The Streets of Whitechapel

By Dean Jacobs

Jack the Rippers Autumn of Terror, Whitechapel, 1888. Over half a century later, the tale is told and the truth is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452501956

Dean Jacobs

Dean Jacobs was born in Ipswich, Queensland, Australia in 1978. He studied Computer-based Art and Design at University and Minored in Creative Writing. He wrote and Illustrated 6 Major Children’s Picturebooks between 2006 and 2010 before writing his first Novel, The Streets of Whitechapel’ in 2011.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Final Chapter

missing image file

Introduction

I lay here in a darkened room alone, breathless, as another vision shakes me from my sleep. I rarely enjoy the luxury of uninterrupted sleep these days for fear of the haunting dreams, the debilitating nightmares, laden with sinister flashes and dislocated memories from a time that seems so distant in the past, yet remains vivid in my mind. The despair, the torment, a never-ending battle to suppress the tug-of-war within. It is a constant strugglejust to get out of bed each day and live the life that I have no further desire to continue. The ceiling above acts like a screen at a theatre, flickering with fragmented visions of a time when my entire world was turned upside down.

Stretched out on the matted bed, the sheets twisted and dampened, surrendered completely to the tortuous ordeal they just witnessed, a tear escapes from my eye and slides down my cheek. I sit up with an ageing moan and swing my legs around, my feet meeting a cold floor. Pausing for a moment to gain my bearings then rising from the bed, itself creaking in an ageing moan, I stagger to my feet, shuffling slightly off balance to the sink, hoping splashes of water will free me from my dizzy state.

Shaking slightly, I reach for the little white bottle that resides on the side of the sink, and the contents rattles around inside as the lid is twisted clear. With a slight forwardjolt, the small pills tumble from the plastic bottle and into my trembling hand, rolling andjumping about as I bring them up to my open mouth and slide them down my throat. They are supposed to lessen the pain and suppress the past, but do neither to the degree that I would like.

The mirror is dusty and dirty, but the reflection is clear and I stare back with distaste. I grip the sink and bow my head as tears of sorrow flood my tired eyes. The trembling intensifies and the anger begins to boil inside me as I take a minute or two to catch my breath and restore some control. The breathing exercises given to me seem to help, but always leave me far too light-headed and fearful that another fall may just be my last.

Turning the tap to a squeak, the cool water runs over my fingertips, pools into my cupped hands and I splash it onto my face, removing the tears but failing to wash away the sorrow. A second splash again fails in its objective, so I turn off the tap with another squeak and exhale, defeated. The water congregates on the tip of my nose before plunging into the sink and down the dark drain. I stare into the dark hole in the middle of the sink then close my eyes. There, coming out of the darkness, is a ghost-like figure, moving in silence, watching me. He stands tall and regal, a bag in his hand, he turns and walks into the fog-covered, cobblestone street and disappears.

I jump to a start, now quite used to these frequent visions. They have power over me; I have no choice but to comply. I turn where I stand and stare into the musty apartment, so sombre in its feel and so far from lavish in its appointments, while the city outside is alive, coursing with energy and moving with purpose. Bolts of light pierce the moth-eaten curtains, illuminating the dust that carelessly floats around the room.

The ticking of the old grandfather clock breaks the silence and mirrors the rhythmic beating of my heart, the ticking becoming louder as again I drift into thought with a hand on my chest. The soft pounding slows and now settles back into its task of keeping this old man alive. Alive in a life that is not deserving of its splendour, nor worthy of its grace. A life that is kind to some though taken too soon from others.

Startled from my thoughts with the chime of the hour, I continue to look around the small room before me. Books upon books clutter and invade the little space these four walls allow. Years of research, creating piles of papers with no real place or order. Written dissertations, scribbled notes and thoughts, all carelessly scattered and discarded around the desk and floor. My eyes pause on a framed certificate, a piece of paper that reads: Awarded to Mr James Collins, being for excellence in the field of Criminal Psychology, author of ‘Forensic Psychology and Criminal Behaviour’, and the world leading expert in criminal rehabilitation. I stare at the award, analysing each word until I notice the reflection in the glass staring back at me, which prompts me to shove the frame forcefully into a nearby drawer, shutting away that which is not deserving.

