3 comments/ 23740 views/ 2 favorites Saucy Jack By: Jen24 Author's Note: I am heavily indebted to the excellent Jack the Ripper Casebook, which sets out the circumstances of the Whitechapel Murders clearly and succinctly. Any mistakes and errors of historiography, however, remain my own. Where I have used period vocabulary, or London canting slang I hope that I have successfully glossed it in the story itself. In case the meaning of an archaic word is still unclear, I have included a glossary of selected words, phrases and names at the foot of the text. That said: Welcome to late-nineteenth century Whitechapel – "Eight little whores, with no hope of heaven, Gladstone may save one, then there'll be seven. Seven little whores beggin 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." ***** Whitechapel, London. Wednesday 31st October 1888. The fog chokes the streets. It is very, very dark. Whitechapel is almost Cimmerian, its inhabitants dwelling in near-perpetual gloom. In daylight the streets are thronged with Cockneys, Jews and stevedores, zealously going about the day-to-day business of starving to death. Children shriek and play and pickpocket and beggars clamour for a ha'penny. At night, Spitalfields falls deathly silent, save for the yammering of the drunks and the footfalls and hushed tones of the whores and their clients. It is quiet at Buck's Row where the first victim was discovered and at Hanbury Street where they found Dark Annie with her throat torn out. It is noiseless too at Dutfields Yard, off Berner Street, where Long Liz Stride lay, minus all the teeth on the lower left side of her jaw. In Mitre Square, just outside of Whitechapel, it is hushed and dark as Erebus. This is where someone stumbled across Catherine Eddowes with her intestines slung across her shoulder. Four women killed in a month, a district held in thrall by the self-titled 'Jack the Ripper'. Since Jack's first appearance, the streets, lined with crumbling houses and philanthropic shelters, have become still darker, still more hellish. There has been a fascination with the case in the newspapers. Jack's deeds are blood-drenched, ink-drenched crimes, poured over by the cognoscenti at breakfast with evident, guilty pleasure and chattered about by excited street children, wanting to seem wise and worldly. There are skipping-rope rhymes and games and warnings. Jack's coming to get you. The Ripper's success in monopolising the national dialogue has infuriated those who have been lobbying hard for reform for the destitute of London. George Bernard Shaw is outraged that the parsimonious prisoners of the circle of hell known as Whitechapel provide now only a kind of grotesque theatre for their betters. He wrote in The Star newspaper on 24th September 1888: "Whilst we Social Democrats were wasting our time on education, agitation and organization, some independent genius has taken the matter in hand, and by simply murdering and disembowelling four women, converted the proprietary press to an inept sort of communism." The Ripper himself was not silent. Or, rather, the Rippers (the gleeful products of the publicity generated by the self-conscious flamboyancy of his crimes) were not silent. Hundreds of hoaxers imagined themselves to be Jack, thrilling at his sexual crimes, breathless in the face of the pornography of his violence. They wrote to the police, seeking to identify themselves with the grotesque derring-do of their hero, seeking to emblazon the name of Jack across the annals of history. Some of the correspondence may, of course, have been genuine. The detail of the severed ear lent credence to the 'Dear Boss' letter which was received on 27th September. "I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled," professed the writer. When it was published in the newspapers, it became insignificant as to whether it really was Jack or a clever hoaxer. The letter helped to build the mythology. "Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again." Again, on 30th September the police received a bloodstained postcard: "I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish striaght off. Had not got time to get ears off for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again. -Jack the Ripper." The 'Double Event' he spoke of? He meant the slaughter of Long Liz and Catherine Eddowes. At the scene, someone had writ large in chalk the message "The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing." Fearing reprisals against the Jewish community, the police studiously erased it. On October 16th half a human kidney landed on the desk of George Lusk, who headed the fruitless Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, together with a note which purported to come "from hell", by which, the writer may very easily have meant from the poverty-stricken, saturnine depths of East London: "Mr Lusk, Sor I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer signed Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk" And then there was a silence from Saucy Jack. The denizens of Whitechapel almost, almost began to breathe freely again. ***** Carrotty Nell and Ginger Kelly stand beneath the gaslamp on the corner of Commercial and Fournier, outside The Ten Bells public house. Compared with the other whores of Whitechapel, they are extraordinarily pretty. Ginger is five-foot-seven-inches tall and is pleasingly plump and buxom. Despite her nickname, she has blonde hair and vivid blue eyes and a remarkably fair complexion, unblemished by pockmarks. She is twenty five years old. Nell, three years her junior, is slightly taller and slightly more good looking, with a shock of red hair and green-grey eyes. The light spilling forth from the opened door of the pub throws into sharp relief the darkness of Spitalfields and Whitechapel, to which the gaslamps are quite unequal. From inside the women can hear a clapped-out piano belting out Men of Harlech. The noise is almost immediately swallowed by the freezing, thick October air. "It's bitter cold." Nell says and shivers, then she turns to her companion: "Reckon there'll be many coves along 'ere tonight?" "It's been slow so far," says Ginger in her lilting Welsh-Irish accent, which has somehow managed to survive her immersion in the harsh, abrasive world of the East End. "Shall we call it a night and head for the pub?" "You must be a mind-reader, girl!" says Carrotty Nell. "I was about to suggest the self-same thing." The Ten Bells is crowded, and the ladies of the night have been on their feet all day (except for the brief periods when they have been on their backs) and they don't fancy standing to drink their gin-and-waters, so they strike out down Commercial Street, making for the inn at the sign of the Horn of Plenty, which they hope will still have seats at