Saucy Jack

Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, 1st victim of
"Jack the Ripper".

I will soon get my doss house money. See what a jolly bonnet I've got now?

---Polly Nichols

He had killed the first one in Buck's Row, in Hanbury St. It had been a tasty job.

It had been outside of the Frying Pan where he had first spotted her. He had made no move immediately, but simply had followed at a close distance, making sure to always blend back into the darkness, into the wall. It was not as if he was actually worried that she would catch on to his pursuit. She was too drunk to ever notice much of anything around her.

It had taken a steadily mounting fire within to convince him that he was the Angel of Death. In Hebrew legend, he knew that his name was Azrael. Now, he had so many warring voices in his head, it simply made no difference. Here, he was simply Bloody Knife.

He never knew their names until the Police News made careful report of it later. He did not even understand them as proper persons...only as walking boils to be lanced. They were verminous, all of the East End was verminous and goddamnit he meant to drive the rats out of Hamlin.

So many squalid little tenements, public houses, dance halls, and tiny shops presided over by beady eyed little Jews...it brought him such a feeling of vast, engulfing fury he felt as if he could spit fire at all of them, wiping them clean in one blast of judgment; making Sodom burn with the embers of holy indignation.

Polly, he thought as he sat in his upstairs lodging, staring off into space. The first one had been named Polly. Well, she had been a gross, lewd creature...haggard and repulsive, and to think that some low men were willing to actually pay her money for sex. It was enough to make him feel queasy.

He had approached her as a gentleman, wearing the convenient disguise he had managed to piece together for himself. Normally he was quite pale, the hallmark of any man who worked long hours hidden away in an office. However, he had obtained a sort of make-up from a mortician in his acquaintance-- and when he spread it around his face and hands he looked, by the description in the papers, like a “foreign gentleman”.

He had to laugh at that one. Gave him real fits.

No Englishman would do such a thing surely.

It was August 31st. It had been a Friday, early morning hours. Nevertheless, what did time really matter?

He had approached Polly when she was barely able to stand.

"How much would it be for a gentleman to take his pleasure?"

She was intoxicated, and exhausted. He had not known it at the time, but she had just been turned out of a common lodging house at 18 Thrawl Street, Spitalfields for not having the 4d for a bed. It had been a long day of drinking and walking for Polly, but now the day was over, and the night was His.

"Oy, I barely got energy anymore to even stand, let alone sell me tired cunny to you. But I gotta 'ave me a bed tonight, luv. Come on, over 'ere, we can make a gentlemanly agreement. Wots your name, luv? My, you are a dark man. You aren't a bleeding Joo, are you?"

'No. I am not a Jew. I am dark, because I am full of secrets."

She clucked her tongue and turned ahead of him, staggering abit in the darkness. He realized fully, for the first time, that the streets had grown dead. He could only hear the clomp of hooves on brick several streets away.

"My, bless me, you are a strange one! Well, I know a place just round the corner abit. We won't have any problem there. What's your name, dearie?"
"I-I don't have one. You can call me Saucy Johnnie"
"Well, Johnnie, you can call me Pretty Polly."
She led him through the glorious darkness toward an opening that led to stables, situated between a row of houses and a school. There was only the single gas lamp to give any illumination to his work. She turned and braced herself against the wall.
"Go on, luv...let's be quick about it. I ain't got all night..."
But then, she never lived to see the day.

Oh, the first one was such a beauty! Such a real treat! I gave her no time to squeal, and her tired old cunny could never have given me the pleasure that her death agonies did. I could feel myself slide down my leg, hot, and hit the ground...but how careful I was, hardly a drop on me. I slit her throat from ear to ear then laid her down and slit the abdomen, and stabbed the filthy cunt that she tried to sell to me...

No one had noticed a man walking bloody through the streets in the early morning hours. But then, it wasn't as if he had to escape on foot.

