“We can see some of the sights as we go. Like Tower Bridge and that Gherkin building. A cabbie would know what tourists liked to see.”
Adie nodded, feeling a little better. Someone who knew their way around was probably a great idea.
The Concierge called up a black cab for them and Cage helped her enter the very roomy back section of the vehicle. It really was more like the old fashioned horse-drawn hansom cab she’d see in pictures than a real taxi.
Cage told the driver, a bald, round-faced man with a jovial smile, where to go and added that they’d love to see any sights on the way.
“Spitalfields ain’t much of a tourist destination, guv’na,” the driver pointed out in a broad accent she took for cockney. “Not for the likes of you, that is.”
“We’re killing two birds with one stone,” Cage answered, his Californian accent so very different from the other man’s.
“Fair enough, one scenic tour on the way to Jack’s stompin’ grounds it is.”
“Jack?” Adie said, her brows furrowing. “Is that your name?”
Their driver laughed uproariously. “No, Miss. I’m Barry. And I was talkin’ about Jack the Ripper. Spitalfields and White Chapel was the Ripper’s playground.”
Adie shivered. That was a part of London’s past she did know something about, if only from her reading.
Her expression must have given her away because the cabbie laughed good naturedly again.
Craning his head to look back at them, he went on. “It’s a much trendier part of London than it used to be back then. Art galleries, cafes, that sortta thing. The place had a major facelift after the Blitz did its work in 1940/41. The East End docks were a crucial link in the supply route for the country back then, so taking them out was supposed to be our downfall. Shows what the Jerries knew!” the man scoffed.
The war again. It seemed that even after all these years World War Two still seemed to have significance to these people. Adie supposed that having your homes bombed night after night would imprint itself on a nation’s psyche. A bit like 9/11 had been imprinted on the American psyche.
With her nose pressed up against the window, she listened to their personal tour guide explain about the sights they were seeing as they passed them. They ambled along the Thames, seeing the Tower Bridge and the lumbering stone structure that was the Tower. In front of the Tower was a large empty area that Barry explained was the ice rink in winter.
Adie had always wanted to learn to ice skate, but such pleasures had been denied to her. After all, pointless entertainment was the devil’s playground. Or so her mother’s church insisted.
Finally, the cabbie journeyed down a very narrow laneway only wide enough for one vehicle. The yellow lines on either side showed that no parking was allowed on that street. They drew up in front of a multistory brown-brick building with ornate bars on the first floor windows. Graffiti marred the walls of some of the other buildings around it, but not on this one.
“I could wait for you. Not the easiest part of the city to get a cab,” Barry offered.
Cage nodded, taking the cabbie’s card as he handed over cash for the fare so far. “Find somewhere to wait nearby. We shouldn’t be long. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”
“Will do, guv! Will do!” the short balding man said with a bright grin.
He was expecting a big tip from this day’s activities, Adie could tell.
They entered the lobby and were quickly directed to the third floor where Ruby Embers had her apartment. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and the mustiness she associated with old people. The floors were all linoleum squares that had seen a lot of hard wear.
The large elevator took them up to the third floor. Adie understood why it was so large when they reached the third floor. Waiting for the elevator were EMTs with a man on a gurney, oxygen mask over his face. The sick man had skin so paper-thin and pale he looked dead already. His gasping breaths told her he wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.
She smiled at the sick man as they stood aside to let the EMTs and their patient onto the elevator. He didn’t even register she was there.
“Getting old sucks,” she mumbled, more to herself than Cage.
“Yeah, but the alternative sucks even more,” he said in a matter-off-fact tone that she found jarring.
They wandered down the hall until they came to 307. Cage knocked loudly on the door.
“Come in!” called a high, shrill voice from within.
They did as they were bid and were greeted by the most outrageous sight Adie ever expected to see anywhere.
The living room had been turned into something out of the Arabian nights. Lush, gauzy fabrics covered the windows, while the walls were painted a dark blue and spotted with gold and silver stars she remembered getting for awards at school. Gold seemed to cover every surface, except the floor, which looked as if mirrors had been stuck to it and then covered with a protective coating. As they walked across the floor Adie felt like she was in some weird upside down world.
“Ah, yes. My floor fascinates people. It’s like walking on a still pool of water, isn’t it? I just love, love, love my little hideaway!” a shrill voice sang.
Adie took her eyes off the floor and found the owner of the voice. A skeletally thin woman wearing a garish red wig sat atop a gold wheelchair covered in unicorn heads. The woman wore an
