Jack The Ripper: The Becoming

JACK THE RIPPER

THE BECOMING

C. R. M. GWYNN

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by C. R. M. Gwynn

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First edition: 2013

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-909224-74-2

I dedicate this novel in memory of my Grandad

Douglas Walter Gwynn 16.04.1930 - 01.06.2008

I asked him, What’s the point of study and school?

And his reply was, It shows that you can do any task given to you, and do it well. Therefore you can do anything.

And I still believe him.

Chapter One

I’ll tell you a story. I’ll tell you my story.

On a cold winter’s night, 3.11 am to be precise, a child was born, delivered by his father.

The year was 1860. A proud father held his son for the first time. Father’s eyes were filled with joy and contentment. Ten fingers, ten toes and healthy, what parent could want more?

Mother was drained to the point of exhaustion; her blood glazed the floor in a glistening pool around her. Father left her bleeding while he cleaned me up, and wrapped me in a blanket tight; safe and loved. I was my father’s legacy.

He tied the umbilical cord and stopped mother’s bleeding. He cleaned her up and carried her to bed. As he tip-toed down the stairs his eyes never left me, worried if he blinked I may disappear.

I stayed in his arms all night as he rocked me gently by the fire. Not a bad way to spend your first night in the world. I lost track of how many times my father told me that story, but it must be close to a hundred. You would have thought father would be concerned that mother might bleed to death. It turned out there was a reason he wasn’t.

This was not the first time my mother was bleeding with an umbilical cord hanging out of her. It was rumored she was a whore asking for it, others say she was a victim of unfortunate circumstance. Either way she was knocked up out of wedlock, tossed to the street and spat on. The only acquaintance she made was Ma Baker. Ma Baker was nobody's friend yet known well by many for her talents with a knitting needle, among other things.

No one is certain how many Johns my mother had to sleep with to get enough coin to buy Ma Baker’s talents, but the scars of those experiences held in my mother’s eyes until the day she died, and the light left her.

After acquiring Ma Baker’s service, something went wrong as sometimes happens. The blood would not stop drizzling from between my mother’s legs. Ma Baker had her money, so she felt she had done her duty and tossed my mother out for God to decide the rest.

My father was out and about on that evening, socializing at the town tavern, and happened upon my mother on his way home. Having great strength from his living, he lifted her up and onto his cart, heading home with great steed and haste. He carried her inside to the main living room and laid her on the floor. There was no fire in the fireplace that night. He grabbed his tools, and then by candlelight and sheer skill he tied her off and stopped the bleeding.

He cleaned up, and over the next few days while scrubbing the floor and repositioning the mat, father nursed mother back to health, and she became his forever. After their wedding the majority of the rumors ceased. Father’s position made him a man you did not wish to upset.

Mother was a quiet soul; she hardly ever spoke, just cooked and cleaned, and did as she was asked. The perfect woman by some individual’s standards.

My mother stood at only five foot three inches, tiny waist, large voluptuous breasts, crystal blue eyes and dusty golden blonde hair. Her hair flowed in waves whenever it was let down.

My father was a tower of strength, six foot three and built like a brick house, solid. He had short, jet black hair with a bald spot, showing his maturity, wild eyebrows and high cheekbones accompanying a chiseled jaw. He also had deep brown eyes that had been witness to more than most men could endure.

My father was my hero and I modeled myself after him.

As soon as I could walk I was taught to hunt. Summer, autumn, spring, even winter for my birthday, as a treat. The winter was my favorite time in the woods, the trees with their lifeless leathery barbs piercing the whiting ever so softly. Aside from the prey, we were usually the only souls out there.

At first I was too little to kill, so father gave me the job of slitting the throats of our kills. Father would say, You have to bleed the prey to release the spirit and make it better.

For hot blooded creatures you are best to gut them. You sever their stomachs, reach in and pull out as much as you can. Once you have the innards all displayed, you can see the choices better and decide what you want.

What do you want for supper?