The night enclosed around him. He was being of pure righteousness...Alpha and Omega, the first and the last, creator and destroyer, and this was the Kali-Yuga: the age of destruction, the aeon of all-consuming darkness.

He had studied secrets of the Orient, had been initiated into a Secret Brotherhood, but that had only been the beginning. His Lodge had been the tip of a vast iceberg, whose limits he could only dare guess. They had shown him a way to power and the inner workings of consciousness, and now he saw; now he fully understood.

There were adepts that had pierced through the veil between one world, and another. They were the Illuminated Ones, who truly understood the will of Jah-Bul-On, and required each initiate to take a solemn oath binding them to this Great Work. He had taken the oath, and been shown the secrets to traveling through the gates---

Moreover, there had been no returning. I was aware from that moment on that I need not be bound and constrained by the same laws of physics that dictate the world of ordinary men. There are no limits now. The Judgment Day draweth nigh. I am simply a voice crying in the wilderness, preparing the way for He Who Cannot Be Named.

The next one had been "Dark Annie", nine days later. That was how she introduced herself, and she had been feistier than the last one. They had haggled for a bit, over prices, and he had even been spotted that time. Nevertheless, what did it matter now, there was no catching him.

It had been in a yard behind a lodging house in Hanbury Street. This one was, physically, even more repellent than the last. She was vermin. He wanted to exterminate her, praise God.

The door had been unlocked; the creaky old shambles was being let to a small army of people. He followed her quickly through a short passage to the yard, and then she had customarily lifted her skirts for him.

This one was even more a sensation of bloodletting than the last. He had cut the throat from right to left, a great jagged smile to pierce the flabby white neck. Then he had torn flesh from the abdomen, disemboweling his dear Dark Annie and leaving strings of intestines thrown over the right shoulder. He had left even more fatty flesh over the left shoulder. He had then begun to remove the women parts, the sinful parts, taking her uterus and part of her vagina and bladder. In the words of Dr. Bagster Phillips, which he had read in The Lancet, "Obviously the work was that of an expert-or one, at least, who had such knowledge of anatomical or pathological examinations as to be enabled to secure the pelvic organs with one sweep of the knife." Well, that really was the icing on the cake!

He had finally finished his work by rearranging her rings and pocket money between her legs. As a final flourish, he left two new farthings there.

"For Charon," he had whispered. Then he left his first clew: a leather apron. It was all such a funny little game. It gave him real fits.

They thought that it must have been a Jew.
A Jew.
A Jew.
"Achoo!" he said to himself, laughing, ready to take up pen and paper again at any moment. All he heard about anymore on the streets was that he was a seedy Jew butcher, because everyone knows that an Englishman could never perpetrate such a crime.

He was unstoppable.

He had done that one just before dawn. It was always good to see the sun come up, to begin a new day. To have new adventures, and to spill fresh blood.

Mother

I went to school like other children until I was about 11 or 12 years of age, then the greatest misfortune of my life occurred---namely, the death of my mother. Peace to her. She was a good mother to me.
---Joseph Carey Merrick,
The Autobiography of...

"Yes, Doctor, I believe that it must have been the Workhouse Infirmary. They had a very good doctor there, a Mr. Marriott. He cut away the flesh from my mouth so that I could speak and eat more suitably."

Treves had been busily examining Merrick, taking measurements. He was astonished at how much the head seemed to be growing.

"Yes, well", he said, pulling the tape around Merricks forearm. "He did you a great favor, Joseph. If the oral growth had been allowed to precede without surgery, I very much fear for what the consequences might have been...your condition, I'm sure you’re aware, is not improving."

Merrick was helped by Nurse Ireland back into his shirt and waistcoat. He disliked measurements almost as much as he disliked mirrors, but Freddy insisted that it had to be done. Oh well, he had a new novel to fuss with later, to help clear his mind.

