WARNING

This story includes extreme violence. If you have any problems with this, I suggest that you do not read it.

I would like to thank Kristina L S for proof reading and editing for me.

I was looking around in the attic of my grandmother’s house, trying to clear out the accumulated rubbish that had built up over the years.

It had been my grandmothers and had been left to me on her death a few months before.

The old place had been in the family for many generations and now, as the only surviving son of the family, I became the proud owner of the property.

It was a bit run down and needed more than a lick of paint, but I had hopes.

Anyway, as I say, I was looking around the attic and dusting off some old books that I found in an old wooden tea chest when I caught site of a thin book lodged against the side of the chest behind some paper lining.

I took it out, blew the dust off and opened it.

Diary, that was all it said on the frontpeice.

I turned over to the next page and started to read. The spidery handwriting was very faint, so I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea and sat down in my grandmothers’ old leather armchair and started reading…

DIARY

27th Of August 1888.

I Saw Davy’s body today. They had found him dead in a ditch, his head beaten in. God help him. I was still weak from the beating that I had taken but I had to see him.

26th Of August 1888.

It’s no good. I have to do something about it. I’m getting desperate. I cannot take much more. But what can I do? What can I possibly do?

28th Of August 1888.

Christ, I’m hungry. I could do with a drink too. Still no money coming in.

I’ve got to do something, but what?

29th Of August 1888.

I saw that slut Polly Nicholls. I hate her and she was the one who took my money with that cow Annie. I couldn’t do a thing as I was too pissed at the time to defend myself. She swore to the police that it was someone else. She deserves all she gets and anyway she’s getting past it.

30th Of August.

Polly has it in for me, the bitch. Getting me into trouble with the police. I now know what I have to do.

31st of August.

I did it.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought. I followed Polly into Bucks Row It was dead quiet and very dark I could hardly see her in the gloom. I had soft-shoes on. She didn’t hear me till I was right up to her. I took my long coat off, dropped it to the ground and then I walked up to her saying, ‘Hello Pol.’
She turned around. I could tell she was pissed. She nearly fell over. I grabbed her by her scrawny neck and throttled her. Her eyes bulged and she tried to speak, then bit her tongue. She sagged to the ground. I let her drop. I got out the razor and then finished her off. I wanted it to look like a madman did it so I cut her throat so deep that I nearly cut her head off. I then hacked her belly just to make sure of it. I heard footsteps in the distance coming my way so I picked up my coat, put it on to cover the blood and just ran down the alley. So much for Polly Nicholls.

4th Of September.

It looks like I’ve managed to get away with it. Now Polly’s out of the way, my next one will have to be Annie Chapman. I’ll get my revenge. She’s getting old now. No one will miss that hag. I have to be careful I must not get caught. I now have a nice long sharp knife. It looks as if it might come in useful.

6th Of September.

I nearly got Annie today. But she slipped me. I must keep following her. I’ll get her soon.

8th Of September.

She’s dead. It was easy. No one to disturb me. I must admit this one was easier to do than Polly.

I followed her to Essex Wharf in Bucks Row. The light was poor but that was good. She didn’t see me as I took off my coat, tapped her on the shoulder and said, ‘Hello Annie,’

She turned around and said ‘Hello M…,’

That’s as far as she got. I hit her on the jaw and then throttled her. I then got my sharp knife and I cut her throat. The blood was bad but I managed to side-step and not get wet. I then thought I had better make it look like a madman did it and I pulled up her dirty dress and cut her belly open and a few other places too. God help her.

After I finished I picked up my coat and ran off. There was no sign of the law or anyone. I had gotten away with it again.

9th Of September

The whole of Wapping is up in arms. Mad Bill Piggott has been nicked and taken in. but he didn’t do it, I did. I feel ill. Christ I can’t afford to go sick now.

28th Of September.

I am better now. I’m so weak, I thought the cough was going to get me. I feel strong enough to start again. But whose turn is it?

29th of September.

It’s got to be Liz Stride. She’s always pissed. I won’t miss her. One less on the streets.

1st Of October.

What a day. Where do I begin?
I followed Liz to Duffield Yard. Once again it looked like I was lucky I took my coat off and laid it down. It was too bulky for the work I needed to do.

She didn’t hear me till I tapped her on the shoulder and said ‘Hello Liz.’

She jumped when I touched and then turned round. Before she could open her mouth I caught her round the throat and throttled her. I felt the power go through my body and out of my hands as she died in front of me. When her heels stopped clicking on the floor I laid her down, got out my knife and cut her throat from ear to ear. I was just about to do my usual carving up job when I heard the sound of footsteps. My heart was in my mouth as I grabbed my coat and ran down the alley leading to Benner St. I ran home, luckily no one saw me.

