The Streets of Whitechapel

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 struggle just to get out of bed each day and live the life that I have no further desire to continue. Looking at the ceiling above acts like a screen at a theatre, flickering with 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, incoherent state.

I shakily reach for the little white bottle that resides on the side of the sink and the contents rattle around inside as the lid is twisted clear. With a slight jolt, the small pills tumble from the container and into my trembling hand, rolling and jumping about as I bring them shakily to my open mouth and slide them down my throat. They are supposed to lessen the pain and sup¬¬¬¬¬press the past, but do neither to the degree I desire.

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 in defeated dejection. 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 then close my eyes, There, coming out of the darkness, is a ghost-like figure, silent, 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 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: 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 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!”