I was Jack The Ripper (Part Two): Read online

  I WAS JACK THE RIPPER

  By

  MICHAEL BRAY

  PART TWO

  Copyright © 2017 Michael Bray

  WWW.MICHAELBRAYAUTHOR.COM

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  All rights reserved.

  DISCLAIMER FROM THE AUTHOR

  Before we dive into this story I thought it was a good idea to say a brief word or two to make sure we are all on the same page. This book, although based on the awful Whitechapel murders in London in 1888, is NOT intended as a historically accurate novel. That said, I have put a lot of research into this book to make sure it is accurate to the timeframe, however, if you are coming here looking for a theory on who I think Jack the Ripper was, you may have come to the wrong place. For all of the speculation on who may be responsible in reality from Tumblety to Sir William Gull and everyone in between, I have decided to meld fiction into fact, and so MY jack is not a person who existed in reality and as a result not one of the existing suspects. This was done so I could make the very best work of fiction that I could. There are plenty of historical books that deal with who may or may not have been the killer, this is not one of those. This is very much a fictional story created around some of the most brutal crimes ever to take place in England. If you came in expecting something else, then youmay want to stop reading now and move on and get something from the true crimes section.

  If you are still with me and want to come along, then I invite you all to join me in nineteenth-century England, a time when it was dark, cruel and brutal, and we are about to pick up the story of a writer who is about to be visited by a man with a strange and spectacular story to tell….

  WARNING

  This book contains content that some readers may find disturbing.

  Please do not continue to read if you are easily shocked or offended.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hapgood sat silent, pen hovering over the paper. He watched Miller, who was staring off into the middle distance, his thoughts elsewhere. Despite all that this man had done, evil deeds for which there could be no forgiveness, Hapgood found himself feeling incredible sympathy. He couldn’t comprehend the kind of damage that such a traumatic experience would do to a child.

  “I’m sorry for your ordeal, Mr Miller. Nobody should have to experience the things which you speak of.”

  Miller didn’t answer. He stared at the fire, a deep frown etched on his face.

  “Have you ever tried to find out what happened to your father?”

  “To what end? He was dead to me from that day. The irony is that for all of my hatred, in the eyes of the public, I have become that which I hated about him. I truly am my father’s son.”

  Hapgood nodded, still struggling to handle how surreal the whole situation was.

  “As I’m sure you are aware, my work in Whitechapel bore no signs of sexual coupling. This was not a coincidence. After the events of that day when my childhood was snatched from me, I would never again be able to achieve sexual arousal of any kind.

  “Then why do it? Why brutalise those women in such a way?”

  Miller pondered, his index finger tapping on the arm of the chair as he composed his thoughts. “For a time, my mother and I continued our lives. Of course, our relationship was irreparably broken and we barely held conversation. She blamed all that had happened on me and I was so embarrassed that I declined to argue. I grew up isolated and alone, is it any surprise I found solace in violence?”

  “This is beyond violence.”

  Miller smiled, staring off into the fire again. “I spent my young life hating that woman. I longed for her death, then when it came I wept because it occurred to me that I was now truly alone. Even at the end as she lay on her death bed she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Such a fragile creature I was then, Mr Hapgood that I sobbed and begged for forgiveness for something I was innocent of.”

  Silence filled the room as Hapgood finished writing and took out a fresh piece of paper. “What happened next? After your mother passed?”

  “I was sixteen when it happened and fortunate to find employment at the Royal London Hospital, cleaning the operating rooms and moving the dead to the morgue. I used to watch the surgeons as they worked on their patients, how they made their incisions, how the organs were removed from the body. It’s surprising how much one can pick up if one watches. I enjoyed my employ there surrounded by the spectre of death. Its constant presence provided the comfort I had sought for so many years. Even so, I wasn’t entirely alone. My childhood friend George also found employment at the hospital. He and I were friends as children until his mother married into wealth. As a result, my friend was studying to be a doctor and I a common janitor. Even though our lives had taken very different paths the two of us had remained close.”

  “That must have brought you comfort.”

  Miller shrugged. “Not particularly. I yearned for something to fill the emptiness which had grown within me, something to give me a sense of normality or belonging.” He sighed and folded his slender hands. “You may ask why I choose to spend so much time dwelling on this period of my life when there are other areas of it that I’m sure you would prefer to discuss. To that, I say all in good time. This part of my life was instrumental in shaping what was to come later, and it is important I tell it so that understanding may come about what took place later. As with all things that melt a man’s heart, a woman was at its centre and this story is no different. Allow me to tell you of my one true love, Mr Hapgood. I was wavering on the edge of the precipice between sanity and madness. Little did I know that she who I imagined would be my saviour would become the catalyst for all that was yet to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The filthy walls of the operating theatre reverberated with the screams of the man who lay on the wooden table. Two nurses restrained the man’s arms as the surgeon worked at the gaping stomach wound.

