Jackie the Ripper

Jacquelyn Beauchamp sat at the table by the window. She watched as hundreds, thousands of people passed by on the street outside. In her hand, she held the leather bound journal that had brought her thousands of miles from her home in New Orleans. It had belonged to her great-great-great-uncle Henri. Its tale was the ultimate story of privilege, debauchery, mental illness...and horror. Horror the likes of which still made headlines over a century after it began.

Jackie's own life had mirrored that of her distant relative. Like the man, she had grown up the youngest child of wealthy and educated parents. He is Calais, France and she in New Orleans. Both had been popular among their crowd of young deviants. Jackie had like her Uncle Henri terrorized her social circle with her angry outbursts and alternately intrigued them with her intense intelligence. She had always considered herself above them all. They were merely chattel to do her bidding as politically incorrect as that was to consider.

And like her uncle, all of this was merely a mask to hide the madness that festered inside of her. But unlike the man, who was not diagnosed with his illness until late in life, Jackie knew of her burden from an early age. Although the labels seemed to change with each new specialist her parents sent her to. As a child, it was ADHD, then Oppositional Deviant Disorder. As a teen, it was Bi-Polar, but was that one or two, she could never remember. The latest labels were paranoid schizophrenia and Borderline Personality Disorder.

All of it meant nothing to her. Not like this book. This book gave her the answers. The answers that she had been searching for since she was a girl of five, playing in courtyard of the ancestral home in the French Quarter. A man had come up to her. His dark eyes had seen into her very soul. He knew things about her, things that no one else knew. He knew what had really happened to the doll that her grandmother had given her. He knew that she had cut off all its hair, taken sticks and stabbed its eyes out and torn it limb from limb, before burying it among the rose bushes there in the courtyard.

But rather than threaten to tell her parents, he had understood. He had become her friend. Her one true friend. And her co-conspirator. That day he had encouraged her to capture her cousin's cat, Jingles. She had tempted the feline with bits of her tuna sandwich, then she had pulled its tail until it hissed and scratched at it. That was not the response she wanted, so she released its tail, instead finding sticks and rocks to throw at the poor animal, pelting it until it slunk away from its tuna prize to lick its injuries.

The cat was not her favorite victim though. Her goody two-shoes cousin Raquel was that. The girl was two years younger than Jackie. And would become the brunt of all her cruelest jokes. It culminated the summer that she turned twenty. Jackie had been dating a young man from the wrong side of the tracks as the Southern saying goes. He was in his mid-twenties with a meanness that nearly matched her own. He had already done time in state prison for a bar fight that left a man paralyzed, for taking his seat on the bus.

Jackie's parents and her aunt and uncle were going away for the weekend. While the girls were to stay with their grandmother, the woman was too old to properly care for and supervise them. Jackie convinced Raquel that they should sneak out on Saturday night. She knew a party where they could have some real fun. At barely eighteen, the girl was to start college soon. She wanted to become a doctor and help the poor. It was enough to turn Jackie's stomach. Which was why she had other plans.

Rather than the fraternity party that she had promised, Jackie took her to an abandoned house outside the city. Her friend was waiting there. They had bound the girl, her friend had raped her, taking her virginity in the process. Jackie herself had used an old bottle to violate the girl and had put out her cigarettes on her ass.

But it was not enough. He wanted her dead. Not her friend, no, he had balked at the idea. Said that he was not murdering for any whore. Instead he had threatened Raquel, told her that if she told anyone, they would come back, kill her next time.

The whole thing had left Jackie frustrated, incomplete as he sing-singed in her head about not having the guts to actually do it. His voice had gone on and on, when she was awake, in her dreams, it never stopped. Of course, by now, Jackie was old enough to know that the man, whom she had met in the courtyard was not real. A figment of her imagination. A symptom of her disease. But he was real, real to her. And she wanted him to shut the fuck up.

He had to, once she killed her friend. It had been so easy. The man for all his bluster and machismo was a switch. He might enjoy dominating and breaking Raquel, but not half as much as he enjoyed being dominated by her. He thought nothing of it when she cuffed his large frame to the pipes in the basement of that abandoned house. It was just another of their sex games. She walked around him, flashing her whip and demeaning his manhood. Except this time, she did not stop when he safe-worded. She put cigarette butts out on his balls, raped his ass as she had her cousin and when it was said and done she had driven a knife through his heart.

