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Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 85
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, January 22, 2004 - 2:58 pm: | 
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I thought it might be interesting to see what kinds of short stories people might come up with concerning the Ripper.
I haven't got one yet, but I will work on it tonight and see what I can come up with. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1905
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, January 22, 2004 - 6:39 pm: |
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Hi Kris
Good luck with your story-writing. I'm looking forward to reading it.
I could come up with a comical one, but a serious one, that's tough.
Robert |
Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 87
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Friday, January 23, 2004 - 9:29 am: |
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Hi Robert,
That's very true, and what I tossed around all last night. I finally decided to go with a serious one, although I wasn't very happy with it by the end. I am going to give it a going over over the weekend, and hopefully it will be posted on Monday.
Kris |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 755
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, January 23, 2004 - 1:26 pm: |
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Kris
it's not strictly a short story, more a personal view of recent Ripper history, but I thought it might help you to get the thread started.
Babylon
Final Solution to Case Closed
After the release of the ‘Myth’ in 1993 - which at that time had all the mighty impact of a small pebble splashing down in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean - I fled these shores perfunctorily for sunnier climes, immersing myself in such diverse tasks as the natural history of small Indian Ocean islands, and the research and publication of volumes concerning the 18th Dynasty kings and queens of the ancient Egyptian Empire.
The idea that I might one day rejoin - as certainly an older man but probably not any wiser - the fray and fracas of the Jack saga never crossed my mind for a moment.
It is perhaps worthwhile painting a portrait of the Jack world way back then in the primitive days of the early 1990’s, for it was a very different planet to the one I see before me now.
It was very much the age of the half-baked theory and theorist with the 80’s works of ‘Final Solutionists’ like Stephen Knight still dominating and leading the pack of followers and pretenders, baying for the blood of royals and establishmentarians with totally irresponsible fictional accounts of Jack such as ‘Murder and Madness: The Secret Life of Jack the Ripper‘ by Abrahamsen and ‘The Ripper and the Royals‘ by Fairclough, which both blasted onto the scene with all the latent power of a couple of penny squibs in 1992.
And of course the age of deception was about to be ushered in with the Diary. Having lived in Germany in the year of the Hitler Diaries I knew full well what was a coming, and it was probably this single volume that sparked my sudden passage, for I could see no result or resolve in the issue of Jack whilst such chicanery, deception and pure barking madness dominated the scene.
The Jack world was dominated - nay squashed is a better term - by the mighty few, names that clang down to us now from history, the likes of Wilson, Rumbelow and Knight, and there waiting in the wings were their kind courtiers, the Beggs, the Fidos, the Skinners and the Evans, researchers and writers of a new school but a school that was to toe the party line firmly for fear of the whips being sent round.
It was much like an exclusive gentleman’s club where etiquette, form and banal back slapping were the recognisable aperitifs before the dinner of slaughter began in earnest, and everyone took themselves oh so seriously, and well if you wanted to join the club then you were jolly well expected to behave in the manner ascribed.
It was directly at this insular and insulated cosy little castle that I lined up my big guns in 1993, loaded them with gleeful and childish abandon, and then fired round after round into their castle with black wrath, grape shot and insult-laden live ammunition. But when the dust and smoke cleared I saw to my dismay that the castle was untouched and all I had to show for my endeavours and imagined bravery were but a few paltry missives from solicitors and the like threatening me with damaging legal action should I attempt to point my guns at that castle again.
‘Let them sue!’ I screamed at my agent.
‘AP,’ she replied. ‘You really should go back to writing fiction you know.’
And there I stood, castigated, cast-out and criticized for my pre-pubescent plans to somehow bring the antiquated world of Jack into the modern world with some degree of moderation, fair play and common sense, and then to make it easily available to everyone and not just the selective few.
Journals, magazines, newspapers, books and just about every form of media on this planet was utilised to pour scorn and derision on my ideas and efforts, and this simply because I had done to the selective few what they had been doing for years in their own volumes, indulging themselves in idle and irresponsible speculation at our expense.
They went unchallenged for many a long year and when finally challenged they just did not like being on the wrong side of the gun for a change. Or should that be the knife?
Just before publication my agent was warned most firmly by Wilson’s legal representatives that if I so much as quoted one word from any of his works that I would find myself in court and in trouble. So I was restricted to what is known as ‘fair usage’ under the copyright laws and was forced to rewrite the ‘Myth’ yet again to comply with this legal requirement.
Only one highly respected voice in this strange and insular little world of Jack understood what I had attempted to do, but alas I was not to see his fair and honourable review of the ‘Myth’ for another five years, so I put away the pens and fled. Coward I am.
Thus was the Jack world then.
Ten years later one wakes as if from a long dream and that damn diary is still there, in fact now books are being written about that damn diary and even more people are making money out if it.
But the world of Jack has moved on, and the first recognisable change is a social one, that it is now a respectable and acceptable pursuit to be involved with Jack the Ripper.
Back in the early 90’s if people knew you had an interest in Jack they would hide the kitchen knives away when they invited you to tea; you would be pointed out to people in pubs as that strange fellow obsessed by murder and mutilation, and some friends and family would cast you out as if you were a serial killer yourself. Please do not think this is a joke, the pursuit of Jack’s motive - for I have no real interest in his identity - has cost me dearly in emotional terms over the years.
But today there are respectable magazines, web-sites and even educational institutions which easily embrace what was once a most uncomfortable partner. In my days the magazines were photocopied bits of scrap paper held together by rusty staples and delivered in plain brown envelopes as if they were pornography… and when one read the contents it was little better than pornography.
The social evolution of Jack is a marvel of modern science and people from all walks of life and scattered across the entire globe enjoy exchanging information, ideas and theories in healthy dialogue on various web-sites, and this is without doubt a most laudable development.
However although things have changed much in the ten years of exile, some of those changes have not been so positive, and perhaps the most alarming and damaging development is the slavish attitude now adopted by many towards the emerging science of criminal profiling and forensic science, for it seems that as the theorists and their theories have lost ground in the last ten years, there seems to have been an urgent need to fill that gaping hole with some new fangled piece of machinery to keep the wheels turning and it does appear that criminal profiling is this new machine.
The Germans have a saying ‘opium fur das volk’ but I have the feeling that the black magic of criminal profiling is more like valium than opium, something to stop our minds dealing with the rude reality and instead engaging it with soporific and soothing cant. Especially amongst the younger minds - who I see contributing to the debate - is this soporific state detectable, where they appear to be stuck fast to the ground with the glue of criminal profiling, and consequently allow no criticism of their new ‘religion’, seeing it as the be all and end all of the Jack story.
Just like the theorists of my day.
This is saddening, as the one thing I did expect to see when I came back after ten years exile was a veritable explosion of new ideas from the younger minds now involved. I fully expected to strap myself into some kind of rocket ship stuffed full of radical ideas and innovative thinking and be given a ride to the stars and back. All that happens though is I am led like a horse to drink at the same old water trough time and time again.
The old guard may be gone - I hear them whisper in the corridors of the gentleman’s club but they do know their day is done - however they seem to have been replaced by a snobby and elitist group of academics whose aim appears to be a total domination of the debate through modern criminal profiling and forensic technique. Still racing round that same old track but using formula one cars now instead of horses, so they reach the conclusion a lot faster but it is unfortunately the same conclusion as the old gentlemen stumbling about on their knackered horses reached all those years ago.
You see, ten years ago the old men told us that Sickert was Jack the Ripper, they told us that Maybrick was Jack the Ripper, they told us that it was a Royal conspiracy, they told us…
Well, they told us everything the new academics are telling us now.
Case Closed.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1913
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, January 23, 2004 - 4:30 pm: |
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A fascinating overview of JTR history, AP.
Yes, my "Ripperologist" comes to me quite brazenly wrapped in an envelope proclaining what it is for all the world to see. I'm just worried that some JTR enthusiast in the Post Office might pinch it!
I suppose part of what's been happening is down to temperament, as so much else is. But why should people limit themselves to one way of thinking or one approach? It's like being in prison.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 774
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 8:26 am: |
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The Keeper
My work is I suppose of a somewhat unusual nature; it has regular hours matched by regular wages, and the course of the day’s work is most regular in its relentless and almost soporific nature.
For over forty years now I have followed exactly the same routine, leaving my small flat in Putney - just across the road from the bridge - at 7.00am sharp for a healthy stroll across the bridge where I then take the tube to Kew where my small office awaits me. This will perhaps give you the idea that I am the keeper of flora exotica at the famous gardens there, but you would be mistaken in that idea, for the exotica I deal with - day in and day out - are the final and end result of an enormous degenerative process in the natural world which takes a splendid tree and converts it into a million scraps of paper which are then written upon by human hand and ultimately become the recorded history of our entire race on this planet. Yes, I am a keeper of public records, and my vast territories and empires are the immense storage rooms of the Public Record Office at Kew. Here I am king and know my kingdom better than any other living man or woman.
As I walk those silent arenas of mute human combat I carry a heavy burden of responsibility, for almost all human endeavour, ambition and knowledge is deposited within my ken and grasp, and it is I who has ultimate responsibility for the dispensation of vital information which can certainly change the course of single individual’s life, when not the entire course of human history.
By no means is this an egoistic or self-satisfying statement, it is merely the simple truth.
