Dating : They Call Me Jack the Ripper

For the month of November, it was a rather warm night, as I recall. The smells of the night coupled with that ever-present fog deepened to its usual foul bluster spread its tentacles over the city and the East End slum denizens who were as vile as their surroundings. A grimmer picture one could not possibly envision where tumbledown old buildings, drunken layabouts, thieves, prostitutes crammed together by the thousands and in such a clawing menagerie of degradation and disease, that over time Whitechapel and all the other crime-infested breeding grounds like it had simply become an eyesore to those living elsewhere. A pitiful blight of humanity, of course, that too. But an accepted fact to them all the same.

It was also late, well past the two a.m. hour as I strode casually along High Street. The thoroughfare and all its arteries that in the light of day were a noisy bustle of activity now stood mostly deserted. A reminder that even the lowest of low had to sleep at some point or another.

I continued to walk, the sound of my footsteps muted in the shadowy background like a cat padding across a fresh blanket of snow. And then, to my great fortune, I spotted her coming out of a tavern. Wobbly from exhaustion barely surviving the long hours on her feet — much less her back — the woman seemed to slobber over her words as she bid her pub mates farewell, then huddled like a turtle deep inside her jacket before pressing on.

As if her survival instincts were suddenly awakened from an inebriated deep sleep, her pace began to slow and she looked around with the droopy eye of suspicion before resuming in the direction I surmised was home.

Veiled in the shadows, I followed along as she turned onto Dorset Street. I watched her weaving in and out of the misty fog hanging mid-air over the cobblestoned street. I watched as she passed beneath the streetlight, and it was then spotting her image in the store window that she stopped to stare as if she was looking at something alien.

“Look at ya! Ya bleedin’ filfy,” she grumbled aloud.

There her gaze wandered slowly up then down over the bruised straw bonnet worn high on her head and twisted with satin, then to the soiled red dress flowing underneath her black jacket and reaching practically to the floor where scuffed-up boot tips stuck out like muddy toes.

If ever the moment was a sobering reality check, this was surely it, I couldn’t help thinking when she next leaned in for an even better look at the stinging, black and blue ring around her eye, compliments from some less than friendly customer, I suppose, who probably wanted a refund.

“Nothin’ but lousy dipsticks the ‘ole lot of ‘em!”

It was with that proclamation and a deep sigh she was once again walking, and I was once again in quiet pursuit. Through the darkness, she went. Down George Street with its claustrophobic entanglement of lodging houses, stables, and narrow courts, stumbling here and there while passing the time with a tune. Any tune, I suppose, just to keep herself distracted and awake.

Aware time was growing short, I made my move. As I drifted from out of the shadows, she didn’t notice at first the silhouette of a man with a slight limp, wearing a black bowler hat and cape, inching toward her. The well-to-do specter that seemed to appear out of nowhere like someone merely taking a casual late-night stroll, walking stick in one hand, sizable leather bag in the other, as though this rookery was home to him. But then she heard the unmistakable footsteps and turned with a look of alarm stamped into her face.

There was a momentary pause, a frozen blip where time seemed to stand still. I recall thinking in that instant she was going to run and what a disaster that would be. All my hard work would have been for naught. But like some magical fairy dust blowing my way, I tipped my hat to the constable sauntering past and the woman’s frightened expression instantly softened to a smile with sex now taking charge of the air.

In full character mode, she stepped off the sidewalk into the street toward more. Hips and breasts thrusting and swaying this way and that, all part of the game, you might say, if she wanted the job.

“Bit late for it walk, ain’t it luv?”

I merely returned her smile, as if sizing up the merchandise.

“Like what ya see?” Standing there beneath the street lamp, she cupped her large, sagging breasts as though she fancied herself every man’s fantasy.

“That I do.”

“You ain’t one of them funny ‘oity-toity types are ya? Can’t ‘ave none of that.”

“No. Not at all,” I replied, my deep voice a song of upper-crust gentility compared to her gutter Cockney.

I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself. Her dark brown hair was done just the way I liked it. Long and thick, parted down the middle, then twirled together in a loose knot, pinned in the back. Everything else about her mattered to me not, whether she was young or old, thin or fat. And like all the others, she would never be missed.

“Alright then, Mista la-di-da. What’s it wurth to ya?”

No sooner had she uttered those words than the shiny gold quid flashed in her face. A tidy sum for which I was confident she would gladly spread those legs of hers and even more.

