Ripped (35 page)

'About
Jack
the
Ripper,'
Irene
cried,
her
eyes
sparkling.
'With
fog
and
hansom
cabs
and
beautiful
young
actresses
arranged
under
the
street
lights,
just
pretending
.
In
real
life,
Polly
Nicholls had
been
thrown
out
of
her
doss-house
because
she
didn't
have
four pence
for
a
bed.
She
hadn't
eaten
all
day
before
she
was
killed
.
'

'This
week
Billy
Shanks
didn't
make
me
laugh,'
Malcolm
said
sourly,
with
a
side
glance
at
Murray
as
if
in
some
obscure
way
the
fault
was
his.

'Billy
Shanks,'
his
wife
ignored
the
interruption,
'describes
how
he
walked
down
this
lane
and
saw
the
body
of
the
man
spread
out
on
the
ground
and
the
doctor
examining
it.
He
makes
you
see
it
all.
It's
what
reality
is
like,
he
says.'

'Billy
saw
all
of
that
.
..'
Murray
shook
his
head.
'I
wish
now
I'd
read
it.'

'Prostitutes
and
murder!
There
must
be
something
better
to
talk
about
than
filth
like
that.'
Malcolm
made
a
movement
of
disgust
.
The
yellow
under
his
tan
made
him
look
ill.

As
he
turned
his
head,
his
mother
stopped
him
with
the
back
of
her
hand
against
his
chin.
'Your
poor
face!'

On
his
cheek
the
last
visible
bruise
of
the
beating
he
had
taken
after
Heathers'
party
was
fading.

'I
fell.'
He
put
up
his
hand
as
if
to
shade
his
eyes.
'When?
You
didn't
say
anything
to
me
about
falling.'

As
she
reached
for
his
hand,
he
pushed
hers
away.
It
rose
up trembling
as
if
in
protest,
before
falling
to
her
side.

'Yes,'
and
she
went
round
into
the
kitchen,
but
was
quickly
back
saying
as
she
came,
'anyway,
isn't
it
silly?
If
it
was
a
man
killed
like
you
said,
and
didn't
Jack
the
Ripper
kill
women?
And
in
London
at
that.
Wasn't
it
a
man
killed?'

Irene
laughed.
Her
eyes
shone
with
the
joke
of
it.
'That's
a
change
for
the
better,
Mum
Wilson.'

'No,'
Mother
said,
'there's
nothing
better
about
a
man
being killed
.
Whatever
sort
of
man
he
was.' That
was
impressive,
but
as
Murray
looked
at
her
with
her
hand
resting
on
Malcolm's
shoulder
he
was
afraid
for
her.
For
her
second
son
she
had
such
ferocity
of
concern,
like
a
young
woman
bending
above
a
cradle.
It
defied
her
age;
it
made
her
vulnerable.
He
could
not
imagine
how
she
would
survive
if
anything
happened
to
Malcolm.

BOOK
TWO

9
A Letter from Jill

MONDAY,
SEPTEMBER
3
RD
1988

Murray
got
a
tomato
juice
at
the
bar
and
made
his
way
over
to
the
table
in
the
left
alcove
at
the
back.
Billy
Shanks
had
two
rules:
he
never
stood
a
drink
or
let
one
be
bought
for
him
and
never
made
introductions.
One
of
the
two
men
already
there
was
tall
and
heavy
with
a
full
prophetic
beard
flecked
with
white;
the
other,
an
ageing
youth
of
forty
or
so,
had
a
narrow
sweating
face
that
looked
as
if
it
had
been
moulded
out
of
used
blotting
paper.

'Why
are
you
asking
for
an
opinion,
if
you're
so
sure
it's
from
a crank?'
the
Prophet
was
asking.

'\Wh
y?'
Billy
Shanks'
arms
flew
up,
endangering
the
table load
of
glasses.
'Because
I
want
everyone
to
tell
me
I'm
right,
of
course.
There's
always
crank
mail
on
a
Monday.
People
have
too
much
time
on
their
hands
at
the
weekend.
They
brood.'

'
“Modern days Jill rips Jack,” I like that,' the Prophet said, looking at the sheet of paper he held. 'Only it should have been in red ink. Jack's were.'

'It
was,'
Shanks
said.
'The
colour
doesn't
show
on
a
Photostat.'

'It
was
worth
passing
on
to
the
police
then?'

'Routine.'
Billy
Shanks'
laughter
had
a
false
sound.

'You're
sure
the
original
wasn't
in
blood?'
the
Prophet
asked
hopefully.

'Christ,
no!'

