Hello.
Tonight we are traveling back to another London.
A London of gas lamps and cobbled streets.
A London of horse-drawn carriages.
Disappearing into mist.
Chimney smoke,
Drifting above the rows of darkened rooftops,
This is a London where night seemed a little darker.
Than it does today.
And where?
The old stories are to be believed.
Something strange once moved across the rooftops.
Something.
Or someone that.
Could lead.
Impossibly high.
Something the people of London came to call Spring-Heeled Jack.
You needn't stay awake to follow every part of this story.
There is nowhere you need to get to tonight.
You can simply listen for as long as listening feels easy.
And should the streets of Victorian London dissolve into dreams before our journey is finished?
Then,
Perhaps,
That is exactly where they were leading you.
It is late October.
The year is 1838.
Rain has been falling over London since this afternoon.
And now,
Darkness has settled over the city.
Water gleamed upon the cobbles.
The gutters whisper.
Small streams run along the edges of narrow streets.
Before disappearing beneath iron grates.
Above you.
Crooked chimney-putts rise against a charcoal-grey sky.
And from somewhere beyond the houses.
Comes the slow rhythm of a carriage.
Hooves against stone.
A wooden wheel turning.
Then fading.
Fading until London becomes quiet again.
You draw your coat.
Just a little closer around you.
As you continue along the street.
You feel there is something comforting about being wrapped up against the cold air the heavy fabric around your shoulders.
Your footsteps finding their own unhurried rhythm.
One fits.
Than the other.
You have nothing to rush toward.
And nothing chasing behind.
Only another quiet street ahead of you.
You have been visiting an old friend in Bloomsbury.
And the evening lasted rather longer than expected.
Tea became supper.
Supper became conversation beside the fire.
And by the time you finally stepped outside.
London had already folded itself into darkness.
Your friend did offer to call a carriage.
But the rain had become little more than a mist.
So you decided that you would rather like to walk It isn't that far.
At least.
That is what you told yourself.
Before you left however,
Your friend said something quite curious.
Keep away from the old lanes tonight,
Won't you?
You laughed.
But your friend didn't.
There have been sightings again.
Sightings of what?
You asked.
And after a moment's hesitation came the answer.
Spring-heeled jack.
It seems everyone in London.
Has heard something about him.
A strange figure seen beside lonely roads.
A dark shape appearing on walls.
A man if indeed he is a man.
Capable of springing from the ground to the top of a gate in a single impossible leap.
Some describe a long dark cloak.
Others speak of strange bright eyes There are even those who claim they have seen pale blue fire flickering from his mouth.
But London has always loved a story.
And Londoners have always loved making a story larger and larger with every retelling.
You had smiled at your friend's warning.
A shadow becomes a monster.
A fox becomes a ghost.
A stranger,
Glimpsed beneath a gas lamp,
Becomes a creature capable of jumping across rooftops.
Fear,
After all,
Is quite an excellent storyteller.
And yet,
Now that you are alone.
The story returns to you.
Not because you believe it.
Of course not.
But because London feels different at night.
Shapes lose their edges.
Distances become more difficult to judge.
A doorway may look occupied until you draw closer and realize that what appeared to be a person was only an old coat hanging from a hook.
A movement upon the rooftop might be nothing more than chimney smoke.
And still.
You find yourself looking up.
Above the buildings,
The rooftops stretch away in uneven lines.
Slate tiles shine beneath the rain.
Chimneys seem to lean at the most curious angles.
A few upstairs windows glow with candlelight.
Behind one curtain,
Someone passes,
Carrying a lamp.
Then the curtain falls back into place.
The light disappears.
And the house.
Becomes part of the darkness once more.
You turn into another street.
And something.
Moves above you.
You stop.
Listen.
Rain,
Water in the gutter.
The faint hiss of a gas lamp.
Nothing more.
Then,
Another sound.
A light scrape.
It seems to be coming from somewhere overhead.
You lift your eyes.
At first,
You see only chimneys.
But then something seems to shift between two of them.
A darker shape against the darkness.
Tool.
Still.
Seemingly watching from a rooftop,
Perhaps 30 feet above the street.
You blink and it's gone.
A cat,
You decide.
It must have been a cat.
Admittedly an unusually tall cat Perhaps the wine served with supper earlier was stronger than you realised.
You continue walking.
Ahead a public house is closing down for the night.
Warm amber light spills briefly across the pavement as the door opens.
Two men emerge,
Laughing quietly beneath their hats.
Before setting off in the opposite direction to you.
For a moment,
Their presence is reassuring.
Ordinary people.
Ordinary London.
The landlord bolts the door.
The light once again disappears.
And once again you find you have the street to yourself.
Almost.
Because somewhere behind you.
.
.
Another pair of footsteps begins.
You continue walking.
Your own footsteps tap softly against the wet stones.
And behind them.
Another step.
Then another.
You slow down.
The footsteps,
Slow.
You come to a stop.
Silence.
You turn.
But the street behind you is empty.
Gas lamps disappear one after the other into the mist.
Doorways,
Windows,
Rain.