With the business aspect now firmly out of the way and the coin back in my breast pocket, she nonchalantly slipped her arm through mine, linking us as one, and we glided off like love birds to complete our transaction.

“I know just the perfect place,” she said as I let her lead me where she willed.

Angel Alley, ah yes, it was perfect indeed. A more suitable spot away from tenement windows, any windows, and any chance of being seen, I thought, eyeing the narrow cobblestone highway opening up in front of us, I could not have picked myself. Just me, her, and the rats. And, of course, who would they tell?

“Where are you taking me?” I finally asked, feeling the tug of my arm and the need to at least pretend to be curious and naively ignorant.

“Don’t you now worry, Duckie. You’re in good ‘ands wiff me and mama’s gonna make ‘er little man feel good. Real good.” She eyed the obvious bulge in my trousers while luring me down the darkened alley.

It took only a matter of moments for us to situate ourselves. With her back against the wall, her legs apart and firmly planted to the ground, her fingers grasping the hem of her dress being hiked to her hips, the brief urge to talk came over me like a wave, knowing pleasure would come soon enough.

“What’s your name?”

“Mary,” she replied, seeming momentarily confused. “Same as me Mum’s.”

It was only there under the moonlight beaming down between the sliver of buildings I saw the signs of her age reflecting back at me. The dull lifeless eyes, the gray strands of hair threading through, the swollen pallor comically rouged yearning to reclaim its youth.

“Lovely name. My mother was also named Mary.” Nodding thoughtfully, I pulled out my pocket watch, fingered it open, then showed this Mary a small heart-shaped photo of my dear, departed mother sitting for posterity like an angel.

“Now ain’t she grand?” Her bloodshot eyes lingered a second or two on the photo, then dropped soaking in my right pinky minus a digit. “Ah, Duckie, will ya look at that. Poor fing’s missin’ its ‘ead.”

My stony gaze locked onto hers as I clapped the gold piece shut. “It’s irrelevant.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Because for what I’m about to do to you, I don’t need it.”

The rustle she heard next might have been the same sound she’d heard a million times before. A prick itching to get free. Foolish, foolish woman. It was never the business between her legs that would spin my head into a frenzy.

The movement of my left arm came out of nowhere. Everything next happened swiftly, precisely, and almost in a blink. The knife slicing her from ear-to-ear, the familiar sighing sound escaping her lips as she took her last breath, then the blood. Oh yes, the warm, sweet spray bathing over me like an aphrodisiac as the blade ripped her open stem to stern, tearing through fabric, through flesh, through throbbing parts, leaving me gasping for breath.

It was that easy, that quick. Too quick, I thought as I stood there shuddering in the clutches of ecstasy, savoring those last seconds before feeling drained to the last drop.

A moment later the case was open, in went the knife, I grabbed the rags, wiped off all the evidence, changed my clothes, looked around, saw no one. Then, with an air of indifference, I snapped the bag shut as though this was business as usual and took off.

I never looked back. Not once. I hurried through the darkness with calculated steps, briskly but not rashly, cool as ice. Back toward High Street, where luck would have it, a hansom cab stood waiting.

“Where to Guv’nor?”

“Railway station. And a quid if you hurry.”

It was close to dawn by the time I reached Toxteth, the wealthy, inner-city area of Liverpool where merchants and physicians and I built elegant Victorian structures reaching to the sky.

The front door opened before my key touched the metal.

“Sir.” The butler bowed slightly, taking the black bowler and walking stick from my hand as I rapidly strode past him toward my bedroom, my mind on a million things.

“I trust we all set for the morning?”

“Yes, sir. Your trunk is all packed. A carriage will be here, bright and early, allowing enough time for you to meet the ship.”

“Good man, Stevens. I can always rely on you.”

“Sir?”

“What is it?” Somewhat miffed, I stopped short, my hand on the porcelain knob. “I’m very tired.”

“I apologize, Sir. But might I inquire how long you’ll be detained in New York? With your busy practice and a full social calendar, no doubt there shall be many queries in your absence and I only wish to know what might I reply?”

I sucked in a breath, all at once feeling light as a feather. Realizing I was leaving behind a messy trail and about to embark on a grand new adventure across the sea to a place teeming with an endless supply of human possibilities, I said, “Well, I suppose I could easily be detained for quite a while. Who knows? Maybe forever.”