I Was Jack The Ripper (Part 3) Read online

  I WAS JACK THE RIPPER

  PART III

  By

  MICHAEL BRAY

  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 time frame, 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 you may want to stop reading now and move on and get somethingfrom 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.

  Miller paused, lost in contemplation. Hapgood wrote on, ignoring the screaming in his wrist and the numb feeling in his fingers. He was breathless, and at first didn’t realise that Miller had stopped speaking. He finished writing, and then looked at Miller.

  “This is incredible, who would think that the elephant man would...”

  “Joseph,” Miller interrupted. “His name was Joseph and he was a wonderful man.”

  Hapgood lowered his gaze, realising how cold it was in the room.

  “I apologise. It was him then, Mr. Merrick who spurred you on to continue?”

  “Not knowingly. His advice was with the best of intentions I’m sure.”

  “Indeed. And you took to visiting him regularly I presume?” he added.

  Miller shook his head.

  “Sadly not. And if I have but one regret then this is it. I intended to, of course, I genuinely did, however as the next months progressed, I’m sorry to say poor Joseph slipped my mind.”

  Hapgood said nothing, feeling that silence was the best response.

  “I do miss him, Mr. Hapgood. When news of his passing reached me, I felt genuine sadness. I wish I had visited him once more.”

  There was a lengthy silence, and then Hapgood stood and stretched.

  “Perhaps now would be a good time to take a short break.”

  “I fear that if I stop now then I will not be able to continue. I...”

  He began to cough, producing a white handkerchief from his pocket and holding it over his mouth and nose. Eventually, it subsided, and Miller wiped his lips. The handkerchief was stained with blood.

  “Do not be alarmed,” Miller said folding the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “My death is approaching and unavoidable. Perhaps now you now understand the urgency of my meeting with you?”

  It was as if seeing this man coughing up blood in his kitchen shattered the myth that Hapgood had built. He was just a man, one who suddenly looked very old and frail. Hapgood was sure he could stand and walk away, and Miller would not try to stop him. Yet as much as he hated himself for it, he wanted to hear the rest, even though he knew something of the brutality to come.

  ‘You see me differently. The monster’s death draws close and his aura dies with him.’

  Hapgood looked at the table, unsure what to say.

  ‘I understand. To this world I am a beast. A vile thing that any man would say deserves his death. Yet you still want to hear my story. What came next. What came after that which you know.’

  ‘I know how this story ends. You forget I was working no my book before you came to my door this evening.’

  ‘The Kelly woman? You believe that to be the end? That was just a chapter, a stop on a road which will yet grow more twisted before my story is finished. As I said when I arrived, Mr Hapgood. Forget all you think you know. You have heard only a small segment of this particular story.’

  A silence, heavy and oppressive fell over the kitchen. The snow which had threatened had now turned back to rain, and was tapping on the kitchen window trying to get in.

  “Perhaps we should move back into the study?” Hapgood suggested.

  “Yes, it grows cold this night Hapgood. And the tale will grow colder yet.”

  Hapgood nodded and scooped up the stack of paper he had written on, and carried them to the study. Miller followed, veering towards the window which looked out onto the slushy streets. Hapgood sat at his desk, refilling the inkwell, which had almost run dry.

  “Tis a cold winter is it not Mr. Hapgood?”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  Miller returned to his seat, and Hapgood waited, pushing thoughts of the moralistic rights or wrongs of what he was doing to one side.

  Without warning, Miller continued his tale. “It was august, eighteen eighty-eight. It had been a little over two weeks since my discussion with Joseph, and with my renewed determination only increased by the filthy whores selling their rancid flesh on the streets, I was ready to strike again. I had chosen the twenty-ninth, the anniversary of the day I found out the truth about my whore of a mother. A fitting day indeed. History states I had actively selected the next whore as my first; however, her fate was decided by the filthy, stinking bitch herself and I only happened upon her by chance after an earlier failed attempt. As with the first, I was watching from the corner of my seat in the Ten Bells, a veritable nest of those vile and filthy women.

  Set at the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street, The Ten Bells was a popular location for the lower classes of Whitechapel. The small building was full and on most nights its patrons would linger in the doorways or lean on the walls outside as they drank and smoked. Edward sat inside, his table offering him a good view of the door and the bar. It was loud and hot, the air stinking of humanity and alcohol. He finished his fourth drink of the evening and was beginning to feel a little the worse for it as looked at the people who stood in groups laughing and talking, their inhibitions diminished by the alcohol they had consumed. He rubbed his temples, trying to block out the symphony of noise which barraged his senses and refocused his attention to the bar and the two women he had been watching since he arrived, his fury growing with each passing moment. Both had been desperate in their attempts to sell themselves to every man who walked through the door. Edward thought the younger of the two was quite attractive for a whore. Her blonde hair fell below the shoulders and she had an almost innocent face which was betrayed by the way she leaned on the bar, one hand on her hip, chest pushed out and offering what she had to anyone who might be interested.

