I Was Jack The Ripper (Part 3)

by Bray, Michael

  She cackled, tottering on her feet. “You come with me love. I’ll show you where to go,”

  She turned and walked on ahead of him, crossing the road at St. Marys Street and continuing down Montague Street. The fury in him was alive, a living entity of its own.

  “Is there nowhere quiet we can go?” he asked.

  “Don’t you worry about that love, I know just the place.” She reached the end of the street and turned right, walking a short while and then turning off onto Durward Street. The street was deserted.

  That’s it, whore, find us a nice quiet place where we can be alone

  “How’s this for ya me love? Always quiet down ‘ere. Three times tonight I’ve had me money for a doss and spent it on drink,” she chuckled as she staggered down the street.

  She turned to him, leaning drunk against a wooden fence which led to a stable.

  “Come on then love, let’s be ‘avin’ ya.” She said.

  There was no thought. No hesitation or panic. He lunged, grasping her plump neck with both hands. She let out a startled gasp as she clawed at his chest. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him as he squeezed tighter. Her eyes were now no longer glazed with drink, but sober and filled with terror. She went limp, her legs buckling from under her as he lowered her down beside the stable door. She was still breathing, a solitary wheeze coming from her throat.

  “I hope you can hear me, slut whore,” he whispered as he pulled the box containing his knife from his pocket and opening it.

  “You filthy, dirty cunt,” he whispered as he knelt beside her.

  He gripped the blade and slashed her throat from the left and towards him, a small jet of blood squirting from her neck. She gargled, and one leg twitched. He was filled with a burst of energy, as he took the blade to the opposite side of the neck, and pulled it across with all the force he could muster, the blade cutting through the flesh and muscles with ease. He felt the blade catch on the bones of the neck even as a great gout of blood bubbled upwards and spilt over onto the pavement.

  “And now, whore, a fitting end to your filthy life,” he whispered as he pulled up her skirts, exposing her fatty stomach. He made three downward slashes, watching as the skin separated. With images of his mother in his mind, he plunged the knife into her stomach just below her ribs and pulled the blade towards him opening a deep incision which began to seep blood from the fatty, yellow inner skin.

  “A little surprise for those that find you, whore,” he whispered as he made a few further slashes at her stomach, and then pulled her skirts back over her legs, covering his work. He glanced both ways up and down the street and saw it was still empty. He put the still bloody knife back in its case and wiped his hands on a rag which he removed from his jacket.

  Taking a last look around, he walked away from the body onto Brady Street. Ahead of him was Whitechapel Road. He could see the roof of the Royal London Hospital as he made his way to Bedford Street, keeping his head low and his bloody hands in his pockets. If anyone should question him about the blood he would tell them where he worked. What he did. A surgeon’s assistant with blood on them was not at all unusual. It was perfect. A wave of euphoria overcame him; he had for the time being satisfied his urge and was already planning his next. This time, he was sure that his work would be noticed. He had left her in a place she could not be ignored. The way he had cut her fatty flesh, the copper smell which filled his nostrils were feelings which he could not wait to feel again.

  Next time, the whore will be spread all over, the rancid insides left out to air

  Eventually, he arrived at his lodgings on Jane Street. It was almost four in the morning, yet he was not tired. He washed the filthy whore blood from his hands, elated and charged with an excitement and energy which he had never experienced before. Clean and with a change of clothes, he fell into the chair by the fire and closed his eyes.

  Soon, whores, you will bleed like the animals you are. Until then, fear will keep you until I come. You will all feel my wrath.

  Still unable to sleep, he paced the empty rooms of his lodgings, watching as the sky faded from black to grey, signalling the new day. He wondered if they had found her yet and if they had what they had made of his work. He wanted to see, to feel the fear on the streets, to hear the speculation. He could wait no longer. Edward pulled on his coat and left the house.

  He arrived at Buck’s Row, to find a scene very different to the one he had left earlier. A huge crowd of people had gathered and were being ushered back by police officers. This was what he had wanted. The Drama, the uproar, He shoved his way through to the front, desperate to see the body in the full light of day, but all he could see was a flash of green dress material and a pale leg.

  “What happened?” he asked a man beside him in the crowd.

  “Somebody offed a whore. Slit her throat by the looks of it,”

  “Here in the street?”

  “Aye, I walked past not fifteen minutes before they found her and didn’t see a thing.”

  Lucky me

  Edward retreated across the street. He watched the growing crowd as they speculated on who might be responsible for such a bold murder and felt a surge of elation second only to the act itself. There was an excitement in the air. He watched as people flashed each other nervous glances, or spoke in animated huddles of threes and fours.

  He was proud of his achievement and imagined it was how a new father would feel at the birth of a child. Satisfied, he walked down Bucks Row away from the crowd, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check on his handiwork. He was determined that next time he would give the crowds more to talk about. He would cut the next one deeper, make more of a show. The conflict that had been within him had gone, and now only the thirst to do his work remained.

  Hapgood put his pen down and stared at Miller.

  “Something wrong?”

