Part 1

Winston stood, looking down on at the keg, filled with black powder and an alarm clock attached to the top next to a firing pin; it would easily take a chunk of the building off. He lit a match and raised it to his cigarette. Taking a long puff he turned the crank on the back of the clock over, until it reached thirty six seconds. He turned and walked calmly down the alley and out into the dark street. Suddenly a blast of heat and screams were heard behind him.

He continued to walk, calmly down the street. Taking a ten penny piece from his pocket he tossed it into a homeless man’s overturned hat.

On his way to the pub he saw a group of people crowded around something. Pushing through he found the corpse of a young women, sprawled out bleeding badly from the abdomen. Winston recognized the girl, a bar maid, prostitute. She was Welsh, and her face had been cut up about the cheeks. A police officer pushed through and called for his comrades.

“You gotta be takin a piss, we got another dead girl George!!!”
“Bloody hell the stench… get the coroner and Lusk down here.”

A rush of police officers ran to the scene of the explosion, Winston went back to walking calmly. Still puffing on his cigarette he walked into the Black Hound Pub and sat at the bar.

“Pint of lager,” Winston asked without looking up. He took a small pamphlet out of his satchel. The Communist Manifesto, the words leapt of the page, and danced in his mind; images of the proles revolting, gaining victory over the forces of evil and old. He himself was raised on the harsh cold streets, until he found his calling, bomb making. From a young age he had always been good with explosives, starting small up until he bombed a ship yard when he was sixteen. Then he enlisted in the BEF and worked as a doctor in South Africa before deserting and returning to his home in London. Ever since then, he was well loved by the local anarchist movement.

The cold perspiring beer was passed to him by a new girl, a voluptuous young red head; she looked like sin, hair the color of insanity, eyes a dark, bottomless brown. She was the temptress of the Irish Isles; the lord himself would be corrupted by this one. Her smile was pure. Their eyes met and she looked down instantly, smiling.

He placed his hand in his pocket and found his straight razor, sharpest knife he had ever known, he began fiddling with it.
Winston did smile back but didn’t look away, holding the cigarette between his middle and index finger, tipping the pint back and drinking the lager, his eyes not straying from the girl. Placing the drink down on the bar he adjusted his top hat and spoke.

“Hello there Miss, how are you this fine evening.”

“Is it fine? I heard a poor girl got butchered in the street.”

“I suppose so…”

The girl looked down at the book, still being tottered in Winston’s hand.

“Are you a socialist? Like my brother.”

“Something like that… Say lass, when do you get off work?”

“I get off at three but I’m out of work at two,”

She winked at Winston, him catching the joke just as she was leaving the bar with him. They walked through the darkening streets, she leaning into him and occasionally laughing as the stumbled through the cold dark streets of Whitechapel. They talked of nothing, just words upon words of meaninglessness. When they reached his small pot hole of a house she passionately kissed him as soon as his door was closed. They walked into the kitchen, still kissing when he took a bottle of absinthe from the icebox and they each took a drink.

Part 2

Winston woke up with rain coming in the window. Looking around for the Irish girl, he soon realised she was gone. He stood up with a deep pounding in his head. He approached his desk and took out a quill and ink. Dipping the quill into the red ink he began writing a letter of business, It was addressed to the police officer he knew and was fond of.

His skills with spelling were very poor, misspelling words like “knif” and kidne”. He ended the letter with a “Mishter Lusk”.

He opened the door and walked a few metres out into the court yard until he reached a post box and stamped his letter. There was a crowd of police on the opposite side of the court yard. He put on his over coat, his hat and walked through the rain towards the crowd.

“Hullo fuzz, what’s all this then?” Winston said, still in a haze from the absinthe the night before.

“Cook! Good to see you… f*ing Scotsmen… and this, local whore, walking around late last night, girl got butchered, few organs cut out.” The captain said dryly.

Winston looked down at the girl, strange she was. Cut up in a similar manor to the girl from the night before. Naked with a lot of blood on the ground, stretched out, again with the her ear severed.

Looking closely he realised who the girl was. The young red head temptress, lay face up, her hair turned a different shade of red.

“Looks familiar”

“Don’t you be talking none of that. The wankers from the Register thought that too, this guys ruining us.” The officer replied with a tone of anger. The girl Winston had slept with had died so close to his own home. He felt saddened by the occurrence. Lighting a cigarette he began his day.

