Chapter 31

31 August, 1888

Buck’s Row, Whitechapel

Mesmerized by the flickering embers, causing near unbearable heat as it radiated through

the small room.

This time he was truly ready. He could feel the accusing stare of the man that had come to

see him a few days after that night. He’d sat there, glowering, not uttering a word. Getting up, he

placed a hand on his shoulder.

“That was too disorganized. You let her get to you. You must do what was discussed,

otherwise there’s no point in all of this. There is no need for unnecessary violence. Savagery is

not part of this. It will bring unwanted attention, and emotion.”

At that, he left the room. His steaming mug of tea untouched, as if his brew was not worthy

of him.

Of course, the gentleman wasn’t aware of his purpose. Wasn’t aware of why he was really

doing this. But he needed their support. He had to have the assurance that he would never be

discovered, that they’d never betray him.

Carefully putting on his long, black trench coat and top-hat, winking at his reflection. His

anger had diminished. He was ready.

Venturing out into the bone-numbing cold, keeping his hands tightly tucked into his coat.

Head down, ignoring the grotesque surroundings. The city’s chimney pots erupted black smoke,

a blackened mass of soot settling on everything in sight. This whole city was going to hell.

Leaving the decent streets where he rented his latest studio, he slowly made his way into the

crime infested streets of Whitechapel.

When he and his family settled in England in 1868, the place was already filling with

immigrants. But over 4.5 million invaded the country; causing depression, riots and protests—

like Bloody Sunday.

He didn’t bother with these things, he was too busy acting and painting to worry about the

trivial matters of the lower class. They deserved to be where they were, they weren’t smart

enough to make it.

Rain drizzled its final good-bye, the wet mustiness settling in its place, the cobbled streets

dirt-stained and cloying.

The ominous foreboding of the darkened streets of Whitechapel enveloped him in a tight

grasp, the fog shrouded him in a fine mist, so they could only see him when he pounced.

Walking along Buck’s Row, the feeble gas lamps lit a ghostly silhouette as he passed the

Jewish cemetery.

His body tensed in anticipation. A woman stumbled toward him. A rather plumb woman, on

closer inspection her brown eyes were barely noticed in that fleshy grotesque face. Her lanky

greying brown hair hung lifelessly under a black straw bonnet.

He knew what she’d been doing. He recognized her from his many visits to this part. Her

cursing and drunkenness always caused him to veer to the opposite direction. But not tonight,

tonight he headed straight for her. Leaning against a bench, she tried to straighten her brown

Linsey frock, no doubt ruffled from her recent sexual encounter.

Breathing heavily, she seemed to purposefully bump into him as she walked past, completely

unaware of who he was.

Clenching his jaw, he wanted to wring her neck. See her eyes bulge, enjoy watching her beg

for her life. These women that ignored him infuriated him more than he could have imagined. He

would never have intercourse with them, but for them to completely ignore him only sealed their

fate.

Not bothering to hide his presence, he turned and followed her. Staggering in her usual

drunken manner, holding onto the large iron gate, again trying to get a hold of herself.

Swiftly producing his dagger, relishing the power it allowed him. Not giving her a chance to

speak, yanking back her head, trying to slice his knife across her throat. He did not expect the

struggle she put up. Twisting her head away from him, she tried to pull free. But he held firm.

Holding tightly to her jaw, wrenching her head around, violently slicing his knife across. Her

body instantly collapsed to the ground.

Gagging, he stared transfixed at the sight of her nearly decapitated head, lolling from the

severed ligaments that barely held them together. He instantly grew aroused. The unexpected

struggle only fueling his need.

A low gurgling sound resounded deep in her throat. Her severed windpipe struggled to give

her air, lying there aspirating on her own blood.

She’s still alive; she’ll know exactly what’s going on. Her wide eyes seemed to watch him as

he set about completing his master piece.

* * * *

At 3:40am, Charles Cross whistled as he strolled to work. A dark shape could just be made

out leaning against the gates. Cautiously approaching the unmoving shape, he realized it was a

woman, her head facing east. Swiveling around to the sound of approaching footsteps, heart

beating, terrified that whoever had done this had come back.

Robert Paul, another car man headed in his direction.

“‘Take a look, I believe she’s dead.’” Cross anxiously spluttered out.

Robert didn’t know how to react at the sight. It seemed almost surreal. The head seeming to

be unattached to her neck. Approaching and crouching down, he placed a hand on her breast.

“I think I felt movement.” He whispered. “‘I believe she’s still breathing.’”

Looking at her disarrayed clothes, her skirt raised above her hips, he thought he knew what

had happened that night.

Hastily they covered her, not noticing a pool of dark liquid, racing to find the nearest

constable.

