Saucy Jacky: The Whitechapel Murders As Told By Jack The Ripper by Doug Lamoreux

Author:Doug Lamoreux [Lamoreux, Doug]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creativia
Published: 2018-10-27T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight – Escape From Berner Street

It was just gone 12:55 am when, without ceremony, I slashed the Squealer's throat as she lay on the pavement outside the socialist's club. Can't blame me for the haste. Who needed her squealing again?

The whore grabbed at her throat with her right hand. The spurt from the severed artery hit her hand, the brick wall beyond, and the pavement and gutter to her left. Her bloody hand fell away; dropped back open upon her chest. But, have no fear, I was safe and dry. Lying on her left side as she was with her feet near the street, facing the outside wall of the club, I had completely avoided a dousing.

Then came the awful and sad realization, the bad news as it were; the delicious act of strangulation had, until this wretched time, been my routine. That should have been followed by the slitting of the throat as a start to the games. But this night had already been maddeningly different, and looked to continue in that vein. The socialist rats with their late meeting and pathetic singing into the night, the wandering Jew, the pipe-smoking pub crawler, the intrusions had ruined the game and destroyed the message I'd meant to send!

The time and the place were both suddenly and obviously wrong. There would be no time to finish my business. There was no time to start my business and, surely, there was no time to play. It was likely the socialists above had heard the commotion and were already on their way down to investigate. I needed to be gone.

I gave the drunken Squealer a last hate-filled look.

Her legs were drawn up, her feet close against the wall. A carriage-wheel rut in the dirt beneath her neck grew easier to make out as it filled with blood. Her open right hand lay on her chest, smeared with blood. Her left arm lay extended, her hand on the ground, her fingers still cupping her tissue-wrapped breath fresheners. Aww, too bad. She'd missed the opportunity to pop one and was headed for hell with her breath still stinking of beer.

The face was quite pallid, the mouth slightly open. The silk scarf round her neck, which I'd used to advantage, now had its bow twisted to the left and was pulled ever so tight. The new smile I'd cut into her throat ran nicely beneath it. (Sorry to say, I'd frayed the scarf's lower edge with my knife.) There was a great deal of standing blood to the left of her head with an impressive stream running down the gutter and back toward the drain near the foot of the club's back door steps.

The situation was all so regrettable. She lay slaughtered and ready to be dressed. But I had no time. With no other choice, I left the pig bleeding in the Yard.

In a necessary hurry, I cut round the corner of the gate and headed north. I passed the locked front door of the

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