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‘That’s the final entry.’ Hapgood said, closing the journal. Miller was staring into the fire. Hapgood waited for his guest to speak, but Miller held his silence.
‘Mr Miller?’
‘What more is there to say? The story is told. You have read to its conclusion.’
Hapgood shuffled, his mind ablaze with thoughts and ideas, questions he was reluctant to leave unanswered. ‘But... there is much still I do not understand.’
‘Have you not learned enough?’ Miller snapped.
‘My intention is not to hound you but to ensure I have all the information required to tell your story.
‘I am tired, Hapgood as I am sure you are also. What more is there that you wish to know?’
‘The ending. You talked of death. Leaping into the Thames with rocks tied to your feet. That was seven years ago. I would like to know what has happened since that last entry and now. More specifically, why you changed your mind.’
Miller stood and walked to the window, his back to Hapgood. ‘Daylight is coming. This has indeed been a long evening. As to your question, I had every intention of ending my life. I was determined and spent the rest of that evening drinking as much alcohol as I could. I was too afraid to sleep, you see. Every time I closed my eyes I would see one of them. The whores. My mother. Lucy. Josephine. Their spirits haunted my existence.’
He turned to face Hapgood, folding his hands in front of him. ‘The only one who did not want my pitiful life to end was the bastard thing that lives inside me. It was still thirsty for blood and it would not allow me to end my existence.’
‘And did you try to resist?’
‘Of course, I did, but it was much stronger than I was and would not allow it. I came close to achieving my wish a few weeks later. I drank the monster to its pit and made it there to the bridge, rocks tied to my feet, the black waters of the Thames which would signal freedom swirling beneath me. I wanted to let go, Hapgood. I wanted it more than perhaps anything else I have ever desired, and yet it would not allow me to do so no matter how much I begged. As broken as I was, it was still thirsty for blood.’
‘How then, have you managed during these intervening years without your work? Surely if this...inner you was so influential, it would be impossible to resist.’
Miller smiled but it was without humour, and the expression quickly melted away. ‘Ahh yes, and with that question, we come back to the start. My darkest days, as it were.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Miller walked to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another drink. He did not ask Hapgood, who watched as Miller drained the glass then set it back on the cabinet. ‘It was no longer possible to do my work on the whores, but the beast still desired blood, so we reverted back to childhood habits. At least they were still in our power to control.’
‘Animals?’
Miller nodded. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure there are countless animal victims of the once famous Whitechapel Ripper scattered around these filthy streets. Stray dogs and cats mostly as the even the rats were now too fast for me to capture.’ Miller grimaced and shook his head. ‘And that is how I have existed since, killing animals and wishing they were whores as year on year my body becomes weaker and slips ever closer to death. An uninspiring end to my legend, do you not agree?’
Hapgood said nothing. Miller went on, pouring another drink.
‘You see the irony of the situation, Hapgood? They speak of me today as a thing of legend, a supernatural being who had the ability to do his work without fear of reprimand by the authorities before disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind a mystery like no other.’ Miller drained his glass again, then tossed it on the cabinet.
‘Please, Mr Miller, I think perhaps that is enough drink for now.’
Miller ignored him, continuing on as his voice became ever more slurred. ‘The truth is I was here the whole time in Whitechapel, unable to leave because I had nowhere to go, a lonely old man too broken to live and not allowed to die as he spent his days and nights killing animals to sate some desire that he knows would never again be fully satisfied. I am pleased to say that I can finally sense death and it is close. I cannot wait for it to take me. There is no treatment for my illness, Hapgood. My insides continue to rot and with each day brings more and more intense pain.’
Miller pointed at Hapgood, swaying on unsteady legs. ‘I know what you are thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You are easy to read. You think I deserve the pain, the agony of a slow death, a life of suffering amid the subjects of my work and yet physically incapable of acting on the ideas which present themselves to my mind.’
Hapgood glanced to the door, the fear he had forgotten over the last hours coming back in an instant. ‘Please remain calm, Mr Miller. I am here to listen to and log your story. Nothing more. My own feelings bear no influence on our meeting this evening.’
Miller sneered. ‘Yet you feel it all the same.’ He crossed the room to Hapgood’s desk, leaning on it palms first, glaring at Hapgood. ‘You are no different to everyone else. You live within the boundaries of the law, you have a nice home, a family. A life. Those are the things I wanted, yet was born with a demon, a blood hungry parasite. I am a victim.’
