3 comments/ 23706 views/ 7 favorites Birth of a Killer By: sweet_katrina579 I. YOU KNOW ME ALREADY There have been many more before the five they are giving me the credit for. There have been even more since. And I am most certainly not done yet. I have simply changed my ways, fooling everyone, including detectives, police, journalists and every Tom, Dick and Harry that fancies himself an investigator. They have given me many names, none of them true to my own. I've been called "The Knife", "Saucy Jack", "The Ripper", and "Leather Apron" to name but a few. They have described me in many ways, never coming close to what I look like, how I act or why I do what I do. I was said to be short, tallish, not so tall, dark complexioned, with moustache, without any facial hair, foreign looking, an imbecile, have an appearance of an aristocrat, look like a clerk, a butcher, a dodgy character, and a whole list of other descriptions they could possibly think of. They reckon I am a woman hater, impotent, a fellow who doesn't want to pay for the services, a failed surgeon... They even toyed with the idea that I was a woman, taking revenge on prostitutes, because her sweetheart had found more comfort in them than in her. They said I hate women. That is not entirely true. I used to love women, all of them. I believe I still do. I've been with young, not so young, and old; pretty, handsome, and ugly; tall, short, skinny and plump. Rich women, poor women, heiresses and prostitutes have all found their way into my bed or a hidden spot in an alley. There had been Brits, Irish, Scots and Welsh, as well as any other kind that comes across the water, seeking a refuge and home in this country of ours, ruled by the queen bee of all women, Victoria. Now, that would be a trophy beyond any other, but for obvious reasons, I have not attempted to take possession of her. Imagine, if you will, the elaborate headlines that would spring up should I ever succeed in hunting her down like a dog and skinning her like the rabbit that she is? I shiver with pleasure at the mere thought of it. I have spanked some, beaten others into a pulp, killed and even eaten parts of a few. I always felt like they were a part of me once I had their lives in my hands. Usually, I wouldn't let them have it back either. Then again, there were some to whom I was nothing but civil. A dinner, a stroll on the banks of the river Thames, an obscure play at the local theatre, visiting galleries and browsing through flea markets. I have done it all, usually in the company of a lady, or at least a woman. They had no idea who the man, whose company they found amusing at the least, and absolutely exhilarating at the best really was. This is an account of how it all began, and to my great amusement it's still continuing, alas, people don't put two and two together. I do believe there are a few who know that these women, I count over fifty to date, have been killed by the same person or persons. However, to keep the public at rest and not create a generalized hysteria they don't speak of it. I don't really mind it, to be quite honest. I have had my moment of fame; or rather full six weeks of it. It was exhilarating to see my name in the newspapers, at least the one given to me by the public; absolutely hilarious to read all those ridiculous theories, which some twenty years later seem to multiply by a few a month. I have to admit that although it was very fulfilling to be the centre of attention, it did make my life and more importantly my work much more difficult. After killing Polly the whole hell broke loose and the next four I did not enjoy as much as I normally would have. I had to be careful, constantly looking about, listening for footsteps and sounds of a carriage more than usual. People eyed everyone with suspicion, even myself, although nobody ever seriously considered me a suspect. Once the police decided to announce the fact that I was dead and people relaxed, everything became easy again, just as it was in the beginning. II. THE GREATEST LOSS I was born in London in the year of our Lord 1855, as my brother would say. God bless him, he's a priest, you see. The more the fool for it, I say. I was unwanted, just like almost every other child I had come across in the East End, where my mother took refuge and tried her best to make a living. She was a hard worker, at least in the early part of my life, of which I don't remember much. She worked as a laundress, a maid, sold ale in the taverns and laboured in factories. We lived in a small attic room above the apothecary on Mile End Street, a place full of mice and rats, spiders and other creepy crawlies, generally disgusting creatures that had a nasty habit of sneaking into one's bed and tickling the soles of their feet or face, making one jump up in the dead of night, covered in sweat and wondering if one was going to fall victim to some illness or other. Another stigma that was attached to me was that of an illegitimate child, a bastard. My mother, like thousands of other women had a misfortune to be poor and illiterate, uneducated and unsophisticated. As it is common nowadays, it was the habit of smart and wealthy gentlemen to take to silly girls, use them and throw them away, uncaring of their predicament, even if it was doubled by pregnancy. I had no idea of who my father was until I was about ten years old and my mother had died. Alas, I am jumping ahead of myself! So, a bastard, with mother who had no money, living in poor quarters that seemed to have cost her an arm and a leg, she decided that she might settle her debts faster if she was to work as a prostitute. She was quite fascinated by them, you see. She would stand at the window for hours on end, watching them, spitting insults and ugly words, too ugly for my young ears to hear. She would call them whores and rats, abominations and devil spawns. And yet, she always noticed that if their luck were good, they would appear wearing beautiful bonnets, nice frocks and always had plenty of money for a drink. Men were paying attention, even if it was of the wrong kind. Attention is attention, I suppose. When one doesn't have any, one craves it, no matter how unglamorous its origins. For a while, my mother would work at her respectable jobs during the day, once or twice a week venturing out into the street at night, looking for johns as she had called them, doing her business somewhere in the alley. She would return in the early hours of the morning, wake me up and press a shilling or two into the palm of my hand, a broad smile on her face. "Go and fetch us a nice breakfast, laddie." She would say. I'd run out to the corner bakery and request the best they had. We would feast on white, still warm buns, filled with a piece of cheese and if the night business was really successful, there was enough money to afford salami or ham. Those were the best times that I remember having with my mother. She stopped worrying about the lack of funds for the rent. We had both acquired better clothes and on Sundays she would take me to Trafalgar Square and allow me to play in the park, a day of leisure even for my mother. It always ended with an enormous cone of ice cream of different colours and flavours. I really loved my mum then. The trouble started that winter. It had gotten colder than it was usual for that time of the year. It rained every single day and many a morning I would wake up to find the streets covered in thin layer of snow. People were running about bundled