this hour. "Ladies save yourselves!" cries a street evangelist as they pass. "Jesus loves you, but hates your sin. So cast off sin, and enter His embrace!" "If I casts off me sin," says Carrotty Nell, "I will be entering 'is – or rather the Devil's – embrace sooner rather than later. By which I mean starving to death. I'd rather wap for a winne and risk damnation than waste away for want of food and be certain of it." "Save your lecture for the johns who come here clamouring for Miss Laycock," says Ginger briskly. "Get rid of the demand for those in our profession and we'll all get on with dropping dead of penury, without bothering God or man." "Socialism," the street-preacher spits the word, "is as much of an offence to God Almighty as whoredom. Beware, O beware, ladies, of the Devil! Beware the Queen of Sheba! Beware the Whore of Babylon!" "There are worse things than pinchpricks walk these streets," Nell calls back to him as the two women walk hurriedly on down Commercial Street, "and other things from hell we must beware besides the Devil." "These philanthropists are becoming louder and still doing sweet Fanny Adams," Ginger opines. "Shelters! Philanthropy! Show me one whore who was ever redeemed by their charity! Look at this place. Whitechapel needs to be razed to the ground and rebuilt from scratch. The rich need to re-read their bibles and consider what charity actually means. Jesus Christ was a socialist: Feeding five thousand, talking of wealth and camels and needles. Let the rich look to their wallets and their fancy noserags and remember that Jesus bade his disciples give up their worldly goods." "Where will it stop?" rejoins Nell, a little flummoxed by Ginger's assessment of religion and politics. "I 'ears that Mr Gladstone hisself has taken to rescuing fallen women!" Ginger harrumphs her disapproval of Mr Gladstone's efforts. "Trouble is," she says sagely, "most of these do-gooders are living out some fantasy of whoredom. They want to fuck us but they haven't got the nerve." With this bleak observation, belying Ginger's want of faith in her fellowmen, the two ladies arrive at the Horn of Plenty, and step hurriedly inside. The fog has lifted slightly and it has started to rain. They force their way to the rear corner where there is still room to sit. Nell saves a place for her companion, while she goes to the bar to purchase two tankards of gin and water. They chat happily, when they are not engaged in the very-serious business of drinking and, eventually, as with all work colleagues, their talk moves around to their job. Tipsy and flushed, Nell begins to recount to Ginger the story of the oddest request she has received from a client: "One gentleman – strange little man, not bad lookin' exactly, but, yer know, a queerish sort of a feller – anyway, he bids me drink two pints of water immediately when I comes through his door and then sits me down, lifts up my skirts and plays with my cunt. And then after a spell 'e stops and says 'Nell,' 'e says, 'do you need to relieve yerself.' "And I replies 'No thank you sir.' And 'e makes me drink another glass of water and begins again to fondle round me nethers, gentle-like, 'e's more a tickler than a mauler. After a few more minutes of this he says: 'Nell, do you need to use the chamber pot?' "And I says all proper like 'No sir, I do not, but thanks for yer concern.' And 'e gives me another glass of water. I'm starting to feel bloated and sick by this time and I doesn't think that I could drink another drop if the gentleman so desired it. 'E begins once more to toy with me. I offers him me milkers to play with, you know, for a bit of variety, but 'e's not interested in any part of me above me waist. He pushes a finger inside me now and flexes it about. "I'm starting to get a bit damp down there, what with all his tinkering, and I wonders if 'e's being very considerate and trying to make me ready for his cock. More than most of these no good coves would do for yer, I thought, Nell, you've done well for yerself this time my girl. But, turns out, 'e don't want to play the flute, if yer catch my meaning, at least not yet. For 'alf an hour or more this goes on, 'im fingering me quiddity and asking again and again whether I need to pass water. I steadfast refuse to drink any more, unless he offers me gin or ale o'course. Then, at last, I starts to need a piss – not surprising considering how much the odd little feller 'sd made me drink. " 'Excuse me sir,' I says, 'but I 'ave started to feel the call of nature, as it were, and, crouched down there, you are suddenly in rather a precarious position. It must be all that water I've got slooshing around inside me, and I would be ever so grateful if you would fetch me the chamberpot, else you may find that I'll piss all over yer, if yer'll pardon my French.' " 'That, Nell,' 'e says, 'is precisely what I want you to do. And if you do it, I'll give you 'alf a crown.' " ' 'alf a crown!' I exclaims, 'bloody 'ell! You dirty little bugger!' " 'Of course, if you don't want to ...' 'e says all crestfallen. " 'Oh no, for 'alf a crown I'll do it! Never yer fear Mister. You want me to start pissin' now?' " 'No! I want you to hold it in, for as long as you can,' 'e says and 'e strips 'imself naked. And 'e's got the 'ardest most ardent cock you ever did see. I never saw a man so excited. Looks like 'e might spill 'is seed then and there. I takes me skirts off and me shirt and stay and stand starkers in front of 'im. 'Come with me,' 'e says urgent-like and then leads me through to the next room where 'e's got one of them tin bath tubs. 'E lies in it and bids me straddle 'im. "I does as 'e says. Then 'e kisses me mossie face! There's not many would do that for one of our profession. And so 'e's licking me cunny very earnest-like, as if 'e's 'ungry and wants to eat it. "Now, I'm starting to get desp'rate needing a piss, so I'm not paying full attention to the bobcull's lapping at my privates, though 'e is very attentive and skilled at it. I'm worried that if I give in to the pleasure 'e's giving me that I'll just relax and send a stream of piss all over 'is face and straight into 'is mouth! I knows the little freak wants me to make water on 'im, but I doesn't think 'e wants it in 'is mouth. And 'e 'as told me to 'old on as long as I can. "It doesn't 'elp that he starts pressing on me belly as 'e tongues me. 'Ooh sir,' I says, 'I'm right desp'rate now ...' 'E ignores me and keeps on licking me more and more quick and wild. And then, I can't 'elp meself, a little stream of piss escapes from me. 'E don't seem to mind though and actually 'e starts groaning with pleasure. I pisses a little bit more and 'e just drinks it down like it's beer. I'm real uncomfortable now, and it's starting to 'urt I need to go so bad. 