This story starts near the slums of St. Giles, Father.
Whitechapel. Spitalfields. Bethnal Green. Old Nichol.
These sound like holy places, but they are the shades of darkness, the parts of London that one is lucky not to know.
The Devil's Acre—a name can't get more symbolic than that.
I knew the slums, its night terrors. Fires blazing here and there. Keeping some warm, burning the remains of unfortunate others. Sins festered in every corner. The air was heavy with stench and sounds of misery.
It didn't get blacker than the streets of Old Nichol by night.
The voices that moaned and grunted and begged for mercy.
The voices that echoed like thousands of ghosts in the darkest pit of London that never slept, cramped with tortured souls.
Anything that was too vile for the parts like St. Giles teemed here, in this tomb of existence. This wasn't living but surviving. And I felt like here, of all places, I could bring relief.
One person at a time, Harlan.
When I was in southern Africa, a local scribe taught me a word.
Ubuntu in the Nguni language means "humanity." But that is an English word. In the local understanding, it means, "I am because you are."
You see, Father, humanity is a reflection on itself. We don't act alone but rather with the consideration of others. Our acts are contagious. Wickedness sprouts like weeds, kindness like fresh grass. But weeds grow everywhere, and grass needs sun, water, and care. You don't change society suddenly but rather slowly, with acts of kindness—a trickle of them that might one day grow into a river.
I did what I did because it eased the lives of many, Father. Mine were not always the acts of kindness, but they spared others' pain. Mine is a damned soul, but others can be saved. If one life is the collateral, would you blame me?
Oh, I see, Father. You do.
Well, think of it this way. You are a coachman who is driving a carriage. The horse goes mad. It won't respond to your reins. A whip in your hands is useless.
The road in front of you splits. Ahead, you have a group of five children on one road and a lone man on the other.
The horse won't stop, you know it. Which road will you take?
You say you don't have to make a choice? It's all in the hands of God, you say? I've heard that before.
What if I tell you that the lone man is a monster? Will God take the back stage then and let you make that choice?
I am not sure what drew me to St Giles that night. But I should be grateful.
How my angel ended up there was a mystery that I got to find out later.
Countess Alina Bronskaya.
The night I saw her, I thought she was lost. Only later would I realize that I was the one who was lost. Until she found me without looking.
Ubuntu. I am because you are.
I found my angel in the dark, Father. And she showed me the path to light. No prayers had ever accomplished that. No church had ever given me a home. No words of consolation coming from you had ever soothed the way hers would.
My story with her started with a murder. It would end with another crime. And it would end the most notorious villain that London had ever known.
Harlan Krow.
The gentleman-devil.
The shadow of the slums.
Who knew that death could be so sweet?