The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [84]
“I heard what your friend said.”
“Hi,” I replied.
“It makes quite a bit of sense, actually. I should have thought of that. The Star newspaper. He’s right. The name of the star is what you fear . . . People are scared of the name Jack the Ripper. He’s not talking about the Bible at all. He’s laughing at everyone for all the attention he’s getting. He’s laughing at the Ripperologists, the police, the media . . .”
I looked out at the street—what I’d come to know as a typical one in London. Most of the buildings very low, colorful shop fronts, lots of advertisements for cheap phones and good deals on drinks. The occasional red double-decker bus going by. The more than occasional tourist with a map, a camera, and one of those Jack the Ripper top hats they were selling at the souvenir stalls.
“But Callum had a good point last night,” Stephen added. “We’re the only people who know Richard Eakles didn’t write that message on the board. I feel like . . . I feel like I’m being played with. Personally.”
“What about Jo?” I asked. “Someone should tell her what happened.”
The change in topic threw him.
“What?”
“Jo,” I said again, “is Boo’s best friend.”
“Oh. Of course.” He scratched his head. “Yes. Of course.”
“So I want to go and talk to her.”
“I suppose that’s fine,” he said. “Though I don’t have the car with me. I don’t drive it when I’m not in uniform.”
We took the Tube together. Stephen didn’t say much, and the trip wasn’t long from Wexford. We found Jo down the street from the playground where I’d first seen her. She was wandering along, picking up trash.
“I’ll let you . . . ,” Stephen said. “Perhaps you should . . .”
It was the first time I’d seen him unsure of what to do.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“I’ll wait right here.”
I came up behind Jo. She didn’t turn. I guess she was used to people being close to her, or just going through her.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s me. Rory. You remember . . . from the other day?”
She turned in surprise.
“Of course!” Jo said. “Feeling better? That must have been a right old shock.”
“I’m fine,” I said, “but Boo . . .”
I stopped talking for a moment as a woman went by, pushing a stroller. She was so unbearably slow. I wanted to come up behind her and shove her along so I could continue talking. Jo stopped and let her get some distance on us.
“She was hit by a car,” I said.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s alive,” I said. “Hurt. She’s in the hospital. The Ripper did this to her. He came after me, and Boo protected me. That’s how she got hit. He threw her in front of a car. I just thought . . . someone should tell you.”
A lot of people, when they hear bad news, they take a deep breath, or they hyperventilate. Jo didn’t do any of these things, because Jo didn’t breathe. She bent down and picked up a used coffee cup. It seemed to take all her strength, so I took it from her and carried it the three feet to the trash can.
“You needn’t do that,” she said. “I can carry those. Sandwich wrappers, coffee cups, aluminum cans. I can lift them. One day, I saw a girl sitting at the café just up the road. She set her purse down next to her. A man came by and took it. She had no idea. I happened to be walking past, and I reached over and snatched it back from him and set it next to her. Now, that was hard, but I did it. She was never the wiser, but it gave him a good fright. This is my street. I keep it clean and safe.”
She didn’t show much emotion, but I got the sense that she dealt with her shock by keeping busy or talking. She needed someone to talk to.
“Did you live here?” I asked.
“No. I died right over there. Do you see that block of flats?” She pointed at a modern apartment building. “Those are quite new. Back in my day, this was a row of houses. That’s where it happened. I didn’t live here in my life, but after that, it became my home. Strange impulse, to stay where you died. I don’t quite know why I do it . . .”
“What happened?” I asked. “If that’s okay to ask.”
“Oh, that