Tripe, liver and kidneys. Sweet breads or stew? Everything has a different taste, smell and texture; this made it hard to decide what to have. I wanted it all, but you could only cure the meat to preserve the carcass, and it was never as good as a fresh kill. The innards decayed fast. Father was the greatest, he knew how to do it all; pickle, cure, smoke and dry.

Our bellies were always full.

Our house sat just on the outskirts of town near the woods. Tucked out of the way, but visited by all. My father was the town barber. A red, white and blue pole graced the right side of the entrance to the barber shop room.

This was a prestigious role. He cut the town men’s hair and shaved them with a silver razor blade. Those with fever or illness would come to be bled by leeches. Father would nick the problem area with a blade and place as many leeches as needed to draw out the badness. He also pulled rotten teeth. It never bothered people having back teeth wrenched out. Crunching and cracking, father would twist and yank.

But the front ones being pulled would always make them scream and shrill. Spoonfuls of blood would dribble down their chins, and once composed they would demand a mirror. You would think if they were so vain they would have taken better care of themselves, and picked at their teeth better.

Father became so flawless in his shaving technique that he never as much as nicked a client. Not a single drop of blood was shed, not even on the oldest, most wrinkled of men. Father would take his right hand to stretch their wrinkled faces and shave them in sections. Somewhat uncomfortable for the men, but they proceeded to endure without a peep, as in the end it meant the closest, smoothest shave they had had in many years.

Along with the wrinkled old men, were the challenges of the large men. They would shuffle in with rolling, cascading chins, concealing the remembrance of a neck. Father would instruct them to tilt their heads back as far as could be controlled. Father would then stretch out the fat from the bottom of the neck to shave them. The hairs in some of the fat folds were as long as beard hairs. No other barber had bothered to tackle them. The fat ones were always grateful and tended to pay extra or would request haircuts they did not need.

The blood stains checkered the floor from corner to corner in the barber shop. Blood was also sprayed on the walls. I would watch the different pools of blood dry into different colours and shape, on the barber floor. They would start off deep scarlet red, and then progress through different shades of brown, to finally the deepest oldest stains, etched in the floor, forever black. Each belonged to someone, each held a story; my very own astrological blood chart.

I was father’s helper in the barber shop. I would put out the open sign, open the door for customers, hand dad his razor and tools, pick up the hair and put it in a sack for sale, and hold the stripped jar of leeches while he would bleed clients.

The back parlor in our house was the most interesting. This is where the dead were brought. Father wouldn’t let me in at first. When I could see the dead being carted up towards the house I would say I was going to play in the woods. Then I would hide in an old empty cupboard in the death parlor.

The cupboard was a comfortable size, placed in the corner of the room. There were gaps in the door of the cupboard from the wood shifting over time and with the seasons. But most importantly I could see the table, the centre point of the room. I’ll never forget the first time I hid. Bearing witness to the most amazing turn of events that unfolded before my eyes, glimpsed through a splintered cupboard door.

It was a wrinkly old woman, dead, lifeless, rumored to have slipped away in her sleep. The three family members who brought her to my father handed him an outfit they wished her to be buried in, and informed my father she had already been measured for a box.

They hoped to bury her by the end of the week. The dead were always given priority, and all the townsfolk bent to this. No one would ever complain that they wanted their hair cut or teeth pulled when the dead were in our house.

There was the utmost respect for the dead and my father’s work with them. For you see none of them would have had the stomach to deal with the dead the way my father did.

Once the family had left our property, my father left the room to put up the closed sign in the barber shop. Closed, is all it said; it is all it needed to say. Everyone always knew why and kept well clear.

Upon re-entering the death parlor, my father turned and locked the door, then scurried across the room to make sure the outside door was locked securely. On the opposite side of the room was a bench with items carefully placed. Large jars of silver liquid, candles, lanterns, lighting sticks, sharpening stones and belts, metal trays and a black bag at the end which he grasped in an instant.

He turned to his subject on the table in the centre of the room, took a deep breath, reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out two coins. He proceeded to place them over the dead woman’s eyes; coins for the ferryman, to take her to the afterlife, and ensure that her spirit does not linger within our house.