  “You speak of these atrocities with such indifference. It is difficult to hear.”

  “Do not waste your time thinking of the whores. They received only what they deserved and are long in their graves in any case.”

  “They did not deserve to die in such a gruesome manner, no matter the circumstances of their lives.”

  “And what would be the alternative? To allow them to parade their filthy flesh and pass on their disease to anyone with a few pennies to spare? No. Their fate was as they deserved. Justice was done.”

  “I fail to see the justice in this situation. Perhaps some might say death would be a just end for you.”

  “As I told you in the kitchen, death holds no fear for me. Besides, no hangman will slip his noose on me, I can assure you. You may not agree with me and that is your right.”

  Hapgood tossed his pen aside. “Perhaps I no longer wish to hear of it. There is only so much horror a man can take.”

  “Perhaps not.” Miller agreed “I could leave you, this night, Hapgood. Give you your peace and leave you to consider if you wish to hear the rest.’ Miller looked at him, a wry smile appearing on his lips. ‘Perhaps I could come back at a later date when your wife is home. How I’d love to meet her.’

  The threat was obvious, not so much in Miller’s voice, but in his eyes. Hapgood noticed they had taken on a predatory, vacant look which Hapgood suspected was the one Miller used back in his prime, back when he was a dangerous animal. It had never occurred to him that the beast could still be there. Controlled yes, but there all the same. “No, we shall finish tonight, if only so I can be rid of you and your evil from my home.” Hapgood grunted.

  “You are just like the rest. Quick to judge without knowing the facts. You with your perfect life which has never known the meaning of struggle and has never been forced through hardship such as I.”

  “People suffer hardship every day without resorting to butchering women.”

  Miller turned to look at the fire, fists clenched in his lap. “Perhaps we should continue on before one of us does something the other may regret. We have but scratched the surface of
what is yet to be told.”

  “Yes, perhaps we should,” Hapgood said, deciding that diffusing the situation was the best option. He took a fresh piece of paper and prepared to write.

  “So September began with the infamy I desired. Whitechapel was rife with talk of the whore’s death. For the next few nights, I wondered the streets, listening to the chatter or the drunken conversations in the pubs about my work. It was a few days into September on a cold damp evening when I was to encounter a man who would become both a thorn in my side and a catalyst for my continued efforts to shock and scare the people of England.

  It was a little after midnight and Bucks Row was silent. Interest in the Nichols murder had waned and no evidence remained of what had transpired just a few nights before. Edward stood at the spot, looking at the ground where the whore had bled to death. He looked for any trace of his work, but the blood had long been washed away. It already felt like such a long time ago, and the heat of rage was building up inside him again. He took his cigarettes from his pocket and started to search his pockets, looking for his matches.

  From behind came the sound of a match being struck. He spun around startled to see the shadowy figure of a man across the street, the orange glow of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. The figure approached Edward, the shadows bleeding away as he stepped into the moonlight.

  “Need a light?” the man asked, handing the matches to Edward.

  “Thank you,” said Edward as he took the matches and lit his cigarette. The man from the shadows was well dressed, wearing a brown suit with a white shirt and tie. His face was puffy, and he had large sideburns which came down low and formed a moustache. Atop his head, he wore a bowler hat. The man’s eyes were sharp and watched Edward with intense curiosity.

  His cigarette lit, Edward handed the matches back to the man. “Thank you.”

  The man nodded and looked beyond Edward the pavement. “Nasty business here the other night.”

  “Yes, I heard all about it.”

  “I suspect everyone in Whitechapel has by now. I wonder though what brings you out here at such a late hour.”

  “I suppose I wanted to see for myself. Curiosity, perhaps.”

  “Indeed. Most in this area I believe visited on the morning of the murder.”

  “I hear there was quite the crowd,” Edward said

  The man took a long draught on his cigarette. “Could I have your name, sir?” he asked as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

  “Only if I can have yours first.”

  “I am Inspector Abberline. I’m the officer in charge of this investigation.” The man said, holding out a hand to Edward.

  “Apologies inspector, I did not know you were with the police,” Edward replied as he shook Abberline’s hand, his gut contracting in fear at the unexpected turn of events.

  “Indeed. And now sir if I could have your name now you have mine?”

  “Miller... James Miller.”

  Edward didn’t know why he had given his father’s name. His mind was more and more doing things of its own accord seemingly without his input.

  “Do you live in the area, Mr. Miller?”

  “Fenton Street,” he replied, again lying. He lived on Jane Street but had bloody clothing and his knife in his lodgings and wasn’t prepared to give his real address until he had moved them.

  “Jane Street,” repeated Abberline. “And where were you on the night of the murder, Mr. Miller?”

  “I was at home, Inspector, sleeping as any respectable man would at that hour. Surely I am not under suspicion for this terrible crime?”

  “Everyone is a suspect until the killer is caught. Anyone who walks the streets and lingers at the murder site is bound to be asked questions.”

  “I would hardly call it lingering. I just wanted to see the scene. Surely that is no crime.”

  “No, it is not. Even so, perhaps you should move along and pursue something less morbid.”

