Tweet
I have written a few vignettes inspired by all I have read about the Whitechapel Murders. Some of them have appeared elsewhere in a previous draft and I plan to develop more. I try to capture the scenes as video clips, blending speculation, fact and poetic licence. Apologies if some of the description is raw but that's the reality of our subject. This one concerns Catherine Eddowes:
30th September 1888
In flickering amber gaslight she leaned against the outer wall of Bishopsgate Police Station, feeling the London brick cold and hard. She was still tipsy despite a long evening in the cells. Fingering her petticoat pocket she remembered the Slops had at least returned her possessions. “Goodnight old cocker,” she murmured again and smiled. Buttons wouldn’t pay for a bed though. She set off towards Aldgate.
Cheap lodging-house beds had bent Kate’s back and hop-field summers had creased her face, yet still she turned heads in Whitechapel. Tanned street traders saw her slight figure and soft hazel eyes, and thought of their fat, unwashed wives. They noticed her auburn hair, washed daily in hand soap, spilling from under her faded bonnet. In a city of ugliness she was pretty.
Black boots clicked on clean cobbles behind her. The cool night breeze revived her senses. Death lurked in these alleys, death by steel. The long shadows of Mitre Square ahead offered an opportunity to hide and draw breath. Kate hitched her skirt and ran into the dark of the square. She crouched and watched her pursuer. He would hear her stifled panting for sure. She gulped back a sob and pressed her slim frame into the angle of two walls. His heels clicked louder as he headed straight for her hiding place. She threw back her head and screamed in silent terror as the flashing blade sliced through her throat. Virtually decapitated by the single ferocious swing, she sucked and blew though the gaping wound until blood loss brought blessed unconsciousness.
Kneeling, he worked swiftly, slicing and scraping at the blanched face. He hoisted her tattered skirts and stooped close, drawing his blade deftly from her chest to her sex. He punched his knife in, mutilating the sanctum of life. Intestines slithered out in grey coils. He gathered them and flung them beside the whore’s head. He looked briefly away over his shoulder, retching at the hot stink. A black pool bloomed around her in a fearful halo.
Frantically he drove his fists into the cavity, searching and squeezing. He withdrew a kidney, like a ripe plum. Thrusting the organ into his pocket he rose to his feet, gasping lungfuls of cold London smog. Laughter echoed from the street beyond and he knew his time was short. He stepped over the lifeless remains and stooped to recover a long pin from her hair. He rammed it through the back of his own left hand and growled in agony. Grimacing in the dark he reminded himself the penalty for delivering pain was to receive it. Eddowes’ eyes stared blankly at the night sky. Her soft entrails, warm and pink glistened on the dirt, giving off tiny tendrils of steam.
By the quiet he judged the hour to be after 1am but suspicious eyes might glint behind every window so, walking just below a trot he put distance between himself and his savagery. Doubling back towards the East he reached the darkest lanes of all then ran hard and fast. His heart thumped loudly as he dropped to his knees in the blackness. Nausea welled in his throat and he vomited hot bile into the gutter. With the floodgates now open, he spewed the contents of his guts in short, lurching grunts until his muscles were on fire with pain.
Long, rattling strands blew from his dry lips and he tasted the bitterness of gin. This afternoon he had poured half a pint down his neck and more into the Eddowes woman. Next time he would do unspeakable things to the whore, whoever she may be...
30th September 1888
In flickering amber gaslight she leaned against the outer wall of Bishopsgate Police Station, feeling the London brick cold and hard. She was still tipsy despite a long evening in the cells. Fingering her petticoat pocket she remembered the Slops had at least returned her possessions. “Goodnight old cocker,” she murmured again and smiled. Buttons wouldn’t pay for a bed though. She set off towards Aldgate.
Cheap lodging-house beds had bent Kate’s back and hop-field summers had creased her face, yet still she turned heads in Whitechapel. Tanned street traders saw her slight figure and soft hazel eyes, and thought of their fat, unwashed wives. They noticed her auburn hair, washed daily in hand soap, spilling from under her faded bonnet. In a city of ugliness she was pretty.
Black boots clicked on clean cobbles behind her. The cool night breeze revived her senses. Death lurked in these alleys, death by steel. The long shadows of Mitre Square ahead offered an opportunity to hide and draw breath. Kate hitched her skirt and ran into the dark of the square. She crouched and watched her pursuer. He would hear her stifled panting for sure. She gulped back a sob and pressed her slim frame into the angle of two walls. His heels clicked louder as he headed straight for her hiding place. She threw back her head and screamed in silent terror as the flashing blade sliced through her throat. Virtually decapitated by the single ferocious swing, she sucked and blew though the gaping wound until blood loss brought blessed unconsciousness.
Kneeling, he worked swiftly, slicing and scraping at the blanched face. He hoisted her tattered skirts and stooped close, drawing his blade deftly from her chest to her sex. He punched his knife in, mutilating the sanctum of life. Intestines slithered out in grey coils. He gathered them and flung them beside the whore’s head. He looked briefly away over his shoulder, retching at the hot stink. A black pool bloomed around her in a fearful halo.
Frantically he drove his fists into the cavity, searching and squeezing. He withdrew a kidney, like a ripe plum. Thrusting the organ into his pocket he rose to his feet, gasping lungfuls of cold London smog. Laughter echoed from the street beyond and he knew his time was short. He stepped over the lifeless remains and stooped to recover a long pin from her hair. He rammed it through the back of his own left hand and growled in agony. Grimacing in the dark he reminded himself the penalty for delivering pain was to receive it. Eddowes’ eyes stared blankly at the night sky. Her soft entrails, warm and pink glistened on the dirt, giving off tiny tendrils of steam.
By the quiet he judged the hour to be after 1am but suspicious eyes might glint behind every window so, walking just below a trot he put distance between himself and his savagery. Doubling back towards the East he reached the darkest lanes of all then ran hard and fast. His heart thumped loudly as he dropped to his knees in the blackness. Nausea welled in his throat and he vomited hot bile into the gutter. With the floodgates now open, he spewed the contents of his guts in short, lurching grunts until his muscles were on fire with pain.
Long, rattling strands blew from his dry lips and he tasted the bitterness of gin. This afternoon he had poured half a pint down his neck and more into the Eddowes woman. Next time he would do unspeakable things to the whore, whoever she may be...
Comment