  The other woman was much older and appeared hideous next to her companion. She was overweight, her hair pulled back on her skull. When she laughed he saw she was missing most of her front teeth.


  Edward felt disgusted and had an overwhelming desire to wash. Amid the smell of smoke and yeast, he was even more certain it was because of women like this that people like him were condemned to suffer. He could imagine them, spreading their diseased and ravaged bodies to anyone willing to throw a few pennies at them and wondered how many lives they had ruined, how many lives like his had been destroyed by whores who cared nothing for the consequences of their actions.

  He would fix it. He would cleanse the city and purge it of its disease. He would strike and strike again until the streets ran red with the blood with no fear of the consequences if he were caught. He knew God was on his side and would see to it that his work was completed. Pushing his simmering rage aside, he stood and made his way towards the bar, shoving his way into a gap beside the two women.

  “Same again?” asked the barkeeper, a barrel of a man with whiskers and a large overhanging stomach.

  Edward nodded as he handed over his empty glass. He glanced at the two women, their respective beauty and ugliness more apparent up close.

  He could smell the desperation on them, the disease which ravaged them to the core.

  “You ok love?” the older of the two had asked, flashing her toothless grin at him.

  Resisting the urge to tear out her eyes, he nodded and smiled, knowing the game had begun.

  “I am, thank you. Would you two ladies like a drink?”

  “Thank you that is most kind of you.” The younger of the two said. Edward thought she looked a lot like Lucy; they had the same eyes and a similar nose. He turned back to the bar, motioning to the barkeep to pour two more pints of ale. He assessed both women; they were drunk, the older of the two tottering and hardly able to stand.

  “Two beautiful ladies such as yourselves should not be drinking alone in a place like this. My name is Edward Miller. And you are?”

  The younger of the two women took his hand and shook it. “My name is Mary, and this is my friend Polly.”

  Edward nodded to Polly, staring at the plump rolls of flesh on her arms and wondering how easily it would rip at the end of his blade.

  “Pleasure to meet you both.”

  “So old cock, do you come here often? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” Polly said. She was slurring her words and struggling to stay on her feet.

  “No, I’m new to the area. I’m out to see what Whitechapel has to offer.”

  Polly cackled and nudged Mary “You came to the right place love, lots on offer round ‘ere if you know where to look ain't’ there, Mary love?”

  Mary nodded and looked at Edward. “Aye, always a lot happening here that’s for sure.”

  Polly leaned close, her breath putrid with booze and decay. “If you are lookin’ for something in particular, perhaps we can help you find it for a penny or two,”

  Edward was about to respond when she lost her footing and tumbled into a table, tipping it over and falling to the ground in a symphony of broken glass. A cheer erupted from the rowdy crowd as Polly struggled to get back to her feet.

  The barkeeper pointed at Polly who was sitting on the floor and laughing to herself.

  “Polly Nichols, get yourself up and out of here. I’m not avin’ you staggering about drunk and smashing the place up.”

  “Fuck off John, I lost my footing that’s all, “She screeched as she stood, still tottering. She propped herself on the bar, using it to stop herself from taking another tumble.

  “I don’t care, come on, Out!”

  “John Waldron, I shall take my business elsewhere,” she slurred as she staggered to the door.

  Waldren shook his head and returned to his customers leaving Kelly and Edward alone.

  “Your friend seems a little worse for the drink,” Edward said.

  “She likes a drink, that’s for sure.”

  “Your accent... Scottish?” he asked.

  “Irish. I was born there and moved over to England when I was just a girl. Things didn’t work out quite as I expected. I didn’t think the accent was still there.” She said, lowering her gaze and taking a sip of her drink. She looked up to find Edward staring at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You remind me of someone I once knew.”

  “Perhaps after this drink, you and I can go somewhere and speak in private?”

  He sipped his drink, trying to appear casual as he gripped his glass tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer. I would, however, like you to stay and drink with me.”

  He wasn’t sure why he said it. He would be unable to complete his work until he got the whore outside and away from the crowd, and yet her similarity to Lucy was stirring old and long forgotten memories and making him once again question if the path he had chosen was one he was willing and able to complete.

