The Ripper's Wife(46)

She was selling violets, supposedly, though what fool buys wilted flowers fit only for the rubbish heap at three o’clock in the morning God only knows. A gaunt, glaze-eyed skeleton with a hacking cough and long lank hanks of stringy black hair. She said her name was Camille, like the brown-edged withering white flower she wore on the lapel of her tattered black coat. I almost laughed in her face. The only thing this blighted blossom had in common with La Dame aux Camélias was the lung rot that was slowly killing her. She was smiling at me, showing me the black empty spaces where her teeth used to be. Perhaps she thought I had come to save her, to liberate her with my love? Ha ha! I smiled and told her my name was Armand Duval. My little literary joke flew right over her head. As I bowed over her hand I reached for my knife.

That was the moment it all went wrong. Like that hot and eager apprentice boy I used to be who spent in his trousers at the mere sight of Sarah, I was too excited for my own good. I lunged. She screamed. I dropped my knife and grabbed her throat. I squeezed and pressed until she lost consciousness. I left her lying there, dead for all I know, amidst her fallen flowers, as I fled into the night, castigating myself as a careless bungler.

My heart was racing. I imagined it leaping like a crimson frog from my burning throat and leaving the empty husk of my body to fall down dead in the street as it bounded along without me. Then they would find this diary and know what I had done or tried to do. They would shake their heads and say, Poor fellow, he must have been mad! I think that’s why I keep this chronicle, so if that ever happens they will know why. Poor fellow! they will say, and point the finger of blame squarely at Love. You, they will accuse, you did this; you made him mad!

My fist curled tight around the hilt; I could not let go of my knife. My poor, poor children! How would they ever bear the disgrace? I kept imagining I heard the heavy boots of policemen pounding after me, the shrill wail of their whistles, and saw lights, like the bouncing orbs of their bull’s-eye lanterns glowing in the distance behind me, coming closer every time I dared to look back.

I had to take my medicine! It was the only thing that could save me! I felt weak; it would make me strong! I was shaking too badly to attempt my arsenic; I knew my fumbling fingers would drop the precious box and spill it, and having to crouch down and lick it up from the filthy cobblestones was too nauseating a thought. I felt in my pockets and found two strychnine tablets and swallowed them quickly.

Safely back in my hotel room, I groped desperately for my silver box and sprinkled the precious white powder onto my trembling palm, lamenting each little grain that fell onto the carpet. I sat on the bed and, with shaking, icy hands, drank straight from my bottle of Fowler’s Solution. The gaslights shone so beautifully through the lavender-arsenic tincture as I raised it to my lips. What a lovely color and flavor it has! I began to feel better and took another strychnine tablet for good measure. But I was overzealous. I took too much. I had to resort to bone black, and that brought it all back up. I wasted my precious store and had to take more.

Next time I will not let eagerness get the better of me. I will wait, and plan, and strike only when the time is right. There will be no more mistakes! The whores will pay, NOT me! I will show them all how clever I can be! When they hear of the whores ripped up like pigs in the market, gutted like fish . . . I can see them now: Michael sits at his breakfast table and frowns at the headlines over the gilt rim of his teacup. Edwin devours each deliciously dreadful word in the latest edition of the Illustrated Police News while his fingers distractedly shred the red carnation in his lapel. Bunny shudders, causing the frills on her breakfast cap to quiver like her quim in ecstasy and laments that such evil exists in the world as she lays aside the Liverpool Daily Post, all her pleasure in her morning perusal of the paper gone.

None of them will ever suspect that a man as gentle as their Jim could ever do such a thing. They will all be wondering what manner of fiend is stalking London and picturing some murderous, uncouth brute with wild, staring eyes and hands as big as hams. All of them will agree that no Englishman—and certainly no gentleman—could ever do such a thing. Inside I will be laughing all the time. The joke’s on them! Now who’s the clever one, Michael?





14

I can see myself now, sitting on my bedroom floor, hugging my knees, sobs shaking my blue velvet shoulders, tears dripping down onto my blue and cream tartan skirt, surrounded by boxes, tissue paper, and ribbons amidst the candy box clutter of my latest visit to Woollright’s.

None of them meant a thing to me, but I couldn’t stop myself from buying them. It was like a compulsion. But whenever I tried to persuade myself to take it all back, suddenly the most trivial trifle felt as necessary as air to me, as though the world would fall to pieces if I relinquished that lovely jade-green velvet jacket or deprived Bobo of the toy frog I had bought him. And the beautiful wax doll imported from Paris with real golden curls and blue glass eyes that opened and closed was the perfect gift for Gladys; one of those sweet salesgirls had even found a pretty rose-colored frock with a blue sash for Gladys to match the one the doll was wearing. What a pretty photograph that would make!

I liked the way the salespeople smiled at me, the way they picked out things that might please me, even going so far as to secrete certain items behind the counter to await my next visit, things I bought even if I didn’t like them because I just couldn’t bear to disappoint such kind, thoughtful people. They liked me; they really liked me! At that time in my life, when I felt so alone and friendless, that really meant something, and I clung to it desperately. A part of me seemed to feed like a vampire upon their kindness and I couldn’t live without it. I didn’t want coldness to replace the kindness. And they would be so disappointed if I started bringing things back.