From the Devil´s Skin

By Lucas Barrera

London, Autumn 1856.

The Vylles are living in relative peace and harmony in a humble north London neighbourhood. However, on a given night some thieves break into their home to commit a terrible crime. From here on, the life of the Vylle siblings will be heading towards a desperate fight for survival in a 19th Century cold London Winter.

Lack of work and hunger will make everything seem to be lost, until a sudden visit of a strange merchant changes it all, the price to pay could be too high, though.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: May 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781507147726

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FROM THE DEVIL’S SKIN

LUCAS BARRERA

©Lucas Barrera Fernández 2015

First Edition: October 2015

Translation: Javier García Frutos

Cover design: Zara Corral Bustamante

All rights reserved.

It is strictly prohibited, under copyright law, to reproduce or distribute copies of this book without the written consent of the copyright owners, either totally or partially by any means or procedures, including photocopying and electronic processing, as well as the distribution of copies under loan, public or private.

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Code 1508224933078

Date 22-ago-2015 18:35 UTC

License: All rights reserved

It is better the Devil you know than the Devil you don’t.

(Anonymous)

I

I beg you, my dear reader, to believe the story that I am about to tell you as it is the only way you will be able to tell the difference between a memory and oblivion. Although, having said that, I would rather not ask you such a thing, as believing in something does not depend on your willpower but on how you feel.

Anyway, the events taking place in the following story started in a small London suburb in the Autumn of 1856, soon after the Great Famine devastated England.

There are really few things worse than the loss of a mother at an early age, since it is impossible to replace her absence, other than losing both parents at the same time. That was exactly what happened to Vincent and his sister Minerva on that October 27th night.

Henry Vylle was a modest carpenter who lived with his family in the district of High Gate in the north of London. He was a humble family father, closer to poverty than serenity. Sophy, his wife, started to hobble after suffering from polio and she could hardly help her husband in his carpenter’s workshop.  She confined herself to the occasional cleaning of wealthy people’s homes but, as she grew older, her small youth limp turned her into a cripple and she became someone very few would want to employ.

They had two children, the oldest one was called Vincent and he turned eighteen on that fateful day. He was a sharp and intelligent young man, strong for his age and skilled in the art of using wood. Consequently, he was the one who helped his father in the small family-run business. Minerva, who was three years younger than Vincent, had always been a weak and sickly young girl. She had a pretty face, with a God-given beauty, but her weak health would not allow her to leave her house to live the adventures someone her age would normally have. She had an extremely pale face and her slim, not quite malnourished figure was noticeable for a girl her age. In her town she used to be called sweet Minerva because she had graceful manners and a smile for everyone.

The family used to live on top of the carpenter’s workshop which they used as their home. However, that night the more or less average life of the Vylles was unexpectedly interrupted by destiny’s crossroad. They were assaulted by three delinquents who crept into the workshop and caught them by surprise upstairs. They cut Henry Vylle’s throat in such a brutally quick manner that he had no time to react. Once they got rid of that obstacle, they raped Sophy and the young Minerva in turns, without any rush, making the hopeless Vincent watch, helpless and unable to control his frustration. Eventually, they tied a rope around one of the main beams that held the roof and they hanged Sophy until she suffocated. Her eyes went white and her tongue hung out of her mouth.  Her face was deformed by a grotesque grimace while urine dripped from her skirt starting a small puddle on the ground floor. Minerva was lucky to faint while she was being raped by the second assailant so she did not have to watch her mother being hung but, Vincent was forced to watch it all.  With eyes like saucers, a swollen face covered in blood by the punches he received, a slash near his right eye and no will to live, he could not take his eyes off his mother’s face. He could not shed a tear which, in my humble opinion, he would have to pay the price for later on in his life.

I was the first person to enter the Vylle’s home and witness that picture of hell. I shall not reveal my name, for it is of no significance to the story I am telling you, but I was a confidant and a friend of Vincent Vylle for a long time. Until that night I was what you may call a best friend to him and also his neighbour. I was the son of a food merchant who lived a few doorsteps down the same street.

As soon as the killers had gone Vincent went out of the carpenter’s workshop and, as he did not know what to do, he knocked on my father’s door. I shall not go into details about how strange a knock on the door is at such early hours of the night. However, when my dad saw the young Vylle from our window, he rushed downstairs fearing something had happened and he took me with him.

When we opened the door Vincent stared at us, he did not seem to hear the fluttering questions that my father was asking him but, I could see the burning fire inside his bloodshot eyes.

In my house, upstairs, quickly... he said all unsettled.

It was a cold night and Vincent was only wearing his bed clothes. No sooner had he finished talking than he leant his back on the wall and, slithering down it, wound up sat on the cold floor.

I made a move to bend down next to him but, my dad grabbed my shoulder and dragged me to the carpenter’s house. 

What happened next after that night would now be a matter of entering into necrological details that I think I can avoid without having an effect on the story. I will only add that Vincent soon came to his senses and he was able to talk to the police and to tell me personally all I am about to tell you, my dear reader.

Henry and Sophy Vylle had the honour of being buried at the cemetery of West High Gate, courtesy of High Gate’s deputy mayor who was moved by such an atrocious act and felt sorry for the hard future prospects of the children of the brutally assassinated couple.  Now, of course, they were buried in a communal grave where the name of the deceased people was chiselled onto the existing long list of dead people’s names, leaving space below for the names of the people who would die later. The coffins were made by Vincent himself who worked day and night for two days. 

Not many people went to the funeral, which was short and humble, apart from some friends of the family and a few others, since the Vylles had no relatives alive that they knew. Minerva Vylle did not attend the funeral either as her physical and mental health did not allow her. She stayed in bed where she was looked after by my mother who had offered herself to help the young Vylles in any way she could.

Amongst the attendees, Vincent told me afterwards, there was a middle-aged man who he had never seen before, very well dressed with a black cape and leather gloves and carrying a walking stick with an ivory handle. In his other hand he carried a very sumptuous top hat. It clashed significantly with the