'Please, sir,' I says, 'I just can't 'old it in any longer.' " 'Go on then,' 'e says, real excited. I just let it all go, and I sprays piss all over 'is face. 'E drinks some of it down and the rest is just running down over 'is chin and neck and chest. 'Piss on my cock, Nell,' 'e commands. And I hurriedly wriggle down 'is body leaving a warm stream in me wake. And now I'm weeing on 'is old man like 'e asks and 'is eyes is rolling like 'e's 'aving a fit. I sighs with relief, to be able just to let it go. It feels so good. I've finished now, save for a few last drops. And 'e looks at me all wildness and lust and says: 'Fuck me Nell. Fuck me you filthy whore.' "Now I could point out the oddness of 'oo is calling 'oo filthy. 'Oo's the more disgusting, the streetwalker or the old man lying in 'is bathtub covered in piss. But I doesn't mention it and instead I go to work on 'im. I plays 'im as tight as a virgin and 'e doesn't last long. He groans and shouts and spurts into me. Then lies back all contented. 'That'll do, Nell,' 'e says. Then 'e gets up, dripping with me stale, and leaves the room. I get dressed sharpish and 'e comes back in, still in 'is birthday suit and gives me 'alf a crown, good as 'is word. It was the easiest 'alf crown I ever earned! I thanks 'im and then 'urries 'ome to wash meself off!" The two ladies fall about laughing at the follies and perversities of men. "What peculiar coves 'ave you serviced?" asks Nell, eager for more merriment. Ginger considers for a moment. "My strangest job was with two young men," she begins, "very proper they were, couldn't have been much more than nineteen winters old. They were prettiest two boys you could imagine, like Grecian statues. One of them was dark and the other fair and both were beautiful. I think, really, they wanted to fuck each other, but didn't dare and had had to settle for doing it through me. They paid me very well. "At first, all I had to do was lie there with my mouth and legs open and let them have their way with me while they gazed into each other's eyes. Then, one of them hit upon the idea of putting both their several cocks in my quim at the same time. I said: 'You're welcome to try, boys, if you can work out how to do it.' "They weren't very successful, but that didn't matter since the main point of the exercise was that they had an excuse to rub their dicks against one another. Sometimes one of them would have his prick up in my mother-of-saints while the other rubbed all around me trying to force it in and sometimes it would be the other way around. They didn't manage the feat, but were having a lot of fun trying. "At last, I said to them: 'Look. One of you put your cock in my cunt, and the other put his in my arsehole.' And I broke free of their fervent fumbling and went over to my cupboard and got some goose fat, with which I greased my hand and then massaged the blonde chap's nob to make it slippery. I bid the brown-haired john lie down on his back on the bed and then I climbed up on top of him and straddled him. I lowered myself onto his upright prick, guiding it into me with my hand. I got myself comfortable, and leaned forward, so as to give the other a chance to put his nimrod in my arse. He hesitated. " 'Go on, then, if you're going to, young man,' I told him. 'Give it to me up the wrong'un.' He put the purple head of his cock up against my arse and then pushed it into me. I moaned my encouragement. I was like a bitch in heat, Nell, I'd seldom been so excited. He inched his dick further up inside me until almost its full six inches had disappeared up my shithole. So, I had one cock buried deep in my cunt and the other deep in my arse. I began to rock back and forth, and this gave my two clients considerable pleasure. They began to thrust in time with my movements. I thought I was in heaven. I'd never felt like this with a john before. I knew then that I was going to come, which, as you know, is a pretty fucking rare occurrence in our line of business. " 'I can feel you moving inside her,' said the blonde Adonis, wide-eyed with wonderment. " 'And I you,' replied his would-be lover. "Now, they were fucking each other inside me and it felt wonderful. They were so tender and so loving. They had involved me in their amorous game and I was grateful for the scraps that fell from the table of their love for one another. I could almost imagine that they loved me too. They fucked me with long, slow strokes and there was none of the sense of hurry you get with most customers. After a few minutes, the thrusting of their hips became more urgent, and they were both getting pretty close now. I could feel the heat. As for myself, I had never felt so good. My teats were so hard that they ached and I felt flush and hot all over. I was feeling frenzied, there was an aching, yearning feeling that was building and building inside me until it was so intense that I thought I would explode. Then I did. I screamed with pleasure. "At the same moment, the two young men groaned and I felt their cocks twitching and pulsing inside me and then the soft slap of their come. We all three climaxed together and collapsed in a heap. I didn't want that moment end. To this day, when I'm servicing some unpleasant cove, I think about that time and those two, beautiful young men." She falls into an alcoholic reverie, from which she is roused by Nell's obscene cackling. Saucy Jack The women have drawn attention to themselves and some of the pub's other patrons are looking at them with loathing. This would not be particularly significant – whores are of their nature abhorrent to respectable society – but for the fact that Jack the Ripper is in the Horn of Plenty. No one marks him. The truly terrifying thing about the Ripper is his normality; his facelessness. He is not the anti-Semitic caricature of Leather Apron. Neither are his eyes are black, nor does he wear a sinister cloak and top hat. He does not carry a silver-topped cane. Which one is he? Is he the fifty-year old bearded butcher by the bar, laughing and joking with the landlord? Or the pale earnest looking fellow near to Nell and Ginger, whose clothes are rather too-well made for Whitechapel? Or is he the surly, dark man, scarred across the face, who sits alone supping at his ale? Not a single man among the crowd in the Horn evinces any sign of madness nor of uncommon, fiendish malice. And yet he is here. And he's getting restive. He hasn't killed in a month. He's planning something big. Something that will get him recognised as the premier artiste of death, and lift him above the guileless butchery of the Nickel Street boys. Something that will get everyone's attention. ***** "You disgust me!" says the whitefaced, earnest young man, who has overheard much of the lewd talk of the prostitutes. "How can you sit there