Eleven

This, I’m afraid, is as near as we can now get to Dorset Street which was once the most notorious in London, where even the police would only come – if they came at all – in groups of four. This multi-storey car park occupies the site of the house where both Annie Chapman and Jonny Pizer used to doss. And over there, just where those fruit vans are parked, was Miller’s Court, where our fifth and final victim, Marie Kelly, lived… and died.

Clearly a cut above the others, she could afford to rent her own room – indeed, she was the only one of the women to be killed indoors; but when she opened those doors to the Ripper and his knife on that cold winter night, it turned out to be the unkindest cut of all.

Apart from her murderer, George Hutchinson was probably the last man to see Marie alive. But although his suspicions were aroused by her companion’s appearance, he was loath to interfere. So he followed them here and watched as she led him inside. But the cold soon took its toll and he returned home. And as I can sense that same November nip in the air again now, I’ll be brief. And, in brief, his misgivings were not misplaced.

The sight which greeted Thomas Bowyer, the landlord’s agent, when he went to collect Marie’s rent the next morning, beggared belief. What little of her remained was laid out on the bed. She hadn’t simply been ripped apart, but chopped into tiny pieces. With the exception of her lungs, all her internal organs had been hacked out, leaving her stomach a cavernous void. Her throat had been slit so deeply that her head was almost severed from her neck. Likewise her left arm was only attached to her trunk by a sinewy thread. All the flesh had been sliced off her face, her nose skinned and her forehead flayed. Her breasts and heart, together with strips of flesh from her abdomen, had been neatly placed on a side-table and her liver positioned between her legs. One of her hands had been thrust into her belly, whilst odd bits of offal hung from the picture rail like macabre decorations…

Would you please allow me to finish? I’ll be happy to answer any questions later… It took six hours to piece her more or less together. It was the most savage of all the Ripper’s murders: the crescendo of his symphony of terror. But it was also the last. Why? Sexual serial murderers don’t simply stop… I’m sorry, but I really can’t compete with your barrage of barracking. Would you mind saving your comments… very well then, your objections, until the end? Of course my descriptions were grisly; she’d been reduced to scraps of gristle. Now if you please…!

Where was I? Oh yes. Such murderers don’t simply stop because they’ve had a change of heart like you or I… For Heaven’s sake, I was speaking hypothetically! No, they’re either caught or killed or put out of action some other way… All right, go ahead: the street is yours. Just say what you must, and maybe then we can return to the matter in hand, and the final revelations of the Ripper.

 

I can no longer make my Tuesday evening appointment. Well, don’t you want to know why? I have a job. I’ve returned to the East End, although not to the crypt nor to anything to do with the Church. I handed in my resignation. They expressed regret, without sincerity. And yet, strangely, they seemed to warm to me once they heard I’d cracked up. And I thought that whatever else, at least I’d never have to see Patrick or Roy or Vange again. Though in the event I’m more worried than ever about meeting Vange.

You’ll never guess what it is I’m doing. Come on, you can still try. You give up before you’ve even started. But then I’m a fine one to talk… I’m guiding two walks a week for a friend who runs historical tours of London, or more specifically I’m visiting the sites and haunts of Jack the Ripper: haunts being the operative word.

I must admit I’d have preferred Literary London or Legal London or Mysteries and Mistresses of Mayfair; but there’s not the demand. Only Jack the Ripper can survive the winter slump. And this year, what with his centenary and all the attendant publicity, there’s been a positive boom.

I’m sorry if I’m gabbling but for the first time in months I have something new to tell you. And I feel a new man. You’ll have to go away more often. I don’t know about you; but it certainly seems to agree with me.

I’ll start at the beginning. I’m sure I mentioned my stepmother’s proposal that I redecorate the house. Well, she went one further and suggested the name of a suitable designer: Echo Lovett; which is no misnomer, given that almost everything she says sounds second-hand. I expect you’d like her; she speaks your language: the house is my skin, the lighting system my veins… although I hate to think what that makes the plumbing. She claims that redecoration is the best therapy she knows; but I suspect she may be trying to justify her fee.

Forget the redecoration; it’s a red herring. Although I’m happy to report that it’s already transforming the house. So there may be more to her theory, and her therapy, than I thought. What concerns us is her son, Donald, who’s also ‘in the arts’. He writes haikus and runs the ‘Famous Feet’ historical walks agency. And to cut a long story short – which believe me isn’t easy with Echo – she told me that he was looking for a new guide: someone he could trust with both the tourists and the takings. And that was where both Jack the Ripper and I came in.

At first I thought she was mad. I’d hardly been on my feet for months; I’d collapse after a hundred yards. But Echo is a woman who never takes no for an answer… most of the time she doesn’t listen to your answers at all. It seemed that Donald was in rather a fix. He’d booked himself on two walks at once. She just knew I’d be the perfect substitute. And in the end my resistance gave out. She swooped on me and scooped me up in the vast tangle of chains that dangled about her bosom. Then she kissed me on the cheek three times – she claims to be half Russian – and declared that I had a heart of gold.

