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The beginnings of a storm were brewing in the dreary London sky. Great, looming clouds hung over the city, strung up like dead men, their tainted blood falling down in the form of a particularly ferocious hail. The grey, macabre sky dominated the city from above, and like a casket at the foot of a grave, cast an immense shadow over the houses beneath.
Utterson stared out of his window with an equally glum disposition. Just now did he notice the rain, pattering savagely against the glass. He noted that the raindrops on his window resembled a familiar face…. A displeasing one that he'd rather forget.
He retreated back to the comfort of residing beside the fire furiously burning in the hearth. He looked over at his Bible, resting comfortably at the edge of his table, untouched for about a week now.
At first, Utterson had prayed every day in the hopes of finding an answer to the many questions that littered his mind, and possibly to repent for the sins he believed he had committed.
He had given up. Prayers couldn’t save him anymore.
It had been a month since Utterson had felt any semblance of normality in his life. A month since he and Poole had broken down the door to that damned laboratory, and since the death of Edward Hyde.
Or, should he say, Henry Jekyll?
Utterson drew his attention to a young couple outside. They were frantically running, hand-in-hand, trying to escape the rain attacking them from above. He slightly envied their companionship. Their happiness… for he had none left of his own.
A stray thought entered his mind as he suddenly imagined them running away from Hyde; his distinct, deformed silhouette relentlessly pursuing them.
He quickly shook off that thought as he poured himself another glass of wine to dull his mind.
The first time he had read Lanyon and Jekyll's letters, he had not known the severity of what he was reading.
Only now could he appreciate what Jekyll's confession had taught him: the bleak reality that behind reputable gentlemen, noble doctors and friends, there lay sadistic and evil desires. The dual nature of man; for Hyde was fully Jekyll, and Jekyll was truly Hyde. And that by repressing Hyde–the deviant part of himself–Jekyll had suffered.
That revelation had left him perplexed for weeks. The lawyer no longer left his apartment, except only for the occasional client that could not be reached by letters and his weekly walks with Enfield, which he had so vehemently insisted they continue. Utterson didn’t talk much during them.
The more the lawyer thought, the more it all made sense: Hyde's unrestricted access to Jekyll's house, Jekyll's forgeries for Hyde, and his missing body.
Regardless, the whole situation with Jekyll and Hyde was still far too much for him to reasonably comprehend. It took a toll on his mind. He grew to distrust others, especially those he considered close friends. Not that he had many left.
Truthfully, the lawyer was not surprised nor upset at the knowledge of Jekyll's hidden pleasures. After all, he knew most men had their own desires that they kept to themselves. And Jekyll was a secretive man; he had been ever since he had finished university and first stepped into public eyes.
Utterson was more horrified by the violent and supernatural nature of Jekyll's discovery, for the deaths of Carew and Lanyon were entirely on Jekyll's conscience. He had found it hard to read the letter, knowing that his friend had taken delight in every blow to his victim's innocent body like some desperate cannibal in need of a fix. That Jekyll had willingly coerced Lanyon into feeding his addiction further, causing the man's death.
Although Utterson could never feel contempt towards Jekyll, not even after the reveal of his despicable actions. There still lay some endearment towards him, for Utterson could not forget the 30 odd years they had been good friends.
This fiasco had affected Utterson more than he would ever admit. He was a man of simple pleasures but even those had become less favourable.
He enjoyed the theatre yet his first visit in 20 years had brought him much less joy than it used to.
Utterson enjoyed wine but restricted himself to gin. Yet recently, he had indulged in it multiple times a week, even going so far as to drink daily, but it was still not enough to shake his grief. In fact, he found it rather… tasteless.
The lawyer assumed that his newfound addiction was merely an attempt to cover up his remorse. It didn’t work. He had grown numb to his pleasures and apathetic to his life. Utterson could endlessly refill his glass but it would not be enough to instill his previous vigor for living nor to drown out the sorrow in his soul.
Lately, even his bed felt too great a struggle to overcome. He would wake up only to stare at his ceiling, his limbs suddenly too cumbersome to lift up. It further drained his will to live not unlike his overall energy. It was with this despondent frame of mind that he carried out the rest of his day, week and now month.
It eventually became a feeling he was acquainted with as it started to follow him not just in his mornings but also in his evenings.
Some nights he dreamed he was reunited with the presence of his old friends. He dined with Jekyll and Lanyon, comforted by their warmth and soothed by their familiar, but rather boisterous, scientific discourse. Utterson chuckled as he watched his two friends engage in another heated discussion surrounding their practices, offering them both another glass of wine once they had cooled down. He would give anything to relive those arguments again.