I move toward a lone chair in the corner, forcefully jolt down into it, reach for a whisky glass, fill it and devour its contents. My hand still shaking slightly, I tip the bottle with a clink against the small glass and fill it once more to a sigh of contented sorrow. This is my life. Can it indeed be called a life? Perhaps merely an existence. Even a sentence. After 66 long, besieged years one would think that the sadness of the darkest part of my life would begin to fade. On the contrary though, and with the greatest of misfortune, the sadness experienced in my past knows no end and I fear it will keep hold of my shattered soul for the remainder of my days.

A loveless heart beats slowly in my chest, a pitiful reminder of lamented loss, and when I look back at how life once was I feel a deep chasm in the pit of my stomach filled with immense regret. A vast, empty space where the lowest of creatures dwell and the darkest of visions haunt. Years of remorse have taken their toll on this already battered and broken old man. A man who has the answers to the greatest mystery of our time and after so many tormented years, a man who is now ready to divulge the secrets that have kept a world baffled for over half a century.

I place my empty whisky glass on the side table and raise myself out of the corner chair. I move far more steadily and assured to my desk and fumble about with a feeling of excited purpose for the notepad that is lost under piles of papers. I remove the cap from my pen and though reluctant to revisit the past I feel compelled to tell my story to anyone who cares to know the truth.

Excitement and tenacity fill me to the brim as the thought of telling my story opens a new doorway of optimism. "Why did I wait so long? A new found vigour courses through my veins, down my arm and into my hand as the pen begins to scribble wildly with the words that I’ve longed to say and the secret I’ve longed to set free.

****

It is with the greatest respect for the fallen victims that I write this, in hopes that the dark curtain of obscurity draped over the degenerate slums of the East End of London can once and for all be lifted for all to see. For I have the key to unlock the mystery, to remove the weight of the shackles restraining the truth, to reveal what actually happened in a time, which has since been looked upon as the Autumn of Terror. It is I who know the truth behind the fiend cloaked in shadow, the ultimate evil who stalked the gloomy gas lamp lit streets of Whitechapel and terrorised the unfortunates who crossed his path.

****

Relaxing back on the rest, my eyes divert to an old newspaper clipping pinned to the wall. I lean forward, grasp the page and remove the pin. The paper comes free in my hand; a mere worn and weathered piece of paper that time has been unkind to. Torn and creased, the title says it all-THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN!

missing image file

Chapter One

Let me take you back some 66 years to London, August 1888.

It was a city divided. The wealthy streets of the West End were buzzing with prosperity and it was the area of London long favoured by the rich elite as their place of residence, because it was usually upwind of the smoke drifting from the crowded city. Those who were well-to-do thrived in this, the entertainment hub of London, and looked contently on a life full of promise and purpose. A Saturday night would find The Strand filled with people attending restaurants, bars or perhaps a trip to the Lyceum Theatre to catch the evening show of Mansfield’s Jekyll and Hyde. It was the place to be and the place to be seen. Gentlemen dressed in tailored suits of superlative quality, magnificent top hats and long draping silk cloaks, and the women dressed in the finest evening gowns, frosted with the most exquisite jewellery and trimmings. I remember it was a dream of mine as a 17 year old to one day don a perfectly pressed suit and top hat and make my way down The Strand on one such endeavour. Walking with those important people, immersed in the grandeur of West End life.

