Contributor: Matthew Wilson
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Mary Kelly knew she was in trouble. Nothing new there but this time it was bigger. Worse.
The autumn of terror was almost over, now a winter of hard ship was coming fast as Stephenson`s rocket.
She needed money, or a way out. She`d waited in the ten bell`s pub for the right person two weeks running straight. Not perfect but close in build and hair colour. She took pity on the young prostitute, Annie - typical story, abusive father, absent mother - promptly bought her some drink and invited Ms homeless back to her digs.
Joe Barnett wouldn`t like it as he was main bread winner but ever since the arguments she cared little for what he said.
She was little then six months younger then Mary, her hair not quite as red and nose a might squarer but in time no one would know. History would forget such a silly name as Jack.
People popped their head out the window shouting as Mary and Annie staggered into Miller`s court blaring out at a hundred decibels a very groggy re-edition of "When I was young I took some flowers to my mother`s grave."
Mary took an immediate liking to the girl, it was a song her mother was fond of in grimy Cork. Mary had never had anything to her name, everything second hand, fit only for the tip. Yes, she liked her. She still she felt guilty.
Everyone said Mary was big hearted, she thought nothing of giving the girl the last bite of her apple. The sleeping draught inside put her out in moments.
Mary hoped it was fast, she`d hate to think she might hurt her, that she might be awake when what she did next happened. She had been so full of happiness, laughter. She had only a moment, maybe less to scream as Mary pulled the blade from under her stained mattress and slit her throat.
She started on the face first, took her time taking apart her Roman nose, her cheeks and mouth that would tell no secrets.
This had to look right, the work of a mad man, she cut the heart out and threw it on the fire. It emitted a bizarre simmering smell. Mary wiped her lip, wondering when she had cut herself and realised she was drooling. The heart exploded, showering her in vile, red, fatty juice.
Poor girl, so sweet and trusting.
But Mary was desperate, she owed the man two grand, not to mention being months behind in rent, she`d have to work the streets for ten years to pay it all back. If Mary Kelly died, all account`s were closed.
But Mary was twenty five, she loved life. Suicide wasn`t the thing even though the name holder had to die. Who`d have thought tearing up a body could be so noisy? She couldn`t be sure Miller`s court was asleep but she couldnt chance it. She had crossed the line.
No going back.
She started singing again, a little louder then before, wondering how butchers with stood the terrible rips of muscle and sinew as she rolled up her sleeves, meticulously de-fleshing the girl.
Of course, Whitechapel Jack would deny the killing when he was caught, but who could ever trust a pscyho? London was dead to her, no heaven at the best of time`s with the ripper about, staying round was walking on a fine line. Most of her friends were dead.
Long Liz, dark Annie, those that stayed would surely fall under his blade, the mad mad seemed to have a personal vendetta none but the noose would deter.
Mary had only ever had one good thing, her mothers dress, a long black gown, the dream of Irish ladies. Mary had never asked mother where she`d gotten it, she`s always had amazingly light fingers, she removed her blood stained dress and lay it carefully on the flames so it would not catch the carpet.
Mom`s dress fitted like a charm.
She still had it.
Still humming mother`s lullaby, she locked the door behind her as she left, cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted, "Oh, murder!"
This time next week, Jack would be rotting in New gate and she`d be sipping cocktails in Cork. Yes, history would forget.
Jack the ripper?
Such a silly name.
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Matthew Wilson, 29, is a UK resident who has been writing since an early age and recently these stories have escaped to magazines and ezines such as literary lunes and static movement.
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- -
Mary Kelly knew she was in trouble. Nothing new there but this time it was bigger. Worse.
The autumn of terror was almost over, now a winter of hard ship was coming fast as Stephenson`s rocket.
She needed money, or a way out. She`d waited in the ten bell`s pub for the right person two weeks running straight. Not perfect but close in build and hair colour. She took pity on the young prostitute, Annie - typical story, abusive father, absent mother - promptly bought her some drink and invited Ms homeless back to her digs.
Joe Barnett wouldn`t like it as he was main bread winner but ever since the arguments she cared little for what he said.
She was little then six months younger then Mary, her hair not quite as red and nose a might squarer but in time no one would know. History would forget such a silly name as Jack.
People popped their head out the window shouting as Mary and Annie staggered into Miller`s court blaring out at a hundred decibels a very groggy re-edition of "When I was young I took some flowers to my mother`s grave."
Mary took an immediate liking to the girl, it was a song her mother was fond of in grimy Cork. Mary had never had anything to her name, everything second hand, fit only for the tip. Yes, she liked her. She still she felt guilty.
Everyone said Mary was big hearted, she thought nothing of giving the girl the last bite of her apple. The sleeping draught inside put her out in moments.
Mary hoped it was fast, she`d hate to think she might hurt her, that she might be awake when what she did next happened. She had been so full of happiness, laughter. She had only a moment, maybe less to scream as Mary pulled the blade from under her stained mattress and slit her throat.
She started on the face first, took her time taking apart her Roman nose, her cheeks and mouth that would tell no secrets.
This had to look right, the work of a mad man, she cut the heart out and threw it on the fire. It emitted a bizarre simmering smell. Mary wiped her lip, wondering when she had cut herself and realised she was drooling. The heart exploded, showering her in vile, red, fatty juice.
Poor girl, so sweet and trusting.
But Mary was desperate, she owed the man two grand, not to mention being months behind in rent, she`d have to work the streets for ten years to pay it all back. If Mary Kelly died, all account`s were closed.
But Mary was twenty five, she loved life. Suicide wasn`t the thing even though the name holder had to die. Who`d have thought tearing up a body could be so noisy? She couldn`t be sure Miller`s court was asleep but she couldnt chance it. She had crossed the line.
No going back.
She started singing again, a little louder then before, wondering how butchers with stood the terrible rips of muscle and sinew as she rolled up her sleeves, meticulously de-fleshing the girl.
Of course, Whitechapel Jack would deny the killing when he was caught, but who could ever trust a pscyho? London was dead to her, no heaven at the best of time`s with the ripper about, staying round was walking on a fine line. Most of her friends were dead.
Long Liz, dark Annie, those that stayed would surely fall under his blade, the mad mad seemed to have a personal vendetta none but the noose would deter.
Mary had only ever had one good thing, her mothers dress, a long black gown, the dream of Irish ladies. Mary had never asked mother where she`d gotten it, she`s always had amazingly light fingers, she removed her blood stained dress and lay it carefully on the flames so it would not catch the carpet.
Mom`s dress fitted like a charm.
She still had it.
Still humming mother`s lullaby, she locked the door behind her as she left, cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted, "Oh, murder!"
This time next week, Jack would be rotting in New gate and she`d be sipping cocktails in Cork. Yes, history would forget.
Jack the ripper?
Such a silly name.
- - -
Matthew Wilson, 29, is a UK resident who has been writing since an early age and recently these stories have escaped to magazines and ezines such as literary lunes and static movement.
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Matthew Wilson