Some nights he had nightmares about Hyde. A stalking, dwarvish figure prowling around the streets of London, reigning terror all over the city. The figure would climb into Utterson's residence, lacking that distinct humanity of old Jekyll, and have his way with Utterson like he did Carew. He would wake up in a cold sweat, paralyzed by the paranoia of Hyde's return.
Some nights, there was nothing. He felt nothing.
No glee from blissfully dining with his friends. No terror from the evil Hyde. Just… a perpetual numbness, which did often linger long after he had woken up.
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The disruptive weather had begun to lessen. While the sky still sported a sombre afterglow, the intimidating clouds had backed off for a moment, allowing the city to bask in meagre rays of sunlight streaming through scarce drops of rain. Utterson regarded this sudden, but rather welcome, change in weather with the same neutral expression as before.
Utterson did not reveal his findings with the police. He did not want to dishonor his dead friend. His affection for Jekyll overrode any moral obligations he felt.
Only he knew why the body of Jekyll would never be found, for the mangled corpse of that disfigured Hyde haunted him in the mortuary.
He decided to tell the police that Jekyll had fled, and died trying to escape. Perhaps his weak and sickened state made him less agile than he would have liked, and he found some way to hurt himself. Perhaps in the Thames, and his body would have floated down the river, never to be found.
After speaking the lie to so many others, Utterson even felt inclined to believe it himself. He was unsure whether or not the police had truly believed him but he hoped that he could provide some comfort to Poole and the rest of London. He did not want to share his newfound paranoia with the rest of the city.
In spite of the curious nature of the misplaced body, a funeral was held for the late Henry Jekyll. Despite his still perplexed mind, Utterson attended, accompanied by Mr Guest and Enfield. They had not known Jekyll very well but had come to support Utterson and pay their respects for the dead doctor. The lawyer thought their sympathy for him was misplaced.
It was a short ceremony, partially due to the unusual nature of the missing body. Utterson delivered his eulogy with as much gusto as he could muster (which was not very much) before listening to Poole's commentary about his master.
Utterson had regarded Poole’s surprisingly calm and grounded delivery with the occasional tear towards his description about the end of Jekyll’s life. It was clear that Utterson was not the only gentleman to share an affection for Jekyll, though he suspected his own was different to Poole's.
Utterson's conscience urged him to tell Poole the truth about his late master but he knew that he could not. Poole would be sure to tell the police, which would lead to the one thing Utterson feared: eternal unrest in London.
He would keep his friend's secret, even if he was damned to do so.
After the funeral, the question of Jekyll's estate and riches had to be solved. Utterson, being the sole beneficiary in Jekyll's will, decided to hand them over to Poole. Despite the unusual nature of this request, Utterson had absolutely no need for any of Jekyll's possessions or wealth and Poole was the closest person to Jekyll that he had made the acquaintance of.
Some small part of him never wanted to go back there, that damned laboratory only serving as a reminder for the end of his friends' lives, and subsequently his own.
The butler had praised him greatly for his kind actions, but Utterson politely shrugged off his thanks. After all, he was acting more out of self-preservation rather than generosity.
Enfield had come over later that day and while Utterson would normally revel in his company, he found himself feeling lonelier in his presence.
“I've never seen you in such a sorry state, Gabriel.” Enfield remarked as Utterson stared at the roaring fire with such little sentiment. “I am quite worried about you.”
Utterson did not look up, nor give any acknowledgement he had heard Enfield. He was a man of few words, but lately, he had grown to say even fewer. A small part of him considered throwing himself into the fire, desperate to spare himself from the pain.
“Well? No witty remark of yours?” Enfield joked as he approached Utterson, choosing to rest directly opposite him.
Enfield looked directly at Utterson, despite the latter not returning his gaze.
“Gabriel.”
Enfield chose his next words carefully, hesitating to speak at the thought of upsetting his companion further.
“I–I understand the difficult position you find yourself in. I do not envy you in the slightest.” Enfield joked before his serious tone returned. “But I do not want you to bury yourself in grief. Your life is not dependent on theirs, cousin. You have your clients, you have your drinks...” He glanced over at the table laden with bottles, “And if nothing else, you have me.”
Utterson continued to observe the fire, much to the other man's dismay. Enfield leaned forward, mere inches away from the lawyer.
“Please, Gabriel. Do not let your life end along with those of your friends.”
At that, Utterson slowly turned to face Enfield, with two eyes as dead as his friends’ bodies lying in their graves. He did not need to say anything, for his look said it all, but a hushed whisper escaped his lips.
“My life is over, Enfield. Neither you nor my clients nor this blasted liquor can bring it back.”
He remained quite quiet for the rest of the evening. Enfield had stuck around, even despite Utterson's insensitive behavior, and made his leave at 10pm, leaving Utterson alone with the ghosts that plagued him. For the first time since their deaths, he let out his troubled emotions in the form of a stream of tears.
