Tales of Jack the Ripper

by Laird Barron

  You cut into the fat of her left breast. Remove it. Place it under Mary’s head—loose on its neck like a broken toy.

  Trapped air escapes her lips. You press the blade to them—the silencing finger of her god—drawing cuts as you whisper, “Shhhhhhhhhh! Quiet, now, Mary. Sh-sh-shhh!”

  Three miles away, in the Docklands, through a membrane of time only a few hours thin, a fifteen-year-old girl leads her seventeen-year-old boyfriend to a flat he doesn’t recognize. Six young men, aged 16-20, take bats and fists and tennied-feet to him. He’s nothing to them. They’re less than human. Less, even, than beasts. Even in the most fierce competitions for territory and mating rights, animals seldom kill others of their own kind. Knives come out. Laughter peals the silence (you peal skin from muscle, muscle from bone). Ugly noise. Hate without identifiable source. Hate as human condition. Knives go in. No emotion. No reason. Youth destroyed by youth, without remorse. What has changed? What have we done? What have we become? And have we earned it?

  You remove her other breast, knife working in a ragged circle, into the muscle, cutting it away. Once removed, you arrange it by her right foot. Ceremony. Pomp and Circumstance.

  You open her abdomen in the prescribed three cuts. Remove the flaps of skin, placing them on one of the wooden tables. You remove your sweat-soaked, blood-soaked shirt and throw it onto the fire. It smells like meat saturated in embalming fluid.

  The smoke is hellish. Your eyes sting. Burn. Run tears. The light is too little. Time, running down.

  This is your life’s labor.

  Everything must be perfect.

  You pose her. Arrange her organs.

  It’s almost done.

  You stare into her emptied eyes one more time. Her face. Her face is beautiful, even with the thin, silencing cuts of the knife running through the plump of her cocksucker.

  You reverse grip on the knife.

  Whores do not deserve faces.

  You stab, arm working like a piece of machinery. The arm of a well pump. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Stab. Cut. Destroy. Erase.

  You strip out of your gloves, the rest of your clothes. Add them to the fire. From the deep, commercial sink in the far corner of the room, you wash.

  On the door in the main hall you write in chalk:

  BLACK MARY

  MURDER INSIDE

  Naked, blade hard in your hand, you walk casually back up the stairs. To your flat on the second floor. No one sees you. No one wants to. You are truly one of thousands. Not even one of the worst. Your work, at least, is at an end.

  An ambulance rushes down High Street, red lights and sirens and then it’s gone. Not for your Mary.

  You wonder how many murders you will have to wade through on Google News to find her when they find her? Will she even make headline (you worry)? Perhaps the front page of the Guardian… in print?

  Does anyone read print anymore?

  Ripping

  Walter Greatshell

  “You were brilliant up there. I’m a big fan of Louise Brooks.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but she’s dead.”

  “So I’ve heard. Yet her hairstyle lives on. Drink?”

  “Vodka tonic.”

  “Make it two. Listen… I may have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition? And here I thought you were buying me drinks out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Not that kind of proposition. I’m casting a movie, and I think you might be right for a part in it.”

  “Wow—how original. Did you bring your couch?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Aren’t we all. The problem is, some of us are also full of shite.”

  “At least hear me out.”

  “I’m all ears, Mr. DeMille.”

  “Have you ever wanted to be in a movie?”

  “At the price of a bumming?”

  “Not quite.”

  “You offering to make me a movie star, then?”

  “No. I think stars are obsolete. Expensive, temperamental…who needs them? Not me. The new face of cinema is not flesh and blood, it’s CGI. Motion-capture—do you know what that is?”

  “It’s like how they make Gollum… or Jar Jar Binks.”

  “Exactly. Everybody knows who Gollum is, but not necessarily the guy who played him.”

  “Andy Serkis.”

  “Whatever. He was just a stand-in for the digital character they superimposed over him. You don’t need stars for that; all you need is people who embody certain attributes of the character you want to create.”

  “Let me guess: You think I would be perfect as Gollum.”

  “No, but I would like to screen-test you, yes.”

  “Meaning you’d like me to remove my knickers.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then why me? Surely there are starving actresses in abundance.”

  “You have a specific quality I’m looking for, like you don’t give a damn.”

  “You’re describing every dancer in this place.”

  “But you’re the only one with an Irish accent. You also project a certain… bruised innocence—an angel with a broken wing.”

  “Excuse me while I go have a wee vomit.”

  “It’s a special quality that very much suits the character of Mary Jane Kelly.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Jane Kelly, age twenty-five—a pretty girl who came to the big city with stars in her eyes and ended up working the streets. True story.”

  “That’s the role you want me to play? A hooker with a heart of gold? You’ve got some bloody cheek. Just tell me this: Are we talking about porn?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then what makes this silly tart’s story so special?”

  “She was the fifth and last victim of Jack the Ripper.”

  “Jack the Ripper—is that what your movie’s about, then?”

  “That’s part of it. Our concept is to make a dead ringer for a Hitchcock film. Not just an homage, but the greatest film Hitchcock never made, using the tools of CGI technology to re-create all the familiar Hitchcockian trappings—in spectacular 3D no less.”