up in heavy coats, hats and scarves hiding their heads, sometimes their entire faces. My mother had felt it, too. She would come home in the mornings so tired and cold that sometimes I would have to rub her hands and feet until they got warm enough for her to be able to fall asleep. I noticed that the mornings when she would send me out for breakfast were becoming a more rare occurrence. She failed to keep the money she earned, most of it lost before it reached our home. She told me, on her own accord, that she had a drink or two in order to keep herself warm while waiting on a customer. Gradually, that drink turned into four or five, then even more, I suppose. There were times when I had found her at our front door, sleeping like a beggar, and strong smell of alcohol creating an invisible, yet disgusting cloud around her. There were times when she stank so much, I was deeply ashamed. My always-clean mother had become like every other whore in the street. She had also given up on all her other daytime jobs, as she had been drinking too much to be productive and reliable. Now, she went out every night, returning in the early morning, sometimes not until the early hours of the second day. Our finances became scarce again, and the only reason Mr. Elvey, the man who owned the apothecary let us stay was because I helped him with deliveries of medicines and would clean the store thoroughly in the evenings. I must have been about seven or eight at the time. Mr. Elvey had taught me how to read well enough, so that I was able to deliver his packages to appropriate addresses and I was immensely grateful. My mother had gone downhill and my education was the last thing on her mind. I also suspect Mr. Elvey felt sorry for me and many a time he would invite me to have a humble dinner with him in the back room of the apothecary, after the business hours were over. The winter passed and the spring was nice, followed by an extraordinarily hot summer. There was no reason for my mother to continue drinking in order to keep herself warm, but she did. I never said a word about it; I only wished that my old mum were back; kind and nice, funny and attentive. It was not to pass, however. Quite the contrary, instead of paying me attention, she began bringing her customers to our little room. I would be awoken in the dead of night and pushed out of bed, sometimes ran into the street and told to stay away for a while. At other times she would just motion to the chair behind the stove. I sat still and listened to the grunts of a man who she was servicing, smelling the heavy scent of sex, so disgusting to a young nose. Generally, she would simply bend over, still standing and supporting her upper body with her hands flat on the bed, hiking up her skirts, while the fellow dropped his trousers and did his business. It was usually very quick, a few minutes and he was gone. She would let her skirts drop and without washing walk out the door, ignoring me, only to be back some half an hour later with another man. I never found it amusing or arousing, I suppose I was too young to understand it completely. During the last few months of her life, when I was ten, she wouldn't let me stay in the room when she was "entertaining" and I had spent many a night prowling the dark streets of London, observing other whores at work, watching drunk men stagger against the walls, shouting obscenities at me and everyone else. Life was not fun then, but it was interesting. I can't ever remember us having any proper visitors in our humble little home. I don't count customers into that equation. As far as I was concerned, they were intruders into both of our lives, unwilling trespassers for me, more willing to my mother. I was very surprised then, when one morning there was a knock on the door, and I could hear Mr. Elvey calling out to me. "Eddie?" he yelled. "Eddie? Are you in there?" The first surprise of a visitor over, I was even more dumbfounded by the fact that the landlord himself had come to the door. Even at our poorest, when my mother had owed months of back rent he never intruded on us like that, showing up at our door. Uneasy feeling squeezed at my heart and I lay in bed for a moment longer, hoping that Mr. Elvey would go away. "Eddie?" yelled an unknown male voice and a powerful bang followed, throwing me out of the bed as if I had just rolled over on a spring. I opened the door and peeped outside, weary of the intrusion. The landlord stood there sheepishly, wringing his arms as if in great distress, accompanied by a sombre Constable, whom I remembered seeing on the streets at night from time to time. "Good morning, Eddie." Smiled Mr. Elvey, but his eyes remained pained, as if the worry had now become even greater. "Is your mother in, lad?" I turned around, well aware that she was not in the room, checking just for the sake of it. I shook my head in response and the Constable pushed the door open and let himself in without an invitation from me. "Put some clothes on, lad." He said softly, looking around the room in disgust. "You need to come to the station with me." "Why?" was the first thing I had said since being awoken by the knocking. "I din't do nuffin'." "Oh, my sweet boy." Said Mr. Elvey, now following the policeman and petting my head. "We know that. It's your mother." To make a long and painful story short, I followed the Constable to the station, the landlord kindly escorting me. I was presented by a gurney, which obviously held a dead body, covered with a grey, thick blanket. I was quiet all the way, afraid of what was awaiting me, not at all prepared with what I had seen. "Are you ready?" asked a different policeman, who was standing by the gurney, as if guarding its hidden contents. I shook my head, knowing that it must have been my mother's body that they were going to show to me. "Well," said the Constable who got me out of bed. "We don't have time, so you need to look very closely and tell me if this is your mother." With that, I felt Mr. Elvey's hands grab onto my shoulders and squeeze them as if to give me strength and the blanket was uncovered. At first, I didn't recognize the face. The eyes were shut tight and bruised badly, black and blue shine reflecting in the poor light the lamp hanging off the ceiling above the gurney. The nose was oddly crooked, obviously broken with a small amount of blood caked around the nostrils. Her hair was in disarray, knotted and loose, much unlike the way my mother would have kept it, neat in a bun at the top of the neck. She looked much older than her barely thirty years. "Is this your mother?" asked somebody; I can't remember who it was. Mr. Elvey's hands were squeezing my shoulders, and the pain of it made me stay focused, or I probably would have fainted. I have seen dead bodies before, drunks and homeless people laying in gutters, dogs and horses pushed to the side of the street, awaiting someone to come and clean up the mess. This was not just another drunken beggar, or a misfortunate animal. This was my mother. Despite the appearance of a stranger, I knew instantly that it was she. I nodded my head and burst into tears. It was the last time anyone would see me crying. After that, I suppose one might say my heart hardened and nothing would ever touch me quite in a way as it did when I saw my dead mother, beaten into a pulp by an unknown assailant. III. LADY LUCK AND MY NEMESIS My first victim if you want to call her that, was purely accidental, although the incident did seem to