  “It’s unusual for a gentleman to ask simply for conversation,” Mary said as she took another sip of her drink.

  “As I said already miss, I wish to find out more of the area in which I am to work.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, what you see is what you get. People round ere’ are mostly poor. Take me for example, I’m a good person, truly I am. I’m just down on my luck.”

  “You are a...”

  Stinking filthy whore.

  “... An unfortunate aren’t you Miss Kelly?”

  Embarrassed, she lowered her gaze.

  ‘At least call it what it is. I’m a whore. I do what I have to so I can get by. It doesn’t mean I like it.

  Edward’s inward battle between guilt and fury raged on. “I apologise if I offended you.”

  “Times are difficult. I don’t like the things I have to do in order to survive any more than you do by the expression on your face.”

  “I understand. All of us do what we must in this world. Perhaps one day your fortunes will change.”

  “I would like to think so, however, I do not yet see any end to my situation. I’ve been here for three years now, in Whitechapel I mean. Of course, I do better than some, Poly is always worse for drink. I fear I’ll become like her.”

  He wanted to tell her not to worry, that it was the fate of all women to offer their stinking, festering fuck holes to any man willing to pay, and that she, like them, would be better off dead. The moralistic and guilt-ridden side of him which had fought so valiantly had now retreated, leaving the cold black festering thing in charge once more. He was conscious of the number of people that had seen him here and cursed them. If he were to tear the flesh from this one later that night, it would surely lead back to him and his work would be over before it even began. Instead, he smiled at her. Choosing words he knew comfort her.

  “If I may say so miss, I see you as different to most of the other unfortunates of Whitechapel. You are beautiful and well spoken. I’m sure you will one day find that your suffering will be over.”

  But not this night little whore. My Lucy will wait to get hers for a while yet.

  “I appreciate the kind words sir, and hope you are right. I’ve had enough of living like this.”

  Edward was struggling to focus. His eyes drifted to the apron she was wearing, it was white and pristine. He imagined it soaked with her blood, how brilliantly bright it would look. He wanted badly to kill her, the desire to tear her flesh was almost too much to bear and knew he must leave lest he do it there and then. He took out his watch, and checked the time, surprised to see that it was almost two thirty in the morning.

  “I’m afraid I must go. The hour grows late.

  She nodded, and moved towards him, whispering in his ear. “Are you certain you need no company tonight Mr. Miller?”

  He saw in her eyes a feral desire, and wondered if she perhaps thought he would take her in and offer her the life which she dreamed of. He did want to take her home, yet couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill her or build a rapport, get her away from the wretched stench and squalor and see if she could provide that which Lucy couldn’t and stop the path wh
ich until earlier that night had seemed like the only option available to him. He was suddenly very aware of the volume of chatter coming from all around as he breathed the smoky, stale air which burned his lungs.

  “Again I must decline. I would, however, like to see you again,” he blurted before he could stop himself. The rage in his gut was hot and he felt as if he were going to explode.

  “I would like that.” She said but elaborated no further.

  He shook her hand, both repulsed and elated at her touch and made his leave, pushing outside into the night. Rain poured with fury, but he was grateful for the cool air on his skin. His head drummed at the same pace as his heart as the conflict within him poked and prodded at his psyche. He walked past the church at Spitalfields, hoping that air and distance would help him to resolve such an unexpected conflict. Almost every street was filled with people crammed into the narrow warrens like animals. Some slept in doorways. Others walked the streets like shambling phantoms. He passed a filthy and decrepit old man who sat on the edge of the road, shaking and muttering to himself oblivious of the rain.

  Edwards mind swam with images of blood, of tearing flesh from Mary’s body, her face in his mind pulsing and changing, first to Lucy, and then to his mother and back to Mary. He made his way onto old Montague Street; here, at last, it was quieter, the dense population on the streets thinning considerably. He saw a familiar figure in front of him. It was Mary’s friend, Polly. She was staggering towards him, hopelessly drunk yet somehow still upright. She wore a bonnet offering some protection from the rain, which had begun to ease. She walked past him, lost in a drunken stupor.

  “Polly,” he said, unsure he was going to speak until the words had come.

  She turned around, looking at him with glazed eyes until recognition struck her. “Ello me love! I didn’t expect to see you ‘ere,” she slurred.

  “I’m lost, and wondered if you were still willing to help me find what I’m looking for,” he said, the inner rage now in control and driving his actions.