  “Sounds a bit dodgy to me. That CGI business always looks fake.”

  “Not if it’s done well; did you think Avatar looked fake?”

  “Avatar cost a billion dollars.”

  “But that same technology is now available off the shelf for much less, and we’re getting it even cheaper because we’re farming the digital effects out to a lot of little startup companies that are begging to compete with the big guys. The soundtrack will be contracted to a wonderful symphony orchestra in Belarus. Think of it: music in the style of Bernard Herrmann, titles evoking the mod designs of Saul Bass, CGI resurrections of such movie icons as Laurence Olivier, Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Janet Leigh; a veritable Who’s Who of the dead and famous, so real they’ll practically climb off the screen and sit in your lap. There will even be the traditional cameo of jolly old Alfred himself—or a digital facsimile thereof.”

  “You’re not overambitious at all, are you?”

  “Have you looked at what amateurs are doing on YouTube these days? Kickstarter? Believe it or not, it’s not really that difficult—the major studios are way behind the curve. We are on the cutting-edge of a New Cinema, a true People’s Cinema, one without the soul-sucking demands of the Hollywood machine.”

  “Such as talent?”

  “Talent is cheap; nothing is more common than unsung talent… as I’m sure you know. Come on, who wouldn’t be excited to see a new film by Alfred Hitchcock? Or if not that, at least a film crassly purporting to be that?”

  “So it’s to be a Hitchcock film about Jack the Ripper?”

  “It’s actually a film-within-a-film: the making of a Hitchcock movie about the Ripper case, and how the production is beset by a new rash of Ripper-like murders on the set. All very meta.”

  “And when do you start filming this masterpiece?”

  “
We’ve already started. We’re well into it. That’s the beauty of CGI: the shooting is the easiest part. As soon as we hire an actor, we immediately get them on the set and shoot their scenes on high-def digital cameras. If more than one actor is in a shot, we can film them individually and composite them together later—in fact it’s easier that way. We rent most of our equipment on demand, so we can’t afford scheduling conflicts.”

  “I’m more interested in whether you can afford to pay.”

  “This is a bit of a guerilla shoot, everything’s under the table, but after each day’s work you get a hundred quid—cash. Your scenes will likely only take a couple of weeks to shoot, but when the movie wraps you get an extra bonus of a thousand quid.”

  “In other words, I shouldn’t quit my day job.”

  “That depends on how well the picture does. It could be a big hit, in which case the sky’s the limit. Look what happened with Blair Witch.”

  “Blair Witch was rubbish. So assuming I’m interested, what happens next?”

  “We schedule a time for you to come to the set and do a screen test, preferably as soon as possible.”

  “How soon could that be?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning?”

  “Mornings are bad for me, I’m a late sleeper. How about right now?”

  “But you’ve only just come off work. It’s nearly midnight.”

  “Midnight is my favorite time of day. I’m all pumped up and nowhere to go.”

  “I suppose it might be possible… if you really think you’re ready to go before the camera and read a few lines. I’d imagine the studio should be free at this hour. Look, I just don’t want you to feel needlessly rushed. It’s a fairly painless procedure as auditions go, but I do find some people require a certain amount of psychological preparation.”

  “Mister, I was born prepared. If this all turns out to be a load of bollocks, I’d rather find out sooner than later. Let’s go.”

  “After you.”

  “By the way, what’s the title of this motion-picture extravaganza of yours?”

  “One word: Heinous.”

  “Heinous. Well, let’s hope it don’t live up to its name.”

  “Welcome to our little film studio.”

  “This is it?”

  “This is it.”

  “Not much to look at, is it?”

  “It’s all we need: lights, camera, action.”

  “Not much in the way of action. Where is everyone?”

  “Off for the day, I reckon. It’s just you and me, baby. Still ready for your close-up?”

  “I can’t believe this is what filmmaking has come to: a moldy basement hung with green draperies.”

  “Don’t knock our green screen—that’s where the magic happens.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Hey, filmmaking has always been the art of illusion. This is just the ultimate perfection of that art, creating almost everything necessary for a Hollywood epic right inside the computer.”

  “But doesn’t that rather take the glamour out of it?”

  “Glamour is a luxury we can’t afford, love. Fancy sets and exotic locations cost money. Pixels work cheaper than union film crews.”

  “It’s a bloody icebox in here, I can see my breath.”

  “Sorry, the heat’s off. Why don’t you go over these lines while I make us a spot of tea?”

  “Thanks. And I wouldn’t mind a tot of brandy in it.”

  “I may have just the thing.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, what’s this picture?”

  “Oh, that’s just the coroner’s photograph of Mary Jane Kelly.”

  “I can see that! Why have you got me looking at it?”

  “Just a little visual aid to help you get into character.”

  “I don’t want to see that—what are you, mad?”

  “Making a movie like this requires everyone involved to use their powers of imagination. This soundstage does not exist! Instead you must envision a gorgeous period-piece that interweaves both the terrifying monochrome of Psycho with the lurid Technicolor of Frenzy, because those are the contrasting visual motifs that audiences will see in the finished film. The idea is to combine the look of my earliest black-and-white pictures with the psychosexual opuses I make now.”