Only seconds passed and his hand went back into the bag to pull out a knife. Next he cut off her buttons and placed them in his bag. Buttons were expensive and obtaining such wealth was a perk of his profession.

He then proceeded to slit her clothes off, with the knife blade facing the ceiling, so as to avoid damaging the corpse. Once the clothes were gone, lumped in a tethered pile at the foot of the table, he stood over her with a god like presence. From under the table he grabbed a metal bowl, similar to the spitting bowl in the barber room. We used the bowls in the barber shop to try and keep some of the blood off the floor and walls.

He placed the bowl on the floor at the head of the table. Then he reached over grabbing the old woman’s arms and dragged her body up until her head, neck and part of her shoulders were overlapping the head of the table, dangling over the edge.

Without blinking he picked the knife back up, placed it at the base of the old woman’s throat, pressed down and swiftly slit along the jugular, just the way he taught me. Blood did not spray and fizz out like when I would slit our kill’s throats. It just drizzled and dripped from the gaping knife wound.

Beside the table was a chair. My father turned his attention to the chair and placed himself in it. Bent over with head in hand, he sat poised watching the thick blood slowly drain from the dead woman’s body. It was so mesmerizing. I could not take my eyes off the creeping deep redness falling from the woman’s neck.

Drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip, drip, drip,…, drip, drop, drip, drip. The sound was almost hypnotic and soothing to me.

As time passed the bowl filled and the drips became slower yet louder. As the drops hit the pool of blood you could see a ripple, just like water yet thicker. Smaller drips would fly up from the impact then fall and rejoin the pool. Hours must have passed and day had turned to night. My father hadn’t moved an inch in all this time. Patience is a virtue.

All of a sudden he blinked. He pulled himself up from the chair, and lit the chandelier suspended over the body, as well as a hand held lantern he positioned by the old lady’s far hip. Back at the side of the table he picked the knife back up and fastened it firm in his left hand. This time the blade faced the floor.

He placed his right hand under the old woman’s breasts and positioned the tip of the knife by his right hand and sliced from breast to crumpet. Two more slashes were made straight across the top and bottom of the old woman’s abdomen. This made the shape of a capital T mirrored (I).

Father placed the soiled knife back on the table and edged his finger tips into the middle of this first incision. Once lodged inside, this allowed him to peel the old woman’s flesh back. The abdomen flaps dangled on each side. Her innards were on display, perfectly positioned. One by one each organ was pulled from its existing position and cut from the old woman’s body. A small cut was made in each organ, and then placed for a short time in a jar of silvery liquid.

The liquid was an essence of mercury, an embalming preservative. Once soaked in the mercury each organ was replaced back into the old woman’s corpse. Out of the bag came a needle and thread. Loop by loop the double T cuts were stitched together. Step by step father returned to the head of the table where he had begun.

The head was still dangling over the edge. His hand shot back into the bag and one by one he pulled out three large shiny injectors. He swayed over to a second jar of silver liquid and filled each one to the brim. With injector in left hand he placed his right hand into the old woman’s jugular twiddling around until a string like piece of her was fastened between his finger tips. It was a vein. It stretched out of the wound making it easier for father to work the injectors into the deflated vein and exasperated the silver liquid into the old woman’s corpse.

Back and forth, back and forth he went. Nine doses later he cut a small piece of thread of the spindle and tied the vein. A candle was lit off the chandelier and wisped around both sides of the jugular wound. This would cauterize the wound to prevent any of the precious silver liquid from escaping.

Once certain the liquid would not escape, father massaged the pooled liquid to the tips of the corpse, ensuring the liquid spread from top to toe. The head cavities were stuffed with herbs and spices to disguise the smell of death and decay.

Placing his hands on her shoulders he pushed the old woman until her body was back in the centre of the table. Needle and thread was needed again. Loop by loop the jugular was stitched together. Then with needle and thread in hand he moved up and stitched her mouth closed. Lips were different to the abdomen and jugular as they stretched like gum; it seemed if you tugged the loops too hard you may rip them off.