"I see your model cathedral is coming along nicely, Mr. Merrick. It's Saint Phillips, isn't it?" Nurse Ireland busily scratched out the measurements Treves dictated to her on a small pad of paper.

"Oh yes. I rather think it is going to be quite a piece once I finish it. It is a real pleasure for me to be able to craft something so...beautiful. Even if it is only a silly toy."

Treves gave him a bemused look. "Do you really think Saint Phillips is so beautiful, Joseph? I suppose I myself had never given it much thought."

Merrick turned to Nurse Ireland, and said, "Do you see how he is Nurse? He is all work and practicality. Freddy, you must, I fear take some time to enjoy the beauty of things"

"Practicality is my bread and meat. It's how I intend to make my fortune." Treves smiled. "You may go now Nurse Ireland.

"Yes sir. I will be back around to check on you at the end of the shift, Mr. Merrick. I hope you have a pleasant day."
"I hope you have one as well, Nurse Ireland. It is always a pleasure to be cared for by someone that is so committed to her work."
"Oh, Mr. Merrick, you're quite a charmer. You might win a lady’s heart someday."

Treves had grimaced at that last comment, but realized it was only a half-jest and said nothing. He would have to remind his nurses again about the sensitivity of his patient to certain subjects. The Nurse hurried out the door.

Treves sat at Joseph's work desk, next to his model.

"Well, any new and interesting thoughts? I have a little time to dispose of before I go up to the general wards."

Joseph ambled over to the mantle, and examined some of the ladies photographs he had collected.

"Win the heart of some lady..." he mumbled to himself wistfully.

He turned to Freddy.

"Doctor, do you not think that my mother was one of the most beautiful women? I mean to say, simply look at her picture: the nose is perfect, the cheekbones so slender and angular, the hair is a very shiny, raven-black. Oh, she was simply a jewel to behold."

Treves hated Merrick's mother. He was under the assumption that the foul bitch had cast her seriously ailing son onto the back of a hairdresser Uncle who, eventually, didn't want the burden either. Merrick had simply taken some fantasy concept from one of his novels, and had incorporated it into the vision of charity and selflessness that he wanted to desperately believe his mother had been.

"Yes, well, physical beauty is no great indication of a beautiful character, as you yourself know well, Joseph. I would very much like to have met your mother, though. She seems to have made quite an impression upon you."

Merrick carefully replaced his tiny portrait, and then said, "And how could it have been otherwise? All that I am today is a result of the kindness, the humanity, which she tried so hard to instill in me. Did you know that she herself was lame? Poor thing. But then, it seems to be the curse of my line. Tell me about your mother, Freddy. What is she like?"

Treves had not expected a question thus, but replied "She is a stern woman. And a distant one, too. I suppose I have never really enjoyed her company, as such."

Merrick sat down heavily upon his special chair, and considered.

"It does not surprise me. If you will forgive me for saying so doctor, you do not seem like you would. There is not a lot about you that suggests you are much attached to your parents. Were they not kind to you?"

Treves never liked being examined too minutely by Merrick, but remained affable.

"They were very supportive, and instilled in me the courage and the aspiration to succeed. Mine was a very normal home. I grew up with some privilege. I knew I wanted to be a doctor, and ordered my life and my education accordingly. It is not much of a childhood story, Joseph. Privilege and good fortune, along with much effort and dedication, have allowed me to be somewhat successful in my chosen avocation."

Merrick considered.

"I wonder, what it would be like, if we could but change shoes for one day? Do you understand? How would I go about the day, looking after people--it might be a very wonderful adventure."

Treves stated flatly, "No one in his right mind would change places with you. I hope you don't mind me saying that, but I don't know how you manage to exist day to day with the mental stability that you do."

"It has not been easy, Freddy. But, I have had to keep, within myself, the knowledge that things seem to constantly re-order themselves in the proper fashion. In one small way, I do consider myself to be a lucky man."

"Really? How so?"

"I had the most wonderful mother a man could ever ask for."

