The Ripper's Wife(59)
All I know is that one day I was there at his door, in his arms, then naked in his bed once more. He was a kind, generous, and skillful lover; it was only when he talked that he showed himself insensitive. I still ask myself, Why wasn’t that enough? Why couldn’t I be content with his sensual finesse? Why couldn’t I be happy with what we had? Why did I let it make me so very sad? Why did I run to him when I knew all too well that icy cold sadness lay beneath the burning heat of passion? There really is a unique sort of sadness that goes hand in glove with the act so often called “making love,” though love often has little or nothing to do with it. Strange how being filled can leave you so empty, I’d think every time as I wandered through Woollright’s after leaving his bed, frittering the rest of the afternoon away making frivolous purchases before I had to go “home” again.
19
THE DIARY
Double event this time! The first bitch squealed a bit. The pony and cart were almost upon us. The driver reached out his whip and poked the dead whore with it. But he didn’t see me. I had to flee before I was done with her. I knew I was invincible—the name, the powder, the power—I knew they couldn’t stop me, but for a moment . . . How I trembled and my heart raced! I could not keep up with it! It was like a drum in my ears as I fled, beating faster and faster. The scent of blood was in my nostrils, on my hands, on my lips where I had lapped it up along with my medicine. The lust was hot upon me. I was not sated; like a man interrupted in the midst of f-ucking, I had to seek another, for the full satisfaction. I would know no peace until I did! It had been three weeks since my last kill. I could endure no more, stifling, bottling up the rage, holding it back, while my wife-whore f*cked Alfred Brierley behind my back! I had to kill, to purge myself; I could not go home until I was free of it!
But first . . . the first . . . The tall, “fair” Swedish liar.
“You would say anything but your prayers,” I said, and kissed her.
I have her prayer book in my pocket now. It’s in Swedish so I cannot read it, but there’s a crude woodcut of the Devil stained with the whore’s own blood. Long Liz! Tall and lank. I wanted to yank her head back and rip that lying tongue out by its roots!
Nothing but a tired old whore now, but she must have been a blond beauty in her youth, the signs were still there, but you had to squint and look hard to see them. Haunting gray eyes—like tarnished silver left out in the rain. She claimed to have the second sight, but the bitch never saw what was coming or else she would have run from me and not clung to me. I couldn’t wait to cut, Cut, CUT her! Dark yellow hair, like burned butter, hanging down in stringy, greasy hanks, hair fit for a hag, framing a face haggard and gaunt. But what fine cheekbones! A sculptor would have loved them! Good bones tell. I traced them with my fingertip. I couldn’t wait to bare them down to the bone; I wanted to see it shining white as a pearl in the moonlight. Who’s the poetic one now, Michael? She had no upper teeth; she’d lost them, she said, in the Princess Alice steamship disaster. Her husband and nine children had been amongst the seven hundred who died when a collier rammed it. As she clambered up a ladder, always just a step above the rising water that threatened to suck her back down to a watery death, the man above her slipped and his heavy work boot kicked her in the mouth and knocked her teeth out, caved the roof of her mouth in, and cleaved her upper palate clean in two.
She seemed to mourn the loss of her teeth more than her family. It would be a pleasure to send this selfish whore to Hell! I would take my time and savor each moment! I couldn’t wait to start cutting, to plunge my knife in and twist it around, stirring her innards like some foul witch’s brew! I would show the bitch that there are worse things than losing one’s teeth.
Second sight, my arse, you silly bitch! While I smiled and charmed her, inside I was taunting the vain fool: Why ever did you let your family go aboard the Princess Alice? Why didn’t you save them and your precious teeth? Why don’t you now? You still could, you know! And now you’re promenading like a lady in the park with the man who’s about to take your sorry whore’s life—second sight indeed!
I saved her life. She thought that meant she could trust me, that I would protect her. What fools women are! They have no sense of danger; they never see it until it’s right in front of their faces and too late to run! The knife’s already at their throat before they even think to scream and then they’re paralyzed with fright! Women are born to be the victims of men like me.
It was a rain-sodden Saturday, a cold, dark night. I first saw her through a curtain of rain. She was standing in the doorway of the Bricklayers’ Arms pub, taking shelter from the rain, trying to keep warm, huddled and crammed in with several other men and women in the same plight. There was a man with her, dark haired with a droopy mustache.
“That’s Leather Apron you’ve got cozyin’ up nexta you,” one of the men nudged and teased her, jerking his head at her companion, but she just laughed and clung tighter to his arm. She seemed to know him well . . . well enough not to be afraid.
That remark about “Leather Apron” got my attention. I followed them. In Berner Street, they rested against a wall. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She put her palm against his chest, shook her head, and gave him a playful little push.
“Not tonight, some other time perhaps,” she said. A whore who said no; how intriguing!