“We’re in the kitchen,” his Dad called to him. Maurice didn’t like the sound of his voice. “Come on back. We want to talk to you.”
Maurice did as he was told, finding them sitting at the kitchen table. His mother was staring at him angrily, and there on the table between her and her husband was a box. Not just any box. The box that had Maurice’s Jack the Ripper books and magazines in it.
“What is this?” his mother demanded icily.
Maurice shrank before her withering gaze. He had left the door to his hideaway ajar, and his Mom had gone snooping in his room and noticed it. She must have made the old man crawl in to see what was in there.
“Answer me!” she screamed. “Answer me in the name of Jesus!”
Maurice’s throat felt as if it were filled with marbles. He tried to speak. “It’s just…just…”
“Just trash, just the Devil’s own trash!” She reached into the box, pulled out a magazine and slapped him across the face with it.
Maurice knew better than to say anything now. He was going to get it and get it good, and the less he said the better. Did they suspect what he had done this morning? Would they turn him in?
“Look at this!” his mother raged. She held up a Playboy magazine. “Nine years old and he already desires to see the naked flesh of women! Filth in the eyes of God! Whores! Sluts!”
“Look at this, George!” she screamed at her husband, holding up a copy of Gallery. “Unadulterated, sinful garbage!”
Suddenly Maurice realized that she was raving about the skin magazines, not about the Ripper material. In her religious fervour, she didn’t see what was right under her nose. Maurice couldn’t suppress a smirk at this turn of events.
She smacked him with a magazine and then brought it back across the other cheek. “How dare you laugh!”
“I wasn’t laughing, Mom,” he whined. “I’m sorry, honest.”
“Sorry! I’ll teach you what sorry means.” She turned on her husband. “You’ve been too permissive, George. How many times have I told you not to spoil this boy?”
“Maybe you’re right, Rayette.” Maurice’s Dad shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know.” She threw the magazines back into the box. “We’ll take these down to the basement and burn them in the furnace.”
“No, Mom!” The words were out of Maurice’s mouth before he could stop them. Maurice knew that he had made a terrible mistake. Her wrath would be all the more terrible now. But what could he do? His collection was the most important thing in the world to him.
“You vile little monster,” his mother said coldly. “Order me not to destroy this Satanic rubbish, will you?” Her hand shot out like a claw and grabbed hold of his wrist. She began to drag Maurice behind her, her free hand opening the basement door. “Bring that box with you, George.”
The wooden stairs creaked under the weight of three people, and Maurice was pulled along so roughly he thought he would fall. But he somehow was still standing when they reached the concrete floor of the basement. His mother flung him away from her, and his back struck the wall, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Maurice wanted to run, but he would never get past them. Their shadows stretched towards him across the concrete floor, cast by the light coming from the kitchen door.
“Punish him,” his mother said.
George hesitated. “How?”
“Take your belt off and whup it out of him,” she said, her lips curving in a cruel smile.
“Rayette, I don’t—”
“Do as I say!” she screamed.
George reluctantly unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops with a slithering sound. “Son, I…”
“Do it!”
“Bend over, Maurice,” his father said.
Having no choice, Maurice did as he was told. At that moment, his mother opened the furnace grating and began to feed the magazines and books to the blue-yellow flames inside.
The belt bit into Maurice’s buttocks. It stung so bad he jumped. A second blow descended, and then a third. It really hurt. Maurice didn’t think he could take it. Through his tears, he saw his mother looking down at him as she crumpled pages and stuffed them into the furnace, the firelight flickering across her face.
The belt landed a little low, wrapping itself around Maurice’s thigh like a snake. Each time his father hit him, it felt as if the fire were burning him, instead of his magazines and books. He screamed.
The beating stopped.
“What are you doing?” his mother demanded. “Whup him some more.”
“Rayette,” his Dad said imploringly.
“Do as I tell you.”
George did as she told him. The stinging tongue of the belt whipped across Maurice’s backside again and again. The beating continued until there was no more paper to burn.
“Come here, Maurice,” his mother said when it was over.
Maurice, barely able to walk, moved painfully toward her. She reached out and embraced him, tears starting from her own eyes.
“Oh, my poor darling,” she said. “It’s for your own good. We must drive Satan out of your young soul.”
Maurice buried his wet face into her bosom. She rocked him as if he were still a baby, until he stopped crying. Maurice had hated her only a minute ago, but now he knew that he loved his Mom more than anyone on earth. She had punished him because she didn’t understand that he was doing God’s work, that was all. But she was the one who had taught him that the path of righteousness is strewn with thorns. How he loved her now as she stroked his hair and softly called him her baby.
Maurice was sent to bed without any supper. He lay on his stomach, whimpering, unable to sleep. He wanted to go down and get the bundle out of the car, but he didn’t dare to. Fearful that his Dad would be more curious about the bundle after today, he decided he would have to do it in the morning somehow, before Dad drove him to school.
—
After a sleepless night, Maurice was called down to breakfast. He had tried to creep down earlier, to get outside to the car. But his Mom was already up, on her knees in the living room, praying. There was no way to get past her.
