Read Tales of Jack the Ripper for Free Online

have access to, but they didn’t help. You stare at the asymmetrical faces of the crowd. Smoke rises from their mouths or their jaws work as they drive forward, pulled along by their set eyes. Imagine asking them to help. They wouldn’t have touched the box, they would have shuffled on by, scattering their waste paper and condoms. You shake your head to dislodge the crawling thoughts. You aren’t usually so misanthropic. You’ll have to find out what those dates mean. Obviously your brain won’t give you much peace until you do.
    So you ask your friend, the one who knows something about history. And your friend says, “That’s easy. They’re the dates of Jack the Ripper,” and tells you that the five murders everyone accepts as the Ripper’s work were committed on those dates. You can’t help smiling, because you’ve just had a flash of clarity: of course you must have recognized the dates subconsciously from having read them somewhere; and the recognition was the source of your dream. Then your friend says, “Why are you interested?”
    You’re about to answer, but your tongue sticks to the floor of your mouth for a moment, like the lid of the box. In that moment you think: why should your friend want to know anyway? They’ve no right to know, they aren’t entitled to a fee for the consultation. You found the box, you’ll conduct the inquiry. “I must have read the dates somewhere,” you say. “They’ve been going round in my head and I couldn’t remember why.”
    On the way home you play a game with yourself. No, that bus shelter’s no good, too open. Yes, he could hide in that alley, there would be hardly any light where it bends in the middle. You stop, because the skin beneath your tongue is rough and sore, and hinders your thoughts. You explore the softness beneath your tongue with your finger, and as you do so the inflammation seems to draw into itself and spare you.
    Later you ponder Jack the Ripper. You’ve read about him, but when you leaf through your knowledge you realise you’re not so well informed. How did he become the Ripper? Why did he stop? But you know that these questions are only your speculations about the box, disguised.
    It’s inconvenient to go back to find the box, but you manage to clear yourself the time. When you do you think at first you’ve missed the place where you left the box. Eventually you find the bar, but the box has gone. Perhaps someone kicked it into the hedges. You search among the cramped roots and trapped crisp-bags until your mouth feels scraped dry. You could tell the local police, but then you would have to explain your interest, and they would take the credit for themselves. You don’t need the box. Tomorrow you’ll begin to research.
    And so you do, though it’s not as easy as you expected. Everyone’s fascinated by the Ripper these days, and the library books are popular. You even have to buy a paperback of one of them, glancing sideways as you do so at the people browsing through the book. The sunlight glares in the cracks and pores and fleshy bags of their faces, giving them a sheen like wet wax: wax animated by simple morbid fascination. You shudder and hurry away. At least you have a reason, but these others haven’t risen above the level of the mob that gloated squirming over reports of the Ripper’s latest killing. You know how the police of the time must have felt.
    You read the books. You spread them across the table, comparing accounts. You’re not to be trapped into taking the first one you read as definitive. Your friends, and perhaps your spouse or lover as well, joke and gently rebuke you about your singlemindedness. No doubt they talk about it when you’re not there. Let them. Most people seem content to relive, or elaborate, the second-hand. Not you.
    You read. 31/8/1888: throat cut twice, head nearly severed, disembowelled twice. 8/9/1888: handkerchief wrapped around almost severed neck, womb missing, intestines cast over