and spout forth such wickedness! You deserve only damnation!" "That isn't," Ginger says quietly, forcefully, "what Our Lord said to Mary Magdalene." "You dare defame Christian dogma with your impure lips and tongue! I'm starting to think that the Ripper has the right idea. The world would be well rid of the whole misbegotten lot of you." "Steady on, son," urges a quieter, older man sitting close by, "we are all God's creatures after all ..." "These are not God's creatures! They belong to the Devil's dam! Their very breath is noisome and sulphurous!" "I wonder what brings a creature of such purity to Whitechapel on All Hallows Eve, Nell," says Ginger theatrically, full of gin. "Doesn't he know its ill repute?" "I ..." the young man falters and falls silent. "Thought so. You came chasing a bit of tail yourself didn't you?" Ginger is angry now. "Tell me sonny, are you disgusted with us or with yourself? Perhaps you are appalled at the fact that our saucy talk gave you a hard on?" "Ginger ..." Nell says placatingly, worriedly. "How dare you?" The pale young man becomes still paler. He stands up, quaking with rage. "I hope the Ripper takes your bowels!" "That's the second time you've mentioned that craven cunt!" Ginger bellows. "You know why Jack the Ripper cuts whores? He's angry. He's angry because his prick doesn't work. He can't get it up. So he uses a knife instead. I'm not afraid of that piece of shit!" Does the Ripper hear her? The barkeep notices the disturbance and hurries over. "Right you two," he says to the streetwalkers. "Out! I won't have you disturbing my respectable customers!" Before he can lay hands on either of them, the two get to their feet and walk out of the pub with as much dignity and poise as they can muster. It is pissing it down now. They go their separate ways, looking for customers in the dirty, London rain, and then both retire to bed. Both will dream of Jack the Ripper. ***** Friday 9th November 1888 Midnight finds the ladies at the Ten Bells. The Ripper is also there, standing silent in the corner, resolved tonight to show the world his superhuman talent for death. Ginger has just finished a late supper of fish and potatoes, washed down with vast quantities of gin. She is fairly in her cups, and has already commenced her drunken habit of loudly singing Irish folk songs. Her voice isn't bad notwithstanding its unsteady, boozy tenor. She sings with rather a shaky tone but holds the tune: "Come all ye maidens young and fair And you that are blooming in your prime Always beware and keep your garden fair Let no man steal away your thyme" She then gets to her feet in a futile attempt to lead the swarthy and unseemly patrons of the Bells in the rousing chorus. Carrotty Nell paws ineffectually at her to quiet her, but Ginger brushes her away, and then belts out with all her soul: "For thyme it is a precious thing And thyme brings all things to my mind Along with all its flavours, along with all its joys Thyme, brings all things to my mind." The landlord is not amused by these antics. He has no time for spirited folk singing, and brusquely, without a word, he bodily escorts Ginger from the premises. "Wha' you doing?" says the inebriated Miss Kelly. "Get ya hands off me!" She finds herself unexpectedly in the street, where a light, chilly rain is falling. Nell has followed her out, hurling abuse at the gruff, churlish barman. Ginger blinks uncertainly a couple of times and then resumes her song as if nothing has happened. "Once I had a bunch of thyme I thought it never would decay Then came a lusty sailor Who chanced to pass my way And stole my bunch of thyme away." This time Nell lends her strident voice to the chorus, singing just offkey, but with enough enthusiasm for the both of them. "For thyme it is a precious thing And thyme brings all things to my mind Along with all its flavours, along with all its joys Thyme, brings all things to my mind." "Quit making that fucking racket!" A man yells from his window. "Some of us is trying to sleep!" "Back to work I s'pose," says Ginger, unheeding of the criticism. "The night is yet young." Unnoticed, a figure slips out of the Bells and into the anonymous dark of Whitechapel. It is very chilly indeed, even for November, and Ginger instinctively draws her red shawl closer about her. She bids Nell goodnight and staggers off down Dorset Street, leaving Nell to walk alone down Commercial. When she has walked a few dozen paces she resumes her song. Nell watches her amusedly as she weaves her way down the street. "The sailor gave to me a rose A rose that never would decay He gave it to me to keep me reminded Of when he stole my thyme away. "For thyme it is a precious thing And thyme brings all things to my mind Along with all its flavours ... Oh hello there!" she says to a man who has approached her, he is stout and short, and carries a pail of beer. Nell fondly watches as her friend, bareheaded in the chill November wind and rain, in her linseed frock and tight-drawn apron totters onwards with customer in tow. With a laugh and a shake of her head, she addresses herself to walking briskly down Commercial, hoping to meet a john, not only for the money but also for some warmth. ***** Nell has a busy night. It is not for nothing that she is known as the prettiest little whore in Whitechapel. She takes them up against the grubby walls and fences and feigns her enthusiasm. Finally, at about half-past three in the morning, she decides to head for home. As she walks, mentally tallying her earnings, she passes a shadowy figure lurking in a doorway. Quietly, he steps out when she has passed and stalks along behind her. "Excuse me," he says awkwardly. She jumps and turns, and sees a pale, ungainly youth of nineteen or twenty. "Yer startled me," she says, then she peers at him closely. "I knows you. You railed at me and Ginger the other week in the Horn! Changed your mind 'ave yer. Per'aps we scarlet women ain't so bad after all." She laughs. The youth flushes and turns to walk away. Nell calls to him and bids him stop. She does so partly out of pity, partly out of good commercial nous – he looks like he will pay well. "Look I was coddin' you mister. There's no shame in it. I reckons you must be getting married soon, and you're worried about the bridal bed and 'ave come for me advice. Is that the size of it?" "Yes," he says eagerly if unconvincingly. "Well, then, yer'd best follow me back to me 'umble abode and out of this cursed cold air and we'll talk shop." They are not far from Nell's room, and she brings the youth up quietly, fearful of disturbing the disapproving landlord. She turns the key in the lock, and brings the young man into her Spartan, yet somehow disheveled home. "'Ere we are young sir. Make yourself at 'ome." She lights the pre-prepared