A deep sigh was let out by father, the first noise I had heard him make for hours. He plucked the coins off the old woman’s eyes and placed them back in the bag. Needle and thread in hand he put three stitches in each eyelid to keep them shut for all eternity.

All soiled tools and instruments were carefully placed onto one of the silver trays. He picked up the shredded clothes from the floor at the base of the sturdy wood table and proceeded to the door which opened into our living room. Living room and death parlor side by side, opening into each other, uncanny really.

My mother jumped out of the rocking chair to meet my father’s stance. Placing the shredded clothes into my mother’s arms he turned his attention to the fireplace, where water was boiling, and belching steam. An iron hook by the fire was used to extract the cauldron from the flames. As father carried the water into the death parlor, mother sifted through the shredded pile to see if there was anything worth salvaging. Waste not, want not. The rest she turned to ashes.

Father placed the cauldron on the chair and with a wooden ladle from the bench he scooped and poured the boiling water over the soiled instruments. He then opened the outside door and picked up the metal bowl of blood.

With the time that had passed a skin had formed over the top of the blood, but you could still see the liquid redness swish underneath the skin. He walked it into the darkness of the night and disappeared from my sight. Frozen in amazement I crouched in the cupboard motionless. I heard a faint splash. Father had dumped the blood into the garden.

Then creek, creek, creek, splash, creek, creek, creek, splash, creek, creek, creek, splash, creek, creek, creek, splash. The water pump used to rinse the bowl.

Emerging from the darkness my father entered the parlor with bowl in front, it was filled with water. Out with blood, in with water. As he poured the cold water into the cauldron, the steam swirled with the cold water infusing with the boiled. He placed the empty metal bowl by the old woman’s head. The wooden ladle reappeared in my father’s left hand. He dipped it into the water and dowsed the old woman’s body. Water glistened over her from top to toe.

Dip, pour, dip, pour, dip, pour, dip, pour, dip, pour, dip, and pour.

As the water trickled over the old woman’s body it collected blood and filth. As the deep redness was collected and diluted, it transformed to swirls of yellow and slowly faded with ever pour. Hanging on hooks at the end of the bench were gray mutton rags. Clenched in father’s hand he proceeded to wipe the old woman’s body down, ensuring none of his work was undone.

Each time the rag was filled, it was then strangled by the strength of his hands, and the rag was rung into the bowl. Each arm and leg was lifted and wiped clean. Standing on the opposite side of the table he whisked his arm across the old lady, hoisting her up to a sitting position. Scrub, scrub, scrub. The marks on the old woman’s back would not come off. Upon closer inspection father could see they were not filth, but bruises. Slipped away in her sleep; what an absolute pile of shit! Beaten to death was more like it.

However, this was not uncommon by any means. Rumor has it she was a penny-pincher, tight as a crab’s arse with the purse strings. Her beloved family members, who delivered her body to us, were broke as dirt. Time and time again they would be found on the old woman’s doorstep, with a new story of unfortunate happenings, and a hand extended out. Being family the old woman would weaken, and toss them coins with each new tale.

But their unexpected visits became more and more frequent.

About six months prior to her demise, the old woman had finally had enough and put her foot down. No more hand-outs. Get a job and keep it. The three family members in question were not happy with this new status quo, and on a rainy evening in the local tavern, the three family members met and the old woman’s fate was sealed.

My father’s face sharpened as he frowned at the realization of how the bruises were more than likely made. As the fluid settled in the old woman’s corpse the bruises became more and more prominent. Shoe shapes. Kicked to death. It was never worth informing the authorities. The family would just skip out with the old woman’s fortune. Men in my father’s position had their own ways of dealing with such individuals.

Father laid the old woman’s body back onto the table, ever so gently. He grabbed a sheet off the bench, snapped it into the air, and let it fall over the old woman’s body. Face still in frown position, he sprinted out of the death parlor slamming the door behind him. The door slamming scared me, and made me jump out of my skin. There was my opening. He hadn’t latched the outside door. I emerged from the cupboard in the corner of the room, shot out the death parlor outside door, and around the house to the front door.

