The Ripper's Wife(42)

I waited as long as I dared. But Jim never came. So I draped my long train over my arm, picked up my fan of dyed-red ostrich feathers, and went to the Lyceum with Alfred Brierley. We had a grand time; the play was every bit as exciting and terrifying as everyone said it was. I loved that the frights upon the stage provided a respectable excuse for me to hold my lover’s hand. After all, there were women down in the seats below clinging to strangers or fainting into their laps, so a little hand grasping with an old family friend was nothing at all in comparison. Afterward, in the cab, Alfred and I kissed and held each other tight all the way back to the hotel. He suckled my breast and guided my hand to ease inside his trousers. We smiled and giggled like naughty children making mischief behind the teacher’s back, but I daresay the savvy old coachman up on his box was well accustomed to such shenanigans.

The moment I walked through the door Jim was on his feet, moving toward me. The look on his face paralyzed and absolutely terrified me. He pointed at my dress, calling it “the color of whores.” He grasped the bodice and tore it down the front, then ripped the rest off me, beads, feathers, and roses flying everywhere. The long train tripped and tangled me and I fell hard at his feet. His face was almost as red as the velvet and I was sorely afraid he would at any moment be struck down by a stroke. The beads bit painfully into my palms as I tried to free myself from the tangle of velvet and wriggle away from him. Jim looked at me as though he didn’t really see me and just kept on ranting and raving about whores, blood, and the color red and ripping that dress, as though he were determined to reduce it to a pile of velvet scraps the size of postage stamps. I’d never seen him like this. Good God, he’s gone mad! I thought as I began inching slowly away on my hands and heels, backward, toward the door, not daring to turn my back on him for even an instant.

I was almost at the door. I was just twisting around to reach for the knob when Jim grabbed my ankle and jerked me back across the floor. He dug his fingers into my hair, pulling it so hard I was afraid he would snatch me bald. He dragged me into the bedroom and threw me onto the bed and tore my petticoats and drawers off, his nails raking long bloody scratches down my thighs.

I screamed as he pulled my b-reasts out of my candy-striped corset, giving each nipple a savage, twisting pinch. He clamped a hand over my mouth and warned, “Do that again, you bitch, and I’ll ram my fist down your throat! I’ll grab your heart in my hand and tear it out through your lying whore’s mouth! I’ll hold it in front of your eyes so you can see its last beat as you die!”

Somehow I managed to fight my way free of him again and made for the door, but I was clumsy in my fright and French heels. I twisted my ankle and stumbled long enough for Jim to catch hold of me again.

“Whore!” he roared, hurling me back onto the bed, wrestling my thighs open wide, and staring with a mixture of fury and lust at the secret pink center of me. “You would have run out just as you are! Downstairs, knowing that this hotel is full of men—men I do business with! Confess—it would give you such a thrill to show all London your cunt!”

He forced my thighs so far apart I thought I was surely going to snap like a wishbone. He drove his fist hard between my legs, punching me, as though he were trying to ram the whole of his fist, and his arm, up inside me to reach my heart that way.

I screamed and screamed again and begged him please, for the love of God and for any love he had ever borne me, to stop, it hurt so much! But he just kept hitting me, anywhere he could, I lost count how many times. I just wanted him to stop, I begged him to stop, but it was as though he couldn’t hear me. There was a peculiar mad gleam in his eyes, and he just kept ranting about whores, blood, and the color red. I just couldn’t understand what madness had possessed him. He’d been perfectly fine when I last saw him.

Kneeling on the bed, he tore open his trousers, threads bursting and black buttons flying, and fell on top of me. I screamed as he thrust inside, it hurt so much. I felt sure he would tear me apart before he was done with me.

I kept trying to twist free, but I couldn’t; his rage seemed to only make him stronger. I wanted to shut my eyes, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t look away from that mad red face, panting and grunting above me.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it all stopped. He pulled out of me, thankfully without spending; I had taken the sponge out and douched for good measure when I returned from Whitechapel. I thought he was finished with me. Then his hand was in my hair again, yanking my head back, as far as it would go, so hard I feared my neck was about to snap, and I felt a warm, sticky jet as he spent violently onto my face. His fingers dug even tighter into my hair. “All women are whores! Damn all whores!” he cried.

That was the last thing I heard. He flung me off the bed, into the corner, to spend the rest of the night lying there crumpled and unconscious like a broken doll. He might have cut my throat and I wouldn’t have even known it.





11

THE DIARY

Love makes sane men mad

and can turn a gentle man into a fiend.





Capricious cunt! Flighty American bitch! I should have known! Women like her cannot be trusted! You give them everything and they still want more! I’ve seen the way she looks at other men, my hot little Bunny! Bright shining eyes, heaving b-reasts, I swear I can feel the heat from her cunt even under all those sumptuous layers of satin and velvet I paid for! She laughs, flutters her lashes, and rests her little hand on their sleeve and leans in close. Even Edwin—my own brother! I dropped my spoon and saw their ankles entwined beneath the table, black patent leather and pink satin. The Judas-whore! I half-expected to see her hand dip down to pet his prick through his trousers or take it out and fondle it right there at the table. I’m certain she’s done it! Of course, I cannot blame Edwin; he’s always been so susceptible to seduction.