fire, as he takes of his coat and hat and throws them into a corner. She has done well tonight and can afford to. "So yer a virgin are ya?" He nods mutely. "Well there's nothing to be afraid of. We women won't bite yer," she says dispassionately, before adding saucily: "Unless yer ask us to." The lad looks terrified. Nell chuckles inwardly. He's so green, she's going to enjoy showing him the ropes. Wordlessly, she shrugs off and then steps out of her frock, standing before him in slip and short stay. The latter forces her breasts up and together, emphasising her cleavage. "There," she says, "that's much more comfortable." Her nervous client, stares helplessly at her bosom. "You like 'em?" she asks, unfastening her stay. "Why don't you take a closer look at 'em." She beckons him forward, and he comes towards her as if compelled. "That's right. They won't 'urt yer." He comes so close to her breasts that she can feel his hot breath upon her. Gently but firmly she pulls his face into her bosom. He gasps to be up against her warm, supple flesh. She holds him there for a few moments, and he stays perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe. At length, she releases him and he comes reluctantly away. "I'll take the rest of me clothes off now, and yer can take a good look at me." She throws off her slip and stands naked a little way from him for his inspection. He takes in the curve of her neck, her delicate shoulders and round, full breasts. His eyes stray netherwards across her plump belly and down to the unruly red hair that goes every which way above her cunt. He looks now at her legs, her well-muscled thighs and smooth, white shins. His prick is so hard that it is causing him pain, straining against his trousers. "You like what you see?" says Nell with a twinkle in her eye. "Touch me. Go on. Don't be shy." He stumbles towards her and tentatively places his hands upon her tits. He squeezes them lightly, pressing them together, testing their properties. "You can be a bit rougher if you like." He cups them more firmly now, feeling her nipples stiffening against his palms. He pinches one between his thumb and index finger and tugs at it. "Ooh! Ouch!" says Nell, though it doesn't much hurt. "I said 'a bit' rougher. Them's attached to me you know!" He doesn't care. He is intent on exploring her body, in possessing it. He continues to tug hard on her tit with his left hand, and, as he does so, he places his right up between her legs, feeling her soft, fiery red bush against his skin. He begins to maul at her warm, wet flesh. Awkwardly, inexpertly he frigs her. " 'Ere," says Nell, "let me show what's what down there." She extracts her left nipple from his grip – it's starting to feel quite sore – and pulls away from his clumsy, groping hand. She sits down upon her sole, rickety wooden chair by the fire. She feels the skin on her backside cling to the wood. She spreads her legs wide apart. "Now," she says to the awestruck virgin, "pay attention." She peels her cuntlips apart and he kneels down between her legs, his face very close to her exposed womanhood, he feels drunk at the sight of it, and at the smell of it. "The little 'ole," says Nell the sexual pedagogue, "that's where I pee out of, see. And the bigger 'ole below it, that's where you gets your pleasure. I'll let yer into a secret an' all. You sees that fold of skin at the top of me gash?" He nods. "It's like an 'ood. There's a little nub what dwells in there. And she's very sensitive she is. A woman likes to be touched there. But you've got to make sure she's ready for it. You've got make sure she's good and wet. Touch me." He lays his hand upon her. "See 'ow it feels damp. That's what 'appens when a woman gets excited like. When she thinks about a man's 'ard cock. Or when a man plays with 'er jugs and kisses 'er. Push yer finger up inside me." He does so, fumblingly forcing his index finger through the larger hole. He is surprised at how hot she feels. Nell sighs with delight. "Another finger." He withdraws his index finger, her wetness trailing from it, and puts it back in again together with his middle finger. Nell stretches to accommodate him. He spreads his fingers apart gapping her wider, peering inside her. She moans. "Now feel this, this'll excite yer," says Nell and he feels her cunt contract around his fingers, squeezing them together. It relaxes and then the muscles clench again around his embedded fingers. "That's a talent that is," Nell smiles. "Many a gentleman would give 'is right arm for an 'ore what could do that. Push another finger inside me." He hesitates. "Won't that hurt you?" he asks. "Oh, you are green!" Nell exclaims, laughing. "We can push babies out of there! Some johns are so funny: 'Watch out Nell, my cock is 'uge, it might tear your cunt apart.' Ha! Will it buggery! There never was a man's cock yet what was as big as a baby's bonce!" Reassured, the young man pushes a third finger inside her. He rotates his hand slowly back and forth. Nell's juices are freeflowing now over his hand. "Now you're getting the idea, sonny Jim! Arch your fingers up, push against the roof of my cunny. Back a little. Ooh! That's right, there! Women 'ave a tender spot round about there. Tickle me inside. Flex your fingers. Yeah! That's nice. Now, I won't ask you to do this, but a lot of women like a man to use 'is tongue to please 'em. Take your fingers out of me." He does so, his fingers are drenched with her secretions. "And fondle that fold of flesh I mentioned earlier. That's right that's the one." After a few moments of his attention, Nell's little button emerges from its hood. He places his thumb upon it and slowly rotates it. "That's the spot!" enthuses Nell. "Now, you wrap your tongue around that part of a girl and she's yours. Plus, licking a woman's cunny 'as another advantage. If she's slow to get moist enough for you to comfortably stick 'er nob in 'er, then by licking 'er, you can be sure that she'll be slippery enough for yer to have your way with 'er. "Now," she says standing up and thereby ending this portion of his education, "let's 'ave a look at your equipment." She motions that he should get to his feet and he complies. She loosens his belt and then pulls his trousers down, his underwear following immediately. So he stands, his pants and trousers round his ankles, atop his shiny new shoes. Nell coos appreciatively at his cock, which stands proudly up, throbbing slightly. It is about seven inches long and thick around. Nell reckons she couldn't get her hand around the shaft of it, though she does have small hands, which is a boon in her line of work; it makes her clients' cocks seem bigger. "Your fiancée is a lucky woman." "Who?" He has forgotten the pretext for his visit to Nell's place. Nell just smiles and is