Nothing had ever felt so good. She washed in the blood as he praised her. Told that she was his child. His true child at long last. Worthy of his name and his heritage. He had gifted her then with something special: the journal. He had told her where it was to be found, behind a loose brick in the courtyard law. And when she finally held in it, read its words, she knew that she belonged. That another person understood her, her needs. He got her. Her Uncle Henri.

His story filled the pages of this journal and what a story it was too. A story that would have fetched a handsome sum too. It was the story of a young French aristocrat, who had been forced to flee the comfort of his life and family after the brutal beating and rape of a young girl in their village. His family would send him to stay with his older brother in New Orleans, to work in their shipping business. But first they had sent him to England.

He had not wanted to go to America. He wanted to stay in Europe. If not France, Italy, Spain or perhaps Austria. He had disembarked from the ship in Dover, made his way to London where he soon squandered the funds they had given him to start afresh. He had gambled and taken up with prostitutes. But nothing had felt as good as that what he had done to that girl. Rape was so much better than paying for your pleasure.

That summer and fall, without the watchful eyes of his family, he had found himself, discovered the person he was inside. And in the process, he had changed history. Her Uncle Henri, the man that had eventually been committed to the very best asylum in New Orleans Parrish was known by another name. Jack-the-Ripper.

And this book held his tales. His journeys. His crimes. Jackie could make millions by selling it, but what would that accomplish? She had money enough, her parents made certain of that, as long as she stayed far from them anyway.

No, Jackie had another idea. It had begun that summer as she snuck back to that abandoned house to read her infamous uncles tales and watch her former lover decompose. Jackie would repeat Uncle Henri's feat. With his help, she would rape and murder five men. Leaving their bodies at the original locations. And it began tonight...August 31st. She looked around the Indian restaurant that had once been the Frying Pan Public House, the last place that Mary Nichols had been seen alive.

Her uncle might have chosen easy targets, women that no one would miss, but Jackie was going to show the man how it was done. She would not settle for such worthless chattel, not she wanted a higher caliber victim and she had the looks to get them. At twenty-three, her body was at its prime. She spent hours in the gym, each day. Not only to look good though, but to give her the physical prowess she would need to fulfill her mission. Her long black hair fell in gentle waves about her face, not only was the style luring but it offered a degree of camouflage as well. Few people here would remember details of her face, other than perhaps to remark on her beauty.

She knew it was him, the moment he walked in. The man wore a custom-made suit. His Italian loafers clicked across the wooden floors with authority. Authority that he wore like a second skin. He placed his order, take-away, but she would find a way to change that. She got up slowly. She headed towards the bathrooms, but stopped when she pumped into him. His parcel landed on the floor, spilling its contents over those expensive shoes.

"Look where you're going, you stupid fuck," he said as he knelt to brush the curry off.

"I'm so sorry," Jackie batted her dark eyes at the man.

At her low sexy voice, he stood and stared at her. She smiled as she watched the anger drain from him, replaced as she knew it would be by sexual desire. Desire that would be his undoing. "I really should watch where I'm going. My apologies. Please let me buy you dinner."

The man sighed, "As much as I'd love that, I really should be heading home. My wife is craving Indian tonight. She's pregnant so nothing would do but this place." He shook his head, looking around, "Although I have no idea why."

"Well, at least sit with me and have a drink while they replace your order, my treat." She watched indecision play across his face, it would only make the ultimate victory sweeter. 'Take that, Uncle Henri. You killed a worthless whore. I'm going for a rich, family man. With a pregnant wife,' she taunted the ever present voice in her head.

"Please, it's the least I can do. Besides I need to give you my details. I insist you send me the cleaning bills for your suit and shoes. Oh dear, I do hope the stains come out." Curry would be the least of the stains on his suit and shoes this night, she thought.

He nodded, "I suppose that would be polite thing to do. Paul. Paul Whittington."

She smiled and took his hand, feeling herself one step closer to her victory. She walked to the counter, spoke to the man in a low voice, promising a huge tip if they delayed the order for as long a possible. He nodded and looked at the man. She smiled through her long hair that shadowed her face. Then she returned to her table with two glasses of wine.

