round their heads like foreigners. It were spooky to look at, like somebody’s sorry bit of laundry decided to run off by itself.

Some lucky soul was cooking fish somewheres. It made her mouth water so bad she had to walk away from there otherwise she might start bawling. She was hungry almost always, but it got far worse when there was cooking nearby. But sometimes just looking at a bit of shoe leather reminded her of what meat used to taste like.

She ran into another of them street monkeys all wrapped up in his rags and trying to sleep. She kicked at it as she walked by, and it groaned. She felt ashamed about it later, but them arabs had scared her right enough, and she’d been drinking.

She reckoned for most of them that street life seemed better than working the factories making match boxes, or sweeping the way for the rich to cross the road. Sometimes them folk would pay you, sometimes not, but it were always humiliating weren’t it? Least she thought so.

There was always kids dying in the Chapel. Some deserving it more than others, she reckoned, just like adults. She couldn’t do nothing about it anyways. It was hard enough keeping herself alive, much less some youngster.

At least she’d never shite one out herself. She was proud of that. Course maybe she had no choice in the business. Maybe God wouldn’t allow it. Still, some whores she’d known turned their babies out at night so they could conduct business in the room. Let them children wander alone into all kinds of darkness. Least she’d never done that. She’d rather be a sack maker than do that to her own flesh and blood.

Especially what with the Ripper about. He cut that Eddowes woman up like a cow hanging in the market they said. She supposed any little boy’d be safe, but them girls, some of them girls looked older than they ought to. Some of them young girls might be just to Jack’s tastes.

Them children in the Chapel—they didn’t have no chance.

Still, nothing Maude could do about it. Any soul living up in a doss on Flower and Dean Street had their own troubles to worry about. 4p got you a coffin to sleep in, but most nights she ended up leaning on a rope. It were a blessing she was tired all the time. She reckoned she could sleep just about anywheres if she could just shut her eyes. If she had a walnut in her pocket least she’d have something to eat, but most nights she had nothing. Maybe some night she’d sleep so well they couldn’t wake her up in the morning, and wouldn’t that be a blessing?  

It were getting dim now, the world closing its eyes cause it didn’t want to see too clear the goings on down in the Chapel. Time to make her rounds, stand outside the pubs till some gent showed some interest.

She run her identical routine ever night, so she hoped the Ripper weren’t watching her, cause if he did he’d know exactly where she’d be. She’d go through most of them ever night: the Queen’s Head, the Ten Bells, the Horn of Plenty, the Britannia, the Alma, and the King Stores. Then a quick walk around Saint Botolph's Church to throw off the coppers afore trying another. They was whores making that round trip of Saint Botolph’s all night ever night. What did the coppers think they was all doing, praying?

The bell at Christ Church rang, and she heard one of them criers in the distance selling whatever—she couldn’t afford nothing anyway. Other than them few sounds the world suddenly looked empty and heartless, and quiet as death. Maybe she’d died. She could only hope. What was sure though was she’d lost some time. That’s what come of drinking all day. You lost pieces. Which tweren’t so bad.

She’d go stand outside the Queen’s Head. Some gent would set her up good and proper—all she could drink, if she picked him right, and yet she’d still make sure she was up for walking away. She’d make sure he was very arf’arf’an’arf himself, cause he wouldn’t be up for doing much. Later maybe she’d tell him they’d been up to all kinds of nasty business—she’d rub up against him plenty so he wouldn’t know the difference. Not that she particularly wanted to cheat a customer, but some nights her lady bits was just all wore out from plying the trade. Some nights she just had to let them things rest.

She didn’t like them shadows over there, or them over there neither. The dangerous thing about the drink were that it made her skittish, and kicked up her imaginings. Some nights she saw the Ripper everywhere, in many a gent’s face, or in the shadows where probably no one be at all. Nobody really knew what he looked like, but you’d hear descriptions of him just the same.

Some said he was pale, but then there was those who swore he was swarthy. Some said he had hair all over his face, more like an animal than any kind of proper human being. But others said he just had a slight moustache, or none. Lots of folk said he wore this long black coat, but more than a few said it were red (which she doubted, less that was because of all the blood he’d spilled). A lot of folk claimed he was a foreigner, but anything going bad in the Chapel they most always blamed them foreigners. He could a been a right famous gentleman, maybe even a banker. Maybe even a royal. No one knew. But ever moving shadow seemed like it might be him, or ever bloke leaving a pub, was that a knife he was hiding? Or she'd see some gent acting right skilamalink, and she'd think he must be the Ripper for sure.

Maude figured it were twixt four and five, and she couldn’t see nothing much cept shapes and shadows and a little bit of yellow cast by the lamps, the sky being so black and the shadows blacker still. She’d pass a lamp and she’d see the black bits floating in the air, and she didn’t like to think about it, but course that’s what they all breathed—a little bit of air, a little bit of sky, and a whole lot of black bits floating down into you and gumming up your lungs. Good thing most died young, she reckoned, otherwise they’d grow old enough to fill up with black bits, burying them from the inside out.

At least the Chapel looked better in the dark, cause it couldn’t look no worse now could it? She couldn’t understand what held some of them buildings up, less it were the filth caked on them bricks. Tens and hundreds of years probably, with never a good wash. Course you couldn’t keep clean in a city like this, less you was one of the rich folk what could afford a hot bath and new clothes.

A couple of them raggedy boys come screeching past, stinking of monkey. Scared the piss out of her. She’d shout at them but she could force nary a sound out of her mouth. She wished she had Polly here with her. That old gal would tell them monkeys a thing or three.

She’d had too much to drink that day, she reckoned. Or maybe she hadn’t had enough. Maybe she was just about due. She felt all wobbly.

They was a big pile of rags in the middle of the lane. She kicked at it, but this time the rags didn’t move, and made nary a sound, so either they was rags, or they was dead. But she didn’t feel much like checking.

That brick wall in front of her was crumbling, and all drippy. She stumbled then, and fell against it. And found that weren’t no brick crumbling off, but somebody’s innards stuck to it and peeling off, and them dark coppery drips must be redder than red. She turned and barked up some sick, and looked at them rags again, cept now she knew they weren’t no rags, or at least they didn’t use to be. Used to be some poor whore, but all she was now was some ripped up rags.

 The stench was something awful, which was saying something, given she’d lived in a slaughterhouse and a sewer most of her sorry unnatural life.

She heard him running on the stones, or maybe it was them children. There were too many steps. Too many sounds. She heard a child’s pitiful crying, then realized it was herself making them sounds.

Maybe she’d just start running. Maybe she’d run down to Aldgate and Leman—she knew a few folks there. But it were dark, and what if there was nobody about she could trust?

Maude started running anyway. She could think of nothing else to do. But she kept running into them piles of rags. There was stinking piles of rags just about everywhere in the dark lane.

She went up to one, and she didn’t kick it. She just nudged it ever so carefully with her shoe.

That’s when them skinny monkeys leapt up, climbing over each other, climbing up to the height of a very tall man. And she couldn’t tell amid their stink and their screaming if they was the real trained monkeys or them half-starved poor street arab babes she sometimes felt sorry for.

But what surprised her was how they had them tiny knives hidden in their scrawny little hands. And how they knew just how to cut, and where.