discreet. She she grasps his dick, testing her theory as to his girth, and attempts to wrap her fingers around him, squeezing him hard as she does so. "Aaaah!" gasps the young man, and he comes, his cock juddering as it sprays semen over the crouching whore's neck and tits. "Oh God, I ... I'm sorry," he says, suddenly ashamed and blushing deep red. "I 'aven't finished with you yet," says Nell impishly, and before the man has a chance to stutter any more apologies and explanations, she takes his waning prick into her mouth, and sucks the remaining come from its tip. He gasps. She passionately tongues his head and then takes his softening manhood deeper inside her mouth, determinedly trying to restore his erection. She moves her head back and forth, her tongue lashing now against his shaft and now against his head. She grazes him with her teeth, lightly nibbling upon his helmet, holding it in place as she fiercely tongues the little red lips of his pisshole. He can feel himself getting hard again and it aches a little, but he does not want her to stop. She takes him deep inside her mouth, almost to the back of her throat and then out again. In and out. She is fucking him with her face. She takes his cock out of her mouth and pumps it vigorously with her fist and then she hungrily gobbles it down again, before repeating the process, pulling the foreskin mercilessly over the purple head of his dick, before sucking it deep into her mouth. After a few minutes she desists, having miraculously recovered his hard on. "There," she says. "Good as new." His cock and his balls pain him, but he doesn't let on. She pushes him hard on the chest, and he trips on his trousers and falls back onto the bed. She springs on top of him and splays her legs either side of his hips. Rubbing his chest through the fabric of his silk shirt with both her hands, she reaches behind her, grasping his cock and guiding it into her cunt, as she sits back on her haunches. She begins to twist and writhe on top of him, sitting on him, her vaginal muscles clenching and unclenching. She bounces up and down, determined to get her pleasure from her inexperienced client and to give him a fuck to remember her by. Grinding her hips against him, breathing in broken, sobbing gasps, she reaches behind her and takes his balls in her hand. He has forgotten the pain he was in, and is giving himself entirely to the sensations instilled in him by this skilled, remarkable whore, who rides him as if he were a bucking broncho from a wild west show, when, in fact, he is scarcely moving at all. Nell realises that she will have to do all the work, and sets about gyrating and twisting and rocking with renewed vigour. She toys with his balls with one hand, and the other flies to her clitoris, flicking at it as she fucks him so wildly that she threatens to break the stolid, workmanlike bed. She is determined that she will climax. She looks into his face which is currently fixed in an expression of startled obeisance. His light blue eyes rove this way and that, and upon his lips there is the trace of a smile. His cock is buried deep inside her, and she forces herself against it, pressing it into the roof of her vagina, building up a friction as she bobs up her down. She ceases her assault on her clit, and moves both her hands to her breasts, tightly squeezing her nipples and kneading them together. "Oh fuck, yeah," she says as she feels her orgasm building, fixing her thoughts on the fact that this is his first fuck. Hers is the first cunt he'll come into. She doesn't desist from her energetic antics as she climaxes, her juices erupting from her and coating the young man's cock and bollocks. Instead, she rides her orgasm, surfing it like a wave, prolonging it, her cunny clenching and unclenching around his hard shaft all the while. "Oh, yeah, come in me! Come on, yer mollie, what yer waiting for? Come in me now, or I'll 'ave to charge you extra." The slick heat of her pulsing cunny around his cock proves enough for the young man and he has no trouble following the order, his come filling her. "Oh yes!" she cries, drowning out his manly groan. Her orgasm subsides and she gets up off the man, his cock falls limp and lifeless to one side. "Phew! That was fun," she says and she commences gathering up her clothes. "Thank you," says the man through his heaving breaths. "Don't mention it. And I doesn't come free you know." Saucy Jack He nods and gets up from the bed. "I've been trying to work up the courage to rent one of you girls for days," he tells her as he pulls up his trousers. His clothes really are very handsome. He is out of place in the slums. "What do you do for a livin'?" she asks him, curious. "I'm a medical Student. My first year. Just paid my indentures." A thrill of fear goes through Nell. She recalls a line from a letter that was published in the paper, and was much discussed in the Bells. "They say I'm a doctor now ha ha" the Ripper wrote. The young man, who had seemed such an innocent bit of fun, now seems sinister. He has an odd look about his face, she notices by the light of the fire, there is something disconnected in his eyes. He smiles at her queerly, then puts his hand in his pocket. Unable to help herself, Nell lets out a scream. ***** She sees the knife in his hand. She was right. She realises death is upon her and cries out: "Oh! Murder!" With a swift, powerful, stroke he slashes her throat from left to right and arterial blood spatters across the faded wallpaper. ***** Startled by the scream, the young man throws the money down. Two shillings, a princely sum and one beyond even Nell's optimistic assessment of his means. Gushingly, she apologises for the scream. "I've been a bit edgy of late. I'm sorry sir. I don't what got into me." The young man, anxious to be gone, accepts the offered apology and strides purposefully into the street, first taking care to ensure that he is unobserved. Nell gathers the money up and sits by the fire. For some reason, she can't stop shaking. ***** I have been guilty of misdirection; at the crucial moment we were all looking the wrong way. Carrotty Nell was not the fifth victim of Jack the Ripper. The murder, then, was not at Nell's place but at number Thirteen Miller Court, off Dorset Street where last we saw Ginger in the company of her short, stout beerswilling client. We should have been watching her. ***** Mary Ann Cox, a thirty-one year old widow and prostitute, and one of Ginger's neighbours, was returning home at around midnight to warm herself and saw Kelly ahead of her, accompanied by s funny, fat little man who was scruffily attired and wearing a billycock hat. The man was carrying a pail of beer. Mrs. Cox followed them into Miller's Court and bid the pair of them goodnight, with a wink and a smile. The