They sipped the wine and chatted. She gave the man a factious name and hotel. Told him that she was here on business, looking to purchase a painting for a client. He told her that he was a banker. That his wife was nearly due. Their first, a son. The conversation followed with a second glass of wine. The waiter explained that his order would take just a couple more minutes. They had a big take-out order ahead of his. He nodded and texted his wife to explain.

Jackie smiled as he looked up from his phone. "You know this is really weird. But I have this fantasy. A sick fascination I guess you would say. I probably shouldn't say anything more," her voice trailed off as she dropped her eyes to her half empty glass of wine.

He shook his head, "No, it's fine. Fantasy, did you say? You have me curious about what a beautiful American fantasizes about."

She smiled, "No, really, most people would think it was sick."

He chuckled, "Provincial Americans. Don't you know we Brits are a bit more kinky with our interests?"

She bit her lip and gave him an intense gaze, "Since I was a little girl, I have been fascinated with mysteries. Then as a teenager I got hooked on the whole Jack the Ripper thing." She watched him, gauged his reaction before continuing, "When I learned of this trip to London, well, I got the crazy idea that I wanted to combine my fetish for outdoor sex and my lover of Ripper lore. My goal while I'm here is to have sex at each of the murder sites. And well," she stopped.

He stared at her for a log moment. "Are you trying to hook up with me? I'm flattered, honest I am, but I really need to be getting back to my wife."

She reached across the table, her hand caressed his. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I really didn't mean to. I just sort of assumed that if your wife was pregnant," she added a blush for good measure. Perhaps if things had been different, she might have been an actress. "I thought perhaps you might not be getting enough sex. That a quick blow job in the alley behind the Tube station where that first murder happened might be as kinky a thrill for you as it would be for me. I'm sorry if I was wrong."

She watched him fidget on the chair, recognized as his attempt to hide the erection that her bold words had caused. "No, no. You didn't offend me. It would take much more than such a kind offer from a beautiful woman to do that."

She looked up and saw that her time was up, the waiter approached with another large plastic bag loaded down with his wife's dinner. "Is there any chance I could convince you to help this provincial American as you called me? I would really like it to be you. From the moment you walked in you caught my eye," for once honesty suited her purposes. "A quickie. A blow job. Nothing more. According to my former President that isn't even sex."

He smiled at her and nodded. "You do have a point. Perhaps," he stood and waited as she grabbed her coat off of the back of the chair and put it on.

"I see you are learning about the British summer already," he teased as she tossed bills on the table.

He followed her through the dark streets to the empty alleyway behind the station. There were cars parked where Mary Nichols body had been found. Trees grew right behind them, Jackie had done her research, visiting the site earlier in the day. She smiled as she grabbed his hand and led him into them.

She wasted no time, dropping to her knees and opening the front of his trousers. She took his half hard cock into her mouth and sucked. Within two strokes he was fully hard. She watched as his hands clinched at his side. The action lifted and lowered the bag of take-out as she licked and sucked harder. She heard him moan softly in the back of his throat, felt his body tremble as she opened her mouth wide and swallowed his cock to the very back of her throat. She felt him erupt as she reached inside the pocket of the trench coat she wore.

Her fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the knife's handle. She slid slowly up his satisfied body. She had to work fast, this orgasm induced blur would not last long. She drew the blade out of her pocket as she pressed a kiss to his lips. "Thank you for fulfilling my fantasy," she whispered. His eyes were still closed in post-coital bliss as she quickly and efficiently ran the sharp blade across his neck. The cut was deep and deadly. He did not manage even a gurgle...just as her Uncle Henri assured her they never could when the blade was applied properly.

She watched his eyes spring open wide as the pain and realization dawned upon him. The bag of food dropped quietly to the ground. She used her own weight to soften his drop to the ground. Then she went to work. A single slash was all it took for his insides to burst forth. But unlike her uncle who had waited and grown bolder, she claimed her ultimate prize from the start. Another quick slash and the man's penis came off in her bloody hand.

She stepped back and peaked out of the trees. No one was about. Quickly she took off the coat, wiping most of the blood on it, she fished the packet of wipes out of the same pocket that had held the knife. A couple of moments later, she pushed them inside the coat pocket and wrapped it into a tight bundle. She stopped in front of one of the cars. The street lamp provided enough light in its reflection for a quick inspection. She smiled as she walked back down the alley to the station. 'One down...five to go, Uncle Henri. I'll be even more famous than you were. Jackie-the-Ripper.'