The boxes and files that march on forever in these silent and sealed rooms contain the secret soul of modern humanity, and many a long quest for a simple truth ends in the opening of such a nondescript box or file, thus making my position one of enormous privilege.
Yes, I like that, I am the keeper of privileges, and am able to dispense them as I see fit. Of course this rare privilege is supposedly held in check by the security measures taken to ensure that certain privileged information does not come to light until the slow passage of time has eroded and diluted the uncomfortable contents, thereby lessening the frightful impact of such documents.
But as I said, I have worked here now for over forty years and the passing of those years has shown me that there are ways and means to almost everything, and it is not beyond my considerable skills to allow such privileged information to come to light earlier than the officially allotted time-span. Such privileged information however is only for the sight of such privileged people such as the Keeper of Public Records at the Public Records Office in Kew… my good self as it were.
More than twenty years ago I developed an interest. Rare for me, I must admit, as I am normally consumed by my daily work, but the high level of interest in this subject that I noted amongst many independent researchers at the office quite caught my attention, and I decided to delve a little myself in my few spare hours. Something which I am decidedly accomplished at I must freely admit.
Over the course of some twenty years or so I have built up a highly commendable collection of rare documents pertaining to this subject - all of which will not be released for public consumption for a further ten years - and these various papers do reward careful study, especially when studied together, as they do then form a credible linkage which I do not believe has been demonstrated previously in this most famous and popular of subjects.
I keep these documents at home in a slim file, there are four of them, and every night after a small dinner I spread them out on the table and study them anew. It is my habit to smoke a cigar and sip at a fine port while I do so - although I normally neither drink or smoke - and my excitement mounts during the course of the study and evening. Very often I find that I am quite drunk by the end of the evening and often find the documents left out on the table rather than hidden safely away in their file.
The first of the documents is a medical report made on the behaviour and statements of a man who was imprisoned in the most secure institution of the land in the last years of the 1800’s and the first years of the 1900‘s.
It is quite explicit and leaves no room for dismissal as to its meaning and intent.
The second of the documents is the final pension records of a senior serving police officer who took his own life in the last years of the 1800‘s, and this individual was actually closely related to the subject of the first report.
This caught my eye many years ago, and as no great believer in coincidences of this nature, I took the documents most seriously as they do provide what we at the record office do call linkage. Both men suffered from extreme and acute paranoia and schizophrenia, and had colourful pasts including extremely violent acts of harm to themselves and others, as well as curious beliefs about certain minorities and groups within Victorian society. Both men were often institutionalised.
The third document is an innocuous little scrap of paper, a work sheet from one of the many tea warehouses of the area at that time and contains the signature of the person from the first document.
The fourth document is a letter sent to the treasury by the same person indicated in the first and third documents containing what one might term ‘blood curdling’ threats made by a person of obviously unsound mind.
As interesting as these documents are, it is when they are held side by side with other documents already in the public domain that they do really shine and come into their own.
If you like, all the released documents are the door to the mystery, but the documents in my possession are the key that unlocks that door.
The responsibility is great and I fear I drink far too much as I study these documents night after night, they appear to be able to pass onto me some quality that I honestly do not posses, for I found the other night that I was actually holding one of the precious papers right into the flames of the coal fire as if I wanted to burn it, and did indeed singe the very edge before I came too and quickly pulled it away. These strange papers seem to fill me with a power that nobody else can possess, for I know, I know…
When I board the tube in the mornings and evening, I gaze at all the sad little people who don’t know what I know, I have the freedom and they are bound in ignorance, I have the power, only I… know.
No-one knows that I know, and this can actually make me giggle on the tube and people look at me strangely, sometimes I laugh out loud, a sort of mad barking laugh which is not my own. I would like to tell somebody, but I can’t as the documents do not exist in their world, only in mine. I thought of leaving the file on the tube so that someone else would find them and they too would know, but I can’t bring myself to take the documents from my flat. What would I do in the evenings then?
I know every word and letter now, every single one, I could repeat them all now, I do repeat them on the tube, time and time again I mouth the silent words that were written down all those years ago.
I stopped shaving last month and have not bathed for two weeks now.
I drink two bottles of port a night and the cigars have given me a nasty cough. Two nights ago I left the flat - I never leave my flat at night normally - and tried to talk to this woman on the bridge but she called me a tramp and told me to go away or she would call the police. I wanted to tell her what I knew. There is a large knife on the table now, with the documents, I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t go to work today. My work is here now.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1943
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 9:13 am: |
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I was held from first to last, AP. Superbly told. It reminded me of M.R. James - the orderly and methodical man who encounters something he hadn't bargained for. Every detail of the process of becoming possessed was told matter-of-factly and naturally. and it's certainly possible to imagine how being the only person to know something of that nature would not only isolate the Keeper, but also create an unfortunate bond between him and the subjects of his knowledge.
I'm not going to try and follow that!
Robert |
Alan Sharp
Inspector
Username: Ash
Post Number: 385
Registered: 9-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 11:22 am: |
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My first attempt. Be gentle with me.
A Policeman's Lot is Not a Happy One
I hate nights like these, where the rain just seems to drizzle constantly with no end in sight. If it has to rain, give me a right good storm any day of the week. One of those that soaks you to the skin in three seconds flat and then is over. That way I can dry myself out in front of some night watchman's brazier and be on my way. But this drizzle, it just goes on and on, running into your eyes, seeping through your clothes, making the cobbles slippery underfoot. Horrible, I tell you.
But that's the way it's been tonight. Cold, damp and miserable. And what with this murderer about, there isn't even a chance to slip off for a crafty smoke with one of the watchmen along the way, not with the Sergeant coming by every half hour to check up on us. Wouldn't be so bad, but it's the Met boys that are getting all the jollies, not so much as a sniff here in the City. And them boys wouldn't know their arses from their elbows. I tell you, if those murders were on our beats, we'd have the killer down in no time.
Coming past the Synagogue now. Bet it's one of them Jewboys that's doing it. Can't trust 'em, none of 'em. I hear as how they slits the throats of any who sullies their race. That's what I reckon is going on, one of 'em can't keep his pants on and he doesn't want no-one to know about it.
Church Alley. Why do I bother with this little runt of a lane. Go down, peer into the square, then back up. No point really. Better do it though, the Serge might be around. So I turn off down there, and as I do I am dimly aware of movement up ahead. It's an echoey little place this, with it's close walls and bare cobbles, but I can still hear a sound, like a muffled cry. I begin to move forward faster and that's when I see them.
There's a woman, down on the ground in the opposite corner. Some middle-aged whore by the look of her, ragged clothes on a ragged body. The chap crouching over her, he's difficult to make out. Has some sort of long cloak on which covers most of his body. I can see the knife though. His left hand is clamped tight over her mouth and his right hand holds the shining blade high in the air waiting to plunge. I'll never get there in time.
"Leather Apron" I call out. It's the only words I can think of at that moment. The creature turns, stares at me, and I am stopped in my tracks.
I have seen some wicked men and women in my time. It's the job, and the circles I move in. But until this moment I have never in my life before stared into the face of pure evil. It's in the eyes. Black, soulless, like staring straight into the blackest pits of hell. Yet somehow I feel liberated. It's like sudden unexpected understanding. This creature lives outside the law, yes, but also outside of the conventions of society. He can do anything, he does not have to conform, he is not bound by rules, or morals, not even by his own conscious. What must that be like? What must it feel like to have the freedom to do anything, without thought, just pure animal instinct and sating of the primal lust.
I hear the knife clatter down on the ground, and the creature sweeps the cloak around himself, and like a magician in a music hall, he is gone. I don't even see which direction he runs in. I trot across to where the woman lies. She is still alive, her eyes staring up at me in terror.
"Oh, Sir" she gasps, "Oh God, Sir, if you hadn't come I was a gonner for sure!"
I help her to her feet. She is shaking as I grasp her hand and pull her up. Her hand feels clammy and cold as if all the blood has drained from her body. I guess if I hadn't come along at that moment it would have. I reach down and pick up the knife that the fiend dropped.
"Come on" I say, "let's get you to the station. You'll need to make a statement."
"Yes, of course" she replies. "I just have to get my things. I think I dropped them."
She turns and begins to bend to retrieve the few little trinkets lying on the ground. I don't think she suspected a thing until I pushed the blade against her throat.
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Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 89
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 12:03 pm: |
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GAD!
Alan, that was truly unnerving. In the last few seconds I thought to myself "Ahh, we're actually going to get an optomistic story" as I had thought Kate was going to live.
Very nice turn about.
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Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 90
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 12:11 pm: |
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AP,
Your story was horrifying, and I have often wondered if there is someone out there who does sit on the knowledge out of some sort of personal gloating. |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 776
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 1:20 pm: |
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Thanks Robert
I enjoyed writing it as much as you seemed to enjoy reading it. Just came to me while I idly watched the sea rising on a storm and had it done by the time the sea had risen and flooded my garage.
Kris
I'm not sure about the 'gloating' bit but I do know there is someone out there sitting on vital information concerning uncle Charles and Thomas, and despite the best efforts of myself and others on these boards that person has refused to respond to any plea to share his information. Fair enough in a way when that person has literary ambitions with his material but that doesn't really appear to be so in this case.
My understanding is that this person had privileged access to this material normally denied to the researcher because of his previous occupation. May the Force be with you!