man hurried off and Ginger returned the goodnight with a voice obfuscated and slurred by liquor and then thought it proper that she warn her neighbour that she intended to sing. Having thereby discharged herself of her neighbourly obligations, she commenced a spirited rendition of "A Violet from Mother's Grave". This song would be going around her head – and coming forth from between her lips at great volume – all night. "Scenes of my childhood arise before my gaze, Bringing recollections of bygone happy days. When down in the meadow in childhood I would roam." At half-past midnight, Catherine Picket, a flower seller who lived nearby, was awoken by the wretched song: "No one's left to cheer me now within that good old home, Father and Mother, they have pass'd away; Sister and brother, now lay beneath the clay, But while life does remain to cheer me, I'll retain This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave." She angrily began to dress in order to go out and remonstrate with the "fucking Irish banshee" but her husband stayed her: "You leave the poor woman alone." he said. At one in the morning it was beginning to rain harder. Again, Mary Ann Cox returned home to warm herself at her fireside and smiled at hearing that Ginger was still singing. "Only a violet I pluck'd when but a boy, And oft'time when I'm sad at heart this flow'r has giv'n me joy; So while life does remain in memoriam I'll retain, This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave." She had, she reflected, at least been warned. There was a light coming from Kelly's room. Shortly after one, Mary Ann went out again, passing as she did so Elizabeth Prater. Elizabeth was an abandoned wife and was standing at that time at the entrance to Miller's Court waiting for a man. She was always waiting for a man. She stood there for about a half hour and then went into John McCarthy's room to have a ca couple of drinks and a chat. McCarthy was the landlord of Miller's court. Elizabeth didn't hear any singing and saw no one entering nor leaving the Court. After a few minutes she went back to her room, which was directly above Ginger's, and braced two chairs in front of her door to keep out intruders, before going to sleep without undressing on top of the sheets. She was pissed out of her skull. Two in the morning and George Hutchinson was walking along Commercial Street and passed a man at the corner of Thrawl Street but paid him no heed. At Flower and Dean Street he met Ginger Kelly who had evidently left her quarters and was again walking the streets. "Mr. Hutchinson, can you lend me sixpence?" she asked, all demure smiles and fluttering eyelashes. "I can't," said Hutchinson ruefully, "I blew all me money going down to Romford." "Good morning," Kelly replied churlishly and then drunkenly insisted: "I must go and find some money." She then walked away in the direction of Thrawl Street. Hutchinson followed her with his eyes, watching her shapely arse, which was stutteringly swaying from side-to-side, its rhythm hypnotic. She met the man in the shadows, whom Hutchinson had passed earlier. Hutchinson observed the man put his hand on Kelly's shoulder and say something at which they both laughed, Ginger's cackle ringing out clearly through the night. He heard Kelly say "All right" and the man reply something like "You will be all right for what I have told you." The man then put his arm around her and they began to walk towards Dorset Street. Hutchinson also noticed that the man had a small parcel in his left hand. Instinctively, he followed them. While standing under a street light outside the Queen's Head Public House, Hutchinson got a good look at the man with Ginger Kelly. He had, according to his account later, a dark complexion and heavy dark moustache, turned up at the corners. He wore a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes, a long dark coat trimmed with astrakhan and a white collar with a black necktie fixed with a horseshoe pin. He wore dark spats over light button over boots and had an enormous gold chain in his waistcoat with a large seal with a red stone hanging from it. He carried kid gloves in his right hand and a small package in his left. He was 5' 6" or 5' 7" tall and about thirty-five or thirty-six years old. Is this Jack the Ripper? It is an amazingly accurate description of someone glimpsed momentarily in the light of a gas-lamp in the rain. Is Hutchinson's assertion that the man looks Jewish to him, genuine or it anti-Semitism stoked up by speculation in the press? Is Hutchinson a fantasist? Why, we might ask, was Hutchinson following them? What did he want? What had he seen? Kelly and the man crossed Commercial Street and turned down Dorset. Hutchinson continued to follow them. They stopped outside Miller's Court and talked for approximately three minutes. The omnipresent Hutchinson heard Kelly say "All right, my dear. Come along. You will be comfortable." The man put his arm around Ginger who kissed him. "I've lost my handkerchief," she said, frowning. At this he handed her a red handkerchief. She laughingly thanked him, and nuzzled up to him. The couple then headed off down Miller's Court. Hutchinson waited until the clock stuck three then turned on his heels and left as he heard it strike the hour. He must have passed Mrs. Cox returning home yet again, suffering terribly with the cold. It was raining hard and there was now no sound nor light coming from Kelly's room. Cox decided not to go back out but could not go to sleep. Throughout the night she occasionally heard men going in and out of the court. She told the inquest into her neighbour's death: "I 'eard someone go out at a quarter to six. I don't know what 'ouse he went out of. I 'eard no door shut." ***** It is now four in the morning, and Carrotty Nell is screaming at her hapless ingenue client. Elizabeth Prater is startled awake by her pet kitten Diddles treading softly on her neck. She hears a faint cry of "Oh, murder!" but, as it is common to hear the cry of murder in this district, she pays no attention to it. Sarah Lewis, who is staying with friends in Miller's Court, also hears the cry. I want to save her – I want to exercise my authorial power to spare her his demonic fury. I want Elizabeth and Sarah to raise a hue and cry and for there to be a policeman close-by who will rush in and stay the murderer's knife-hand before he slashes her throat. I want the Ripper to be apprehended in the nick of time and forced to explain himself. I want, like all authors, to impose order on chaos; give meaning to randomness. I can't. This is history, horrible, immutable. This is real. Oh, fuck. ***** She sees the knife in his hand. She was right in her irrational premonition of his horrific intent. She realises that death is upon her