Maurice ate very little cereal this morning. He could actually see the back end of the car through the kitchen window. It was driving him crazy. If they found that bundle, anything might happen. He would never be able to invent a story to fool his mother—she didn’t even believe him when he told the truth, usually—and with Mary Jane’s knucklebones in that bag, even his Dad would be hard to talk out of doing something really bad to him. He had to get out to the car.
His mother didn’t speak to him through breakfast, seeming to be lost in thought. The only words his Dad spoke came after they were finished eating, while Mom was washing the breakfast dishes. “Go get your books, Maurice.”
Maurice did as he was told, running up to his room and grabbing his school books. Then he ran straight down the stairs and out the front door, shouting that he would wait outside. He came around the side of the house and peeked through the kitchen window. Seeing that his mother was still washing the dishes with her back to him, he looked around for someplace to hide the bundle. If he scooched down really low, he could sneak past the window and stuff it under the back porch steps. His mother would never notice it there, and he could figure out a way to retrieve it when he got home from school. He tried the car door.
It wouldn’t open.
But how could that be?…Unless his Dad had gone out to the car and locked it last night, it had to open. Maurice felt himself starting to sweat, and he felt kind of itchy, not on his skin but inside. He tried the door again.
It still wouldn’t open.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t leave the bundle in the car. His Dad would find it sooner or later. His only chance was to smash the window and stash the bundle under the steps fast, before his Dad could get outside to see what was going on. Maurice could say it was an accident. He would probably be punished, but that was better than wh
at would happen if he just stood here.
He looked around for something heavy. There were some rocks out on the strip of grass between the pavement and the street. Maurice put his books down and rushed over to get one. He picked up a big one, grubs and millipedes scurrying out of hiding, some of them crawling on his hands. He didn’t care. He had to get into that car.
He went back and lifted the rock over his head with both hands, seeing his distorted reflection in the car window. He held it there for an instant, and—
“What are you doing, son?”
Maurice’s heart froze. He dropped the rock to the ground with a dull thud. “Nothing, Dad.” He looked away from his father’s piercing, grey eyes.
“You weren’t going to break that window for spite, were you?”
“Of course not,” Maurice lied. “I was just pretending I was a Ninja.”
His Dad smiled a little. “A Ninja, huh? That’s great. Come on, get in the car, or you’ll be late for school.” he went around to the driver’s side. “Look at that,” he said, opening the door. “I forgot to lock up the car again. Your mother would kill me if she knew.”
Maurice stared at his father, uncomprehending. He tried the door, and it resisted. “This one’s locked, Dad.”
“No it isn’t.” His father was putting his keys into the ignition. “It sticks sometimes. Just tug on it a little.”
Maurice put both hands on the door handle and pulled hard. The door flew open, nearly knocking him off balance. It had been unlocked all the time!
“What’s the matter, Maurice?” his father said. “Get in the car.”
Maurice was staring at the open door. At the sound of his father’s voice, he snapped out of it and reluctantly got inside. Right behind him, on the floor of the back seat, was the bundle. His father couldn’t see it from where he was sitting, but he would find it sooner or later, unless Maurice got it out of there somehow. Maurice slowly buckled his seat belt, desperately trying to think of some way out.
“Son,” said his Dad, “I know that boys like to look at pictures of girls without any clothes on. I did it too, when I was your age. But you know how your mother is. If you have any more of those magazines, put them someplace where she’ll never find them. Otherwise, she’ll make me punish you again, and I don’t want to have to do that.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Maurice was disgusted by his Dad’s admission. His Mom had been right to punish him, for all his parents knew. The old man was so weak.
“Well, don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
They rode on through the mist in silence. When they were within a few blocks of the school, it occurred to Maurice that he might be able to tell his Dad that he needed the bundle for one of his classes. He had to do it. There was no other way to get it now.
“I left something in the back seat yesterday,” he said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“It’s part of a Hallowe’en costume,” Maurice said matter-of-factly, hoping that his Dad wouldn’t remember that he had taken the bundle with him yesterday when he was dropped off at the school. “All the kids are making them.”
When his father didn’t respond, Maurice unbuckled his seat belt, turned around and reached back over the seat. His hands were shaking while he picked up the bundle. He squirmed back into a sitting position with it on his lap.
“It will be Hallowe’en in a few days, won’t it?” his Dad said.
He bought it! Maurice could hardly believe his luck. He was going to make it now. Once he got to school he could hide it in his locker, and then take it to the bus station later. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t bring it home again. Maurice looked down at the tweed cape and tried to keep from laughing out loud.
All of a sudden the car screeched to a halt and Maurice flew forward, striking his head on the dashboard. The bundle fell onto the floor.
His father honked the horn. “That kid almost got herself run over,” he said angrily. “Are you all right, son?”
“Yes.” Dazed, Maurice looked out the window to see a girl on a bicycle, looking very pale and scared. As his Dad started driving again, she became invisible, lost in the fog.
His Dad looked over at Maurice. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
Maurice nodded. When he looked down, he saw that the tweed cape no longer covered the black, leather bag. They were both on the floor at his feet, the bag in plain sight.
“What’s that?” his father demanded, still driving through the fog, but staring at the bag.
