There she was, that whore he had seen before. Plying her obscene trade beneath the guttering gas lamp on the corner of Dorset Street, the woman grinned a seductive smile at a sailor. She could have been twenty or forty, the Watcher did not know. The dim streets grew ever wickeder to those of her sort spreading around her sin. Geneva liquor, that other vice of the era, and poverty aged a person far better than mere passing of the years. In the greatest Empire on Earth they blighted the land.
The sailor moved on, he’d had his pleasure with another of her kind and spent his last pennies in the tavern. Still she wasn’t as much a drab as some of her sisters-in sin. The Watcher felt the lust rising, along with his hatred. Two joined as one, desire and disgust, powerful and compelling. He’d never understood why they went together but then he was a simple man, not one of the mind-doctors who had been so influential of late. Lust and hatred, pain and desire….bound so close he could experience little else when the darkness overtook him. Now, however, he watched. The hunt was almost as enthralling as the kill; the knowledge of their fear, their desperation and yet still they strutted themselves, offering a screw in the alleys and passages of the East End, and more if the customer had coin and the taste for it. Filthy strumpets. Never did he consider the terrible choices they made. Never did he consider the choice was no real choice. Their sin, he thought, was what damned them.
The whore was alone; it was a damp night, and after the recent terror God-fearing and respectable folk were behind doors. Shadow obscured the man’s thin features, but his voice had the cadence of a local. He knew these streets well, he needed to. Once he’d almost been caught, but the devil’s own luck had been with him that night. Left hand tightening about the hilt of the steel blade in the inside of his coat, and lips parched with the thrill and the trepidation he sauntered over, noticing her eyes on him. A look of relief flashed on her face, this customer was a safe one. He could almost see the thoughts in her head. Oh how wrong she would be!
“Fancy some company?” the red-haired woman asked him, coyly. This one was handsome, for one of her trade. So fresh, now he could see her better, so delightful. The urges pounded within him. Dark, deadly, devious, devilish. She was still a whore, a cheap street slut and so he would enjoy her all the more, he thought. One less to corrupt the working-class men, one less to bring shame on the Empire.
He smiled a thin, humorless smile, and gripped her skinny arm. The whore chatted to him about nonsense, about her fear of the Ripper, as he was called on those autumn nights by a press who had never seen the like in the’ Autumn of Terror’. Fear stalked the streets in these dark nights, and its blade was sharp. Oh yes, thought the man, he had arranged that one well enough, with that tip off, the newspapers hungered for it. Hungered for the outrage, and the bloodshed. London found itself transfixed. Terrified yet fascinated.
Such fun, these games. Thirty years of experience of the low-lives of London town had honed his skills and his perceptions. The greatest city on Earth was also the deepest pit of sin.
The room she kept was meagre, but at least this one had a dwelling; Miller’s Court was a slum filled with the dregs of humanity. This was much less risk than an alley, or courtyard, although of course that lessened the thrill. He could remain here, enjoy her. He had long enough until he would be missed for what he’d planned. As she went over to light a candle a soft song filled the air; a simple love song, sung by a sweet voice. That would soon be silenced. How dare she behave as though they were respectable sweet hearts! Never had he asked himself what brought a woman to a life such as this. Never had he cared. They sullied the streets, they brought shame. That was all he cared for. That and to feed the beast dwelling within.
“No light, whore. I like the dark.” He almost snarled, the darkness within rising up with the disgust for this drab, with her petticoats up around her knees and her hands unlacing her bodice. Close to the door his hand felt for the key, turning it once. It would not do to be disturbed. He swiftly removed his hat, coat, and the dark trousers he wore. Making sure they would be well away from any mess he might make. Oh there would be much of that this time! A simple shirt and undergarments were easily discarded. No need for the cloak which had covered his crimes before.
Mary-Jane shrugged, it made no difference to her. Barely a cry escaped her as the client sprang forward, hand about her throat. “Filthy bitch! Spreading poison in the streets. Your kind took my brother, a shameful death, riddled with the clap. It was a whore, a filthy whore, who did for him.”
Barely able to breathe Mary-Jane felt the world closing in around her. Trying to struggle free, she kicked behind her. “Bitch, don’t you know who I am!” Adrenalin course through him. A sliver of moonlight shone through the cracked window from his blade as it caressed her cheek. “Now where shall I start… that face… that pretty bosom, or lower down…the place of vice itself….”
A pitiful squeak escaped her lips, now turning blue, and her eyes widened with pain and fear as the blade cut her cheek to the bone. Savoring the fear, the warm, crimson blood over his hand, Jack closed his eyes, tipping back his head. This was exquisite, this was justice!
Too weak to scream the whore was unconscious soon enough. Even in the dim light his eyes were good enough to find the black shape of the bed. He tossed her skirts into the hearth, and his blade slashed them to pieces as it would do her flesh. Soon the fire warmed his back as he worked. Thirty years on the streets, thirty years of night-work, the darkness and cold were naught to him, but given the choice he might as well enjoy the pleasure of the spitting fire, see his victim in her final moments and beyond.
Deep he drove the knife into her neck, following the line his hand had been tracing. Warm, wet she bled, not yet dead. The blade touched bone, and idly he wondered if he should take her head, leave it beneath the lamp where he had picked her up. Not even Saucy Jack dare risk that, not yet. Not yet! One bloody hand finished the unlacing of her bodice, touchingly edged with flowers, as though she was a respectable woman. Snarling he sliced them one by one and tossed them into the fire. A whore with fine garments! Not whilst his blade was sharp. First one nipple was traced, then the other. Small and round were her breasts, like those of the sweet widow of his brother; anger boiled and he sliced, he slashed and ripped until her duckies were mere piles of flesh, scattered above her head. Flesh ripped, a slick sound, the music Jack loved so much. Down went the knife, laying her open like a hog.
Alone with his blade and his victim the man chuckled. The police were so incompetent they could not see what stared them in the face. This was a man who came and went like a ghost, left his victims ripped and torn like a demon and who taunted them. The inspector had not appreciated the kidney he’d been sent. The man had lost his breakfast over that one. Jack was doing what the inspector could not seem to manage, clearing the streets of filth and vice. He served the city, and he fulfilled that service in any way he could.
The whore’s guts were warm, her kidney soft and pliant. Sharp blade slipping through the arteries; a tug here, a flick there and soon her intestines were flung over her shoulder, like a scarf he’d seen her wear once. For his nightly walks showed him much, even if he was largely disregarded.
As he chewed on her liver his blade slid down to her vagina, he plunged in the blade twisting it in the soft flesh of her private parts. Contemplating how many men had entered there, been corrupted by her. As the flesh ripped beneath his shining blade he opened her uterus, ripping with the knife and tearing with his hands. He was enjoying this one. It was compensation for the third one; he had been disturbed then, had to leave her before he had finished. He looked at the bloody mass before him, muttered, “Foolish bitch, knew there was a killer around… she still plied her trade, desperate for a tumble and a bed… serves her right, filthy, dirty whore.”
He was nearly done, and the zealous darkness within almost sated. Another flick of his wrist and her nose was gone, and for a final insult he leaned down and kissed what remained of her bloody, ruin
ed face. Wiping his hands on his shirt to remove the worst of the blood and tossing his undergarments into the fire, he stoked it a couple of times then redressed. He thought of her, the woman he served. The perfect idol of womanhood and morality. If she knew how he served her she’d reward him. With a final look of satisfaction he pulled gloves from his pocket, picked up his policeman’s helmet and continued on his beat, with minutes to spare.
Copyright 2014 A.L Butcher
So Many Nights, So Many Sins