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AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 777
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 1:31 pm: |
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Alan
I enjoyed the hell out of that. You have a fresh, crisp style that just buzzes along very nicely. Nothing was laboured, nothing was over done, it all slotted in perfectly. It was so good to read - especially the dialogue - that you didn't even really need such a dramatic end - but that worked well also - and I would have been quite content with a happy ending because of your easy lubricated style.
You captured the street atmosphere perfectly, and also the plodding nature of Scotland Yard's finest, that is until they are roused by the forbidden fruits which they are supposed to control.
Ah, how many tarnished coppers could a half-decent whore pick up off the streets of Whitechapel of a night time?
My congratulations sir for a fine story.
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Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 241
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 4:58 pm: |
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Ap I enjoyed your story very much.As I have only half an hour on the computer I havent time to say much more except that it was so original.
Alan congratulations on a spinechillingbeginning on this thread.Surprisingly this is where I return again and again with regard to the ripper.
I find myself saying-yes[to say Kosminski or Druitt]---but hang on---who had a perfect right to be there---whether in uniform or as plain clothes on the lookout for the insurrectionists---
is it possible that it was one of them who were seeing opportunities--and siezing them ?
Anyway first rate Alan
Cheers Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1944
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 5:27 pm: |
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Yes, Alan, I've just read your story and I was bowled over by it. It may sound a cliche, but I actually felt like I was there. Very well told indeed - hope there's more to come!
Robert |
Albert
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Monday, January 26, 2004 - 7:13 pm: |
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The Kid
How do you explain to a kid where babies come from? How do you explain to kid what a man and woman does to make a sprog appear between her legs? You come to me is what you does.
Cost you a thrupence but if you got it handy it'll be the best money you ever spent in your young life.
That's what all the young'ns do - they come to me.
For a twelve year old boy i gots quite the head for buisness. Was a couple of months ago, I got the idea first of all.
Was picking up early morning fieces for a crust at the time. Get two bucket loads and sell it off as fertiliser. Gots to get up pretty early in the morning for that kinda work mind, before the markets begin and everybody goes tredd'n all over your product.
So's there I am at four thirty one morning when I sees a man and woman 'making the beast with two backs' in the yard of some poor buggers place. They thinks no one can see em', but they don't count on the eye of a young fella like m'self searching for fieces.
And I watches them I do. Doesn't last long, she puts her skirts back in place and he hands her some money.
Like i said, t'was only twelve years old at the time, so i'm not sure who's face is more flushed. The man who handed the money to the woman, or mine?
Next morning, walking past the same yard at the same time, hear the same grunting noises, see the same woman, see a different man. But he hands over money all the same. And me, I'm feeling flush all the same. You mix embarrasement, with overwhelming curiosity and arousal, then that's what you got me feeling, and I'm thinking to m'self I can make money from these feelings.
So's next morning, i got a whole bunch of me friends with me, and they all got a whole bunch of their friends with them, and they're all paying me a thrupence, to peek into the yard where they can watch a man and woman making the beast with two backs.
Sure enough, same time, same place, same grunting sounds, same woman, different man - and twenty pairs of peepers belonging to young boys - staring with wide eyed curiosity. Whispers of confusion, whispers of awe, some even whisper with disappointment, 'I don't wanna watch no fat whore hav'n it off with that ol bugga'.
When it's all over, the woman gets her money from the man, and I get a small fortune from the twenty peepers that paid for the pleasure.
I had to lie and tell the boys that, 'The whore knew she was being watched and didn't mind so long as she got a cut of what i was making'.
It seemed to do the trick, and nobody else tried to spy on the whore and her men unless they had thrupence and were accompanied by m'self.
Several months later, m'best friend Craige Shirkey goes bring'n his younger brother to me. He reckons it's time his younger brother (who had just turned eight) learnt what gents and ladies did to bring sprogs into the world. His younger brother John reckoned, 'all they 'ad to do was kiss, and then the poor girl was pregnant, cause God had seen them kiss, and bad girls who sin get fat'.
'Course I agreed with Craige that it was well beyond time that little Johnny became more attuned to the world. I also tell him that this one is free, consider'n it's September eigth - little Johnny's birthday n'all.
So's we wait till the very early morning, and we're scampering down Commercial Lane, which eventually takes us into Hanbury Street.
We're all excited with the secrecy and foolery of it all. It's all we can do to hold our laughter.
We finally make it to the same ol place, to the same ol yard, where the same ol lady has a different ol man, and they're making the same ol grunting noises.
Little Johnny says he can't see, so's we wish him a happy birthday and haul him up onto our backs so's his little peepers can just squeak over the wall.
In whispers we ask him what he sees. He tells us the man is turning the lady around and is holding her neck.
Me and Craige are laughing, cause we seen the men doing this before - the ladies skirts hiked up with her back to the man as he rides her like an 'orse.
'What's happening now?'
'She's closed her eyes and fallen onto her back'.
We hold our laughter back some more. Some of the men prefer her being on her back, legs spread wide open for the world to see.
'What's happen'n now?'
Little Johnny doesn't answer, so's I look up.
Then I sees his eyes, they're wide open, but not with curiosity, something else...fear?
'What's happen'n now?'
Johnny's voice almost cracks as he answers...'E's opening her up'.
We try to restrain our laughter again, 'course he's open'n er up. He's gotta open her up if he wants his pleasure don't he?'
Johnny's whispered voice sounds desperate.
'Let me down!'
'You had enough then?'
'Let me down!'
So's we let him down.
'I want to go home!'
I'm thinking at the time that Johnny's perhaps the most unsatisfied customer I ever had.
So's we walk him home, and he's quiet the whole way, like somebody just cut his tongue out.
'You alright Johnny?'
Johnny nods, but his eyes are still looking like he saw a ghost.
'So now you know what gents and ladies do to make babies' Craige says to him.
Johnny nods his head, 'Do you have to cut them open to look for the baby afterwards?' he asks.
Me and Craige laugh till our heads nearly fall off.
'Maybe we better take you back there tomorrow', Craige answers.
'No, no i ain't ever making babies', and Johnny didn't speak for the rest of the way home after that.
'Course we all found out the next day what Johnny saw in the yard of Hanbury Street. But none of us utters a word. I got my business reputation to think about after-all. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1950
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 5:15 am: |
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Great stuff, Albert! I thought that was an extremely original idea, and my interest was held all the way. Blimey!
Well, I hesitate to put this on here, but here goes...
EXPERIMENT
"How goes the experiment, Beta Five?"
Beta Five stiffened and sat up at his laboratory
workbench - not because Beta Six was his superior, but because he wouldn't have had Beta Six see him looking depressed for all the dark matter in their galaxy.
"It's going very well, Beta Six."
"That's not what Beta Seven told me. She said the male just passed the female without taking any interest in her whatsoever."
"It was just a dry run, Beta Six. You know how valuable these humans are - "
"Valuable? Homo sapiens? For goddness' sake, you can breed them in only twenty of their tiny years!"
"But because of the departmental bias against me, I can't always get them."
"Hm! Walked right past her, eh? You do know, Beta Five, that you're supposed to be locating the genes for violence, not blindness?"
"It will be all right tomorrow."
"Ah yes, when they're due to decide on renewing your grant. Well, you'll be pleased to learn that my entropy reversal grant was given the go-ahead today."
"Oh! I'm really pleased for you, Beta Six."
"Thank you, Beta Five. Nice to know you're plased. Well, can't stop - taking Beta Seven out to celebrate. Bye."
Beta Five watched the door close on Beta Six, and turned frowning to his experiment. Then in a savage gesture he stretched out his hand. Gigantic, invisible fingernails descended from the sky into Killing Area One, and ripped apart the tiny figure that had been placed there. Beta Five repeated this in several more Killing Areas, and finished by reaching into a tiny box in Killing Area Five and squeezing the tiny figure within till it burst. Then he went off and had a lost weekend.
When next day in his absence the assessors viewed the results of his experiment, they were very excited, and Beta Five's grant was not only renewed, but increased. As a result of which, he was able to set up a far more sophisticated experiment.
The original experiment was left to gather dust in a corner of the lab, still running on, unheeded.
It's still running on 116 years later....
Robert |
Alan Sharp
Inspector
Username: Ash
Post Number: 386
Registered: 9-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 6:52 am: |
|
All
Many thanks for the kind comments. It's very liberating to get away from the dry facts for a while and let the imagination take over.
Albert
Brilliant, enjoyed that a lot.
Robert
Very amusing.
AP
Loved The Keeper. The Babylon one was interesting, as one who is knocking on the door of the cosy little castle and asking if he can come in and take a seat, I've already learned to be careful of them guns and think I will be needing to develop eyes in the back of my head! |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 779
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 1:16 pm: |
|
Yes, I enjoyed Albert’s effort as well, I thought he handled an incredible and uncomfortable subject with credible and comfortable ease, and it was a good read.
I’m sure children must have been privy to many secrets on the streets of Whitechapel at night, and there is really something in the notion that such gangs of ‘street Arabs’ - as Holmes called them - would keep these little secrets to themselves.
While a member of such a gang of street Arabs in my very formative years in Hong Kong we discovered two human bodies floating in the local reservoir and although we kept watch on them for a full week we never reported the incident, and were actually present when the police divers finally removed them.
Such things do happen.
Anyways, I’m so happy to see this thread kicking off to such a great start.
I’ve enjoyed immensely every story posted so far.