Treves considered for a moment---he's really built this into a spectacular fantasy. It's the one point upon which he is a little unreasonable. Surely, after all the trouble the woman caused him, he must bear some type of ill-will or anger toward her?

"Joseph," he began carefully, "I was under the assumption that your mother had, well, cast you off when you got to be a burden to the family."

Merrick turned slowly and looked at the doctor.

"Stepmother, Freddy. That was Mrs. Antill. When Mother died, Father went to lodgings, and he married the landlady. She didn't like me. Nor, did her two sons. That was when I went to live with Uncle Charlie."

"Oh. Yes. Well, now it is clear. And from there it was Leicester Union, correct?"

"Correct."

"And, you were there four years, before you met Sam Torr, and--what was the gentleman's name?"

"Tommy. Old Tommy Norman. He once told me that Barnum himself had given him the name 'Silver King', because Tommy always wore a bunch of coins on his watchband. He was a good sort."

Treves couldn't have disagreed more, but said, "Yes. I...suppose he was. Still, don't you feel that gentlemen like Mr. Torr and Mr. Norman, well, perhaps were more concerned with their own business dealings than with your personal welfare? I mean to say, your run as a freak shop attraction didn't end very well."

Merrick sat down, and wished for a cup of tea.

"Actually, it ended very well, from where I'm sitting. You must admit, Freddy, if it hadn't been for all of that, I wouldn't be here with you having this little chat. I would not, probably, have lived for you to sit there and wonder how it is I can always be so forgiving to everyone. Do you know what the workhouse is like, Doctor? They kill you there, slowly, so they don't have to deal with you. But first, they make sure you're being productive to society. A few years on the fairground was a small price to pay for finally coming to The London. I am a product of His grace."

Well, Treves had to admit, his friend had an odd way of reasoning. Everything happened according to God’s will. So why ever have a disparaging word to say about anyone?

"I do not believe in letting our troubles overwhelm us, my friend. But still, I wonder if, inside your spirit, you do not feel a grievous and righteous anger against those that have so ill-used you in life. Perhaps, your faculty of judgment is wanting. Joseph, to be blunt, gentleman like Torr and Tom Norman are no better than back-alley pimps. They peddled your flesh for profit, and when they found out that you were no longer of any use to them, they cast you off onto the shoulders of another manager, who couldn't handle the burden either. You are immensely lucky that we here at The London are more than prepared to care for you."

Merrick considered, reaching absently for his walking stick, and beating a rhythm on the floor with the end.

"Yes, you may be right. But I so liked the Silver King."

Talking With Freddy

Joseph Carey Merrick: 1864-1890.

"I don't think you are using your time wisely, Joseph. Perhaps if you took up a more sensible daily routine, you would feel more mentally sound."

Freddy strode across the small rooms, looking at the model that had come to occupy most of Joseph's time. Joseph simply continued to stare out the window, looking into the relative emptiness.

These rooms had been afforded him, chiefly, because they were so remote: overlooking the back area of the hospital, a place where the iron bedsteads were painted, it was unlikely hysterical persons would get a glimpse of the steadily growing head or the heavily distorted features that formed such a cage for him. Here was his fantasy world: he was in command of two bare, basement rooms, wherein, he was not only a typical, common man, but even a gentleman. Here were the pictures sent to him by various women. Here were his model houses, his books, and the various toys generous, well-meaning (and, to be completely truthful, wealthy) individuals had sent him. He had a good, soft bed, heaped high with comfortable pillows, and time aplenty to enjoy the relative luxury of his new position. And he had Freddy, (whom he was always careful to address as Dr. Treves) and that was enough for him.

Besides, with only a Bible and Prayer Book, he had made it twenty four excruciating years. Now, he had finally come to a kind of blissful comfort.