trigger off that something inside my head or it might have been my soul, which led me to keep doing-in many more, never able to stop. Never wanted to, anyway. After my mother's death, I was afraid I would have to go to an orphanage, which, despite the harsh life in London's East End would have been a hell to go through in comparison. When I returned home after identifying my mother's body, Mr. Elvey reassured me that he would not allow me to be taken away. He told me that my mother had left him instructions on what to do in case something happened to her. In need of the money from the rent, I vacated the small room in the attic and slept in one of the rooms in Mr. Elvey's rather luxurious home not far from the Mile End Road. To my utter disbelief, about a week after the burial, a fine gentleman came to the apothecary where I was scrubbing the floor one evening, asking for Mr. Elvey and eyeing me warmly. The landlord and the strange nobleman were whispering in hushed voices for a while, from time to time glancing at me, making me extremely nervous. I didn't want to leave London and go into a service to some posh and arrogant Lord. My mother had always told me to be careful of people, and that advice I had taken to my heart. "My dear boy." Said the man, and I straightened up with a jerk, my body tense with anticipation. He motioned for me to approach and only the kind smile from Mr. Elvey persuaded me to do so. "I cannot express the sorrow that I feel for you in the light of what has happened." I nodded and stared at my battered shoes. There was nothing I could think of to say. "You have been through a tremendous shock and Mr. Elvey here..." the two men looked at each other soberly and the stranger continued: "...Well, he told me that you were worried about what the future might have in store for you." Still, I remained silent. My mother's bruised and bloodied face kept flashing in my mind, the notion of what she went through in her last moments making me woozy and nauseous. "This was not an easy trip for me to take, and I have thought about it very carefully for a long time, you understand." He went on. Even though I had no idea of what was to come, I appreciated the way he had spoken to me, as if I were an adult and not a child that I really had been. "I think we should all sit down and have a little chat, just the three of us." Said the stranger and as if waiting for the signal, Mr. Elvey locked the store and turned the front door sign to CLOSED, showing us the way to the back. We entered a small room where Mr. Elvey and his helpers would mix and prepare medicines. It was full of tall shelves, thousands of bottles, small, large, emerald green, honey brown and colourless, some sporting blank labels, others cautionary signs with skull and bones in red, warning the handler to be mindful of its contents. I have always liked the medicinal smells in the doctors' offices or apothecaries. They are sharp and odd, yet in some way quite soothing. They give the place an aura of importance and mystique. We settled around the table in the corner of the room, where Mr. Elvey would spend hours, carefully writing out the instructions to the patients in his educated, beautiful handwriting. Sometimes that table would serve as a dining nook, although it wasn't too often I or anybody else had eaten lunch on it. Mr. Elvey sat next to me, holding onto my shoulder as if giving me strength. The mysterious stranger and his attention had started to grind on me. I was nervous and my eyes flicked between the kindly landlord and the newcomer. "Well," deep sigh escaped the man I didn't know. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" With a corner of my eye I could see Mr. Elvey nodding his head. The stranger took off his top hat and a flood of soft blond curls fell onto his shoulders. He had hair much like mine I noticed, of which my mother had been so proud. I noticed that he was younger than I first thought, probably in his early twenties, although when one is ten, anyone twice their age seems to appear ancient. "My name is Julian and I hope it will please you to know that I am your half-brother." He got straight to the point, peering at me wonderingly. Well, you could have knocked old Eddie over with a feather, as the saying goes. Recollecting each word of the conversation would be redundant as it was very long and detailed. Julian talked a lot with Mr. Elvey interrupting sometimes with questions and comments of his own, while I simply sat still, staring at one then the other, too numb to respond or even think of anything to say. I learned about my family, of which my mother never spoke, and I simply presumed they were all deceased. My grandfather, apparently, was a butler in Julian's father's household, having the privilege of his wife and three children living in a small cottage on the premises. Nothing much was said about the affair from which I was born, it was all kept a secret and nobody knew the details, not even Julian. Birth of a Killer One day, my mother was simply gone, found work in London as their patriarch told Julian's family and nobody questioned it beyond the initial explanation. The butler eventually took his own family to a new household, miles away and they never heard from them again. Two years ago, Julian's father died and as the will was read, everybody was surprised to find out that my mother had been his mistress and there had been a child. Me. The old man obviously felt responsible for her wellbeing and had left her a considerable amount of money, which she was to receive in case she was not married at the time of his death. Julian had been trying to find her since his - or rather, our father's death. My grandfather, whom he managed to track down was of no help, saying that he didn't have a daughter any longer, she had brought shame onto her family and herself, she was better off wherever she was, not knowing what was going on with people from her old life. My mother's mother eventually broke down and told Julian where we were to be found and he had been looking for us in London for a while. He considered it a great tragedy that he was but a week too late. Were he to find us sooner, my mother would certainly still be alive and life would have gotten better for us. Great sorrow overwhelmed me, and for the first time in my young life I understood the great irony with which the fate seems to smack us all about. Julian expressed great desire that I should return to our father's home, where I would receive the kind of life his brother deserves. With a heavy heart I agreed, as I saw great relief on Mr. Elvey's face, some due to my good luck, some I suppose because he would be excused from the responsibility for me. He was but an old man with children of his own grown, and he was ready to settle into the life without worries such as I would have presented. It had taken me years to realize how generous Julian and the rest of the family had been. They could easily have ignored their father's wishes, stating that it was impossible to find his old mistress and her bastard child. They could have given the money to my mother's family and washed their hands of any other troubles. But they didn't do that. Later on, I was to find out that apart from Julian, my two other half-brothers Daniel and Winston were just as persistent in the search for my mother, just as determined to find her and particularly me, trying to right the wrong. I've always been grateful for their determination and sense of justice. After