My thoughts overcame my immediate desire to eat. I often pondered about my past, and now was one of these moments. I could still smell the fresh bread in the oven 13 years previously. I was six years old and Ma was kneading some bread dough.
“I love you Jimmy.” She smiled, as she lifted me up to assist her. My vision was blurred as a tear lingered in my eye. I dashed it away irritably. It was time to face up to the harsh reality that for her sins, my mother was murdered the following week.
As I approached Belgravia the profuse amount of pedestrians grew fewer, but was adequately compensated by the impressive looking horse and carriages that trundled down the streets, belonging to the wealthy inhabitants of the dauntingly prestigious buildings that bordered them, completely contrasting the poverty that spread across the more familiar parts of London.
I began to experience the overwhelming awareness of adrenaline pumping through my blood, a feeling I always encountered whilst anticipating my next conquest. As I wandered aimlessly amongst the streets, I spotted a young servant vacating a nearby house tucking an envelope into his pocket. One look at the grandeur of the house told me ridiculously -wealthy gentlemen must reside there. The servant was wearing desirably warm and immaculate clothing, much contrasted from my own pitiful garments. I began to edge along the pavement in pursuit, lurking in the shadows.
The air smelt cold, and as if by reflecting my thoughts, the servant buttoned up his smart, leather waistcoat shivering.
“Such an extravagant waste” I speculated, eyeing the intricate design on the voluminous pockets of the exquisite waistcoat. My mind suddenly re-focused onto the brown, bulging envelope tauntingly poking out of one of the pockets. My prize. My timing had to be implicit, one second too fast or one second too slow and I could get caught out.
Faster than a hare I silently slithered up behind him, plucking the package from his resilient pocket. He whirled around to confront me, his face stricken with anger and contempt. This anger quickly resided and was substituted by an animated look of fear, which almost made me break out in hysterical laughter. I mustered most of my strength and swung my fist accurately into the brim of his nose. He swayed for a moment, his eyes bulging with shock, before he heavily tumbled to the ground, his back colliding with the pavement echoing a loud thump.
I glanced around the deserted street, back to the house he had just deserted. When I was satisfied nobody had witnessed my wicked crime, I stripped him of his exquisite waistcoat and emptied his pockets of the few pence that clung into the material of his leather purse, that was concealed in his fine, black trousers. I continued on my way humming softly to myself. I fingered the soft lining of the waistcoat; still warm from the previous body it rested upon. I then discarded my ragged shirt in the gutter and donned the garment. It fitted perfectly and felt like heaven against my rough skin. I then took the brown package out of my pocket eagerly. I unwrapped it scrupulously to discover a hardback book entitled “Victorian Sensation”, a current bestseller of the time. I thrust it aside, concentrating on the small, thin envelope resting beneath. There was a telegram, obviously written to the bookseller and a crisp, five-pound note. A wide grin spread across my face as I noted my success.
I felt happier than I had felt in a long time, relief surged through my blood as I realised I could finally foot the financial support that my plan required. I had spent months shut away in the small basement quarters I had acquired from a merchant who was letting it for a reasonable price, crafting the master-plan of all plans to ensure the well-being of London and to secure a place in history for years to come. Some may think I’m mad, but they would see in the end that I deserved to be branded a hero, when I finally rid our decadent London of the filth and scum that had accumulated for decades. Phase one of my wicked plan has just taken place... phase two is about to commence.
Chapter 2
It was a cold night in Spitalfields as the two women stood on the corner, discussing the newfangled plot that was emerging all over London. The plot of harrowing murder, committed by a beast; as to whom, people were none the wiser.
“Terrible Marge, absolutely terrible”
“I hope they catch the scoundrel before ee catches any o’ us!” Marge replied, shivering with unease.
“Well a no love, scared to go out I am, scared to step out me bloody front door!” The old woman before her tittered, glancing around as though the ripper was about to jump out from the nearest alleyway and shout “Surprise!”
“Well, I bet we’d know the bastard by sight, if we sor im! To say one poor sod were murdered jus a couple o streets a way! A few streets I tell yer!”
“Ooh, I’m gettin a chill through me bones!” The old woman cried with a look of pure panic lighting up her beady, grey eyes “I’m goin in ta check me girl asn’t been murdered in er bed! See ya Marge love.”
“Yer, Bye Mary, you take care love.” Marge replied, wrapping her shawl round her tighter and making the short walk to the alleyway that bore her modest home.
Two minutes later Marjory’s screams were said to be heard more than two streets away as she discovered a fifth ripper victim lying metres from the entrance to her back-yard.
Commentary
The basis for my story is Jack the Ripper, set in the Victorian Era and in the genre of crime.
I decided to use Jack the Ripper as a prominent figure in my story because I have always been interested in the notorious killer and the fact that to this day, his identity is still unknown. Several detectives have had their own opinions as to whom the murderer was, but there is either not enough evidence to collaborate their theory, or their theory has been proved false. I decided to write from his point-of-view, speculating myself, why and who it was that carried out the infamous murders. To determine that my story had a certain degree of accuracy; I read twenty pages of research about the Whitechapel murders, noting that the murderer must have been well educated and was indefinitely a doctor, as he disembowelled his victims competently.
Another influence for setting my story in the Victorian Era, was “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde”, I enjoyed reading this, and liked the idea of basing my story in the same period, and about a villain (like Mr Hyde).