My hands shook. I then had a feeling of anger. I couldn’t finish the job. I needed to do something. I couldn’t go back to see Liz. They would have found her by now. They might think it wasn’t the Ripper who did it. I can’t have that. I had to go and see if I could find someone else to cut.

Luckily, my coat covered over my other clothes, still wet with Liz’s blood, so hopefully, I wouldn’t be noticed. I was feeling a bit light headed. I stalked the streets, trying to find my next mark. I needed to do it, I had to do it. Not many pro’s were out there, all scared of being cut. But I felt strong again, I liked the power and I knew that I had to do it; I was not in control any longer. Something was driving me to do this thing. I do not know what it was, but I had to do it. Anyway I knew that I was doing right.

Suddenly I went round a corner and came across a girl I didn’t recognise. She made me jump as we bumped into each other. I saw in an instant that she was on the game. Her painted face, garish clothes, everything screamed whore. I punched her in the mouth and she went down like a stone. No one else was about so I throttled her, and then took off my coat. The next thing I remember was being back home with blood all over my face and clothes including my coat. I was covered with it. I felt dirty so that I had to I clean myself up. I chucked the dirty clothes down the cellar and locked the door. I washed myself as best I could, got rid of the bloody water out of the window and then collapsed on my bed. I felt faint and I was sweating. Then everything went dark.

18th Of October.

I’ve been sick, so sick that I’m lucky to still be here. God knows what I had but old Jenny looked after me. She asked me about some blood on the carpet, I just said that I had cut myself, just an accident. She accepted it. Thank God she didn’t look in the cellar.

22nd Of October.

I’m still very weak. Jenny’s been a godsend. She tells me that the whole area is in a terror over the ripper. Many people are being blamed and no end of suspects have been taken in for questioning. There was even a rumour that a member of royalty may have been involved. I’d better stay low.

I wrote the above just over a week ago. I have been told by the Gentleman, Mr Holmes that I have to confess why I did the above.

I have been told to write this down in my diary, although I do not believe that all that I did was wrong and I will go to my grave believing that.

The name given to me at birth was George Phillip Robertson.

This was a travesty, for as long as I have had senses, I have been female, regardless of my physical appearance.

I now dress as a woman because I AM a woman. I may have the outward body of a man, all be it a somewhat effeminate man, but I have always believed that I have been trapped in the wrong body.

As a child, I longed to look like my sister, Sarah. She got to wear pretty clothes and have ribbons in her hair. I wore boy’s clothes as soon as I was breeched. I was expected to be a man and I was made to do manly things, against my very nature, and I hated it.

I occasionally wore my sisters’ clothes in secret.

We were similar in size, luckily and when I could be sure that no one would disturb me, I went to her room and tried on her clothes.

When I wore my sisters’ silk dresses and beribboned bonnets, I could see myself as I truly was. A young girl, all pretty in my finery. I liked to walk up and down in her room, dress swishing around my ankles, imagining all the people around me commenting on how pretty I was and how proud my mama and papa must be to have such a lovely daughter.

Then, one afternoon, I was caught out by the parlour maid who told my father. I was horsewhipped and sent to a boy’s boarding school, to make a man of me, at the tender age of seven, despite the entreaties of my crying mother.

After the hell of deprivation, whippings and other ‘manly’ discipline at the school, I came back home eight years later, grown somewhat, but still with the knowledge of being trapped in the wrong body. My mother, weak and ill most of my life had died some years before and the gentle restraint that had, to some extent, held my father in check had long gone.

I was at home for exactly one month when my circumstances changed once again. I took the Queens shilling and joined the army. Not that I wanted too. I was forced into it by my strict father, God damn him! It seems that I was the black sheep of the family. There was no such thing as forgiveness and I was never given it.

Sarah just stayed at home, went to parties, looked pretty and waited for the man of her dreams to come along. I hated Sarah because she had what I wanted. I wanted her dresses, her bonnets, her dainty shoes, her long flowing hair, the colour of honey. I wanted to be fawned over by men instead of being bullied and ridiculed.

Eventually, after six years of hell in the army, where I did despicable things for Queen and country and took many beatings from my so called comrades for being too effeminate, I could take no more and deserted.

I had some money stashed away and saved. I was a good gambler and many of my army ‘friends’ helped make me reasonably well off by being stupid, gullible and exceedingly bad poker players.

After three months of running, I ended up in Whitechapel. It isn’t what you call a nice area, but it does have the distinction of being an anonymous place. Somewhere that not many questions are asked about what and who you are.

I stayed with an old maid called Jenny. She liked her gin and spent most of the days asleep and most nights drunk.

She thinks that I am a girl as I dress like one now and I don’t intend telling her anything different.