With my heart beating in my ears I entered the living room. My face was flushed and the fire was roaring. In one breath I told my mother I ran so deep into the woods, I got tired and feel asleep against a tree. When I woke it was night and it took me all this time to make it home. You could see from the look on her face, my existence had been forgotten. Having a client in the death parlor to attend to had consumed her attention. This suited me perfectly. Mother being a mother covered nicely saying,

I was so worried.

My mother was a woman of few words, but one thing she used to say was,

You have to do what is right for you.

And I intended to.

I took a deep breath and asked,

Is there any supper left and where is father?

He was in his study writing letters, and not to be disturbed. With the excitement of my day I ate supper then went straight to bed.

Before I knew it, it was morning. Out of bed, dressed and into the living room. My father had been waiting for me to rise. He handed me two letters sealed with the family crest, and instructed me,

Deliver them to the grave digger and the carpenter.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I stayed and watched each open and react. Each of their faces grimaced in fury.

By the time I got back to the house dad had powdered and dressed the old lady. Painted her face and posed her ready for pick up. While I was on my mission, my mother was sent on her own. She went to tell the three family members their beloved family member was ready for pick up.

By early afternoon the three family members appeared outside the door of the death parlor. They had already picked up the box from the carpenter. Cheap and plain. I had seen dogs buried in nicer boxes. The going rate for processing the dead was a shilling; I had heard this price pass my father’s lips a hundred times.

But for this occasion he charged three shillings. Surprisingly the carpenter and the grave digger also charged three times as much. The grave digger thought he had a right mind to bury the three of them alive. He was also a man best not to upset. Each had the same reason for the price being so high.

This body is delicate and therefore needs special attention, hence three times the price. You have a problem with that, take it up with the authorities, I’d be happy to explain the circumstances to them!

The three family members paid. It was either pay or have the town and authorities after you; dead justice.

Time passed and now it was spring. Father’s embalming supplies were running low; it had been a harsh winter on many. I witnessed three unfortunates being prepared for final rest. I was safely tucked away in the death parlor cupboard. I was still unsure why the cupboard was empty. Did it have no purpose in the parlor and if not, why did father not move it to another part of the house where it could be used?

To obtain more supplies we needed to travel to a neighboring larger town. This is where my uncle, my father’s brother, lived and worked as a hatter.

Before leaving on our journey father sat me down at the table.

This will be the first time meeting your uncle. He is different to some men you see. He works very hard on his own, and I think the loneliness affects him. Do not be rude or say anything to upset your uncle, just stay by me and let him be in his own way. It is because of him we are able to care for the dead and live so well.

The cart was packed with dried food, canisters of water, empty glass jars and a bundle for me and father. It took a whole day to get to the town. At first light we set out on our journey. The narrow dirt roads were still drying from the long wet winter; this caused the wheels to instantly cake with thick gluggy coats of mud.

The road was long, twisted and bumpy, and it shook my bones to the core, but father seemed immune. Several hours passed, and we came upon a small town. We stopped. The cart thumping along the road had shaken me so much, that as I jumped off the cart I lost my footing and landed on my hands. I felt weak and shaky, a feeling I did not like one little bit.

An eatery was operating in the small town serving stew and bread. Father was paced with his consumption; I scoffed hoping the stew would steady me again. We were only halfway through our journey so time was of the essence.

As soon as father had finished his stew we were back on the cart.

The cart had been basking in sunlight as we ate; this caused the mud upon the wheels to crust and crack. As the wheels turned chunks of mud broke away and hit the road. The cart seemed to move a little smoother now. I sat clenching my fist trying to keep myself steady.

The sun had moved from one end of the sky to the other, and I was tired of stillness, struggling to keep alert to the surroundings. My youth kept a lot of my advancements at bay. I did not see the end stretch of the journey. Unbeknown to me, I had fallen into slumber. Father had pulled my skull onto