my mother's death I had found that I simply didn't care for people much any longer. However, I have to admit that my three brothers, romantic poet Julian, studious doctor Daniel and Winston the priest have always had a soft spot in my heart. They had saved me from the kind of hardship and horror that I had later in life bestowed upon others. Whether that was a revenge for my mother's death, or a simple seed of evil that I had been born with, I would never be able to understand. But, I am beyond worrying about that now. Julian and I left London the following morning and he had allowed me to take anything of mine I wanted, cautioning me that when we arrived to our destination, a complete set of new clothes, shoes, books and everything else a young lad needs would be provided for me, and I will want for nothing. Julian was true to his word and I was delighted to find Daniel and Winston to be just as generous and open hearted towards me as their brother had been. To my young eyes, the manor house had an appearance of a castle. It was a sombre, grey-bricked monstrosity, softened by the breathtakingly beautiful garden in the front, a large fountain encircled by numerous paths creating a labyrinth of sorts, and dotted with hundreds of small bushes, all carefully trimmed into perfect oval shapes, not a leaf or a branch out of place. I was given a room so big that one could have put ten of my mother's little attic lodgings in there. Everything was clean and smelling of exotic scents, books were to be found in every room, and behind the house I found another huge garden attached to sprawling meadows with grazing horses. There were indoor bathrooms and toilettes with running water, mind you; thick carpets covered the floors of each room, softening the steps of its inhabitants. Enormous paintings decorated the high walls, most of them depicting the champion horses, which apparently were a passion of my father. How odd it is to say that even today - my father. There was always plenty of food on the table, once a month a tailor would appear at our house and the four of us would order a set of brand new clothes, too many to wear out in our lifetimes. The one odd thing that struck me about Daniel and Julian is that neither was married, although they did court different ladies and from time to time people were wondering if this was the lucky girl one or the other would have finally settled down with. It never happened for them, however, just like it never happened for me. I suppose we preferred freedom to a quiet family life. Winston, being a priest, never had a worry of finding a wife to occupy his mind with. I was taught how to read properly, write in beautiful handwriting, ride horses, dance and play the piano. My brothers were always fussing over me, sometimes giving me a feeling that I was a little girl who needed much attention, not a young lad, who had just crawled from the slums of, what at the time was the biggest city in the world. I would be lying to say that I didn't miss London, despite all the wealth and attention I had received in my new home. I missed the cacophony of the sounds found only in a big city, crowds of people, even the obscenities with which I had been showered on regular basis, tossed at me by the drunks, homeless, prostitutes who didn't want me to linger about and rob them of their prospective shilling, even by people who simply had a bad day and have decided to ease their grief by taking it out on an indifferent bystander. I missed the markets where I could nick an apple or an orange, numerous pubs where nice gents would let me have a fag, even the smell of London was the thing that I seemed to long for, no matter how foul and disgusting. On the other hand, I was truly loved by my brothers and had attended numerous balls and gatherings, social events and I was lucky enough to be present at the dinner, which was blessed by the presence of the Queen herself. The work of my doctor brother Daniel was very impressive, and his scientific research had him invited to numerous assemblies of importance, all of which he gladly shared with the rest of us. The one thorn in my side at that time was Miss Redfern. Given that none of my brothers had a wife, she took the place of a matriarch of sorts, running the household with an iron hand, and saving for her three employers, didn't afford as much as a smile or a kind word to anyone else, including me. I do believe in her mind she was not simply a hired hand, but a part of the family itself. She was a tall, birdlike creature. The bony frame of her body emphasized her height. The face was long, gaunt and freckled, with a pronounced chin and huge, soft green eyes, giving her an appearance of a frog. Her brown hair was always pulled into a bun on the back of her head. The clothes she wore were just as brown as her hair, giving her an aura of strictness and determination. I always imagined that she would have no problems fitting perfectly inside a lunatic asylum, dishing out pills and overseeing the madness of the poor souls who happened to find themselves on that rather unfortunate path in their miserable lives. The woman absolutely hated me. When I had first arrived at the manor house, she looked at me like I was a disgusting bug that needed to be squashed. She despised my accent and unfamiliarity with the habits of the upper class. She seemed to grow even more resentful of me as I improved my English, now pronouncing it smoothly, with a melody, which would make an observer believe that I had been born an aristocrat. Whenever out of my brothers' earshot, she would hiss insults at me, calling me an ignoramus and a bastard, loudly speculate on my true origins and determinedly conclude that I am nothing but a fraud, not a real son of the old master and some day someone would open their eyes to the truth, which in her opinion would land me be back in the dung, which I had crawled out of and somehow managed to enchant the poor Julian into belief that I was his brother. Many a time she would rap her bony knuckles against my head, pull on my hair or ears and if I weren't fast enough with my dinner, she would take the plate away in a hurry, despite my protestations. If I were in the house alone, she would not even serve any meals. Of course, none of that happened when my brothers were present. She still wouldn't be kind to me, but she held her tongue. Even when they proudly pointed out to how well I was progressing in my education, she would glare at me hatefully and murmur something under her breath. "Never mind her," Julian would say and wink at me. "She's just an old miser. We've all gotten quite used to her. She does have a good heart, though, god bless her." I was too grateful for their own generosity and complete acceptance of me to oppose them and point out how bad she had treated me. Their love overbalanced her abhorrence greatly. My first kill was not an action with premeditation and deliberation. However, as I had also said before, it had started something deep inside of me, which would never go away. Something, which would only grow as the time went on, reaching the heights of unbelievable proportions. Heights so great that some people refused to believe, even though in their hearts they knew it to be true. It was on a rather drab and drizzly Sunday afternoon that I was left alone in the big house with nothing to do. I had grown tired of practicing piano and reading, at which I had dutifully spend a few hours earlier in the day. I wished the