Sadly and most unfortunately though, my days were spent in the opposite side of town in the East End of London. Though only a matter of miles in distance, there was a lifetime of difference in every other conceivable way. The murky maze of streets and alleyways that made up Whitechapel housed the scum of the earth. It was an overcrowded and desolate place, where robbery, violence and alcohol dependency were commonplace. Rats filled the streets and fought to survivejust as hard as their human counterparts. The smoke and stinking gas fumes choked the sewage-covered streets and for the unemployed there was nothing to live for and no escape from the terrible lives they had found themselves immersed in. The wretched buildings and dosshouses that lined the cobblestone streets were cramped and squalid, charging 8d a night for a bed. This was usually a price far too high for some, which prompted quite a lot of people to sleep wherever they could seek shelter from the cold and rain. It was a land of abounding wealth, in a time of unprecedented prosperity, that still saw a quarter of the population living in poverty. It was a poverty that I was not born into but found myself immersed in. It wasn’t always this way for me.

I grew up in a little village called Banbridge in Northern Ireland. My father worked in the meat yards on Castlewellan Street and was extremely skilled in his trade, making him rarely without work. He was able to skin an entire cow injust under a minute. He was affectionately known as John Newshoe Collins, for his ability to never get any of the cow’s innards on his shoes, which also highlighted the admiration of his peers who saw him as an exceptionally gifted tradesman. Our home was very modest and my father was an awfully proud man, never accepting that, which wasn’t earned by the sweat of his own brow.

At the age of 15 I was sent to work with him, labouring 13 hour days in the cattle yard. It was long, hard, dirty work but working side by side with my father gave me the best memories of my life. Even though his work was very important to him, and a measure of his integrity and dignity was placed on the dedication he showed in what he did, my father also had a funny side, often cracking jokes, playing pranks and making every moment around him fun to experience. He was my hero and the one I held above all others.

Banbridge was a quiet village, where for the most part everyone knew each other and always found time to say hello. Most of the village was accessible and friendly, though some parts you’d fear to venture into because of the immigrants. Such an area was Church Square and this was the sort of place where violence was common and crime seen frequently. I felt intrigued by this area, but never felt comfortable walking within a block of it.

One rain-soaked autumn morning on our way to the yard, my father and I were running quite late, so we took a shortcut through the area that surrounded Church Square in the centre of Banbridge. Snow covered the ground and surrounding cars and buildings, giving a fresh, clean feel to that cold August morning. The area was quiet but an uneasiness filled the air. This particular area of Church Square was usually frequented by members of the Jewish community as a stopover between Belfast and Dublin, and I was a little apprehensive to pass through, knowing of its terrible reputation. My father, however, insisted we not be late for work, so we proceeded through at a hurried pace. We’d almost reached the middle of the lane that led onto Castlewellan Street when I was grabbed from behind by a very tight grip. As my father spun around to assist me, he was hit to the ground by a second figure. I could sense at this moment that we were in some real trouble and I struggled to try and free my mouth from the hand covering it, to call out for help. My father was pulled to his feet, groggy and bleeding from a small cut above his eye, by a third man who held his arms while the second man searched him for whatever he had in his pockets. Helpless, I stood stricken with fear as a gloved hand tightly covered my mouth. Their faces were covered but their voices were distinctive. Their foreign accents were etched in my mind as they mumbled to themselves through the robbery. Unable to locate anything of value, the frustrated man’s attention was then diverted to my father’s work knives lying on the ground.

‘What’s this then?’ he said in a menacing tone. I saw the man remove a knife from its leather pouch, the gleam from the blade lighting his sinister eyes. His voice was cold and threatening. ‘That’s a big sharp knife you got there, boss.’

The words reverberated in my head. The soft tone in his voice was unique, and the way he articulated his words was something I have never forgotten. The world outside went quiet and all I could hear was the pounding of my heart, beating louder and louder as the time stood still for a few seconds, as if it were preparing itself for what was about to happen. With my mouth covered I could do nothing but watch as the man plunged the blade into my father time and time again.

The world lost its sound and went into a blurred slow motion as I was thrown to the ground. The men ran off as empty handed as they had come as my father crumbled to the ground clutching his stomach. From there