  “Come off it, it’s not a contender for the bloody Palme d’Or, it’s just a cheap horror movie. And to be honest, I’m not sure I care to be cut to pieces.”

  “Since you’re playing a victim of Jack the Ripper, it is somewhat mandatory.”

  “I don’t think so. In fact, you can shove it up your pretentious arse, Alfred—I’m outta here. Whoa… shit.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Must’ve had too much to drink… head’s a bit swimmy. What’s in this tea?”

  “Just a little something to help you relax.”

  “Tastes funny… s’not brandy.”

  “No. Something slightly stronger.”

  “Think I better go…”

  “Oops—don’t try to stand up. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Not gonna… hurt myself.”

  “Just sit back, make yourself comfortable. That’s better. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn on the camera now. Ready for your big scene?”

  “Don’t… feel good…”

  “Tell you what: I’ll just do my part, and you respond as you see fit.”

  “Nuh…”

  “May I see your engagement ring? Thank you. This is quite incongruous; I am aggrieved to think of the man who would debase himself with such a charade. One cannot make a decent woman out of a pig by marrying it; a pig is only good for one use. If a man desires the heart of such a creature, there are far more sensible ways of obtaining it. The ring would be far better placed in its snout.”

  “No… p-please…”

  “Four down, one to go. Like all true showmen, I’ve saved the best for last—we have a long night ahead of us, and I don’t want to spoil it by going off half-cocked. The others were simple, just a matter of cutting their throats and copping a few souvenirs. Did you know the uterus feels exactly like a boiled egg?”

  “…please God no…”

  “Bit late to be thinking of God, my dear. But I’m sure you’ll soon be joining your sisters in sin: Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes—the last two killed on the same morning! That was a busy day. But the pure of heart needn’t fear the knacker-man; he only calls on brute beasts. Animals are bred to be slaughtered, the Righteous to bleed them and dabble in their tripes. Do you know which you are? For rest assured he does.”

  “Help me… someone…”

  “Shut up, slut. Would you believe there are those who call my behavior unnatural? In fact nature is my guide: ‘red in tooth and claw.’ Did you know the male bedbug has a very similar method? Instead of bothering with the bovine peculiarities of the female anatomy, he violently pierces her belly with a specialized tool…rather like the one I have here… in order to propagate his seed in an orifice of his own making. ‘Catastrophic penetration,’ some call it. I call it… all in good fun.”

  “And then I just scream and flail around a lot as you’re hacking me to bits.”

  “More or less. I must say that was quite good for a cold read—nice job.”

  “Thanks—you had all the lines. Not exactly a barrel o’ laughs, is it? Is that the end?”

  “Just the end of your part. The movie goes on a bit longer after that with a big chase leading up to a climax on the roof of Westminster Abbey—typical Hitchcock finale.”

  “Starring Hitchcock himself, I assume. Do they catch old Alfred?”

  “Of course! But we end the picture with a sense of lingering unease: What if Hitchcock’s snuff film inspires other evil men to kill?”

  “Or women.”

  “Hm? Yes, I suppose so. Excuse me, I’m suddenly feeling a bit sick… don’t know what that’s about. Whew. Never mind. Anyway, once our little epic is finished, we
’ll be entering it at all the major film festivals. Cannes, Venice, uh, Sundance… Toronto…”

  “Maybe you should sit down a moment. You look a bit green.”

  “Yes… thank you. Strange…”

  “Not all that strange, actually. I slipped something in your tea a moment ago.”

  “You… what?”

  “Little habit of mine. You see, I’ve learned that men are nasty, repulsive brutes who get a sick thrill from seeing women tortured and murdered. It happened to my own mother. As you may well imagine, such a thing can play havoc with a child’s mind. One day a man tried doing the same to me, and before I knew it I was covered in blood—his. I found that I liked it. It’s really the only thing you bastards understand, innit?”

  “Bitch… what’ve you… what’ve you done to me? Ungh!”

  “That’ll be the muscle spasms—very painful, so they say. Sorry about that. Good news is you won’t suffer long. Bit of a coincidence, really, us meeting like this. Truth is stranger than fiction and all that. Maybe it was inevitable, considering. Quite funny, if you think about it: Jack and Jill.”

  “You… you… mmph!”

  “I think that’s enough talk for one night, don’t you? Time to get down to business.”

  Something About Dr. Tumblety

  Patrick Tumblety

  An intruder in my room called my name and lifted me out of sleep. I fumbled for the light on my nightstand and ended up knocking it onto the floor. The moonlight that punctured through the window helped me to see that the intruder was not on that side of the room, so I hopped up and put my back against the wall. The television still played, but its glow was not strong enough to penetrate the darkness at the other side of the room. Had I left that on? I usually leave it on. Keeping my eyes fixed on the angular shadows of the interior space I leaned over and opened the top drawer of the nightstand, taking out and turning on my flashlight. I threw it on the bed and the light illuminated the dark corner. The room was empty. I must have been lucidly dreaming.