  “Nurse, More Morphine for this man! He is wide awake!” Bellowed the doctor as he tried to keep a bloody grip on the man’s stomach.

  “I’m sorry sir,” she said as she administered a large dose to the man, who still writhed and bucked in agony, his eyes bugging out of his skull.

  “This man is a mess.” The doctor muttered to himself as he tried to close the wound.

  “He was stabbed sir,” said one of the nurses as she struggled to hold the man down.

  “I can’t see a bloody thing.” Grunted the doctor. “Miller, bring some cloths!” he bellowed over his shoulder. Edward arrived moments later with a double armful of filthy rags.

  “Good” yelled the doctor. “Clean up some of this mess, and don’t get in my way!”

  Edward moved around the doctor with practised ease, wiping the blood from the table and the body. His eyes were wide as he watched the doctor work. Edward could see inside the man’s stomach, the fatty yellow inner flesh visible above a great train of intestine. He longed to see more, and as he cleaned he wondered what other secrets lay within that hole.

  The patient gave one last spasm and then lay still on the table. The doctor continued to work on the wound, then paused to listen to the man’s chest.

  “This man is dead.” He said, wiping his bloody hands on his apron.

  Edward barely heard him. He was looking at the man’s eyes and had seen the life fade from them.

  “You will get used to sights like this boy,” the doctor said, mistaking Edward’s wonder for fear. “Now take this man to the morgue, and clean up the rest of this mess.” Edward nodded and watched the doctor leave, the nurses following him.

  The room fell silent.
Edward approached the body on the table and looked into the stomach cavity. He wanted to touch it, to experience the feel of those slick, cooling innards on his skin. He reached out, heart thundering at the idea. As his hand drifted closer to the wound, the door to the operating room opened and the doctor returned. Edward withdrew his hand and did his best to remain calm. “Leave that for now boy. The patient’s daughter is here for news of her father, and I have more work to do. Go outside and inform her of his death.

  Edward was about to object that such things were not part of his job, but the doctor had already gone, leaving Edward and the corpse alone. Realising how close he had come to being caught and how he couldn’t afford to lose his job, he decided the best thing to do would be to distance himself from temptation and do what had been asked of him. He skirted around the body, giving it a last longing look, then exited the operating room.

  He made his way through the gloomy halls, the moans and wails of the injured and dying no more than background noise as he twisted his way through the throng of people who were lingering in and around the hospital. The sick were everywhere and some had been there since he had begun work earlier that morning, still waiting to be seen by a doctor. It was too crowded, too hot, and with the memories of the gaping stomach wound still fresh he needed to clear his mind before informing the patient’s daughter to tell her of her father demise.

  Edward made his exit, stepping out into the chilly air. He stood on the street, taking huge gulps of soot tasting air. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the woman approach until she lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she said.

  The girl was slim, her blonde hair in curls that stopped on her shoulders. Her skin was milky white, her eyes brown and full of curious wonder and sadness.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was hoping for news of my father. He was attacked by a gang and stabbed.”

  “What is your father’s name?” Edward mumbled, staring at his feet and too shy to make eye contact with the girl.

  “Simmonds. Derek Simmonds. My name is Lucy. I’m his daughter.”

  He forced himself to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry to inform you that your father is dead.”

  She nodded, then forced a smile. “I do not know what I am to do now. I expected this in a way with how bad his injuries were. Even so, I hoped he would be saved.”

  The doctor did all he could to help your father.”

  “Are you a doctor too?” she asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not.” He said, too embarrassed to tell her of his lowly role within the hospital.

  “You should be. You have good hands. Surgeon’s hands.”

  “There is nothing much good about me, Miss. Nothing at all,” he said, again staring at the ground.

  “That I don’t believe. I believe you to be a kind man, even if you do appear troubled.”

  “If you would come with me into the hospital, I will give you your father’s things.”

  Edward led her back into the stuffy, overcrowded hospital, unsure how to react to the excitement that surged through him. This was different to the feeling when he performed his secret work on animals. This was a more intoxicating and intense feeling which he didn’t want to end. His life had been lonely, and he had never had any attention from women, his shame at what happened to him as a child and the resulting lack of confidence making even talking to the opposite sex incredibly difficult to the point of crippling. This situation felt different, however. It was a strange feeling for someone to speak to him without prejudice or insulting his appearance. Edward wondered if this was how happiness felt, and if so could see why so many strived to achieve it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Miller paused, his lower lip trembling as he stared into the fire.

  Hapgood set down his pen and stretched. “You were in love?”

  “Very much so, or at least it was the first such experience in my young life at the time. Understand Mr Hapgood that I had, to that point, lived a life of solitude and hatred, shame and misery. Even George was too busy with his work at the hospital to spend time on our friendship. He was deep into his surgical training funded by the wealth his mother had fallen into and had little time to spend with me. In hindsight, I wonder if he was just embarrassed at having a friend of the lower classes. It was true that he was now mixing with his own kind, people of a much higher social class than I. Lucy, however, held no such judgement. She and I grew close, first as friends then as more than that.”