I still suspect I was simply the cheapest option… The money isn’t much, Donald admitted. And he was right… But then, he’d gathered that that wasn’t my primary concern. And I could hardly disagree… After all, what did I have to lose? he asked; and Echo repeated. And when I could come up with no reply, they both took it as read.

In a word, I think that the work, or more particularly the walk, has proved my salvation. It’s exorcised many more demons than simply my sloth. Though at first I was acutely conscious of my inadequacy. As I told Donald, I knew next to nothing about Jack the Ripper. But he assured me I’d be able to mug it up in no time. And besides, the delivery was all. He’d provide a simple framework for me to memorise, and I could extemporise the rest.

I followed him round twice. Initially I had a problem simply keeping up; my stiff joints were no idle excuse. But there was something so exhilarating about leading a group of strangers through the settling darkness, that I found the strength to carry on.

And we carry on in all weathers: sometimes, according to Donald, the worse the weather, the better the atmosphere. Although we have nothing to match the dreaded pea-soupers of the Ripper’s own day. Someone could disappear without trace from six inches in front of you… I disappeared for far too long. But now I’m back with a vengeance. No, not with a vengeance – with a job.

I observed Donald closely. His delivery was dry and academic, as though that would in itself be enough to refute any suggestion of bad taste. And he stuttered badly over the letter ‘r’, which gave me added reason to dread the name of the Ripper. But I picked up more than I’d expected, which was all to the good as I only had time for two dummy runs before he sent me out on my own. He came along to support me or, as he put it, for the ride. His unaccustomed levity made his stutter more pronounced.

As luck would have it, for my debut the bulk of the party was Japanese. And as Donald had previously explained, they’re every guide’s dream audience… The word he actually used was punters, and I thought of Rees… Some groups try desperately to score points, their sole aim being to make the guide look small. But the Japanese are with you all the way. Their enthusiasm’s palpable. And they always agree to differ, never dispute… He himself declared himself delighted with my performance; he had complete confidence in me. Which was another first.

And confidence breeds confidence – although not I hope complacency. On my second trip I muddled two of the murders. Not that anyone appeared to notice… I suppose the order’s less important than the cumulative effect. And at the end a youngish man tried to tip me. I refused, which obviously embarrassed him. And I felt churlish; he only wanted to express his appreciation. So from now on all contributions will be both gratefully and graciously received.

The money may not be important; but the pay is. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a price put on anything I’ve done. I’ve had a value, but that’s not the same. And it may not be the career I’d have chosen; it may not be a career at all. But at least it’s a start. If I can make my way through the back streets of Whitechapel, I can make my way in the world.

We assemble outside Whitechapel Station. The pervasive poverty effortlessly sets the scene. Although it seems quite different to that of the boys and beggars in the West End. That was the poverty of despair; I saw it in their eyes: a hollow, haggard anger at the depths to which they’d sunk. But this is the poverty of destitution; it’s endemic in the cracks in the streets and the marrow of their bones: in the wide-hipped women bloated with batter and their hard-headed husbands big-bellied with beer.

I never thought I’d hear myself talk like this. I’ve always believed in steering well clear of politics. But somewhere between crypt and club and clinic something changed. And it’s certainly coloured the way I guide my walks. I pull no punches; I point the parallels. Jonathan would be proud of me – no, gratified. I’m still not sure about eating bacon being a political act; but walking through the East End undoubtedly is.

How could it be otherwise? There’s a wizened old man who perches permanently in a crack in the station wall, his feet encased in layers of heavy plastic like makeshift snow-shoes. He swigs constantly from a bottle of cider, whilst his toothlessness pulls his face in a perpetual grin. Every so often he jumps up without warning and pounds his fists through the empty air, screaming and squalling and whirling like a dervish, with all the frenzy of a disconnected mind. But his stinking squalor seems as far removed from the genteel madness of the clinic as genteel poverty is from the Mile End Road.

And I was reminded of what Fiona told me at the crypt: that it’s all very well to put vulnerable people back into the community, but first we have to put the community back into ourselves. And yet any community there once was has been replaced by commuters, to whom the old man is just an incontinent inconvenience: an obstacle to be neatly negotiated, as they hurry through the station forecourt, loudly cursing the passenger under the train at Barking whose despair has reverberated all along the line.

Then I thought of Christ and how he would never have abandoned him; in a mad world he gave his life that we might be sane… Although these days I expect he’d have been certified rather than crucified, and electrodes and not thorns stuck to his head… And if I’d ever intended to pass by, I could do so no longer. So the next time I arrived at the station, instead of the usual wide berth, I gave the old man ten pounds.