rain would stop and I'd be able to go out riding, taking with me a few of the favourite beagle hounds, hoping for a stray rabbit or a lost fox to cross my path and the dogs would give chase, howling desperately and scaring everything in sight, which I always enjoyed immensely. I sat in the drawing room, staring out the window, so deep in my thoughts that I didn't hear Miss Redfern enter. "You vile creature," she croaked, startling me. "Your brothers work themselves half to death and all you do is sit around like a fat rat, with no good thoughts in your thick head, I would wager!" She screeched. Were she to find me reading or doing anything more productive than fantasizing, she would still have thought me impudent and lazy, good for nothing intruder. I have been in the household for five years now, and no matter how hard I tried, there was just no way of pleasing her. "Good afternoon, Miss Redfern." I said politely and smiled. "Talking back at me, are you?" Her eyes narrowed and she sniffed loudly. "You don't fool me, boy! You might be able to do so with the good men in this house, but I haven't fallen off an apple tree yesterday. I know you and your kind!" I got up, slipped past her and without affording her another glance walked out of the room. As was her habit she did not drop the subject. I heard the swishing of her skirts following me, her high-pitched voice impudently stabbing my ears. "Yes, that's right. I know you and your kind!" She repeated herself. "And I know the kinds of your mother, too! Don't you go thinking I don't." I paused for a moment. She had talked about my mother before, but for some reason this particular day there seemed to be a different tone to her voice. "I know what she did for a living!" I could have sworn I heard a sound of spitting. "If that's what you call a living, that is." Ignoring her poisonous words I continued up the tall staircase, skipping two stairs at the time, wishing to reach my room and close the door, hopefully keeping her out of my sight. "She was a whore, your mother was!" she screamed hysterically. "A rat like every other in London. She whored with the old master and slipped you to him like a cuckoo bird. She is probably not even dead. I would bet my life she is bonking some drunken bastard right now, at this very moment, expecting you to return with all the riches you can steal from this honest family." I tried to ignore her. Honest, I did. What surprised me were the ugly words that she had been using. Obscenities were never a part of her vocabulary, she was obviously highly agitated. "A bastard, just like you!" Her voice seemed to have a life of its own. It was like a whip, beating against my brain, making my head hurt. "I wouldn't put it past her if she spread her legs for you, too. She is that much of a whore, I reckon!" She said and I could feel her close behind me, her body almost touching mine. We were at the top of the staircase, I had reached the landing, and she was but a step away. I turned around, convinced that she was ready to hit me, pull my hair or in some other way hurt me physically and in order to prevent her from doing so, I pushed my hands against her, unaware of the consequences of my actions. At least, I have been telling myself that ever since. She lost her balance and for a moment she seemed suspended in the air, her feet on the edge of a stair, slowly tipping over, her upper body pulling her weight backwards. Everything slowed down as if in a drunken haze. Her words and screams were like a distant thunder, I couldn't make out what she was saying, but I could see a true terror in her face. Her eyes were wide open, as if ready to pop out. Her hands started circling around and around, as if she was a big windmill, trying hard to keep her balance. Despite the fear in her face, the hatred never left it and that was what made me push her again, this time forcefully and deliberately, killing any hope of a last moment's grasp onto the railing. She extended her arms towards me, her fingers bent into claws, whether in a futile hope of rescue or attempt to take me with her, I do not know. She fell backwards, her feet flipping high up and over her head, the gravity dragging her body behind them and like a big ball, she bounced down the steps, a sickening sound of bones breaking thundered in my ears. It seemed to me like she was rolling down the staircase forever, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Miss Redfern landed at the bottom of some thirty stairs with a loud thud. Both arms were flung over the head; her legs were spread far apart in a position I am willing to bet she would not want anyone to see. I heard soft moaning and had flown down the stairs, although I wasn't sure what possessed me to do that. I knelt next to her and placed the palm of my hand flat on her chest to feel for a heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered open and the hatred was gone, only the pain and fear remained. "Help me," she croaked in a voice so low I could barely hear it. I was scared out of my wits, my own body trembling uncontrollably. I didn't know whether I was going to pass out or vomit. I noticed a small trickle of blood seeping out of her nostril, and the image of my mother's face flashed before me. She was not as lucky as this miserable creature. My mother had been beaten severely, probably feeling most of the blows to her head and small body, leaving unbelievable bruises all over her pale skin. Miss Redfern, this evil woman was laying in front of me, broken like a china doll, blood slowly oozing off her face and onto the carpet, sponging into it and creating a growing dark stain. I looked around in panic, but no one was about. Sunday afternoons were a day off for the household help and my brothers were out and about their own business. It was but a split second decision that exploded rather than grew in my mind. If I waited for others to return or had ran out for help, she would tell on me. I believed that were she allowed to give them her side of the story, that would have been an end to my comfortable life in the country. I would have been stuffed in prison or in the worst case they would have rushed me to an asylum, and I would have been done for life. I couldn't face that. My childlike mind could not reason with reality. I only saw the worst of the possibilities. Despite my fear and downright terror over the woman who was obviously dying right in front of my eyes, I was interested in what she would have looked like inside. Was her heart blackened with hatred? If I were to slit her belly, would evil have sprung out as if I had cracked the Pandora's box open? I didn't know, but wouldn't have been surprised if it did happen. My mind raced like mad, and I was torn between helping Miss Redfern, carrying her to the divan in the drawing room from which she had just chased me with her poisonous tongue, or running to the nearest farm, asking for help. I felt completely alone in the world. I knew that whatever I did next would decide my fate forever. If I was to help her or just leave her be, she might survive and I had no doubts that eventually she would turn on me, spicing her tale with lies, which might have been the end of me. There was just one thing I could do to save myself. I had to finish her off, but when one is faced with a situation like that, especially if one is a little more than a child, the decision to do so can be impossible to envision. How does one kill a person? "Help me, Edward." She moaned and