'In
his
first
letter
to
the
police
Jack
talked
about
saving
what
he called
the
proper
red
stuff
in
a
ginger
beer
bottle.
Only
it
went
thick,'
the
Prophet
said,
'and
he
couldn't
use
it.'

Murray
decided
against
asking
to
look
at
the
letter.
He
had
no
reason
to
be
interested
in
it.
Yet
he
leaned
forward
unobtrusively
and
saw
it
was
printed
in
block
capitals,
each
carefully
shaped
as
if
by
a
child.
Even
if
somewhere
you
had
seen
the
person's
normal
writing,
there
would
be
no
way
of
recognising
it
from
this.

'It's
all
rubbish,'
the
ageing
youth
sneered.
A
drop
of
water
on the
end
of
his
nose
swung
from
its
precarious
position
over
his
beer
into
Murray's
direction.
'Do
you
not
think
it's
rubbish?'

'Theo
thinks
everything
is
rubbish,'
Shanks
said
by
way
of
explanation.

'It's
not
likely,'
Murray
said,
thinking
aloud,
'what
you
have there
was
written
by
any
murderer.
Billy's
right.
Some
old
lady
–
or
a
kid
left
too
much
on
his
own.'

Billy
Shanks
launched
a
hand
soaring
that
turned
like
a
tern
in
mid-flight
to
retrieve
the
Photostat.
'Right!
Jack
the
Ripper
didn't
write
his
letters,
I'll
bet.
And
Peter
Sutcliffe
didn't
send
that
tape
to
the
police
in
the
Yorkshire
Ripper
case.
They
still
haven't
found
whoever
did
that.'
He
nodded
in
triumph.
'Murder's
one
trade,
drama's
another.
Different
trades,
different
talents.'

'Oh,
the
real
Jack
wrote
some
of
his
letters,'
the
Prophet
said.
‘“I
am
down
on
whores
and
I
shan't
quit
ripping
them
till
I
do
get
buckled.”
Or
–
“From
hell,
Mr
Lusk,
sir,
I
send
you
half
the
kidney
I
took
from
one
woman,
preserved
it
for
you,
t’other
piece
I
fried
and
ate
it;
it
was
very
nice”.’ He
had
a
voice
like
a
preacher,
or
an
actor,
paced
and
resonant.
It
was
odd
how
even
in
the
warmth
and
noise
of
the
bar,
the
words
of
the
old
letter
made
a
pause.
'I
can't
see
that
being
written
by
an
old
woman –
or
a
kid
.
'

But
the
watery
Theo
sniffed,
'I
don't
know.
I've
got
a
girlfriend whose
kid
plays
at
hanging
his
Action
Man.'

'...I
could
believe
that,'
the
Prophet
said.

'Anyway,'
Billy
Shanks
intervened
across
their
mutual
dislike, 'it
looks
as
if
whoever
wrote
our
letter
was
trying
to
imitate
the
style
the
Ripper
used.'
He
swept
a
wide
gesture
of
relief.
'I
can't
imagine
Jack
the
Ripper –
or
even
Jill
– sitting
in
a
library
taking
notes.'

'Can
you
not?'
The
Prophet
was
taken
by
the
spirit
of
contradiction.
'That's
because
you
imagine
him –
or
let's
say
her,'
he
smiled
benignly
malicious
at
Shanks,
'only
at
the
moment
of
the
crime.
A
knife
that
moves
in
the
dark,
no
other
reality,
out
of
the
shadows
into
the
darkness.
It's
that
defect
of
our
imagination
that
will
keep
her
safe,
for
she'll
have
another
existence,
sit
next
to
you
at
the
office,
come
to
supper,
seem
the
most
ordinary
person
in
the
world.'
He
was
the
rare
kind
of
talker
who
exerts
a
spell.
Murray
thought
about
the
ones
who
went
on
Sundays
to
visit.
'It's
like
the
story
by
Le
Fanu
about
the
man
who
feels
himself
to
be
haunted
by
something
he
senses
but
can't
see,
by
a
presence.
There's
just
a
hint
that
he
has
some
reason
to
suffer
from
guilt.
He
runs
away
abroad
and
thinks
he's
escaped
from
it,
but
it
comes
back.
He
retreats
to
his
own
country,
into
the
most
isolated
place,
and
takes
with
him
just
one
person
who
loves
him
and
will
guard
him.
The
story
is
called
"The
Familiar".
Mr
Le
Fanu
had
his
own
ending
for
it
.
..
but
the
one
I
wanted
would
have
had
our
hero
waking
up
one
night
in
his
secure
refuge
to
find
the
loved
one
leaning
over
him,
mad
and
demonic.
That's
the
real
horror.'