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 780
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 1:33 pm: |
|
Robert
enjoyed your fairly futuristic story with all the 'beta's' about their nefarious business. Good concept, and I always enjoy seeing a fresh bit of fish on the market stall instead of Joe's old cod.
I have actually written a full length book with a similar 'beta' theme but based in ancient Egypt, and it is available on-line for a price, but if you e-mail me I'll give you a site where it is available gratis, if you are interested. |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 781
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 1:43 pm: |
|
Thanks Alan,
knock carefully before you go in the castle, and never mind the guns, it is the flowerpots that the funny chap in the garden shed throws at you that is the real danger.
Beware of Ripposaurs, they not only have bad breath but they are actually able to fart long passages of JtR dogma at you, and you may well be in grave danger of falling asleep once inside the castle. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1956
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, January 27, 2004 - 6:11 pm: |
|
CONFESSION
"I know what is wrong with me. I'm a doctor, damn it!...sorry. It's just that I know. And I'd like to tell you something.
"Do you remember the 'Jack the Ripper' murders? Of course you don't, you're too young. But I see that you've heard of them.
"Well, on the night of the Buck's Row murder I had been called out to a patient – quite a well-off patient for such a poor area.
"I was strolling home around a quarter to four in the morning, musing on how comfortable the life of a doctor could be, when it – he – came round the corner and nearly walked into me.
"There was blood on his face and on his hands. For a moment, his mad eyes stared at me, and suddenly I became an object in his universe.
"We feel fear when a lunatic stares at us, not because we don't know who he is, but because we no longer know who we are.
"Then he was gone, walking off tremendously fast in a dead straight line...ultimately to an asylum.
"Even now I could describe the man perfectly, but...I didn’t tell the police!.....Later, four more women were to die at his hand.
"I now owe the world four human lives. Whatever I may have achieved in my profession, whatever honours may have been bestowed on me...none of it is rightfully mine. For how can I ever repay four human lives?
"Yes, I can read the contempt in your face, my young friend. But perhaps you will feel a little pity – just a little – if I explain : the man I saw that night was my son!"
PS AP, thanks, I'll take you up on that.
Robert
|
Alan Sharp
Inspector
Username: Ash
Post Number: 390
Registered: 9-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 4:54 am: |
|
AP
Thanks for the advice. To extend the metaphor further, I feel that some of us need to enter the castle to bolster the defences, because that way when someone comes along, and they will, with big enough guns to break down the walls, storm the castle and sack the place, that's when we will know that they have truly earned the right to use the words "Case Closed". |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 783
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 1:10 pm: |
|
The secret inquest testimony of PC Edward Watkins
‘So you are quite sure Watkins that apart from the poor murdered unfortunate there was no other soul in Mitre Square when you arrived?’ asked the Coroner.
‘Quite sure sir,’ replied Watkins.
‘Not a soul to be seen anywhere?’ the Coroner pressed further.
‘Correct, sir, not a single soul to be seen anywhere.’
‘So you are telling us Watkins that you were the only living person in Mitre Square upon your arrival there?’ asked the Coroner yet again.
‘No sir that is not correct,’ Watkins replied.
‘No sir, no sir!’ demanded the Coroner. ‘But you have just told us twice that there wasn’t a single soul in the square, and now you say there was! Explain yourself man, before I have you up for contempt!’
‘Well, sir, you did ask me if I had seen any other ‘souls’ in the square, and this indeed I did not, but just now you mentioned ‘living persons’ and I was obliged to answer you correctly and inform you that yes that was indeed the case,’ explained Watkins at rambling length.
‘Good god!’ roared the Coroner. ‘So Watkins would you please inform the court of the identity and purpose of this other person, and that at once!’
‘Yes, sir!’ replied Watkins, reaching into his jacket pocket. ‘I will have to consult my notebook, sir.’
The court waited while Watkins flicked through his small black notebook.
‘Ah, here we are, sir,’ he exclaimed and studied the page at some length.
‘Damn it, man!’ shouted the Coroner. ‘Just get on with it. Who the blathering dickens was this individual?’
‘His Royal Highness Prince Albert, sir’ Watkins announced.
The Coroner practically swooned before he screamed:
‘And what the devil was His Royal Highness Prince Albert doing in Mitre Square?!’
‘I found him stark naked apart from collar and cuffs poised above the body of the poor woman, clutching a large bloody knife and muttering quite incoherently to himself, sir.’
‘And did you ask His Royal Highness for an explanation of his behaviour and the circumstances in which you found him?’ asked the Coroner keenly.
‘I did indeed, sir, His Royal Highness kindly informed me that he was shaving, sir.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, man?!’ demanded the Coroner. ‘It would have saved the court a great deal of time and bother if you had offered this perfectly rational explanation for HRH’s presence and circumstances right at the start… Did you see anyone else PC Watkins.’
The PC consulted his notebook once more.
‘Yes sir,’ he admitted. ‘Just across the square sat at his easel was the gentleman painter, Mister Sickert, and he was busy with a landscape, sir.’
‘Really Watkins?!’ exclaimed the Coroner. ‘I’m a great admirer of Mr Sickert’s works myself, and only last week took in his fine exhibition at the Royal Academy. Pray, my dear chap, what sort of landscape was our dear artist friend busy with?’
‘I fear it was a modernistic work, sir,’ explained Watkins. ‘For the entire canvas was covered in red paint and Mr Sickert had himself a good deal of the red paint all over his jacket and shirt, sir.’
‘Well!’ exclaimed the Coroner. ‘I look forward to viewing this landscape at his next exhibition. There wasn’t anyone else around the square, was there?’
Watkins again consulted his trusty notebook.
‘Only Superintendent Cutbush, sir,’ said Watkins.
‘Ah, the good superintendent Cutbush,’ sighed the Coroner. ‘On official business I suppose?’
‘No sir, the superintendent was engaged in family matters,’ replied Watkins.
‘You don’t say!’ exclaimed the Coroner. ‘Nothing too serious I hope, Watkins?’
‘Oh yes sir, quite a tragedy, Superintendent Cutbush’s young nephew Jack had fallen down some nearby stairs and was covered from head to foot in blood, the superintendent was assisting the poor boy to make his way home.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Watkins,’ called the Coroner. ‘Do pass my respects and best wishes onto the family for me.’
‘I will sir,’ confirmed Watkins.
‘Is that it, Watkins?’ asked the Coroner. ‘No other persons in the square?’
The good PC once again consulted his notebook.
‘Only the leader of the opposition party, sir, handing out parcels to the poor and needy of the area; and oh yes I almost forgot, there was Charles Dickens, you know the novelist, sir, engaged in some research for his latest book. The Queen’s personal physician, Sir Gull, was exercising his dog but must have lost it as there was no sign of it…’
‘That will do, that will do, Watkins,’ interrupted the Coroner. ’I have a game of canasta at six and will not be late for that… advice the jurors to return a verdict of wilful murder by person or persons unknown, now where is my damned hat?’
‘On your head, sir,’ advised PC Watkins.
|
Natalie Severn
Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 242
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 3:32 pm: |
|
Thankyou Robert.An enjoyable read.Do go on.
You too AP-I could just picture such a scenario.
Mitre square has suddenly taken on a life of its very own!
Natalie |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 784
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 4:13 pm: |
|
Or might it have been his nephew, Robert?
A good read and a good highlight of something that is not often considered in the case, relationships of a blood nature, so to speak.
What is written in blood is not diluted in water, and all that.
I would have thought - speaking purely from a common sense point of view - that when a series of murders haven't been solved after over a hundred years when the greatest minds available have applied themselves to solving that murder mystery, then someone somewhere is hiding something.
This leaves one choice and one choice alone.
The investigating force is culpable. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1961
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 5:15 pm: |
|
Thanks folks. AP, that was hilarious stuff. I'll have to don my thinking cap and try to come up with something humorous (though I'll save Uncle Charles and Jack for the poetry thread).
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1963
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 - 7:00 pm: |
|
The hansom clattered into the darkest corner of Mitre Square and a keen-faced figure sprang out.
"Thought you might be out of your depth, Abberline."
"You're confusing me with Druitt, Mr Holmes. Might I ask where Dr Watson is?"
"Well, I told him the game was afoot, but he'd had five bottles of champagne and was soundo."
"Oh, dear!"
"Oh dear indeed - it was my champagne. Now I think I'll just crawl around on all fours, dart this way and that, and peer at everything through my magnifying glass - for all the world like a bloodhound on the scent."
"Do you think you might find a clue?"
"I think I might find the sixpence I just dropped. Didn't you hear it tinkle, Abberline?"
"Sorry, Mr Holmes."
"Nevertheless, with your permission...aha! There it is - under your boot, Abberline. Isn't that strange! Hullo! What's this?"
"That's the victim, Mr Holmes."
Holmes scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and tossed it to Abberline.
" ' This woman's been brutally murdered.' Can you deduce anything else, Mr Holmes?"
Holmes scribbled another note.
" ' The murderer is of Jewish appearance, looks crazy and carries a small black bag.' Amazing, Mr Holmes! How do you know that?"
"I don't - I'm just pitching for the reward money. Well, I think I've done all I can here, Abberline. On to Goulston Street."
Next day, the following notice appeared in the personal column of the "Times" : 'Found in Goulston St, one sh*tty piece of apron. Will the person who dropped it apply to 221B Baker St'.