The comment was too much for Hapgood. He had heard and read enough to know the truth. ‘You are no victim. You preyed on the weak, the vulnerable. You have admitted as much yourself.’
Miller grinned. ‘Look at you. No longer afraid now you know how the story ends. Do you know who I am?’
Hapgood stood, staring Miller in the eye from across the table, his own anger at Miller claiming he was a victim making him forget the fear. ‘I know who you were. Now I see a broken old man who is unwilling to take responsibility for the horrific things he did as he desperately clings to a life in the past.’
Miller grimaced. ‘You will show me the respect I deserve.’
‘You deserve no respect, Miller. You deserve to be held accountable for your crimes. Perhaps I am guilty of listening to this tale for too long. I should have notified the authorities upon your arrival and had them come and take you away. Those poor women you savaged deserve justice for the brutality you reigned upon them whe-’
Miller moved fast. A flick of the wrist. Hapgood was unsure what had happened at first until he heard the steady dripping. He looked at his desk and saw it was splattered with blood. His once white shirt was red across the belly where Miller had slashed him. Hapgood sat down hard in his chair, feeling his innards start to poke out of the wound. He could see the knife now. Miller had it clutched in his right hand. Hapgood had no clue where he had got it from and assumed he must have had it with him all along just as he had alluded to earlier in the evening. A second of silence fell over the room which Miller broke. He was staring at Hapgood, watching the blood ooze from his stomach.
‘Did I not warn you? I told you not to forget who I am. True enough, I can no longer rip whores, but you....I had gained your trust. Your guard was down. One cut is all it takes if it is deep enough.’
Hapgood was clutching his stomach, trying to hold the contents in. ‘Help. I need help...’ he murmured.
‘I would recommend you do not stand, Hapgood. I have cut across your lower abdomen. Who knows what will fall out?’
‘You...you said you ....wouldn't hurt me. You said I would live.’
‘Yes, I did. But did I not also tell you that this thing inside me will say anything to get what it wants?’
‘You came to me...you wanted me to tell your story...’
Miller nodded and picked up his journal. ‘May I borrow your pen?’
Hapgood was bleeding from the mouth now. He was gasping and didn’t respond.
‘There is time for one last entry. A final footnote in the story.’
Miller opened the journal to the final entry. ‘You seem preoccupied, Hapgood so I will dictate to you as I write. Perhaps then you will truly understand the meaning of tonight.’
Hapgood tried to answer but could only groan. He shifted position and a wet coil of intestine spilt out between his fingers. Miller half smiled then turned his attention to the journal and began to write, reading his words out loud as he penned them.
‘And so, we come to this. The end. The demon inside is as tired as I am and we both long for peace. The Biographer, Hapgood who came so highly recommended was as good as the reputation he had built. He has logged everything and despite earlier this evening stating that he was no priest and would not hear my confession that is exactly what he has done. It was his task. A way for me to ensure at least one person knew who I was and heard of my great work. Sadly, this story can never leave this house. How could I sully my legend by allowing the world to know the great Ripper ended his days killing cats and dogs in the squalor of his filthy Whitechapel home? No, my demon and I are in agreement. Our story has been told to Hapgood and he, like us, will take it to his grave.’ Miller stopped writing and glanced up at Hapgood, who was motionless, eyes blank and staring across the room. Miller continued on, still dictating to the room. ‘As I write this he has already slipped away, gone to whatever comes after. Despite for many years seeing our great work as a failure, it seems in the intervening years my legend has grown and will endure for centuries long after my broken body is dust. A fitting end, then to a great story, and now with conscience clear thanks to Hapgood I can live out my remaining days in relative peace without the burden of the years weighing on me. This then is the end of the story. Hapgood knew me as Mr Miller, and for the purpose of telling my story that was necessary.
If by some chance I had failed in my plan tonight, I could not allow Hapgood to know my true identity, however now I shall sign off in the name I was given, the name people will try to discover for hundreds of years to come, the identity of the great Whitechapel killer before this journal is destroyed along with Hapgood’s notes.
With this then, I say farewell. The story is at last, over. I shall once again become a ghost and in my stead, I shall leave my legend, my legacy, my great work. History will come to remember me by the name they gave me, and in that respect it is clear the work I set out to complete is, at last, done. My physical body will die but I shall live on forever.
My name is JAMES MICHAEL, and I was Jack the Ripper.’