I could see the fingers of one hand twitching, still half closed into a claw, which only moments earlier tried to grab onto me. Had she succeeded, we both would have been laying here, our blood mixing, our limbs undoubtedly intertwined in a grotesque display. "Where does it hurt?" I asked and she closed her eyes. She had trouble breathing I could see that. Each time she inhaled a sound like a broken flute whistled in her throat, exhales resembling the bubbling of the boiling water. "Every...where..." she finally replied, her entire body spasming, her face cringing into an ugly mask of pain. "Here?" I asked and gently pushed against her stomach, pressing her obviously broken spine against the carpet. She couldn't scream, yet her eyes flew wide open and a gurgle was mixed with a moan so odd, I would have been looking for a monster under my bed, were I to be awoken from sleep by that exact sound. "Stop..." she whispered and a flood of bright red blood flushed out of her wide open mouth. "Please..." "Does it hurt here?" I asked, feeling the wooziness and fear inside of me dissipating, only to be replaced by a calm, almost clinical detachment from the horrors of the situation, exploring as if I was on the verge of a great discovery. I placed my hand on her chest, not touching her breasts and again pressed down, this time with a bit more strength added. She did manage to scream now. It was a sound of desperation and unbelievable pain, terror and realization that I was not going to help after all, but torture her like she always wished she could have tortured me. "What about your legs?" I asked and for the first time noticed that one of them was twisted at a sickening angle, obviously broken. I lifted her skirts some, expecting to see a bump, and it had taken me a moment to realize that her bone had popped through the skin and was now sticking out, its sharp edges covered in blood, which was oozing onto the dress. Nausea hit me and even though I wanted to cause her physical pain, I couldn't. Thinking about it nowadays, I regret being so weak and not taking the charge of the situation like I had wanted to. At the same time, I believe that somewhere in my head I knew I had to be careful. If I did this one right, I could learn from it. I wasn't planning on continuing with acts of killing at that time, but somewhere in my subconscious mind, a small fire of terror turned to excitement must have ignited. Birth of a Killer I let Miss Redfern's skirts fall back on her leg, covering the ugly break and jumped up. "No..." I heard her whisper, but only just. Her strength was discharging out of her rapidly, yet I had been too young to realize that no matter what I did, she wouldn't have survived the fall. I knew she was dying, but also believed that were I to help her I could have saved her. Afterwards, the innocence and na•vetŽ of a young mind had left me completely. I learned fast, just like any slum child does, no matter what kind of an environment he is put in. The desperation of life sobers people up, children quicker than anyone else. I staggered into the hunting room as it was called, where trophies of countless heads and busts of animals my brothers had killed were decorating the walls. Elk, deer, foxes and birds of prey were glaring at me with their glassy eyes, as if in warning of what was to come. A heavy oak cabinet in the corner of the room, which held a collection of guns and rifles had been locked, the safety precaution of my brothers. I realized that breaking into it would have sealed my fate just as leaving Miss Redfern to live would have done. My head spun wildly as I searched for a piece of weapon, which would be carelessly discarded somewhere in the open, finding none. Then, I remembered that Julian kept an old revolver in the drawer of a heavy wooden desk next to the cabinet. I walked over to it and ever so slowly, as if expecting something gruesome to jump out of it, slid the drawer open, awarded with a glorious look at the small gun, its handle carved in ivory. It had belonged to my father. It was his pride and joy, and I was sternly cautioned never to touch it, never to play with it, as I could have done harm onto myself as well as others. I picked it up slowly, turning it in front of my face, admiring the beautiful piece of a potentially deadly toy. The moans from the hall just outside the room were becoming more frequent. Miss Redfern was obviously struggling against her doom, and in spite of being well aware that she was too hurt to move, I would not have been surprised if I saw her crawling around the corner. With wobbly knees I walked out of the room, relieved to see that she had not moved an inch. I stood over her, wanting to make certain she was looking at me. Her eyes were now closed; her forehead frowned in pain. I softly kicked my foot against her head and the eyes flew open. "Edward..." she gasped. Was that a smile I noticed? Did she really think I came back to help her? That day it had been the first, and I might add the last time, she had called me by my given name when nobody else was present. She had other names for me. Her eyes now open, she spotted the revolver in my hand and a wicked smile played on her lips, now very obvious. "You little bastard..." she coughed and moaned, blood spurting out of her mouth. "I always knew..." she continued, and then ran out of breath. Standing straight up, my feet on each side of her head, I pointed the gun at her face. My hands trembled so hard, I was afraid I would shoot myself in the foot rather than hitting that ugly bird face. "This is for my mother, you bitch..." I said and squeezed the trigger. It felt as if I had blanked out for a moment, I thought I was passing out, sucked into a big, black hole of nothing; no feelings, no thoughts, nothing but a sickening feeling of nausea. Miss Redfern's croaking attempt at laughter brought me back to reality. The revolver was either empty or it had jammed, and I had no idea how to check for either. "You imbecile!" she said, spitting up blood and spasming in pain. "You can't even do that right." She closed her eyes and her body seemed to calm down for a moment. I was desperate. I wanted to kill her, to end her miserable life and punish her for all vileness she had bestowed upon me. I never knew why she hated me so much, she could have had the greatest admirer in me had she chosen to, but she didn't. It was a dumb luck that I didn't know how to operate a revolver. Killing Miss Redfern by shooting her in the face would have certainly left no doubt as to who the culprit had been. Then, I remembered the day when one of the newborn ponies in the meadow had fallen and broken his leg. The poor animal was in a great deal of pain, crying in a high pitched voice asking for help, his big, brown eyes the saddest sight I have ever encountered. It appeared to be an even more devastating than the image of my dead mother. Daniel had run out with me, trying to see if there was a way of helping the animal. No gun or revolver available, and seeing that the situation was beyond salvage, he knelt behind the pony's beautiful head, hugged it with his strong arms and with all his might, pulled it to one side, a sickening sound of the neck breaking seeming like the loudest boom I have ever heard. He let go of the head gently, patting the white cheeks and I could have sworn I saw him shed a tear. He remained there even after I had run back to the house, looking for someone to help Julian with the dead horse. I knew this would