The day after, the "Times" carried the headline : 'Famous detective disembowelled'. But this was just a ruse to enable Holmes to work undercover. Watson takes up the story :
Oh, my hangover! I - I mean, during the next few days Holmes came and went in a variety of disguises - a device he used when he wanted to dodge paying the rent. One day he was a sailor, the next an East End prostitute, and the next a werewolf. Finally, I lost patience :
"Really, Holmes, I do think you might take me into your confidence."
"My apologies, Watson. Very well. I have decided we need an all-night vigil."
"Oh, no!"
"Come, come, Watson! You know I can never catch anyone without an all-night vigil."
"But it's cold and wet, Holmes."
"Fortunately I know a woman who is short of money and who will let us spend the night under her bed, for a small consideration."
So on the night of November 8th we hid under the bed of a woman called Mary Jane. The next day's papers carried the headline : 'Famous detective sleeps through Kelly murder.'
(TO BE CONTINUED, HOPEFULLY)
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 790
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, January 29, 2004 - 5:40 pm: |
|
Enjoyed that Robert.
I always feel that Holmes and Watson are the best vehicles around for such a subject, and I often daydream about their involvement in the case, must write some of it down.
I must also do another uncle Charles and Jack for the poetry thread before we are completely drowned by this seductive thread. |
M.Mc.
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 3:10 pm: |
|
 I'm writing a rather odd story. A movie script I should say I will be bugging Hollywood with it after I copyright it of course.
 It takes place in the late 1880's. HINT! I don't want to give too much away here but I'll give you a tiny run down of the storyline.
 The main person in the script is a vigilante gunslinger and the script starts out in the old west. After getting revenge on the gang who killed and kidnapped the main person's family. This gunslinger goes to England where the only family remain.  Then the "Jack the Ripper events of 1888 unfold. The gunslinger tries in vain to find the killer too. However the fog is not making the gunslinger's quest an easy one. This isn't the American West, it's England.
The reason is I wanted to add the real events of the Ripper crimes as unsolved like they really are. I'm putting in what the witnesses said they saw. However JTR's front side will never be seen and thus he remains unknown. I do not want to give my point of view on who the Ripper was because there are too many good as well as bad suspects. However, I do play around with the "suspects" list. Like a sailor who bothers the gunslinger after the gunslinger leaves the Ten Bells drunk. Montague John Druitt found floating in the Thames river after he kills himself. The Lodger comes in too and the Walter Sickert's paintings. I even want to have the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, George Lusk and Inspector Abberline in it at one point. I hope it's good in any event. 
So after not being able to find and kill Jack the Ripper the gunslinger leaves England with a heavy heart.  |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 1990
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 3:28 pm: |
|
Hope it's not Kelly's, M.Mc. Anyway,good luck with it. But surely you'll have Tumblety in it?
You can't leave Doc T out, if it's an American thing.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 799
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, February 01, 2004 - 4:53 pm: |
|
I fear an American gunslinger will not have a hope in hell if he comes up against uncle Charles.
Prepare the wreaths and sermon.
Still it will be another corpse for Jack to play around with. |
Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 101
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 9:39 am: |
|
Yeah, I would also throw Dr. Cream in if I were you, why not use as many American references as you can? And so what if he was supposed to be in Joliet? His double got him out! |
M.Mc.
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Monday, February 02, 2004 - 8:29 pm: |
|
Well I do want to push in as many as I can but I don't know if it will work or not. If it does yes, of course. However since I do not have my own point of view on a JTR suspect I leave that as unknown. I have only taken out suspects that I believe could NOT have been JTR. I might use them in the story anyway in a round about way. I do NOT believe Dr. Gull is a good JTR suspect for 3 very good reason but I will use him in the story anyway. And before you ask I'll give you my 3 reasons why I think Dr. Gull is a bad JTR suspect...
1) He had a stroke and JTR had to be in top shape to kill like lightning and leave so fast.
2) His age. None of the witnesses saw a man his age with the victims.
3) He was far too fat to be the Ripper. |
Kris Law
Detective Sergeant
Username: Kris
Post Number: 105
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, February 03, 2004 - 9:14 am: |
|
I don't think Gull was the Ripper either, but not for those reasons. For one, it's been written that Gull's stoke was an extremely slight one, and apparently people who didn't know he had had one never noticed any difference in him, so it doesn't seem unreasonable to me.
Granted, not witnesses noticed anyone of his age around, but I don't put all my stock in the witnesses, it was extremeley dark, and we don't know for certain that any of the witnesses even truly saw the Ripper.
How does fat come into the equation? Was Annie to fat to be gutted? Presumably not. |
Alan Sharp
Inspector
Username: Ash
Post Number: 417
Registered: 9-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 8:06 am: |
|
The early morning streets were close to empty, at least as close as the East End of London could ever come. There were the usual late night revellers, drunks staggering into doorways to sleep off their intoxication, happy groups singing as they paraded with arms linked down the centre of the road, businessmen scurrying home to their wives from the late night drinking clubs. The night was cloudless and a full moon shone down bathing the streets in cool blue light. Mary observed all this as she stood on the corner of Brick Lane waiting for a customer to come along.
She heard him before she saw him. The click, click, click of shoeheels on the paving stones. The tap, tap, tap of the cane. She turned and looked him up and down.
He was a handsome man, and she could tell that his body beneath the expensive clothes would be lean and powerful. Obviously rich, he was immaculately dressed in top hat, tailored suit and a long black overcoat. His cane was tipped with silver, and a gold watch chain ran into the pocket of his waistcoat.
"Good Evening, Sir" she said, "fine evening to be out."
"It is that" he replied, "though I warrant I am seldom in this part of town."
"I wonder what brings you here sir, a fine looking gentleman such as yourself. Would you be looking to do a little business by any chance, sir?"
"I believe I might. Shall we say two shillings?"
She looked the gentleman up and down. Two shillings was more than enough to pay for her meagre services, but she could see that this man would not baulk at more.
"Three?" she asked, tentatively.
"Three it is. Lead the way my good lady!"
They walked together a short distance up the street, to where a dark covered passage led between a butchers shop and a clothiers. At the other end of the passage was a dingy little court, the windows of the few meagre houses darkened. She led him to a dark corner, turned to the wall and began to adjust her clothing.
She felt his presence behind, and as he pulled her hair aside and softly kissed the back of her neck she felt the cold sharp blade of the knife against her neck.
"Jack the Ripper!" she gasped.
From behind she heard a giggle, and a look of annoyance crossed her face as his head rested on the back of hers and he began to shake with uncontrollable laughter. She moved the knife away with her thumb and forefinger and turned round, a look of mixed amusement and disapproval on her face.
"Mike, you promised!"
"Sorry, I started to feel silly."
She kissed him gently, and as he turned and slotted his key into the front door he said "Next week, I get to choose the fantasy."
|
AP Wolf
Chief Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 808
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 1:32 pm: |
|
Yes, Alan, an excellent read.
As I said before you have such an easy well-lubricated style that is not only a joy to read but I do fear your lubrication might be the same as mine, good honest Safeways Spanish Brandy.
I did really enjoy that and do believe you have much talent as a writer, just watch out for the flowerpots and farting ripposaurs! |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2022
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 04, 2004 - 5:22 pm: |
|
Yes Alan, that was a really nice piece with a good twist at the end. At a rough guess, I'd say the lubricant was either SSB or Guinness.
Robert |
Levi
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Wednesday, February 11, 2004 - 12:00 am: |
|
Check out this little impromptu tidbit of questionable subject matter. Just a horrible little stool sample of what i'm capable of. I enjoy venturing into the arena of dark arts. Many of my stories end in your death.
http://www.sasquatchstudios.com/levi/ |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1217
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 22, 2004 - 1:36 am: |
|
Hi all
Some time last year I posted a piece called Bloodshadow - more a play than a short story. I have since found an earlier version - well, very different actually! - called Shadows of Blood. The first part is below - will post the later parts if folks want
Chris
SHADOWS OF BLOOD
A PLAY FOR ONE VOICE
BY
CHRISTOPHER SCOTT
COMPLETE DARKNESS
A DEEP RESONANT CHANTING IS HEARD BUT WITHOUT IDENTIFIABLE WORDS.
AFTER SOME TEN SECONDS OF CHANTING THE SOUND IS SLOWLY OVERLAID
WITH THE SOUNDS OF MADMEN- SCREAMS,SOBS AND MOANS AND DISCORDANT,
METALLIC SOUNDS OF INSTRUMENTS. AT THE SAME MOMENT,THE SOUNDS STOP
ABRUPTLY AND A PILLAR OF WHITE LIGHT ILLUMINATES THE CENTRE STAGE.
WITHIN THIS LIGHT,THE ACTOR IS SEATED ON A HIGH, BACKLESS STOOL.
HE IS BAREFOOT. HE CLASPS HIS ARMS TIGHTLY AROUND HIMSELF TO SIMULATE
THE WEARING OF A STRAIT-JACKET. HE IS HUNCHED FORWARD IN A FOETAL
P0SITION AND ROCKS BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS SLOWLY.
Eight little whores with no hope of heaven,
Gladstone may save one,then there'll be seven.
Seven little whores begging for a shilling,
One stays in Henage Court,then there's a killing.
Six little whores glad to be alive,
One sidles up to Jack,then there are five.
Four and whore rhyme aright,so do three and me-
I'll set the town alight ere there are two.
