I, Ripper

Sweetie – or whatever, I didn’t know – was attempting to say something, but her larynx, though undamaged by the anatomical placement of my strikes, would not cooperate. Only low murmuring sounds came out, and her eyes locked all billiard-ball on infinity, though I do not believe she was yet medically dead, as she had not lost enough blood from her brain as yet.

That issue resolved itself in the next second. The severed artery realized what its interruption required and at that point, at last, begin to spurt massively. Torrent to gush to tidal wave, the blood erupted from the full length of each cut and obeyed gravity in its search for earth in which to lose itself. I laid her down, careful not to let the surge flow upon my hands, even though, like all gentlemen, I wore gloves. In the moonlight – there was a quarter moon above, not much but perhaps just a bit – the liquid was dead black. It had no red at all to it and was quite warm and had a kind of brass-penny stench, metallic, as it rose to meet my nostrils.

She lay supine, and her eyes finally rotated up into their sockets. If there was a moment of passing or an actual rattle, as the silly books claim, I missed it clean. She slid easily enough into a stillness so extreme it could not but be death.

CHAPTER TWO Jeb’s Memoir

his is a most peculiar volume. It consists largely of two manuscripts which I have entwined along a chronological axis. Each manuscript presents a certain point of view on a horrific series of incidents in the London of fall 1888. That is, twenty-four years ago. I have edited them against each other, so to speak, so that they form a continuous vantage on the material from its opposite sides, an inside story and an outside story. I do so for the sake of clarity, but also for the sake of story effect, and the conviction that everything I write must entertain.

The first narrative – you have just tasted a sample – is that of a figure known to the world as “Jack the Ripper.” This individual famously murdered at least five women in the Whitechapel section of the East End of London between August 31 and November 9 of that year. The deaths were not pretty. Simple arterial cutting did not appease Jack. He gave vent to a beast inside of him and made a butcher’s festival of the carcasses he had just created. I believe somewhere in police files are photographs of his handiwork; only those of steel stomach should look upon them. His descriptions in prose match the photos.

I have let Jack’s words stand as he wrote them, and if he defied the laws of the Bible, civilization, the bar, and good taste, you can be certain that as a writer he has no inhibitions. Thus I warn the casual: Make peace now with descriptions of a horrific nature or pass elsewhere.

If you persevere, I promise you shall know all that is to be known about Jack. Who he was, how he selected, operated, and escaped the largest dragnet the Metropolitan Police have ever constructed, and defied the best detectives England has ever produced. Moreover, you will believe in the authenticity of these words, as I will demonstrate how I came to have possession of Jack’s pages, which he kept religiously. Finally, I shall illuminate the most mysterious element of the entire affair, that of motive.

If this portends grimness, I also promise as a counterweight that most romantic of conceits, a hero. There is one, indeed, although not I. Far from it, alas. A fellow does appear (eventually) to apply intellect in understanding Jack, ingenuity in tracking him, resilience in resisting him, and courage in confronting him. It is worth the wait to encounter this stalwart individual and learn that such men exist outside the pages of penny dreadfuls.

I have also included four letters written by a young Welsh woman who walked the streets of Whitechapel as an “unfortunate” and was, as were so many, subject to fear of the monster Jack. They offer a perspective on events otherwise lacking from the two prime narratives, which are filled with masculine ideas and concepts. Since this was a campaign directed entirely at women, it is appropriate that a female voice should be added. You will see, in the narrative, how I came to obtain these items.

Why have I waited twenty-four years to put this construction together? That is a fair question. It deserves a fair answer. To begin, the issue of maturity – my own – must be addressed. I was unaware of how callow I was. Lacking experience and discrimination, I was easily fooled, easily led, prey to attributes that turned out to be shallow themselves, such as wit, beauty, some undefinable electricity of personality. This force may be as ephemeral as the random set of a jaw or shade of eye; it may be found in the words of a man to whom words come easily; it may or may not be linked to deeper intelligence simply by the random fall of inherited traits, which, after all, left us with both a nobility and a royalty, and we’ve seen how well that has worked out!