Nothing else.
Then from somewhere above,
A sound.
Like fabric moving quickly through the air.
Something crosses the street.
Not a long hit.
Across it,
Eye above your head.
A dark shape passing from one rooftop to another.
For the briefest of moments,
You see arms.
Legs.
A long coat or cloak opening behind it.
Then it lands upon the opposite roof.
Almost.
In silence.
No person could possibly jump that far.
And yet.
.
.
Something just did.
You stand perfectly still.
The figure stands there too.
30 feet above you.
Perhaps 40.
It's impossible to make out a face.
Only the slight suggestion of something pale within the hood.
And two tiny reflections where eyes might be.
Then the figure tilts its head.
Just slightly,
Almost completely.
Curiously.
For one strange moment you have the sensation that Neither one of you is frightened.
You are simply observing one another.
Two of London's creatures awake in a sleeping city.
And then it springs.
Upwards.
Impossible.
And effortless.
The figure rises high above the chimney pots.
And hangs against the cloudy sky for maybe a heartbeat.
And then disappears beyond the rooftops.
You remain where you are.
Listening,
Intently waiting for your heart to settle.
Perhaps your friend was right.
Perhaps there really is something moving across London tonight.
But whatever you saw.
It is gone.
You find that curiosity begins to replace any alarm.
Because the strange thing about what you saw is that the figure did not try to approach you.
It did not threaten you in any way,
It simply watched.
And then continued on its way.
A traveller of rooftops,
Traversing through a London hidden above the London everyone else knows.
You imagine what the city must look like from up there.
Miles of chimneys as far as the eye can see.
Church towers.
Attic windows glowing like little lanterns.
Courtyards below,
Hidden from the streets.
Gardens behind walls.
And,
Of course,
The silver ribbon of the Thames somewhere beyond the houses.
And above it all.
The enormous night sky.
Perhaps Jack knows another London.
One without street.
Without gate.
Without locked doors.
A city travelled by chimney stack and rooftop ridge.
A city where a wall is not an obstacle at all.
Only somewhere from which to leap.
You begin walking again,
But your pace is considerably slower now.
Not because you are afraid in any way,
But because you are trying to listen.
London seems extraordinary alive once you begin paying attention.
Rain ticking against glass.
A horse shifting somewhere inside a stable.
The creek.
Of a wooden shop sign.
A door closing far in the distance.
A church clock counting the hours.
And somewhere.
Perhaps.
A pair of boots touching lightly upon roof slates.
You look up once more.
Then.
At the very end of the street.
A silhouette stands upon a wall.
Tall,
Narrow-end.
Perfectly still.
You almost laughed.
There you are.
The figure seems to hear you.
It's head tilt.
And for an instant.
Something pale flickers near its face.
Not a great burst of flame.
Nothing as dramatic as that but just a tiny bluey white glow Like the flame of a match caught by the wind.
Darkness again.
The figure bends its knees.
And you know what is coming.
With one.
Extraordinary movement it rises up into the night over the wall.
Over the neighbouring garden.
Above the bare branches of an elm tree.
And into the mist.
You realise then that this may be the last time you see him.
If him is even the right word.
Perhaps Jack is a man.
Perhaps a trickster.
Perhaps an invention built from a thousand frightened stories.
Perhaps tonight?
You have simply allowed imagination to wander a little further than usual.
It doesn't seem important anymore.
Your street is close.
The city.
It feels quieter here.
The buildings are familiar.
The doorway with the brass knocker.
The little.
Iron fence.
The tree whose last autumn leaves tremble above the pavement.
Home.
You reach into your coat.
And find your key.
The lock turns.
The door opens.
And warmth meets you immediately,
You close the door behind you.
And hear that small reassuring click of the latch.
Outside london continues beneath the rain but in here.
There is only one.
You remove your damp coat.
Hang it beside the door.
And pour yourself a quiet drink as a nightcap before settling into the old armchair beside the fire.
The flames have burned low,
Glowing red and gold beneath the grate,
Occasionally shifting with a soft crackle.
You take a sip.
And allow the warmth of the glass to rest between your hands.
As your thoughts return to the strange figure.
Upon the rooftop.
Those impossible leaps that.
.
.
Pale Flicker.
Of blue light.
And that curious moment when you simply looked at one another across the sleeping city.
Maybe tomorrow,
You will convince yourself that tiredness and mist play tricks upon your eyes.
Perhaps.
Will tell your friend what happened and watch their expression change.
Or maybe this will remain something that belongs only to you.
One quite peculiar October night.
In London,
When the stories whispered beside fires seemed,
For just a little while,
To become real.
You find your eyelids begin to grow heavy.
The fire softens into a warm blur.
Rain tapped gently against the window.
Quieter and somehow slower.
And as your head settles back into the chair,
Your thoughts begin drifting away from rooftops and shadows.
And mysterious figures.
In London fog.
Somewhere far beyond the glass,
High above the sleeping streets.
There comes the faintest sound of.
.
.
Something landing upon slate.
But you are already much too comfortable to look.
And before alone.
You are asleep.