Two little whores,shivering with fright,
Seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night.
Jack's knife flashes,then there's but one
And the last one's the ripest for Jack's idea of fun...
There were five.. only five little whores in the middle of the night
and I know their names,every one,because I have practiced. He has
told me all about them and laid them bare before me,to the flesh,to the blood,to the bone. Have you ever seen a human
corpse flayed back to the muscle and then carved down to the glinting bone? Have you ever seen what was a living,feeling being dismantled until there are only anonymous,meaningless fragments? I have...he has shown me. He comes to me in the night and it is always night here,where the day dares not come. I am his slave,his disciple and his witness. What are you doing here? Who let you in to drag me from my dreams? Oh,how I love my dreams..in them I am the master,I have the power... they cower before me and not him...I drift on a milky curtain of desire and the tides of sleep dash over me, cold and shocking... go with them.. do not fight,do not fight them...
I can see you and I know you. You are laying there in the dark like a puppet with the strings cut,like a doll thrown down by a wilful child. All is quiet.. .1 can hear a dog whining far off.. Whitechapel. I have been there in my mind times beyond counting. I know every stinking alley and every filthy yard,every tenement where the pimps,pickpockets, burglars,whores,thugs and murderers cram and tussle for a space to sleep. He is near...can't you feel it? Can't you feel the power and the anger that push out from him so strong that you can taste them?
He took me by the hand,gently,like a caring father or older brother. His hand was warm and soft. I felt safe with him and knew without words tnat his anger and his darkness were not meant for me. Rather, I was to be his pupil and his witness to tell the world,to tell you,of the unfathomable anger and the boundless pain that were in him. He was mad. I knew it.But it did not matter.
He took me by the hand. Night-a cool,quiet evening in the late summer. A narrow street we walked,two conspiring ghosts in an alley of shame and he led me on,remorseless as marble,hard as diamond in the revealing of his purposee "I have been this way tonight",he said,soft as a feather breathing,"and there lies the first fruit of my anger." A shapeless, twisted bundle lay before a grimy gatc in the flickering,pallid light of a single lamp. I held back - but he urged me on. "Look," he said. "Look and remember."
I looked and could never forget. Even in the pale light I could see the unnatural pallor of the unliving-her eyes were open and those unseeing eyes looked through me to a horizon that I could not even imagine. My gaze was drawn slowly down the bloodless cheeks to a livid gash that opened her throat like a screaming mouth whose silent curse pounded mercilessly into my deaf ears. Still I looked down,across her sad,shabby dress that spoke of wretched poverty and bestial shame but through the thin,scrannel cloth I could see with the unnatural vision of insight that there was blood beneath and worse,much worse. "Yes,"he said quietly."I have ripped her."
There was only one question.
"Why?", I breathed to him. "How could you hate anyone so much to do this?" I sensed a smile.
"How could I hate her?" he said in my mind. "I did not even know her. But you will learn that it is not important. People are of no interest or importance to me. They are only parts of the beast that I hate with a venom that cannot be quenched,the Hydra that I must overwhelm or to which I must surrender. And,as you will learn,I am not one to surrender."
She had been a drab,poor,cheerful woman who meant no harm to anyone. I know what you will say:"She did not desarve to die in that way." But do any of us deserve to die in the multitude of hideous ways that God has invented for us? At least her sad ending served a purpose-she was the first instrument on which the hatred and the power of my master played out and in that bloody,shrieking music was born what he so desired-the fear and the terror that stalked those sweating,slimy streets not only for weeks or months but for years. That was what he sought. A faceless,nameless man sought to make a name for himself.
"No,master...please.. not again. It has only been a few days and the blood is still liquid in my head." He dragged me,screaming and pleading, through a warren of backstreets and alleys to a narrow, closed in passageway. I could smell the blood. It was early dawn. I could not see him but as he stoof behind me and I heard the rapid in and out of his excited breath and felt its heat on the back of my neck, I knew he had been here before.
"Go on," he whispered. "It is your birthright."
I had no choice. You have to believe that! I was a slave to his will and am still. It is easy for you to sit there in judgement with your pious, all knowing faces and think "I would not have done it." But you have not known him, you have not felt the force of his will, the heat of his anger.
In the yard was a woman sprawled on her back, her face a mask of pain, tongue protruding, eyes open and staring. His sign was upon her. Her throat opened to the spine left no doubt that my dark master had wreaked his awful vengeance upon this unknown and blameless woman. She may not have been blameless in the eyes of the world - she was a whore, drunkard and a liar. But none could deserve a death such as this. Parts of her were strewn beside the ripped cavity of her abdomen. It was so quiet and still - a frozen tableau more like a waxwork than the world of men.
I felt his dark shadow slither behind me. "Do not ask why," he hissed. "The answer is the same. She served my purpose. She happened to be there."
For twenty four days I lay on my filthy bed and discovered the horrors that the human body can perform. My will had gone from me - I could not move, I ate scraps only when I could stave off the rats' teeth of hunger no longer. I lay in a festering mess of all the liquids that the body can produce and was oblivious to everything except the eyes that haunted me. Why did he have to show them to me with their eyes open? If he had closed them, it would have been like a doll, a characterless mask that I would not have felt any human sympathy for. Why had he chosen me to reveal these horrors to? What had I done? What should I do?
In all that time of turmoil and degradation,I never once wondered who he was-it was enough for me that each day passed without the dark shadow on the wall and the hideous whisper in my ear.
Such dreams came to me.
A land of sullen,red,bleeding hills from which run rivers whose banks are thickly clotted with a dark brown scum.But these hills are watching me and in the side of each fleshy mountain is an unblinking eye that follows me relentlessly and from which I cannot hide.
I am naked but as I look down at myself in the ghastly,red light. I am sexless and my body from the waist down is a shifting mist that will not solidify-I try to run but cannot. Rather,it seems that I stay still and the undulating landscape rushes past me in a reddened frenzy of blood,flesh and staring eyes. I cry out: "Help me!" But there is a sudden,hellish pain in my legs and as I stare down the ground is far below me. The mist has gone and instead of legs I am striding along on two gigantic knife blades and as they touch the ground,they slice into it,new rivers of blood gush out,scarlet fountains in the rancid air...
He is here...am I awake?...am I asleep?
Am I dreaming of him? No. I am in my foul bed but his shadow is on the wall - the dark,glistening outline of a creature whose face I have never seen but whose hand has taken mine,soft and warm,to show me his hellish soul.
"You must come with me"-the shadow breathes the words like an owl's wing beating...
"No!"-I scream my heart out at him and the tears are running across my face.. you must believe me! If I had the will to resist him I would have done,but you that sit there in judgement like the gods of the underworld,you would not have been able to deafen your soul to the chill words of his summons.
"You must come with me." There was no demand in those words,no threat - only an unspoken knowledge that what he wished of me would come to pass and I would go with him.
|
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 846
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 22, 2004 - 3:03 am: |
|
Hi Chris,I very much enjoyed this.Do please post the rest.
This is how I have imagined him.Driven by a force outside himself.Madness.
And something of his willingness to immerse himself in slime comes across strongly in the
way he describes his bed!
I like the way you present him on stage---the sense of drama he has about his grisly work!
This too is what I sense ---a sort of perverse artistry and showmanship springs from his private hell.
Congratulations Chris.
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2461
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 22, 2004 - 4:12 am: |
|
Chris, there's so much great stuff in here. I could read and enjoy this even if I hadn't one iota of interest in JTR.
Yes, you must post the rest!
Robert |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1218
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 22, 2004 - 4:19 pm: |
|
Part 2
"Two tonight,"he sighed. "The first was...imperfect. But you must see it,you must know that I will not be thwarted,that the only way in which the world of men will ever know me will be in words slashed in their own blood. It is the only way..." He led me to a sad,grimy street,to two large,wooden gates inside which lay a drab,dark shape with the stark white of an outstretched arm showing it to be the wreck of what was once human.
'Look" he crooned. "And see the price of failure"
His hand took the back of my head and all my will and all my strength could not resist as he pushed me forward and down to gaze at what I dreaded most-the staring,dead eyes,incriminating,reflecting my own livid face,eye to eye,blood to blood,life to life. But as I looked at myself in her dead eyes,I felt a creeping chill course through me-I saw only myself. There was no dark shadow behind me,no crouching, faceless shape that held me captive,no Jack the Ripper...only me. But I could feel the relentless grip of his now icy hand on the back of my neck,thrusting me forward to exult in his lunacy,forcing me to face the darkest reaches of his fevered mind.
"You have seen enough of failure"-his words crackled like black lightning singing into my soul. "Now come..."
I was wrenched away and hurried through a labyrinth of nightmare streets until we reached a small courtyard,closed in on all sides by faceless,echoing buildings whose eyeless windows stared down upon me in hatred and reproach.
"In the corner,over there,"he whispered. "Go... see the price of success." His exultation,the power of his hatred and his demonic glee burned into me and pushed my heavy legs on to the dimly lit shape sprawled in the darkest corner of the miserable square.
"This one I am proud of,"he hissed.
If insanity could rip itself from a madman's brain and take on fleshly form,then it would be what lay before me that night. A human being-a woman who until some few,bare minutes ago had known laughter,love,hatred and all the other follies and glories that are our lot. She had not been killed-she had been destroyed. Throat savaged to within an inch of beheading,ripped open from pelvis to breast,entrails removed and thrown ingloriously beside her like a heap of discarded washing...but her face-a mask of madness,cut and slashed to a clownish and mirthless travesty of a human countenance.