  “Yes, perhaps I should. Thank you, Inspector, for the match.”

  Miller walked away from Abberline, a mixture of fury and fear within him. Although he didn’t look back he could feel the Inspector watching him. He needed a drink if only to calm his nerves and made his way to the Ten Bells, which as always was crowded and noisy. He pushed his way through to the bar and waited to be served and looked around the room, looking for an empty corner to hide away in. He was about to give up when he saw Mary at one of the small tables in the corner. Edward shoved his way through the crowd towards her.

  “Mary?”

  “Oh, Mr. Miller, how are you?”

  “May I join you?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not good company today, but please, take a seat.”

  Miller sat opposite her, mesmerised by how beautiful she was. He had to remind himself she was a filthy whore just like the others, although the conflict within him had returned at seeing her likeness to Lucy.

  “I heard the news about your friend, I’m sorry for your loss,” He said as he pushed the rage aside.

  “Thank you. It was a shock, I have known Polly ever since I moved to Whitechapel.”

  Miller nodded and sipped his drink. “The streets are dangerous. You might be best to stay off them until this man is caught.”

  “If only I had that choice. My lodgings won’t pay for themselves. I’m afraid, and I must do what is necessary to keep going.”

  “Is there no other way?” He asked, feeling the old sting of jealousy at the thought of a man being with her.

  “I wish there were. All I have is my body which I am forced to sell for money.”

  “Surely someone so attractive would have no trouble finding a nice man to settle with.”

  Her smile made him ache inside and drew attention to his loneliness. “Are you offering, Mr. Miller?”

  He wanted very much to say yes, yet the pain of his experience with Lucy and the things she had done, the things his mother had done made it impossible. In addition, there was his work, his beautiful work that had just begun and was nowhere close to ending. She was waiting for an answer, and Edward had no choice but to give her one. “I believe you can find a much better man than me.”

  “You have a poor opinion of yourself. You are a good looking gent if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I’m afraid my work is quite time-consuming at the moment, and I could not give you the life you deserve.”

  “What do you do as a job?”

  “I work in the hospital, nothing as extravagant as a doctor, I’m simply a porter.”

  “You are lucky to have work at all. It’s hard out there.”

  They were silent for a moment, Mary swilling the last dregs of drink in her glass as he watched her. He was wondering what would be more beautiful, to see her milky flesh naked and calling to him, or flayed open to the bone.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not feeling too well tonight, I just like to have a couple before I head out to work. It makes it easier to tolerate.”

  “Do you not fear that Polly’s killer will strike again?” It was the dark thing within him that had asked the question. He could feel it lingering in his mind, waiting to strike.

  “Of course, but what choice do I have?”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to cause offence.”

  “It’s ok, I’m not upset, I just wish there was another way I could...” She finished her drink and stood. “I have to go Mr. Miller. I have work to do.”

  “Won’t you stay for another drink?”

  “I can’t, I have to go. Thank you for talking to me tonight.”

  Without waiting for his reply, she left, pushing her way through the crowd and out of the doors. He stayed for another few hours and drank. Later that night he staggered home filled with a great and dark depression. He arrived at his lodgings, fell into bed and lapsed into a sleep filled with dreams of blood and flayed flesh. He woke at first light, biting his hand to stifle the screams brought on by his nightmare an
d wondering if he was starting to lose his grip on sanity.

  For the next three days, he did not leave the house. Instead, he walked from room to room, lost in his own thoughts. He had no appetite and found sleep hard to come by that wasn’t plagued with nightmares. His mood was only lightened by thoughts of Mary, and yet whenever she came to his mind, the dark thing spoke, whispering to him from the shadows.

  You know what you have to do. Make the streets run red with the blood of another whore

  He tried to push his thoughts aside. It was too soon after the last and Abberline made him nervous. He was sure the Inspector had seen through his deception, and at every sound expected him to burst through the door and make an arrest.

  His eyes drifted to the locked cabinet which contained his knife, cleaned and sharpened since his last outing. Just a week had passed since the first whore and yet he knew he must strike again if only to silence the dark thing in his mind. He decided that he would leave it to fate. If he found sleep that night, he would strike the very next.

  The evening of September eighth was cool and overcast, and somewhat refreshed following an undisturbed night’s sleep, Edward felt strong and ready to continue his work. He walked the streets, watching the world go by. The whores were abundant in number and swarming on every other street corner or doorway, watching him with their greedy eyes. He tried to ignore them, yet found his gaze drawn time and time again towards them, all shapes and sizes, all ages. He looked up to see a group of four boys heading in the opposite direction. They were drunk and locked eyes on him as they drew near. A bristle of excitement and discomfort surged through him, and he lowered his gaze, hoping to pass them without incident. One of the boys nudged his shoulder as they passed.

  “You fuckin’ watch where you walk,”

  He fought the urge to confront them, not wanting to draw undue attention to himself. Already they were attracting a few glances from the multitudes of houses and doorways that lined the street.

  “Oi, are you fuckin’ deaf? I’m talking to you, cunt!” the boy said.