And I can hear all Jonathan’s objections – he’d have found fault with the Good Samaritan – but from the wild smile on his face and his weird pantomime of pleasure, I felt that although it wouldn’t solve any of his problems, it might at least dull some of the pain.

An American who’d booked for the tour accused me of irresponsibility. Didn’t I realise, he asked, that he’d spend every cent he was given on drink? So what? I replied, and surprised myself by my vehemence. What right had I to dictate what he did with my – no, with his money? Besides, I’d be deeply disturbed if I thought that our venture into the nineteenth century had helped to revive the distinction between the deserving and the undeserving poor.

You may find it odd for a former ordinand to be tramping the streets of the East End retelling the murders of prostitutes; and yet it could hardly be more apt. I know their stories, I’ve heard them myself a hundred years on. The sexes may be different but the sexuality’s the same.

And I can’t understand why so many people, and women in particular, condemn the walks as pornographic. Donald was challenged regularly by abusive pickets; but he explained how to wrong-foot them. In any case, he’s quite sure that their dedication will cool in this cold October weather. Nevertheless I have to admit to a degree of trepidation every time I turn a corner. And the threat of confrontation fills the air.

Superficially, I admit, their arguments may sound plausible. But far from glorifying male violence, we’re depicting it in its full horror and trying to keep the memory – no, the moral – of those ghastly crimes alive. We murder the women twice over if we commit them to unmarked graves. I still remember my father’s anguish when my brothers told him of their school friends who thought the Holocaust was Jewish propaganda; and that was in a country which had suffered the Occupation. And though the analogy may seem glib, the principle remains.

And walks such as ours help to focus on it. We show the true face of evil as well as its mangled torso. And it’s a face like yours or mine, not an anthropomorphic old goat. Jack the Ripper was no more the Devil than I was. He was a man long before he became a monster and a myth. And the sexuality of the crimes is all-important. As men we can never relax our guard. We must keep the example of the Ripper always before us: not as an abhorrent aberration, but rather as male sexuality at its most appalling extreme.

At last I fully understand why St Augustine located mankind’s original sin so uncompromisingly in the sexual. And as I’m sure Vange would be the first to agree, it was mankind’s original sin and not personkind’s. This is one instance where the etymology speaks for itself.

So to denounce the walks as pornographic is far too easy. It’s just a convenient stick to beat anyone and anything with which they happen to disagree. Their imprecision belies their cause… Besides, if they’d ever care to direct their protests more profitably, I could arrange to take them down some far less savoury streets.

Even so, I’m not sure that I’d protest too loudly. And I suppose it’s only right that here I declare an interest – no, not an interest, for Heaven’s sake never an interest – but a need. I’ve started to use pornography. And if I feel more at peace, perhaps it’s because I’ve been able to purge myself. I see it as no different to extracting the venom from a snake… I’ve always had a horror of snakes.

So if I may play Devil’s – or rather man’s – advocate for a moment, there may be some merit even in the genuine article. And although it goes against the grain to base a case on the lesser of two evils, if unhappy and unfulfilled people are able to lead happier and more fulfilled lives, then maybe the lesser evil can serve the greater good.

And it was following in the Ripper’s footsteps that brought it home to me. I’m so aware of the dangers of my… his… our unbridled sexuality. I’ve studied him very carefully and my reflection… my reflections revolt me. So what alternative do I have? I know I can never risk coming close to another person; I hardly dare come close to myself. So I keep myself at arm’s length. A flick of the wrist and it’s all over. I’m neutralised for another day.

Why did you have to do this to me? I thought I was doing so well, but you’ve made me see that for every step forward I’ve been taking two back. And as usual you’ve achieved it without so much as opening your mouth. I feel so ashamed. And it’s all quite out of character. I’d never even touched myself before I met Jack. But since then… I’d say the floodgates had opened, if only the image weren’t so horribly moist.

He identified a need which, on my own, I’m not strong enough to satisfy. My sexuality has proved too inexperienced for solitude. And so I’ve begun to buy videos to make up for the lack. I make love to men’s shadows instead of their bodies. And even my fantasies are second-hand.

I visit a supplier in Soho; I remembered his name from Jack. He has a shop in an alleyway off a sidestreet. I have to sidestep piles of rubbish and rubble; I have to suppress my own disgust. The display in the window advertises health aids and tummy trimmers, slimming tablets and anti-smoking sprays… I slip inside. Remaindered paperbacks line the shelves: Westerns, hospital fiction and biographies of long-forgotten pop stars. The bottom shelf is devoted entirely to wrestling magazines. Whilst underneath, for those with more esoteric tastes, pregnant women wrestlers re-enact the Battle of the Bulge.