I had thought all my tears were spent but still they came as I looked upon this bloody shambles.
"At least," I thought,"there can be no worse. It is not possible for one human being to inflict greater savagery upon another."
"I can",he whispered. "If you look carefully enough you will find that there are some...items missing. A kidney and her womb. Ice flowed in me instead of blood when I heard the bottomless hatred with which he pronounced so emphatically that last word-"womb".
"I took the womb from the second woman,as well,"he exulted hoarsely.
"Why?",I screamed at him. "You had killed them,abused them,mutilated them-what possible purpose,even to your twisted mind,could this atrocity have?"
"You will come to understand,"he breathed patiently,like one talking to a small and wilful child. "That part of her,that cursed bag of flesh that I cut out by the stump-that is what gives life to all of these creatures,all these parcels of filth and sin. And it is what gave life to me...it has to be destroyed." 3
He left me-for thirty nine days he left me.The only thought worse than thinking I would see him again was the hope that I would never see him again. I had come to need him...
I existed.The filth and the excrement piled up around me,beneath me... within me.And still the dreams came...
I am in that foul passageway but he is not here-noone is here. I know what is beyond that door and I cannot face it,I cannot look into those dead eyes again. If there was hate there or fear or loathing or blame, I could-but there is nothing,an emptiness,a void that will drag me in and swallow me. The walls of the passage are living flesh and bleed from a thousand cuts from which protrude pink,veined entrails,glistening organs. The fleshy walls throb with a dying beat but they are pressing in upon me,nearer,nearer- I can feel the coldness from them clawing into me-no,get away,I cannot breathe.. .they are drawing in about me,moulding to my flesh to drag me into them... no,I will not go with you,I will not be part of you...
Thirty nine days of despair when the shadow on the wall did not appear. Why have you left me? Why do you not come? Even you are better than noone.
As I lay,asleep or awake-I neither knew nor cared which-the amorphous filth that drenched and enveloped me was pulsing with surrogate life and,as I watched,tendrils and fingers slowly emerged from the shapeless mass of waste and crawled over my useless and helpless body-trails of slime tattooed across me as the rancid outpourings of my own body tried to claim back their own but I fought them and slashed them until my feeble strength was gone. "I am yours," I moaned."As you came from me so shall I return to you." But in my acceptance,they retreated and sank back sullenly into the mire from which they had come.
And as I lay there, I was in a tent of fragile,red silk that rippled softly in an unheard,unfelt breeze. Gentle pulses trickled over my flesh and I floated...I was not breathing but knew that it was not important...I was untroubled and at rest. Each movement was slow and undulating-in wonder,I moved my hand to my face and just before my seeking fingers touched my own flesh I felt a little breeze caress my cheek...but it was no breeze. It was water- I was drowning in fluid, I couldn't breathe...I tried to shout but my lungs were full of this awful,slimy,enveloping fluid...
My sweat stank on me as I woke,though the stench was barely noticed amid the other odours of my bed...
He is here...dear God,let it be him but let it not be. I need him but I fear him and those eyes...
The shadow is on the wall-the shadow of blood.
"You must come with me..."
"No."
"Yes-this is the last time."
"If I come with you just once more,you will leave me alone?"
"I will be where I cannot touch you..."
His voice sounded almost sad...
"Come..." his hoarse words crackled with urgency. "It is time." He put his hand in mine,still warm,still soft,and guided me gently to a backstreet,an alleyway...no sound,no movement,no life.
"Where?" I whispered,looking around me.
I felt his hand on my shoulder,urgent,excited.
"There,"he urged. "The window..."
A grimy window,thickly curtained...one pane was broken. "Pu11 back the cloth." He pushed me forward. "Look into my soul." There was little light in the shabby room but I needed no more - the incandescence of his rage burned in the room with the strength of a thousand candles. On the bed,his final sacrifice. A woman... throat cut,spilt,ripped,gutted,skinned-every outrage played out on her that a mind from Hell could conceive. You sit there in judgement on me but I swear to you that no man has ever seen a sight like that before or since. You may have had nightmares that emptied your bowels, you may have seen Death,you may have seen carnage-but you did not see that and,if you had,you would be here now,not me...so who are you to condemn what you do not understand?
Then he was gone. I felt his darkness rip from me like a mother having a living child torn from her belly. Yes,I know how it feels to be ripped open and have your entrails torn apart by the darkness...
But I had to live afterwards,that is worse. That is the worst of all.
Why is it always the same question? Whenever any of you come to gawp at me like a monkey in a cage there is only one thing you want to know. Who was he? Do you know his name?
It doesn't matter! Can't you see that? lt is the why that is important - why he did what he did,why he is part of all of us,all of YOU...
The darkness that was in him is also in you.The only difference is that he had the insane courage to face it.I am what I am because he forced me to face it too.
Oh,I know why you want a name,a label, an identity.You think that if you can name him,you can contain him -he will become something separate and external that has nothing to do with you.Then you'll feel safe won't you? When the darkness has a neat little tag on it,is parcelled up and labelled 'Madman',then you can go home to your cosy little beds happy,knowing that the big bad ogre from your nightmares has been laid to rest.
You are wrong.We are all children in the dark....
You bring me your names and your suspects-I'll soon know if one of them is the shadow on the wall.I'll only have to hear that voice or touch that hand, soft,warm, to know him.But the irony is that you won't know if I'm telling the truth or not will you? You think that I am insane,but I have you at my mercy because only I can put you out of your misery and give you your precious name! Well then, bring on your suspects...all your morality,your law,your civilisation-it is a very thin veneer that overlays the darkness that lurks inside.But I can see the cracks and the joins,..that is why I frighten you.I have seen your weakness. All right-lets play it by the rules for a while. Legality,courts,testimony,evidence, verdicts and sentences-let's see where it will lead us.But I'll be hard on them. I have to be,you must see that..for a half-truth is of no use to us,is it?
If they are weak,if they lie,if they are not,in truth,the shadow on the wall,I will shoot them down in merciless flames.But I will not lie to you..no,I'll give you a bargain.If one of them is him-and believe me I'll know-then I promise that I will tell you.That's fair,isn't it? But what is in it for me,you ask? Well there is always the chance that one of them will be him,and then your faces will be reward enough. So,ladies and gentleman - who's first?
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2467
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 23, 2004 - 12:41 pm: |
|
Chris, the second part lived up to the first. Absorbing and disturbing. I think this would be a great piece for radio.
As a matter of fact, I'd love to hear this done by an actor on the Casebook itself. I don't know whether it's technically possible to have a piece this length on audio on this site, but it would be a real addition, in my opinion.
Robert |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1219
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 23, 2004 - 2:08 pm: |
|
Hi Rob
Thanks for the comments
Here is the last part:
Part 3:
You will have heard of me,of course.At least I trust that you have,for I am one of the immortals in the gallery of crime.I,my dear friends,am the Lambeth Poisenor- what a wonderful 'nom de guerre',if I may coin such a usage. Dr Thomas Neil Cream is my given name,if such tedious details are of importance to you - which knowing the crushing,indescribable banality of most minds,they will be.But my exploits,my friends - such times I had of it- such power was mine to command.I devised a speciality of killing women...prostitutes for your specific little minds - by the devious administering of poisoned capsules.
"Oh yes.dear girl.I am a doctor.Take this little tablet and it will set all your pains to right. • •Trust me!"
And they did.You cannot conceive of the excitement,the throbbing delirium that possessed me when I went back to my little room and conjured up in my head the moment when she would take it,and swallow very gently,all unsuspecting,all innocent of my power over her.
Artistry,my dears,sheer artistry!
And what did they do to me,to this genius,this connoiseur - they hanged me by the neck like a common cutthroat.How dare they? Don't they know who I am? But there,dear friends,on the gallows,I confessed,I wrung their hearts with the pity of my confession -"I am Jack the Ripper".
Wonderful performance,Doctor Cream - if it came down to style then you would have my vote.But it doesn't come down to 'style',dear doctor - it comes down to facts,granite facts,immovable,immutable facts.Were you in whitechapel? No! Were you in London! No! Were you in England? No! You were in America ,doctor- in prison in America throughout the dark days of my master's work.Though your gifts may be many,you do not have wings - you are not the one we are seeking.Who is next please ?
You want me to be honest ? To tell you why I really did those things? I don't like women - they tried to use me but I made damned sure that the power would be mine, I would do the taking.Severin Klosowski,that's my name.You can't even pronounce it,can you? I dropped the Polack and called myself George Chapman - very civilised,very respectable,very English.
I wanted their money - it's that simple.I wanted the things that I needed money to get and I didn't want to work for it.Why should I when silly tarts fawned on me,fell for me,married me,gave me all they had? I poisoned them - made it look good - natural,convincing.Even played the grieving husband on occasion.But I soon moved on to new pickings. I knew Whitechapel like the back of my hand~ although I'm a Polack,you'd take me for a Londoner any day.
You have to be convincing in my line of work.
There was a copper - Abberline his name was.Hounded me for years - he was convinced all right,and I suppose he knew as much about this business as anybody. When they finally got me,old Abberline was over the moon.He rubbed his fat,little policeman's hands together and said,"You've caught Jack the Ripper at last!"