Utterson had denied himself tears at Lanyon's funeral and had held back tears in front of his companions earlier that day but he could not suppress them anymore.
He sat there sobbing for the remainder of the night, warmed by the heat of the flames but quivering at the reality that had brutally slapped him in the face.
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Utterson found himself gulping down yet another glass of wine. Today was proving to be a particularly demanding day.
I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.
Those words found themselves in Utterson’s thoughts once again. Those damned words which were relentlessly repeated in his mind every day.
Utterson had met with Jekyll every day during the two months before his first sign of reclusion, and he had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Yet here it was: a declaration of Jekyll’s unhappiness.
Was it because of Hyde’s recent presence in his life? Could Jekyll’s moral compass not live another day knowing that he was committing atrocities as Hyde?
Or were Utterson and Lanyon such horrid and ignorant friends that Jekyll would rather end his own life than spend another day with them?
Thousands of what-ifs floated around in his head. Only two things were certain.
What an absolute fool he was. And how much he dearly missed his old friends.
Why, Utterson thought, he would give anything to have them back, cherishing such a sincere and warm affection for them even in death. He thought about them often.
Jekyll's dazzling smile, which often found its way into a smirk, cordially welcoming his friend. Lanyon's vigor and outgoing personality which almost always found its way in the depths of the lawyer's heart.
Now all gone. A crushing hopelessness spread through his mind.
It was a common feeling now: the overwhelming desire to slowly sink in his sadness and leave the rest of the world behind. Often, he debated joining his dead friends.
It could not be difficult, he had thought.
His apartment was a formidable distance above the street below; a fall that high would almost certainly break his legs, if not his spirit. Or perhaps he should go out the same way Hyde did, the bitter scent of almonds staining the air around him.
But no matter how great his grief was, Utterson could not bring himself to do it. He refused to let their deaths be in vain, forever reassured by their trust in him, even though he ended up failing them both. Every day that went past only strengthened the urge to… but, so far, he could still compose himself.
Had he not been bound by his honour to a dead man's wish, he could have read the letter and found a way to save his friend. Sure, Utterson was no chemist, but he was certain any woe of Jekyll's would be easier to face with the help of a dear friend.
Bound by obligation to a dead friend… Some honour! He cursed under his breath.
He had prioritized the wishes of a dead man rather than his living, breathing friend who was in dire need of help, and Utterson had failed him. He had failed Jekyll.
Utterson remembered that day at the funeral. He stood by the empty grave, hoping by some sheer miracle, perhaps he could see the lively face of his dear friend again. Maybe he would wake up and find it was all a dream, and he, Jekyll and Lanyon could laugh away their despair.
He knew that wouldn't be the case.
Some days a new longing would take up his mind. A strange affection for Jekyll would overwhelm him and leave him yearning for the comfort of his friend…
He had learned to reject that feeling entirely.
There's no potion you can invent to bring back a dead man. Utterson remarked. And if Jekyll were to come back, so too would Hyde. Would he risk endangering the city purely because of some misplaced sentiment?
Probably not.
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Utterson’s attention was suddenly drawn to a document lying on his table. He went over to look at it again.
It was a letter from one of his clients that he had received only a week ago, asking for Utterson's help. Ernest Sallow was his name. He was a fairly new client as Utterson had only been hired by him about two months earlier at the height of Jekyll's restored company.
The letter had been a plea, from a worried and desperate man looking to hide the consequences of his vices.
A whisper in the back of Utterson's head taunted him, saying that he was only interested in Sallow's case just to get over his friends’ deaths. He dismissed that voice abruptly.
His new client was going through some heat as of late. He was being blackmailed by some unknown gentlemen, forced to pay a large sum of money each month to conceal his secrets from public ears.
Just as you initially thought Jekyll and Hyde were acquainted, his thoughts whispered. He once again ignored them.
That sum had recently grown too big, and he had seeked out Utterson’s immediate help.
He knew that his client probably had it coming. After all, he wasn't the most respectable gentleman in London. Either way, it was now Utterson’s job to help him, not to judge him, and he was determined to find the unruly gentleman that was profiting off of his client’s misfortune.
He was to meet with Mr Guest and Mr Sallow at the man's house to discuss what actions they could take. He had been dreading this meeting all day.
Utterson fetched his coat and trusty umbrella, spying some stray remnants of rain still dripping down onto the cobbled Gaunt Street. He took a deep sigh before exiting his apartment.
We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.
That was what he last said to Lanyon just days before his death. At the time, he hoped that this sinister business would be over in a week. How wrong he was.
They were three very old friends, he remarked. For the figure walking out into the rain wasn’t the lawyer anymore.
It was the ghost of a dead man, merely pretending to live amongst ordinary men.