You look sceptical. But there’s no taste either too obscene or too obscure, no appetite that can’t be met – or rather, whetted; for like the fast food on sale on every corner, the burgers with built-in obsolescence, supplies are carefully packaged to leave the customers drooling for more. So there are men with penises they can tie knots in… in case they should ever forget; women with breasts that stretch to their waists… for men who want more for their money; men-women or women-men who proudly display their superfluities… for the man who has everything, and wants both. Believe me, there’s nothing you can’t lay your hands on in the fellowship of the sexually perverse.

I flick idly through a magazine whilst I wait to be served. My eye catches a ‘polite notice’: Anyone caught nicking will be battered. I quickly put my hands in my pockets, and even more quickly remove them again in case the thin grey man in the bright white raincoat should misunderstand. I ask for my films. The manager leers lubriciously, defers ironically and grabs my cash.

I hurry home and shut myself in my bedroom. I draw the curtains and switch off the lights. My heart races. I think of the old ladies I used to visit for whom television was their sole consolation; and I shiver at the company I keep. I’m quite alone. I stare at the screen. And the pictures in my mind make my groin sweat with shame. I watch the men go through their mechanical motions, which I mimic like a wound-up automaton. And I too perform for an unresponsive audience of one.

The films I choose are all perversions. I’m sorry if that sounds tautologous; it doesn’t to me. I don’t want to watch two golden boys intertwined in a passionate embrace, their privacy undisturbed by the camera, as they revel in each other’s bodies quite oblivious of me. I want my presence acknowledged. I want to be a spectator, not a voyeur. And I want to be stimulated and shocked simultaneously, so I can relieve my desire with my disgust.

So I watch films of men in caves, men in gyms, men in prisons, but not men in beds: men in beds make me feel lonely. I watch fat men, skinny men, squat men, scarred men, buck-toothed men, broken-toothed men, but never perfect men: perfect men make me feel lonely. I watch men in groups, men alone, men abusing each other, men bored with each other, but never loving each other: love makes me lonely. I’m so lonely, so wretchedly lonely. Is there no one out there watching me?

By now I’d have thought I’d be used to it. But however much I may have been prepared for the loneliness of the priesthood, nothing could have prepared me for that of apostasy. To be set apart for no purpose: not ministering to people, marrying them, and baptising their babies, but indulging my vices vicariously on a bedside screen.

And it’s not simply guilt that oozes out of me, but fear – and not of impotence or blindness or of excess leading to deformity, but of a dulling of my sensibilities and a deadening of my responses, so that even if I were ever to find someone to love it might well be too late. I’ll have stewed for too long in my own greasy juices and be unable to relate to anyone but myself.

So I’m aware that it’s a far from perfect solution, but then it’s a far from perfect world. In a perfect world all our mothers, and not just Christ’s, would have been impregnated through the ear. And these days, when every act of love contains the seeds of its own destruction, pragmatism means nothing less than staying alive. In the war against infection, those men are fighting our battles for us. Whilst we hide behind locked doors and drawn curtains, they’re out there in the front line…

I wish I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Front line’ smacks of danger. And it’s not as if they take precautions. Their activities are neither sanitary nor safe… Oh no, how could anyone…? I couldn’t sit and wa… watch if I thought one of those men might be dying. I remember how my aunt could never bear to see a Rita Hayworth film once she’d read she’d developed Alzheimer’s. It’d be far worse if some of those men were already dead. What’s more, theirs would be no legacy of elegant Hollywood fantasies, but rather the deepest, darkest fashionings of our guts and our groins.

And who says they took part of their own free will? Or rather how free is free? Oh no, anything but that; that way madness lies… The glazed look in their eyes which to me was evidence of ecstasy might just have been a drug-induced haze. They may have been desperate for the money: any money, my money. And I know very well that I’m only one of many, but I’m still creating a market… a meat-market in my bedroom, an abattoir in my own backyard.

No! I didn’t say that. I’m going backwards again and not just through time, but all my good intentions… Is there no escape? I wanted to avoid any kind of power; but the avoidance of it compromises me as much as the abuse. I’m not loving by proxy – I’m murdering. Like Jack the Ripper, I cloak my loneliness in respectability and stalk my prey. But at least he made some contact with his victims, if only at the point of a knife. Whereas I consign mine to oblivion at the flick of a switch.

So the women were right and in more ways than they could ever have suspected. Pornography kills; and you’re sitting opposite a mass murderer. No wonder Donald offered me the job, despite my inexperience. He sensed I could find my way through those back streets blindfold. I’m not just the Ripper’s centennial guide but his other self… I’ve never believed in reincarnation until today.

And my next group will find themselves embarked on the walk of a lifetime. I’ll finally resolve the mystery that has baffled criminologists for the past hundred years… as I dramatically lower my voice: Ladies and Gentlemen, if you’ve been searching for the true identity of Jack the Ripper, you need search no further. He’s standing here in front of you. Jack the Ripper is me…