PROLOGUE
His is the House of pain.
His is the Hand that makes.
His is the Hand that wounds.
His is the Hand that heals.
— H. G. Wells, The Island of Dr. Moreau
Janos Volkov was curled up, shivering, on one of the benches in Whitechapel Station. waiting for the change. Ile always knew when it was about to conic: he always dreaded it. There was no cure short of death and he could no more kill himself than he could disregard the programmed imperatives locked within the cybernetic implant in his brain.
The East London Railway platforms were deserted at this late hour in this far from the best of neighborhoods. The platform was built around an open cutting. between strong retaining walls of cool, damp stone. The roof was high. to allow for the dispersion of the fumes given off by the steam engines. Covered gaps at the top allowed the steam to escape. Giant cast-iron ribs supported the roof and large stone archways spanning the tracks served to brace the walls. The underground was still relatively new. not quite twenty years old. but like most of the soot- blackened city, the stations and the tunnels had already taken on the appearance of great age, resembling catacombs with tracks running through them.
As Volkov huddled on the platform bench in fetal position. sweating and racked with fever spasms alternating with chills, the train pulled into the station, making its last scheduled run of the day. A few passengers got off. Several of them glanced at Volkovwith disgust as they passed and quickly looked away. A tall and well-dressed gentleman in a black inverness and top hat made a brief comment to his companion about how something should be done about the drunken derelicts cluttering up the city, though in this neighborhood, such a sight was not at all unusual. Neither gentleman seemed to have any objection to the derelict women walking the streets of Whitechapel, whose favors they had come seeking. Volkov ignored them. He barely even heard them. There was a roaring in his ears and he hugged himself tightly, his teeth chattering. His teeth were unusually long and sharp, especially the canines. He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built, not at all the sort of physical development one would expect to accompany the dissipation of advanced alcoholism. But then, Janos Volkov was not an alcoholic.
As the last of the passengers left the platform, the measured footsteps of a police constable echoed throughout the once again deserted station as he approached the huddled figure on the bench. Constable Jones was on his way home to his wife after a long day of walking his beat. He had missed the train and he was irritated. He stood over the shivering form for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, clutching a small truncheon as he rocked back on his heels.
"Ello, 'ello," he said in a strong Cockney accent. "Wot's this then. eh? Go on with ya, old sod, ya can't sleep 'ere."
There was no reaction from the shivering man curled up on the bench.
“'Ere, move along now," said Constable Jones. tapping Volkov lightly on the soles of his boots with his truncheon. The touch of the truncheon seemed to send a galvanizing charge through Volkov. He jerked and thrashed on the bench, as if in the throes of an epileptic fit. A low growl escaped his throat.
"'Ere, none o' that, now," said the policeman, raising his voice. "Get on with ya. Move along. I said."
He prodded Volkov in the side.
Volkov jerked around with a snarl. The policeman's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped as he hacked away involuntarily, staring at the wild, yellowish eyes, the snarling mouth flecked with foam, the face all covered with hair, the long, protruding teeth…
Volkov crouched on the edge of the bench, growling low in his throat, his clawed hands digging into the wood, his eyes staring at the policeman with a baleful glare. His unruly grey hair hung down to his shoulders, which were hunched as he crouched upon the bench, his legs bent under him, prepared to spring.
"'Ere you," said Jones. swallowing hard and backing any from him fearfully, "you stop that, now, understand?" Volkov leaped.
Constable Jones had enough presence of mind to drop down to the ground. ducking beneath the leap, which carried Volkov several yards past him. He grabbed for the whistle on the end of his lanyard, brought it to his lips, and blew three shrill blasts in rapid succession. Volkov crouched several yards away from him. growling like a beast, his teeth bared in a snarl, saliva dribbling down onto his chest. The policeman turned and ran.
Moving with astonishing speed. Volkov sprang after him and caught him before Jones had run ten feet. He leaped and brought him down hard to the stone floor of the platform, his claws digging deep into the policeman's shoulders. Constable Jones cried out and rolled over beneath him. fighting for his life. He made a fist and struck Volkov in the face with all his might, but the blow had almost no effect. With a roar, Volkov raised his right hand, fingers hooked like talons, and brought it down in a slashing motion across the constable's face.
Jones screamed as the long claws opened up his face from his left temple to the right side of his jawbone. And then the snarling mouth plunged down. Sharp teeth fastened in his throat, ripping it open, severing the jugular and sending a fountain of arterial blood spurting out into Volkov's savage face. The policeman's frenzied screams became a horrible gurgle and then there was no sound at all except for the sounds of Volkov feeding.
Inspector Grayson pulled back the bloody sheet, allowing his companion to inspect the body lying on the table in the morgue. Unlike the sallow, thin-featured and clean-shaven Grayson, he was robust, thirty-five years old, six feet tall and broad- shouldered. with a tanned complexion, thinning dark hair and a thick, bushy, dark moustache. He examined the wounds in a professional manner.
"The constable's name was Jones," said Grayson. "Allan Jones. Worked out of Bishop's Gate Station. He was a good lad, according to his sergeant, strong, alert, not one to dawdle about. The body was S discovered on the Whitechapel platform by a.." He paused to consult his notebook. "… a Mr. Randall Jarvis, track maintenance engineer for the East London Railway. The time of discovery was approximately four a.m. Apparently, there were no witnesses. What do you make of the wounds, Doctor?"
"Interesting," said the large man in the tweed suit. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a large bowled briar. He took out a rolled leather pouch filled with shag tobacco and started to pack his pipe.
"Those slash marks across his face," said Grayson, "and the way the throat's been torn open, suggest to me some soil of sharp, pronged instrument. Like one of those garden tools, you know, what the devil do you call it?"