Jack the Ripper

Chapter two- Annie Chapman

         The next morning I awoke with a terrible headache from last night’s gin and a stiff neck from falling asleep in my armchair.

    “You are going to be late for work if you stay in that chair much longer.” Scruff warned as he presented my breakfast.

    “I’m not going today, go out and fetch another bottle would you?” I asked handing him the empty bottle.   

    “No, Jack… you’ve got to get up and carry on as normal or they’ll know it was you.” Scruff insisted, taking control for the first time in his life.

         I reluctantly did as he said; I took painkillers and continued the day like any other. Seeing to patients and preforming surgeries all day.

         I heard many of the staff regardless of their position discussing Mary Nichols’ death, many prostitutes had been killed over the years but nothing had caught people’s attentions like this in the eleven years that I’ve lived in London.

         Rather than fearing for the women of Whitechapel, they were too busy speculating as to who the killer might be.

    “Dr Johnson, what do you think? Who butchered that unfortunate woman?” a young nurse asked to invite me into their discussion.

    “Well I suppose it was a Veterinary Doctor or someone who didn’t want to pay or wanted to get noticed.” I shrugged.

    “What do you think Scruff?” she asked.

    “When are you going to give that boy a proper name, he’s almost an adult?” an older matriarchal nurse asked me.

    “I quite like the name, it’s different, and it’s kind of sweet.” The younger nurse said then blushed with embarrassment.

    “The killer’s most likely… a butcher.” Scruff opinionated nervously, trying to ignore the nurses’ comments.

         A while later I decided that the older nurse was right, Scruff did deserve a proper name but he had gone by that name his entire life plus I was scared that he might leave if he had a real name as he could live a normal life without me now.

    “Would you like to change your name?” I asked Scruff once we were home at the end of the day.

    “My name is scruff, that’s what the people from the workhouse called me my entire life but if I’m supposed to have a different name then perhaps we should change it.” He shrugged.

    “Have a think about it, think up a name you like and we’ll change it.” I suggested.

         It didn’t take Scruff very long at all do decide on a name.

    “I like the name Stanley or just Stan, it is nice and simple. I think I could adjust to the name. You can still call me Scruff though, I don’t mind” he decided.

         He became a lot more independent once people started calling him Stan rather than the animal like name that he had always had before.

         Stan even started going out by his self and living his own life rather than being my servant, giving me the opportunity to feed my new found addiction.

         On the night of the seventh of September I took to the streets again with the intent of taking another life although it took a lot of hours watching the lower-class become intoxicated in the public house and having to stalk the streets for many hours once the pub had closed for the night.

         At around half five in the morning I saw some foreigner bloke leave the company of a prostitute on Hanbury Street, she was going to be my next victim.