and cries out: "Oh! Murder!" With a swift, powerful stroke he slashes her throat from left to right and arterial blood spatters across the faded wallpaper. Before her eyes in the rapidly darkening room Ginger holds the image of two beautiful, statuesque youths who almost, almost loved her. ***** But what happened in the room? We have heard the evidence of the movements of Ginger Kelly leading up to her murder and the moment of her throat being slashed from left to right, but what did the Ripper do to her after that? What makes the murder of Ginger so much more notorious, so much more horrific than the other manifold murders in late nineteenth century Whitechapel? I don't have the stomach to describe the frenetic hacking and carving up of the body of Mary Jane Kelly, or the manifold abominations visited upon her corpse. She was subjected to it once, and I have not the will to subject her to it again. I hope you will forgive me my queasiness. The Times editorial on Saturday, November 10, 1888 described the murder as "if possible of a more hideous character than the atrocities already committed in Whitechapel ... No revolting circumstance is wanting to the crime, which has manifestly been committed by one who took a demoniac pleasure in his ghastly work. The victim['s body] ... has been mutilated even more hideously than those of the former victims. It would be impossible to describe literally the scene before those who discovered yesterday morning her remains in Dorset-street. No imagination could conceive the effects of the malign and depraved fury of the murderer." It is an understatement. If you are still intent on satisfying your curiosity as to the animalistic ferocity of the Ripper, and his deliberately orchestrated, orgiastic abandon, then I refer you to the report of Doctor Thomas Bond, eminent police surgeon, who had the misfortune to attend the scene. It is readily available on the web. Dr Bond evokes the horror of the scene more eloquently than ever I could. If I were you, I would not read it. But, then, I have seen the photograph of the body in its sad little room in Miller's Court. ***** "Well I remember my dear old mother's smile," sings Ginger at half past one in the morning, to the great annoyance of her neighbours: "As she used to greet me when I returned from toil, Always knitting in the old arm chair, Father used to sit and read for all us children there, But now all is silent around the good old home; They all have left me in sorrow here to roam, But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain This small violet I pluck'd from mother's grave." ***** Nell hears of the murder the following afternoon, after she has dragged herself out of bed and into the Ten Bells. She hears of the horrors to which her companion was subjected. Breathless, giddy, she rushes out of the pub and towards Scotland Yard, desperately trying to remember the face and appearance of the man with whom she saw Ginger. She breaks into a run, as if by getting to the police quickly she can prevent the atrocity and revive her friend. Try as she might, however, she cannot recall him. He is faceless, shimmering, indistinct in her mind's eye. She stops short. She did not see the Ripper. It's no good her going to the police. She did not see him. Fretfully and in a state of shock, she begins to walk towards Dorset Street, and, before she knows it, she has arrived at Miller's Court where a crowd has gathered, craning to see the latest handiwork of the Ripper. His latest work of art. Feeling useless, Nell leaves and wonders aimlessly around the streets, coming at last back to the Ten Bells, where she sits and numbs herself with gin and warm water. That night, she will go back to work. ***** Carrotty Nell, aka Frances Coles, survived for a couple more years. She was murdered on 13th February 1891. Was it by Jack? She has not the distinction of being numbered among the 'canonical' Ripper murders. She is just someone who died a violent death in that place where it was commonplace to hear the cry of 'murder'. Because Coles is not canonical, she does not have the honour of being listed on the cheery blackboard of Jack the Ripper's victims which adorns the wall of the modern Ten Bells pub on the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street, which is a couple of hundred yards from the site of Miller's Court, off Dorset Street, where now there stands a food warehouse, the scene of the Bacchic violation of Mary Kelly, "...more like the work of a devil than the work of a man..." An industry has grown up around the Whitechapel murders. The Ripperologists pour over the evidence, scrutinise the horrific photographs, ponder the layout of Mary Jane Kelly's room in Miller Court. There must be a solution. There must be a reason behind the brutality. If only they could find it. They are trying, these would-be heroes, these Sherlocks, to save the women, one hundred and eighteen years after the fact, who fell victim to Jack's knife. To rewrite the history in which Saucy Jack went undiscovered and unpunished. To give his demoniac evil a human face. I wish them all the luck in the world. I urge you to buy a drink at the Ten Bells – the landlord will happily sell you a 'Ripper Tipple' – and look around you. Look at the people: the weary shoppers; Jack aficionados; chattering tourists. Was he here? While Ginger Kelly was buying her last drinks, warbling her last Irish songs, was he here when the landlord called "Time"? Look closely at the people around you, at their faces. Is he here now? ***** GLOSSARY Bernard-Shaw, George – British author and communist. Bobcull – rich man Carrotty Nell – nickname of the prostitute Frances Coles (1865-1891) Cove – man Cimmerian – Homeric term, describing a land which is perpetually dark Dairies – breasts Erebus – Latin term for the underworld Ginger Kelly – nickname of the prostitute Mary Jane Kelly (c.1863-1888) Gladstone – William Ewart. British Prime Minister on four separate occasions. Renowned for his moral probity, he sought to rescue fallen women and would nightly beat himself with a cane to purify himself. Half-a-Crown – a denomination worth two shillings and sixpence. Someone living in London in 1888 would expect to pay 1½d on a pint of milk and around 5sh and 6d on rent per week. A woman working as a prostitute could expect to get around two or three pence per customer. A pint of beer would set you back 3½d. John – prostitute's client Milkers – breasts Miss Laycock – A prostitute. There were probably about twelve hundred prostitutes in the Whitechapel district. Mollie – slang for an effeminate man. Mossie Face – cunt Mother-of-saints – cunt Noserag – handkerchief Pinchcock – prostitute Play the Flute – perform sexually Shilling – twelve pence Wappe for a winne – Prostitute oneself