He left the scene of the nocturnal crime and walked about the early morning streets. Walking into a café he ordered a tea. Drinking it back and relaxing, although saddened by this occurrence, he found himself oddly relaxed, and unaltered by this death.

He stood up and walked out of the café. Walking in the early morning twilight, he turned and walked through an alley way.

“How do you do boy-o” A voice from the darkness came through.
“Nice clothes you got there friend.” Four men began circling Winston, like a pack of hungry wolves, three of them with knives, one with a small pepper box pistol.

The first man lunged at Winston; stepping back he took the man’s knife hand and twisted it. Spinning the man around and bringing the knife to his neck Winston cut through the man’s jugular. Throwing the man down, Winston put the blade of the knife into the second man’s stomach and quickly moved the victim into friendly fire. The bullets slammed into the man’s upper body and face, falling lifelessly to the ground. Winston kicked the revolver out of the man’s hands and caught it as it fell, only two rounds left in the chamber he pulled the trigger and the bullet slammed through the thief’s head. The last man dropped the knife and put his hands up.

“Wait I…” Winston pulled the trigger before the man could speak. Everything he knew, his memories, his family, the time he spent in Afghanistan with the BEF, his child hood… lay painted against the cobblestone wall. Dripping down like a foul sap from a maple tree.
Looking down at the slouched figure, leaned against the wall, Winston dropped the pistol and walked out into the street, the gunshot had stirred some police and they had just missed Winston leaving the alley way. Bleeding from the knee, where something hit him, he began to limp. Extracting a cigarette from his pocket he lit it and went into a pub.

Sitting down at a booth he pulled up his pant leg, looking down at his leg he saw a deep wound. He had been shot; he remembered the feeling from his service in Africa. Taking out his large knife and wedging it into his leg until he felt the familiar chunk of metal move. Twisting until he got a hold of the bullet he pulled the small round out. Finally he felt the bullet fall out and hit the floor.

A young woman came up to him.

“What could I get you sir?” the women asked pleasantly. Winston looked up with pain on his face.

“Vodka, get me a bottle of Vodka,” Winston said hastily.

“Vodka is pretty expensive… do you…”

“Does it look like I care about coin? Get me some f*in Vodka” She turned around and hurried back with the full bottle, he drank back a good amount shortly before pouring some on his wound. He cursed as the burning vodka touched his open wound.

Looking back on his medical experience from the Anglo-Zulu war, he remembered having to remove arrow heads and treat spear wounds. His top hat fell unto the table, and the bottom of his over coat was getting soaked in blood. He began laughing, for no real reason, just laughing hysterically. He put his top hat back in its rightful place and left.

Part 3

Lighting a smoke he took a long drag, sitting in an alley way, not far from his home, his warm, safe home. Standing up he began to limp, in the dull twilight as night began to settle. He wore a long trench coat, with a top hat, limping through the dark streets of Whitechapel.

A lone woman, wearing nothing but a corset, her hair tied in a bun. She was returning home from work. Suddenly from behind her in the darkness, distant foot steps could be heard. Distant and lonely, but coming closer. She turned and looked down the dark street; nothing could be seen except for the deep inky blackness. The footsteps continued. The foot steps came closer. She turned and walked as fast as she could in her high heeled shoes, making it a few feet before stumbling on the cobble stone and falling to the ground. She turned around and looked up, above her was a man, wearing a top hat and a large over coat, his face could not be seen, but his demeanor was clear. The gloved hand reached down, grabbing the girl by her bun, she tried to pull away but the hand was too strong, raising the girl onto her feet. She began screaming for help. Struggling to escape its grasp; she saw the shine of a blade, just before it entered her neck. As life drained from her body, the last thing she saw was the indifferent face of a man, she had seen once before, at a pub.

A second incision was made into the opposite side of her neck. Pulling the knife from her lifeless body, he caught her before she could fall to the ground. Discarding her in an alley way, he made deep and precise incisions into the girl’s abdomen, removing the kidneys. His work was meticulous like that of a spider, webbing up a fly, as the girls once living body lay there lifeless, the distant barking of a dog could be heard far away, deeper into London. Taking the organs he walked quietly, through the dark streets of Whitechapel. He was going to return home, after all, he had a letter to write, and some packages to mail, all addressed to his close and personal friend; Detective Lusk.