be the only way I could have completed what I had set out to do. I knelt down, exactly like I had seen Daniel do and carefully put the gun aside, out of the reach of a woman, who didn't have the strength to pick it up anyway. I wrapped one of my arms underneath her chin, the hand of the other gathered in a fist and pushing against the cheek. She tried to struggle, but couldn't. Her arms and legs were twitching in effort, but she was beyond any sort of self-defense. I placed her head in my lap, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. With all the strength my young, skinny body could gather, I pulled hard towards me and then with a jerk to the left, hearing the unmistakable sound of the vertebrae being dislocated, only to pop and break. I remained like that for a moment, unable to open my eyes and look at my deed, terrified that yet again, I had failed. Miss Redfern's body jerked and a heavy sigh escaped her, then she went limp in my hands and I knew that was a moment when she died. That was a moment when I had taken the first life, my first kill. I jumped up and her head landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. It didn't matter anymore, she got away effortlessly, much easier than she deserved. I had the presence of mind to take the gun back into the room and return it to the spot from where I had taken it just minutes before. I jumped over the broken body of my nemesis and dashed up the staircase, changed clothes, stuffing the shirt and pair of pants that displayed smudges of the woman's blood into a clean pillowcase and taking it with me. Certain that she was dead I didn't want to see her again. I threw the pillowcase with the telltale clothing out the window and climbed out, chancing a broken neck of my own. I ran to the stable and picked the tamest mare I could find. Not bothering with a saddle I jumped onto her wide back and rode out into the meadow, far away from the manor house, where the dead body of a housekeeper laid in a pathetic display. Some half an hour later, I reached the deep forest, which I always felt uncomfortable in. One can be a slum child, but one can still be afraid of a bogeyman, even though he or she is constantly reminded that there is no such thing. I was afraid that at any given moment I would turn around and Miss Redfern in flesh or spirit would be standing behind me, patiently waiting for an opportunity of revenge. I slid off the horse and threw up violently, my hands trembling, my stomach churning with burning pain. The mare stomped nervously around me and for a moment I was afraid she would run away. I had no lead to hold onto, having foolishly tried to escape the horror in the house. All my rationale went into covering my tracks; I could not think beyond that. I shook the bloody clothes on the ground and covered them with a few heavy stones that were lying about. I made sure not a single inch was visible either to an accidental by passer or even to someone who might deliberately stake the woods, looking for evidence. Finally satisfied with the outcome, I slowly turned towards the house, which was by now some five miles away and started walking, the mare following me obediently, without a word needed from me. The rain had finally stopped and we strolled through the woods, approaching the meadows at the back of the manor house; the closer we got, the tighter my stomach felt. The passion and madness of the deed over, the rational side of my brain had started working, and I felt terrified beyond anything I had ever felt before or since. I will never forget that feeling as long as I live. When we turned the corner of the house and approached the stables, I saw my brother Julian's carriage standing next to the old barn. My heart sank and at the same time, my spirits lifted. I didn't want to be the one who had 'found the body'. I led the mare into the stable and gently patted her, rewarding her with a few cubes of sugar. I was grateful for her quiet company, as I was certain she had saved my sanity that day. Just as I walked to the front door Julian came running out, pale and in obvious distress, his eyes haunted. "Good Lord!" he screamed and rushed towards me. For a moment I thought he was about to hit me. "Thank God you're alright, Edward!" he said and hugged me so tight I gasped for breath. "What's the matter?" I asked, trying to peer past him, inside the darkness of the house. "There has been a terrible accident." He said sombrely, still clinging onto me tightly. "Miss Redfern had fallen down the stairs. I'm afraid she is dead, Edward." "No!" I whispered, shocked that the events seemed to be turning in my favour. There was no sign of accusation in Julian's voice or face. He believed it was an accident and was worried about me. "Yes, I'm afraid it's true." Nodded Julian and together we climbed into his carriage, finding our way to the village to find some help. Of course there were questions on where I spent my afternoon and why I went riding in the rain, but to my best assessment, nobody had suspected the truth. From that day on, my brothers had kept an especially close eye on me, not because they didn't believe me, but because they became afraid of losing me. The unfortunate death of the housekeeper had made everyone more aware of how fragile life can be, and their already overwhelming attention tripled. Every afternoon after my lessons were finished, I would be taken to the nearby town where Daniel had his clinic, helping him with paperwork and occasionally assisting in minor procedures, which did not require anaesthesia. I became familiar with the human anatomy from books and numerous discussions with my brother. That is where the knowledge of medicine came from. I was no failed surgeon, as so many people like to speculate. I adamantly refused to even consider studying medicine, however, and when the time came for me to think about vocation, I chose law instead. I had a mind for books and a plethora of information every law student needs to keep in their head seemed a child's play to me. My brothers were immensely proud, and although they could not quite understand my eagerness to work with the macabre, they all supported my decision to dedicate my life to justice. I never finished law school however, to the great dismay of everyone, but myself. I wanted to investigate the most interesting and often vile of human nature. Due to many connections Daniel had had in the higher places of Scotland Yard and my basic knowledge of medicine, I was accepted as a junior detective, astounded over the relative ease with which life had landed me right in the middle of my unspoken fantasy - the macabre irony of life. IV. DESPERATION IS EVERYWHERE I will not elaborate on my vocation in great detail, as it is not of great importance to what I do in my spare time. Of course, having an intimate knowledge of the progress or rather the lack of it made by the police, even actively participating in investigations, I was able to watch my step at the right times, in the right places. Should I ever be spotted and fingered as a suspect, the Constable charging after me would immediately back off once he found out who I was. I'd have the perfect alibi of inspecting the crime scenes and trying out my detective skills in anticipation of the potential new ones. I was not the best of the crew at Scotland Yard; my career was nothing to boast about, as I never truly applied myself. I was known around the building and in the ranks of detectives and police officers, but