“Nothing…just part of the costume.”
Something about the way Maurice said that made his Dad suspicious. “Let me see it,” he said.
“It’s nothing, Dad,” Maurice said, panicking. “It’s just kid stuff.”
“Let me see it, Maurice.”
Maurice tried to pick it up. He was getting ready to jump out of the car and run away, but his Dad snatched the bag from his hands and snapped open the silver clasp. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“I saved my money.” Maurice could feel his heart thudding in his chest. His father seemed to tower over him. “You always taught me to be thrifty.”
Glancing sporadically at the road, his Dad pulled out the deerstalker cap and set it on the seat. Then he withdrew the bag of jacks. Next came the surgical instruments.
“Maurice,” he said, fingering the scalpel Maurice had used to cut Mary Jane Toricelli’s throat, “you could hurt yourself with these. Where did you get them?”
“I send a money order to a mail-order medical supply house,” Maurice said, his voice cracking. “I want to become a doctor when I grow up.”
But it was too late for lies. Still holding the scalpel in one hand and steering with his elbow, his Dad dumped the rest of the bag’s contents onto the seat. His eyes widened when he opened the second plastic sack.
He pulled out the bloody gloves—and the knucklebones tumbled out onto the vinyl car seat.
“For the love of God, Maurice,” he said, holding up one of Mary Jane’s yellowing fingers, “is this what I think it is?”
Maurice was sobbing now, unable to speak at all.
“Answer me!” his father screamed, dropping the finger in revulsion.
One of the dim shapes passing by loomed out of the fog. His Dad couldn’t see it, turned as he was towards Maurice. Maurice started to cry out, to warn his Dad, but then he saw who the car was about to hit and shut his mouth. A tall, lanky figure challenged anyone to dare and try to run him over. Maurice grabbed the wheel and jerked it towards him.
A thump.
“Jesus Christ!” his Dad cried, slamming on the brakes. He opened the door and leaped out of the car, still holding the scalpel. Maurice peered over the dashboard at the unmoving form of Andy McHugh sprawled on the asphalt. A serpent of blood crawled from Andy’s head into the gutter and washed down a sewer grating.
Maurice got out of the car, rubbing the bruise on his forehead where he’d struck the dashboard. He called softly, “Dad.”
His father turned, his eyes wide, the scalpel still in his hand. People were coming out of the fog, gathering around and staring.
“Hold it right there,” a woman shouted.
His Dad turned around and stared straight into the blue barrel of a .38 revolver.
“Don’t move!” Officer Cooper commanded him.
Maurice saw his chance, presented to him at this last possible moment when everything seemed so hopeless, by Divine Providence. He grabbed his Dad’s wrist.
“Help!” Maurice screamed.
“Let the boy go!” Officer Cooper cried angrily.
His Dad tried to pull his arm away but Maurice held on tight, pretending to struggle, screaming: “He’s going to kill me! He’s got somebody’s fingers in a bag! And knives! He’s crazy! He killed Andy!”
“Maurice,” his Dad whispered, “what are you doing?” His face was sweating, pale and confused. The blade gleamed in his other hand.
> “Help!” Maurice cried. “He’s choking me! He’s gonna cut my throat!”
“Drop that knife or I’ll shoot!” shouted Officer Cooper.
His Dad didn’t seem to hear her. He stared at Maurice in disbelief, as if he saw something he’d never imagined before, something out of his wildest nightmares.
Officer Cooper fired twice. His Dad’s neat uniform blossomed into bright red flowers in two places, on the chest and belly. Maurice let go of Dad’s wrist as he fell. The scalpel clattered to the pavement.
A black policeman, Officer Cooper’s partner, ran across the street, his heels clacking sharply on the wet asphalt. He knelt and placed his ear over Maurice’s Dad’s heart. Officer Cooper was looking through the windshield at the fingers lying on the front seat of the family car.
A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Two paramedics worked on Maurice’s Dad and Andy for a while. At last they gave up and zipped both of them into shiny body bags, just as three more patrol cars pulled up. The flashing red and blue lights looked very strange in the mist. As he stared at the coloured lights and listened to the crackling of police radios, Maurice felt fingertips gently touch the bruise on his forehead.
He looked up into the tender eyes of Officer Cooper. She smiled at him. “It’s going to be all right.”
The ambulance carrying his Dad and Andy wheeled into the fog and vanished. Maurice tried to look sad, but it was hard to do, as he thought about what was sure to happen now. They would trace the killings back to all the cities Captain Turner had lived in—American, Japanese, German. Maurice’s mother would wail and say that the Devil had gotten into George, and she’d pray even more than she did now. Without Dad around to enforce her will, Maurice would do as he pleased, and some day he would make his Mom see how much he loved her, how he did everything for her as much as for himself.
Someday he would kill for her again. Maurice knew that he would never be caught if he was careful enough, just like the original Jack the Ripper. And, unlike Jack, he wouldn’t have to stop after five killings. He would carry on, protected by the All Knowing Spirit, in whose name he had slain the sinful. Nothing could stop him.
He had to agree with Officer Cooper. From now on, it really was going to be all right.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 35