Yet still, it was as if there was some thorn stuck into his flesh. Despite his good fortune, his full belly, his relative cleanliness, and above all, his safety, there were days when the hints of gray in a rainy dawn could wash from him all of his Christian fortitude. He would sit, on such occasions, humming some half-forgotten hymn deep inside his gross chest. He would thump his heavy, misshapen arm against his mattress, and lose his mind.

"I don't know Dr. Treves. Perhaps I should begin to study my Bible lessons again. I don't think that I remember their essential moral truths in quite the way that I should. Tell me: have you ever read the book of Job?"
Treves looked somewhat disdainful.

"Yes Joseph, in fact, I have read the entire Bible. And, you must have guessed by now, I'm sure, exactly how I feel about it. God is a human construction, my good man, not a verifiable fact: he was created in human minds, so that they might have some way to account for those mysteries that were essentially unfathomable to primitive man. Read Greek, Roman, Egyptian mythology: tales replete with episodes of supernatural intervention. Yet, Joseph, they are still only tales."
Joseph blubbered for a minute, a perplexed sound that he seemed, during times of intense consternation, unable to prevent from issuing.

"Dr. Treves, I am not one of your students," he said slowly. "And this is no lecture. I simply wanted to understand how you felt about the suffering that afflicted Job...do you feel that some men are just born to suffer?"
"I feel that if you continue in this fashion, Joseph Merrick, you will continue to be afflicted by the same intense melancholy that troubles you now. Self-pity is a luxury you cannot afford, sir."

Merrick considered a moment, and then looked back out the dusty pain of glass, at the thin strip of gray that revealed itself as the coming of a rain-choked dawn.

"Dr. Treves, do you remember what we talked about a few days ago? About the book you didn't want me to read."


Sir Frederick Treves, 1853-1923.

Frederick Treves strode about Joseph’s little hospital room, occasionally picking up a stray object or picture, and examining it absentmindedly.

"Oh. Oh, yes. Frankenstein, by the wife of the poet Shelley. A scandalous piece, my boy. Why sully your mind with such rubbish?"

"You didn't take it away from me though. I suppose you could have, Dr. Treves."

"I certainly shall, Joseph, if this is the effect it has on your mental state. But tell me: didn't you give me your solemn oath, that you would discard that particular loathsome piece of nonsense? As a gentleman?"

"Yes…well, of course I will abide by whatever your superior judgment dictates, Dr. Treves. I am simply so happy to be here, with all the kindness that has been shown me." Merrick fell back into his well-seasoned cringing.

"Still," began Treves slowly, "I suppose the novel itself is quite entertaining after its own ghastly fashion: murderous ghouls, mad doctors playing God, and such outlandishness. It should certainly be a far cry from the usual romances you peer into, old boy."

"To be perfectly honest, Doctor, I found the beginning to be rather tiresome...a letter from some explorer to women named Mrs. Saville. But after reading a bit more, I began to realize that I couldn't stop myself. It was as if the story took hold of my mind--"

"Exactly the danger of such sordid stories. Joseph, if we are ever to evolve as individuals, it will be because we have kept our minds on the most intellectually edifying stimulus, and kept it well away from such nonsense as Frankenstein. I can tell you, as a medical man, that the very idea of creating a monstrous individual from scraps of decaying human bodies is not only impossible---it is damned absurd."

"And the Creature...what must it have been like to be him?" Merrick wondered aloud, although Frederick Treves could tell that he was simply asking himself a rhetorical question. Of course, Joseph knew exactly what it would be like to be Frankenstein's creation. That more than anything else, had disturbed Treves upon his learning that Joseph was reading the novel.

Who sent him the bloody thing? We are simply going to have to keep a closer inspection of the kinds of packages and gifts he receives. This was some bloody scoundrel's idea of a bad joke.

"Well, Joseph, I must be off. I have other patients to attend to. However, I do so much enjoy the little discussions we have. I am glad we here at London Hospital have been able to be of service to you."