  “What of your… other habits?”

  Miller set his empty glass on the table. “It seemed somehow less important. The urges were still there, yet they were greatly diminished. I killed only two cats and one small dog during that first year.”

  “That’s quite a change.”

  “It was. I never imagined my life could recover after the trauma of my childhood, however, Lucy brought out the best in me. Even George commented on one of our rare meetings how the two of us were as one. Always together, our conversations easy and natural. Of course, she could never know of my secret pastime. That was for me alone. Even so, nothing good lasts forever, Mr Hapgood, and that love was to be short lived.”

  Hapgood waited for Miller to elaborate, but no more words came. Instead, a deep silence filled the room. “How about another drink?” Hapgood said, already on his feet and making his way to the drinks cabinet.

  “No more brandy for me. I wonder if I could trouble you for some tea?” Miller said, keeping his gaze directed at the fire to hide the tears which ran down his face.

  “Of course. Please excuse me for a moment.” Hapgood replied, giving Miller a little privacy to compose himself. He stood in the hall, mind still reeling from the information. It occurred to him that he could if he wished, escape. The front door was closer than the kitchen. He could make it to the street and fetch help, tell someone what had happened, but he knew no good would come of it. He would return to find an empty house, and perhaps himself be admonished for wasting the time of the police. Then sometime later, when he was least expecting it, Miller would return, return and take vengeance for Hapgood's actions on him and his family, and their safety was key in his decision not to flee. More than that, he was now intrigued and invested. There was no evidence of a lie in the things he was being told. His impression was that Miller was exactly who he said he was. The truth of that matter was that he didn’t want to run. He wanted to hear the rest of the story and know just what had broken the man sitting by his fire and transformed him into the monster he would become. Taking a final look at the door and escape, Hapgood went to the kitchen and began to prepare the tea. He half suspected there was no reason to believe he was in any danger. Whatever Miller once claimed to be, he was clearly now a spent force. A broken shell of what once was. Hapgood decided that he would remain civil and courteous and would write Miller’s story, true or false he would scribe every last word, and later craft a tremendous book.

  “You seem lost in thought, Mr Hapgood.” came the voice from behind him, causing him to spin towards the kitchen door. Miller was watching Hapgood prepare the tea.

  “My apologies. I’m sure you can understand that this evening has been unusual, to say the least.”

  “Make no apology Mr Hapgood, it would seem that my trust in you was well served.” He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. “You could have escaped if that were your intention, and yet you did not. I wonder why that would be?” Miller was absently toying with the large bread knife on the table. Hapgood was unable to take his eyes from the blade as it danced and shimmered in the lamplight. Miller saw him watching and laughed. “This is larger and longer than the one I used,” he said, twisting the knife around and over the back of his hand. “Too cumbersome for my kind of work.”

  Hapgood saw it then. A flash of Hapgood in his prime buried somewhere under the tired and broken thing he was now. The sharpness of the eyes, the wicked half smile as he soaked in his host’s fear.

  “Have no fear
. I mean you no harm. Your discomfort amuses me.” Miller said before plunging the knife into the half loaf of bread and pinning to the table.

  “I would, however, like to know why did you not try to escape?”

  Hapgood tried to formulate an excuse, a reasonable lie but could find none. His eyes drifted from the blade to Miller and decided to be truthful. “Your story is fascinating. I cannot claim to have experienced such horrors as the ones you have confided in me Mr Miller, and although I know that it is wrong to entertain you here in my home, especially if you are who you claim to be. It is true that every fibre in my body tells me to stop…” Hapgood hesitated, looking away from Miller in shame. “ … and yet I feel not unsympathetic to your plight.” Hapgood finished, before turning back to making the tea.

  “There is, of course, another reason it is prudent for me to continue. Your notoriety is second to none as you are aware. Telling your story would be good for my future and that of my family. Selfish as it may seem, that is the truth.”

  He turned with the tea. “Shall we return to the study?” Hapgood asked.

  Miller shook his head. “Perhaps we could continue our conversation here?”

  Hapgood's eyes went to the knife, still hanging blade upright from the loaf of bread. Miller followed Hapgood’s gaze, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “Please feel free to put away the knife if it will make you feel more at ease.”

  Hapgood flushed and forced himself to look Miller in the eye. “That won’t be necessary,” he said as he set the tea on the table. “Please help yourself to tea Mr Miller; I will fetch my pen and paper.” When he returned, Miller had poured them both a cup of tea. The bread and knife had been placed by the sink, leaving the kitchen table bare apart from the tea. Hapgood seated himself opposite Miller and prepared his pen and another blank sheet of paper.