I didn't stand out. People knew my face, but would draw a blank should they try to think of my name. My brothers were not thrilled with my decision. They believed I could have easily worked at law, studied medicine, or even lived off my father's inheritance. However, they must have concluded that my desire to be a detective stemmed from my mother's untimely and horrid death. They did not oppose me, believing that this was my way of coping with the hardship bestowed upon me at such an early stage in life. I simply nodded and went along with their theories; anything was better for them to think than to know what my true intentions were. Apart from a few acquaintances and having made no true friends in the village, which bordered on the manor house where I spent my teenage years, I was glad to finally take an independent step into the big wide world. Certainly, I missed my brothers and their affection for me. However, for nearly thirteen years they were literally suffocating me with attention and love, sometimes making me feel trapped, eager to escape. I was not a brilliant scholar and had no special skills to offer. Money and name that my family possessed reached far, Daniel had made sure of that. The minute it became obvious the job was mine I began packing and preparing for the trip to London. I had missed the old stinky girl more than anything. I wanted to be a part of her again. I craved the anonymity a big city offers to a person, being able to pick and choose the people I would associate with, places I was to frequent and activities I would undertake. Under a watchful eye of my brothers I simply could not breathe properly. Ever since the day of Miss Redfern's death, there was another thing that seemed to have been growing inside of me. The lust for life - someone else's, that is. Young ladies that I had spent time with were all well known in the circles frequented by my family and I could not as much as sneeze without everyone knowing, let alone indulge in my secret fantasies. Not that I ever thought I had it in me to truly complete the deeds, of which I fantasized at night. Sometimes, when I held a woman in my arms, kissing her softly and caressing her hair, I would close my eyes and dream what would it be like to be in charge of her life. Would I take it, or would I let her go? Would I be equal to God and decide on whether she should live or die? As long as residing in the manor house, I could not do that. Of course I have never even tried. I respected my brothers too much to risk being caught and bring shame on them. I was not planning to go on a killing spree when I moved to London. However, something in my heart told me that life would be very different when I lived independently in a city so big, one can lose oneself without ever being seen again, should that be what one desired. I have not always 'known' that killing was my true calling. I wouldn't quite describe it as such, anyway. Exploration, I might say for the lack of a better word. Testing the limits of human endurance and the vileness of one's mind, I suppose. I had been plagued by horrible nightmares as a child, especially after I had first moved to the country. I'd wake up at night, drenched in sweat, barely able to draw breath, shivering all over and cautiously peering into the dark corners of my bedroom, expecting something scary to jump out at me at any given moment. As I got used to the nightly interruptions, I began seriously thinking about them. All my dreams involved death and blood, guts oozing out of people's bodies, limbs missing, severed heads with mangled faces and many a time I would realize that the hand plunging into one's stomach to pull out a kidney or reaching further up for the heart, was my own. I began keeping a diary, carefully noting each dream that I could remember. Sometimes, only a flash that lasted a second or two was still fresh enough for my consciousness to recall. No matter how short and seemingly unimportant, I would jot them all down, hiding the diary in the shoebox behind the orderly hung sets of suits in the closet. Were anybody to find it, I could simply have explained that I tried to get to the bottom of my dreams and thus attempt to exorcise them. None of my brothers were known as na•ve fools, but their hearts were so pure, I don't believe they would have thought me capable of such evil. I truly believed that I would turn out to be a writer of sorts, possibly dabbing my skills in the genre of macabre and horror. All those notes would have helped me tremendously. I wouldn't have to invent the shocking; I would simply draw upon what I knew already. I cannot claim that I woke up one morning and decided that I would kill women. God forbid, no. I have always had, what some call a strong stomach. I never shied from the sight of macabre, blood and guts, knocked out teeth, dead babies wrapped in newspapers and thrown into garbage bins. I rarely felt sorry for any of the miserable souls; most of them had it coming anyway. I accepted it as a part of life and that was that. I would rather point out that it was a gradual process. I was just as mortified about my first few kills as the people who found the victims must have been. Life in the East End is very harsh. The sight of a man sitting on the pavement, leaning against the building quite dead is not at all unusual. Women are frequently beaten half to death or worse by jealous husbands or boyfriends. There are gangs of thugs who fancy themselves pimps or simply claim the control of a neighbourhood and everyone, including prostitutes have to pay for their protection, which oddly enough, never comes in the time of need. Were one to refuse payment, he or she would be beaten, robbed and eventual chances were that the unfortunate would be found dead somewhere in the alley, half eaten by rats, who are the worst scavengers I had ever laid eyes on. Everybody always goes on about the smell of death, which is never to be forgotten. They don't mention that that particular scent inevitably contains the stench of the last piss and shit the dead had managed to push out in the final moments of his or her life. That is what attracts rats and cockroaches, flies, stray dogs and pigeons. Police sometimes have to fight the bugs and rodents for the body, chancing a bite themselves, for the little buggers demand their fair share of the prey, as the nature would conduct them to do. Having seen all that with my own eyes before I even began life in earnest, I became used to it, untouched by the cries and wails of grieving families and friends, should the poor soul be lucky enough to have any. Due to early sights of the morbid, coupled by my own mother falling prey to violence and the ghoulish dreams, which haunted me for years, it had become a second nature of sorts. I believe life toughens one up. One either gets used to it, or gives in and eventually gives up. The latter was not an option for me. I accepted it as an everyday occurrence, despite having been removed from it for the better part of my life. It is quite simple, you see - you live or you die. I decided not to falter. I never lacked the company of ladies. Decent and common, educated and illiterate, wealthy and the daughters of impoverished nobility, pretty and the ones who lacked that something to make them so, charismatic and dull, charming and boring. I made no distinction between the blondes and brunettes, I found colour of one's eyes unimportant, I cared not whether they were tall or short, skinny or plump.