Constable John Neil happened to be passing by, noticing the woman lying there. Alerting

other Bobbies in the area, he couldn’t help but stare at the ghastly scene. Abdomen cut deeply,

intestines laid out for inspection. Designed to shock, a premeditated act that he would never

forget.

* * * *

Only later did the police and doctor realize the full extent of her injuries. The one jagged

slash, three or four slashes downward and several across created an almost grid-like pattern.

Her genitals disfigured, no way of knowing if she was assaulted pre-mortem.

Later this victim was identified as Mary Ann Nichols

Mary_Ann_'Polly'_Nichols

Sample chapter of Initiated to Kill

Chapter 8

7 August, 1888

George Yard, Whitechapel

The dark suffocating smog enveloped the man as he strolled down the grimy streets. The

smell from the raw sewage drifted in the night air, flowing through the gutters and into the

Thames River. Dressed in a navy uniform, with a white band around his cap, a fake mustache

pasted on his face, his thoughts traveling to the scene before him.

He was disgusted with this place. The onslaught of Irish and Jewish immigrants had caused

this place to fall to the hands of street vendors, pick-pockets, drunks, beggars and prostitutes.

Wrinkling his nose as a soft moan came from the deep recesses of a darkened street. A

prostitute at her trade. He desperately wanted to be back in his studio, paint all he had seen;

away from the disparity and disgust. But he was on a mission. He was not going to falter,

regardless of the smell that greeted him at every corner.

A loud shuffling brought his attention to a woman staggering out of the shadows. Resting

against the hard, cold building, he observed her as she tripped and righted herself before

continuing on her way.

She was an ugly woman. Quite overweight, short, and her bloated face spoke of her abuse

with alcohol. She continued to fiddle with her dark green skirt and black jacket, completely

ignoring him as she walked past.

Clenching his jaw, that sickly smell of an unwashed body filled his nostrils, coupled with the

vigorous act of sexual intercourse sickened him.

He silently stalked her steps as she turned from Whitechapel High Street, entering into the

narrow, dimly lit courtyard of George Yard.

Suddenly, she spun around and glared at him.

“You’ve been a followin’ me,” she slurred.

He stopped in his tracks, surprised that she would have noticed. For a minute he didn’t say

anything, just stared at this grotesque creature.

“I know what ya want. Well, ya can’t have it. I’ve had enough soldiers for one night,” she

cackled, “besides, ya look like ya could use something more down there before tryin’ anythang

with me.”

Letting free a belch, continuing to approach the stairs.

Narrowing his eyes, an intense rage filled him. How dare that whore speak to me like that.

Instead of backing down, his anger pushed him on. Slowly he followed her as she began to climb

the stairs. Cursing under her breath, tripping on the hem of her skirt, knees thudding to the hard

cement steps.

He didn’t hesitate. Adrenaline poured through his veins. He relished the feel of the strong,

sharp dagger, swiftly straddling her from behind. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, yanking

her head up by the hair, slicing the dagger straight across her throat. Blood oozed over his

fingers, fighting the urge to vomit. The thought of what that whore might have repulsed him, but

he couldn’t stop now. His anger propelled him, his need for vengeance like an addict in need of a

drink.

Pushing her over onto her back, the deep gash oozing crimson liquid, pale eyes staring at

him, as if accusing him, mocking him. In the darkened shadows of the landing, he continued to

drive the dagger into her throat, lungs, heart, liver, spleen, stomach and genitals.

Ignoring the stickiness that dripped off his clothes. The gaping wounds revealing his unique

masterpiece. He continued thirty-nine times to make sure he sent a message to those that would

view the events, viciously tearing her clothes as he did this.

Standing, he stared at her one last time. His anger had subsided, he regretted losing control,

he must do better next time. Dropping a small piece of leather apron, he slid into the shadows,

anticipating the one that was next to come.

* * * *

At 4:45, John S. Reeves headed out of the building. He frowned. A woman lay on the landing,

a dark liquid surrounding her body, clothes disarrayed. The smell that emitted from the

unmoving body caused him to run as fast as he could to locate P.C. Barrett.

Later, she was identified by Pearly Polly as Martha Tabram.

martha tabram

Launch of Initiated to Kill

So, it’s T-minus 6 days until launch of my novel Initiated to Kill. It’s taken a long time to finally get to this point, but finally my first novel will be out, with three others already written to follow.

Any author knows the importance of getting the word out there about their book amidst thousands of other authors. Word of mouth, facebook, twitter etc is just the start. People need to want to get to know the author as well as read the book. So, I encourage anyone to use the comment section of this blog to throw stuff out there.

Whether it be tips for boosting exposure, images they want to see that speak of the novel, or if they would like to post a blog or get exposure for their product, I am happy to help through the resources I have.

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Gives you a taste of what all of my novels are about, as well as some other things that might come in handy.

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