I had a special friend, Davy and he loved me as I was. He knew that I had the wrong parts for a female, but loved me all the same. I loved dressing for him in satins and silks. He was gentle and kind and he treated me like a lady. When we made love it was as if I had died and gone to heaven. Those times were so special for me and for a brief time, I was the happiest girl alive. With my soft complexion and light voice, I easily passed as a woman and we were often seen together arm in arm as we strolled in parks and went to theatres.

It was a false dawn for me. After an all too brief period of utter happiness, disaster struck.

I was on my way home from seeing Davy. He was working nights at the poor hospital and could not see me home. I was a bit tipsy and perhaps a bit silly. I thought that I would be alright. After all it was not too late and there were people about who knew me.

For some reason, I turned into an alley and I was set upon, ironically by two streetwalkers. I was robbed at knifepoint by these women who were worse for drink and very violent. I recognized them both as they were well known in the area. One was Polly Nichols, the other bitch was Annie Chapman. I don’t think they knew who I was.

They left me senseless and with a large bloody bump on the back of my head.

I had lost all my money.

I staggered home. No one lifted a finger to help me. It was like that in Whitechapel.

Jenny got me to bed and I knew no more until two days later.

Jenny gave me the news as I lay in bed, weak from my attack. She told me that my Davy had been murdered.

I fell apart.

I had a terrible fever and nearly died. However, I was young and in time I rallied and Jenny looked after me until I was well again.

I was a different person then. It was as if something died in me never to come alive again.

When I was strong enough, I decided that I had to make a living and decided to do what many girls in the area did, sell my body to men. I had no choice. There was no work and if you had no money, you starved. I had good looks, and I knew that I could attract the right sort of man. As you can imagine I was desperate to get money in and what little self respect that I had, disappeared as I grew hungrier.

Don’t be surprised that I could get away with selling my body. There are many men who like their girls with a surprise package in their pantaloons, look at my dearly departed Davy!

As far as the world (and in particular Whitechapel) is concerned, my name is Mary Jane Kelly. I am 21 years old and have walked the Streets since I left home when my Mother died. I have had an education, but alas no money or friends.

I lived the part and made enough to live on, just. It was work that I got to enjoy in a perverse way. It was strange how many men didn’t seem bothered about my hidden assets and made love to me rather than hit me. Some did hit me though and I received some nasty bruises and a cracked rib or two, but in the main I chose the right mark for my talents.

The trouble is though, there are too many girls walking the streets and because of this many of us find it hard to manage and some, if they are getting on or have diseases, starve. There are just not enough men to go around, even the sort who like girls like me (and there were a few others like me).

I suppose that after my Davy died, something died in me. Whether this was the reason for my actions, I do not know, perhaps it was vengeance against a world that had done me no good. Anyway, I decided that the best way to clear the streets a bit and reduce the competition was to pretend that I was a madman and kill a number of girls. This may seem cold and harsh, but it would make it easier for me and the other girls left to get trade. I did not consider that there was anything wrong with this and I believed that I was doing the world a service. The weak die leaving the stronger to survive. Made all the stronger by that survival.

So it started. The first two were Polly and Annie, for obvious reasons. It was hard but I did it.

Then it got easier and I began to feel a power over others although, strangely it seems as if a red mist came over me when I killed the others, almost as if it wasn’t me doing it.

I see that Mr Holmes wants me to finish this quickly, so I will.

I don’t even remember killing poor Kate Eddowes, cutting out her belly and some of those other things I was supposed to have done. For that, I ask God’s forgiveness.

Mr Holmes has asked me to go with him now. I doubt that I will be writing anything more in this brief diary. But if any one reads this, do not judge me too cruelly as whatever I did, I considered it was the right thing to do.

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Postscript

Extract from The London Times dated 10th Of November 1888.

During the early hours of yesterday morning another murder of a most revolting and fiendish character took place in Spitalfields. This is the seventh which has occurred in this immediate neighbourhood, and the character of the mutilations leaves very little doubt that the murderer in this instance is the same person who has committed the previous ones, with which the public are fully acquainted.

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Extract form the coroners report.

Mr Michael Parker was interviewed shortly after the discovery of the body…

Evidence from Michael Parker:

‘I could see Kelly lying on the bed entirely naked, covered with blood, mutilated in various places and obviously dead. Without waiting to make a closer examination I ran to my employer and told him that I believed the woman Kelly had been murdered.’

I closed the diary, not knowing if this was all true or whether it was fiction. To this day I still don’t know. Shortly afterwards, I sold the house and moved away.

The Diary? Well, tea chest, the other books therein and indeed that small and foul manuscript. I burnt them all and raked the ashes across the lawn.