She's back! I know it's her. She's come back for me. She found me after all these years and all the miles. She has found me.
Don't be stupid, man. She's been dead for forty years. You know she's dead; you had your hands in her blood.
Perhaps she wasn't dead?
She's dead. Remember that night in Miller's Court, the bed with Kelly stretched out on it, her legs spread wide, the whore. Remember how you arranged her guts? The intestines laid by the right side and the spleen by the left, one pap under her head and the other by her left foot, the liver between her feet and everything arranged in blood. Her face was hacked about. She was the last so you made a meal of it. You had time, no-one to disturb you about your business.
I remember. Oh, what pleasure! The look on her face as my fingers tightened on her neck. When she stopped struggling I laid her back and cut her throat. I cut deep, careful to keep the blood away from me, the warm gush of her life rushing from her. I cut so deep I felt the knife grate on bone. And then the fun; she was number four and she was off the streets. I had time and a little privacy to do my work. It was a work of art, a Symphony in Red. That's the word isn't it, symphony?
Yes, you read that somewhere, a Symphony in Red, in blood.
So, she's not come back? Her name is Kelly and she smells of whiskey. When she leans over the bed to plump the pillows and arrange the sheets I can smell it on her breath, the drink. Nurses shouldn't drink. It's not right. She's just an Irish nurse. Look at her hair, it is red. Remember Mary Ann Kelly - what colour was her hair?
Blonde, she had blonde hair. But they dye it, these whores, they dye their hair.
But you saw her. You explored every intimate part of her. You know she was blonde; and the nurse's eyes are green, look they are green. What colour were Mary's eyes?
They were blue. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a fair complexion; she might have been pretty if she were not so stout and not a whore. Oh, my guts, they ache. It feels as if someone is inside, someone like me inside ripping outwards with my blade. I wouldn't let them cut me. They said they could remove what is killing me but I know these butchers. They'd lay me open just like Mary then poke about inside. No, if it's my time, I'll go. If it's Mary come to fetch me to Hell, I'll go. I'll go and meet them all; Polly Nicholls, Dark Annie, Kate Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly.
What of Elizabeth Stride?
Long Liz Stride, what of her? That bastard Kidney did her and tried to pin it on me. Michael Kidney, he was a nutcase. He had the syph. Bastard topped his whore and tried to put it on me. There were others. After I finished there were other bastards who killed their whores and blamed me. Even here in America I heard about it. Bastards.
Do you remember the first one, Mary Jane Nicholls?
Polly, I knew her as Polly. Came with me for the promise of three pence for a little “How's your father”, bloody whore. I can see her now. Small she was, a little over five foot and dark with brown hair going a bit grey. Her features were delicate. She smiled with her mouth closed because she had some teeth missing at the front and the rest were discoloured. She opened her mouth when I took her by the throat. I counted five missing as I squeezed. I laid her down and cut her throat, an eight-inch gash. Then I got to work. It was bloody dark in Buck's Row and I couldn't be sure that I would be left alone to work so I tried to be quick. I whipped up her clothing, brown Ulster with brass buttons that caught what little light there was, a woollen frock and a couple of petticoats. She had flannel drawers on so I tugged them down and slashed across her belly, twice across and then more down. It was then I heard something. I got out quick. No time for any real fun.
Then there was Annie Chapman. Then there was Dark Annie, five-foot-tall and stout
with a broad nose. She was in her forties, I think. She kept coughing a lot, had something wrong with her lungs. She told me she was dying. She didn't know how soon though, did she? I picked her up in Hanbury Street then took her round the back of number twenty-nine. She didn't struggle much. Blood spattered up the paling fence when I cut her throat. It was quiet in the back yard and I had my fun.
I opened her up and put her intestines on her shoulder. I cut away her uterus and vagina and put it in a bag I'd brought for that purpose. They said I knew my way around the human body and I suppose that's true. They thought I might be a doctor, I wish. I was a countryman in my youth before I came to the big city. Each year I followed my dad round the villages. He was the local pig killer. He could kill and carve you a pig as nice as you like. I learned it all from him. Pigs and humans are not so different, you know. Some humans are more like pigs than pigs. Why did I take away the organs? Let them figure it out, our clever policeman. I suppose a little of it was bravado. I was enjoying myself. You know, unless someone actually saw and recognised me or, God forbid, they caught me ‘red handed’, they had as much chance of taking me as of walking on the moon, as if that's ever going to happen.
Oh, that hurts. There's a devil in my guts with a pitchfork. Where's that bitch of a nurse with my laudanum? At least I killed the whores before I cut.
Eddowes, remember Kate Eddowes?
Oh, you bastards, where's my laudanum. It hurts, you bastards.
I feel better now. The pain is dull. I'll swear that bitch keeps some of my medicine for herself. What was I thinking of before she came with the laudanum? Yes, I remember, Kate. She was the same night as Long Liz. How could they think I would kill twice in one night? Once a night is enough, they say.
Mitre Square that was. I read in the paper that some chap saw and described a man with Eddowes. I remember it almost word for word; 30 years old, 5 foot 7 inches tall, fair complexion and moustache, with a medium build. He is wearing a pepper and salt coloured jacket which fits loosely, grey cloth cap with a peak of the same colour. He has a reddish handkerchief knotted around his neck.
Over all, he gives the appearance of being a sailor. It was a pretty good description of the chap who chatted up Kate before I got to her. She asked too much for her ‘services’ and what with him being a poor sailor at the end of his leave, he declined. If she hadn't asked too much she might have lived. As for the description of me; well, they got the moustache right.
After easing her out of this world I bent her right leg out of the way and began the business of dissection. that's what the doctors call it, isn't it? As usual, I put the intestines over the right shoulder, though this time I cut a couple of feet off and put it between her body and her left arm, just to be different. I also cut her ears a bit, I can't remember why. It seemed a good idea at the time. I cut her face about, spoiled her beauty. I took the womb and I took a kidney. It looked odd, sort of swollen. I read later she had something called Bright's disease. They're all diseased in some way, these whores.
So that's it, my life in Whitechapel 1888. I killed four whores and sailed for America. They say I'm a legend, a fiend that stalked the streets of London, murdering dozens and disappearing like mist.
Why didn't you kill again?
Who says I didn't? America is a big country. I travelled a great deal in forty years but that is another Story, isn’t it?
Now, like them, I'm going to die. My guts are ripping me apart as I ripped theirs. What day is it?
It's Friday, Friday 9th November 1928.
In that case I shall try very hard to live until tomorrow.
Why?
Because it was forty years to the very day that I stood over Mary in Miller's Court. I will not die today. I will sleep, Mary won't have me today. They can wait in Hell for a while. I chose their time - they'll not choose mine.