Joseph revolved a bit on his bed, and hobbled to his feet. He was still in his dressing gown, and knew that he would shortly need his daily bath. Nurse Hildy would be in to fill the tub, and help him scrub his great, gross bulk free of the malignant stench that seemed to cling to him. He immensely liked this ritual, for reasons that he probably could never even admit to himself. And, also, it meant that he would have more company; anything to stave off the nagging, continual loneliness that had plagued him all his days.

"Yes, well, thank you very much Dr. Treves. You are, as always, a complete blessing to those that have been afflicted in their flesh."

"Don't put it that way, Joseph. I am simply a medical man...I have taken an oath, an oath to aid the sick. I am only sorry, you know, in your particular case..."

"That you cannot cure me?"

Frederick Treves felt his jaws clamp tightly for a moment, then simply let Joseph's question go unanswered.

"Good day, Mr. Merrick. I'll be back around within the next few days to see how you're feeling. If you need me, for any reason, do not hesitate to leave a message with the Nursing Staff. Until then, as your doctor, I would advise you to leave such rubbish as Frankenstein alone. It is a very poor novel, and the product of a morally--and even artistically--dubious school of literary endeavor. It is such dross that is steadily weakening the moral fiber of society...oh, you can see it in the streets on a daily basis. Believe me; you can certainly se it in the Receiving Room."

"I shall certainly heed whatever advice you give me Dr. Treves."
"Well, Joseph, you don't want to tax yourself mentally...you've had a tremendous strain. Well, must be off. Good day, sir."
"Good day, Dr. Treves."
"And, one thing Joseph..."
"Yes?"
"Please, you don't always have to refer to me as Dr. Treves. We are friends, you and I. Just call me Frederick. Er, call me Freddy...all of the fellows at the club call me Freddy."

Frederick Treves hurried himself through the door, and Joseph Merrick felt the small bite of loneliness steal over him again. He went to his wardrobe, and pulled open the door with his delicate, perfect hand.

He had hidden it under a small bundle of bedclothes that needed laundering. It somehow deserved to be there, under the stench from his sweaty sheets. The forbidden book. The one Treves hadn't wanted him to have. Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley. Joseph slightly trembled as he held it; it felt as if it was imbued with a strange, menacing power that was both exciting and distressing at the same time. He had never encountered anything quite like it.

He sat down, and opened to the page he had marked, having to go back abit in the story.

"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced; until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I was..."

Merrick read slowly, relishing the words. Seeing the prostrate woman, Justine Moritz, bent low on her anguished knees, set his mind ablaze. She hadn't, really, been responsible for the death of little William, it had been the hideous thing that Frankenstein had crafted from his two hands, using the bodies of dead men. Merrick shuddered.

Where was Nurse Hildy? It seemed that the morning was slipping quickly by; the clock on the mantle already read half past nine. He usually had his bath much earlier. He continued onward, losing himself in the cramped print, not even realizing how physically tired he still was. Soon, he was asleep again.

Now he was standing in a dim cathedral. Stained glass windows revealed the Twelve Stations of the Cross. Merrick could see the Lord and Savior being broken by the scourge of an ancient Roman, who did not know that every bloodcurdling lash brought the human race one step closer to salvation. This place, he knew, was a paradise of suffering; a heaven of which he had never before been told; an Elysium for the distorted where all creatures of monumental bodily ugliness could find eternal peace.

Before him, the graphic image of a beautiful human form unfurled as a sacred scroll. The artist, he knew, was Leonardo Da Vinci. It seemed to slowly dissolve into smoke, and a vast panorama of flesh swept past his vision: deformed arms and legs, broken joints, limp fingers, cadaverous and hollow cheeks, kicking legs, burst organs of purplish hue, mad faces contorted in agony; oceans of flesh, rivers of crippled carcasses.

And, in the center of it all, one face gaped like a drowning victim in the tides of a torrential ocean. He could not see this face, but it seemed to be screaming for help.