He may have known the facts ,George.But he didn't know much about my Master's mind,did he? So you knew Whitechapel,you even lived there at the time,your way of life brought you into contact with women like those my Master chose. So what,George? Of how many other men could that be said and still be true?
Thousands! But your mind,your methods - no, it's wrong,all wrong. When did you kill,George ? After my Master's work,didn't you? A killer who had known the thrill of the knife,the primeval savagery of disembowelling, the glorious insanity of these killings- he would not,could not turn to the clinical,mercenary poisoning of women for money.These little men are not of the substance of the shadow on the wall.But don't give up hope yet - we may still find him.....
I loved my mother - she was my world.Only she understood me,only she knew what was in me.The madness took her from me,she did not even know me and when I went to see her in that awful place,she was not there,not her,not my mother - only a husk,a puppet,a corpse whose eyes blinked. She knew - she knew that what was in her was also in me.
I am Montague John Druitt - a good solid family,professional doctors,lawyers - the middle class of England personified.But her madness was in me-I felt its dark claws rake into me,stronger everyday.One month before these dreadful murders started,they put her into that lightless,hopeless place - my life withered as she withdrew from me.Some weeks after the final murder, the darkness closed in upon me and I knew beyond doubt that the only escape from the demons that tormented me was in the silence of death.I ended my sad life in the filthy,scummy waters of the Thames,all hope gone in a swirl of filth.There were those at the time who suspected me,and a high ranking member of the police force privately confided his thoughts to paper,some years later, that I was a strong suspect to be Jack the Ripper.
Unfortunately,Mr Druitt,we are not here to feel sorry for you -though I am sure we all do.Your life was sad,short and apparently joyless.But did you live in Whitechapel,Mr. Druitt? Near Whitechapel,perhaps? Were you ever seen in the vicinity or implicated in any way with the events we are examining ? The answer has to be 'NO',I regret to say.There is no shred of evidence to link you however remotely with any of the places,people or events under consideration.And though the private jottings of a senior policeman may seem important,does he offer the evidence we have found lacking elsewhere ? I have read his words,Mr Druitt - they offer nothing but insubstantial suspicion and oblique coincidence.
You have my sympathy for the course of your life but not my belief in your darker identity.
Will we ever,I wonder,find out the name you are all burning to know ? May we speak to the next suspect,please ?
I am Pedachenko -Alexander Pedachenko - Dr Alexander Pedachenko.You British are pale,sad little men who footle about in the foothills of crimee. All your squalid domestic little murders,your petty,sordid killings -they are so...what is the word? - mediocre.In Russia,our criminals splatter the annals of crime with blood,they outrage,they astound.Even among such peers I am acknowledged as a genius of crime,an unsurpassed master of depravity.I was sent to your country by the Tsarist Secret Police - your pallid,liberal masters gave sanctuary to the anarchists,the plotters,the scum -sanctuary in the East End of London. I was to carry out a series of slayings so abominable,so dreadful that it would subject your police to ridicule and throw the blame on the anarchist degenerates. I achieved my task -brilliantly, consummately - and was spirited away like the angel of death,back to my own country.You never knew, did you? Your inept police,your clownish politicians,your unwashed countrymen - I beat you all.
Well,Dr Pedachenko I would bow to your superior wisdom but for one little doubt within me.Questions of whether we can prove any connection with people, places and times really pale somewhat,Dr Pedachenko, because,you see,I cannot even convince myself of your existence,let alone your guilt.We have tortuous third-hand stories,tales that have no proof-nothing.Did you exist,Doctor? I doubt it.If you did,your arrogance is no proof of guilt and the claims made for you are as hollow as your pride.
Is there no-one who can lay claim to the title with some hope of success?
Do you really expect me to 'defend' myself before the bovine stares of these grubby little people? I would have thought that my position and my integrity would have sufficed to convince even your limited intelligences.Very well if I must. I am Albert Edward Victor,Duke of Clarence and Avondale,Prince of the Blood Royal,second in line to the throne of England and her dominions overseas.It has been claimed that in my travels abroad I contracted a social disease whose effects,especially in the latter stages,are well known to gentlemen of the medical profession and with whose sordid details I will not offend the hearing of those members of the fair sex who may be present.This alleged disease is purported to have induced me to commit these atrocious acts whilst in thrall to the ravening madness that is a consequence of its course. Naturally,the official story was that I died from pneumonia some few years after these killings but the more spectacularly minded would have it that my demise was directly attributable to the final ravages of my supposed disease.
Your delicacy does you credit,your highness,but I think we can mention the word in mixed company.You mean 'syphilis' don't you? I am sorry if we have offended you by suggesting such a possibility but on this occasion I must bow to your opinion - the plain fact is that you never had such a disease.But that is not relevant anyway, is it your highness?Simple geography will be enough to disprove these claims.On one of the nights with which we are concerned you were at Sandringham - quite a feat to cover that distance,disembowel an East End prostitute and still not be late for dinner.On another occasion you were in Scotland - I think you may safely rest in peace,your Highness,the case against you fails by any standard of evidence.
Are you that desperate to know his name that you fling these absurdities at me and expect a serious answer?
What about the Jewish slaughterman,the mad doctor,the pathological ape and the vengeful midwife? I have heard them all.None of them are touched by that awesome depravity of the shadow that spoke to me, the phantom in the night whose voice once heard is never forgotten.
If that is all you have to offer then my part of the bargain is fulfilled and I have no name to offer you. None of these pathetic individuals has taken me by the hand on a starless,storm tossed night,with a touch that is soft and warm or has guided me to a scene of ghastly destruction.
How many days must I be alone,Master? -Do not leave me any longer.There are those here who would know you as I have done,who would take their place beside you - show them your power and your anger.Let them feel the searing touch of your hatred,let them come to understand the demonic logic of your mind. I know where you are, master - I know where you have gone.But it does not matter.You were never more than a ghost and if your mortal body is now worm food,then send your blood-fed soul to me.
Come to me in the night when the creatures of darkness prowl,when the bats flit as silent as thistle,when the moon-painted wolf sings his despair in the dark,when the soundless owl smells blood in the living vein,when white worms feed on the raddled bones of forgotten men,when the pox faced moon rides like an ivory barge on her velvet,cloudless sea.Come to me,master,and take me to you for I have no other in all the world.
And I felt his hand upon me,warm and soft. He riffled my hair,gently,like a lover...I felt the ice at my throat and prayed my time had come.And I would gladly have gone with him - but he would not have it so. He breathed in my ear: "You are not mine.My task is done and all shall remember my passing.Bear witness to the darkness within me and let no man forget that what is in me is also in him."
And so you sit there, smug, self-satisfied, civilised...Come to the madshow, come to Bedlam and see the lunatics dance, come to the freakshow and let us rejoice that we are not like them.But you are...believe me, you are. In the dark hours of the night when all is still except for the sighing wind,think hard and pray that what lurks inside you stays there and slumbers on till the day you die. Or you may feel the soft,warm touch of an unseen hand upon your flesh...and the darkness will sleep no more...
And I was in a fair meadow touched by a dying sun.A single stone,black granite,glinted redly...and on it I read his final words:
Here lies a wretched corpse
Of wretched soul bereft.
Seek not my name.
Here lie I who,alive,all living men did hate.
Pass by and curse thy fill
But pass and stay not here.
Sleep carefully, dream wisely, or the master may come to you. We are all children in the dark.
Do you still want to know his name so much? Have you really not guessed?
I am Jack the Ripper...and so are you.
THE END
Copyright (All rights reserved) (C) 1991 by Christopher Scott
|
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 855
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 23, 2004 - 4:39 pm: |
|
Brilliant this Chris! I liked the format very much.It reminded me a bit of Anne Rice"s "Interview with a Vampire".You should get it published!
Best Natalie
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2469
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 23, 2004 - 5:26 pm: |
|
Tremendous, Chris. Excellent writing indeed.
Yes, I agree with Natalie, it ought to be published.
PS nice to see someone other than Saddam copyrighting his posts.
Robert |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1220
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 23, 2004 - 9:08 pm: |
|
Thanks for the comments:-)
The copyright just happened to be in the script I scanned!
Dunno about it being published - this one has been performed at the Theatre Royal in Margate here in Kent, very old Georgian theatre, very atmospheric.
Actually the character this was sort of based on, or rther the one who sparked off the whole idea, was Renfield in Dracula, the lunatic acolyte.
Glad you enjoyed
Chris |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1114
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 24, 2004 - 4:38 pm: |
|
Yes, Chris
very powerful and evocative stuff.
The moon-painted wolf was perfection.
I must read it all again at my leisure, as time is my enemy at the moment.
Also I must admit that the earlier version you posted proved to be a great source of inspiration for many poems I later wrote, as I believe this version will also be.
My hat is off to you sir. |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1223
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 25, 2004 - 9:49 am: |
|
Hi AP
Many thanks for the comments
Your opinion, as always, is much valued and means a lot
Regards
Chris |
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1224
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 25, 2004 - 9:52 am: |
|
I have been asked about the epitaph in the piece above:
Here lies a wretched corpse
Of wretched soul bereft.
Seek not my name.
Here lie I who,alive,all living men did hate.
Pass by and curse thy fill
But pass and stay not here.
I certainly can't take the credit for this. It is from Shakespeare, from the last scene of Timon of Athens.
Chris |
|
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