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KILLING TIME
A novel by
NICOLA BATTY
Chapter Eight.
8th September, 1888 - 29, Hanbury Street, Whitechapel.
As
the early morning light grows steadily stronger, gathering its’ strength in
preparation for the new day, the battered body of Annie Chapman becomes visible
to the crowd of curious onlookers who gather in the narrow street outside. Fibres of necks twist and stretch to get a
glimpse of the woman who is lying on her back, her stomach gaping open, and
eyes staring vacantly at the creeping new morning. Those people who live upstairs and whose windows overlook the
back yard are following the advice of an enterprising laundry-woman across the
road and they are doing a brisk business charging a ha’penny for ‘a good view
of the gruesome murder’. The policemen
however, try to assume their usual manner of detached professionalism; treating
it as routine, they try to ignore the smell of blood in the air, the violence
of Annie Chapman’s’ death. They try,
but they mostly stand around the yard, shocked and silent. The Police Surgeon, having examined the
body, turns his back on it and wanders over to the other side of the yard. He fixes his eyes on some vague area of the
sky, watching the ragged pieces of cloud blown slowly across the pale
background, tearing themselves away from each other, leaving messy wisps greyly
straggling. Annie Chapman has been
disembowelled. The murderer has been
even more thorough this time, more meticulous in his operations. Perhaps he had more time at his disposal, or
his hand had simply become more confident, more controlled, the second time
around. He has removed her uterus and
the upper portion of her vagina and most of her bladder – and these are still
missing. The policemen are looking
reluctantly in dustbins and gutters; but it is generally accepted that the
murderer will have taken these organs away with him, either to destroy away
from the scene of the crime or else to keep as macabre souvenirs. The rest of the intestines, the murderer has
left for the policemen to see, draped over Annie’s left shoulder like a Roman
toga. Blood surrounds the body, though
most of it has been soaked up by her clothing.
Like Polly Nichols before her, Annie has two deep red gashes running
across her throat, side by side, neatly severing her windpipe. Indeed, the murderer has cut so deep as to
almost slice her head from her body.
Already
the policemen are beginning to piece together the last few hours of Annie
Chapman’s life. Some women friends who
were also prostitutes had last seen her alive in a pub in Spitalfields market
place. That night, ‘Dark’ Annie had
been wearing black, as she had been ever since the day her husband had died,
about four years ago. From the sight of
her habitual wearing of black, a special attachment to her husband may have
been guessed at. In fact, this was not
so; Annie Chapman now lived alone, having been separated from her husband
fifteen years before. She only realised
he was dead when the money he paid her every week to live on, had suddenly
stopped. Since then, ‘Dark’ Annie had
been earning a living by taking in odd bits of crochet work, sewing, selling
flowers and prostitution. She lived in
various lodging houses around Whitechapel and Spitalfields, confronting each day
of life with a determination that was derived only partly from the bottle. Small and thick-set, she concealed within
her compact frame an energy which far surpassed her forty-five years. With features that echoed the colour of her
clothes, a broken nose from a fight and two missing front teeth, nobody would
call her a pleasant woman to look at, particularly since she had acquired a
black eye following a disagreement with another prostitute over a borrowed
piece of soap. Ever since this
incident, her friends will tell the police, Annie had been complaining of
feeling unwell. She suspected that
something might have been damaged inside, though Annie was neither too weak nor
too drunk to struggle against her attacker, as the bruises on her face and neck
show. The last person to have seen her
alive since she left the pub, was a night watchman, who will describe the man
she was apparently haggling with in the backyard of twenty-nine Hanbury Street,
as ‘dark, foreign looking and wearing a deerstalker hat’. This house is a well-known ‘picking-up’ spot,
although not an established brothel.
Annie had taken her client into the back yard and she had been standing
at the top of the steps leading up to the back door, when the night watchman
had seen them. An hour later, a man who
lodged in the house, when he left to go to work had found Annie’s body at the
bottom of the steps.
The
bright red handkerchief that is tied loosely around her neck looks like another
bloodstain against the black of her clothes.
The Police Surgeon still stands with his back turned towards the body,
staring into the sky. He leans against
the broken fence, which separates this yard from the next; he has not said a
word to anyone since he first arrived and set eyes on Annie Chapman’s corpse,
nearly an hour ago. The murderer has taken
great care to rob Annie of any dignity she may have clung to in life; the few
last remaining shreds ripped from her.
A
strange touch, the murderer has left all of Annie’s worldly possessions laid
out in a neat row by her feet; two brass rings and a few pennies and
farthings. She lays flat on her back,
exposed like a pig on a slaughterhouse table, her legs drawn up, her knees
turned outwards, her skirts pushed up over her hips. She has been posed specially for death. There is no mistaking the contempt, which the murderer must have
felt for his victim as he moved her limbs into the position that he has chosen
for them. He carefully manipulated and
he smiled to himself as he did so. He
was doing the right thing, he was quite sure of it. There was not a trace of doubt in his mind.
And
as the early morning greyness strengthens, the murderer is walking along the
Victoria Embankment, back to his lodgings on King’s Bench Walk. He lives in what is known as the lawyer’s
area, that strange, classless part of the Temple, hovering somewhere between
shabbiness and respectability. It
exists in the space between, neither one nor the other. The murderer feels perfectly at home here, as
one would imagine that he would; his feet sink easily into this vacated space,
for he’s an adaptable sort of person, a man for all seasons. He can’t afford to live on his barrister’s
wages and so he teaches part-time at a boy’s school in Blackheath village, on
the other side of the Thames. He finds
the scholarly hush of both the Law Courts and the classrooms stifling and so he
unwinds by playing cricket for the school team. Those wide-open grassy fields remind him of the countryside where
he grew up, in Dorset. The murderer
pauses on the Embankment for a moment, turning his great, sad eyes back in the
direction he has just come from. He’s
remembering how he used to sit on his mother’s knee and make daisy chains with
her when he was young in the field, which they always used to go to. (He and
his mother both used to call it ‘our daisy-field’ and then smile secretively at
each other, as though sharing something quite special and particular between
them). Both he and his mother had long,
nimble fingers and they threaded the flowers together to form one single chain,
which seemed to go on forever.
Sometimes his brother William would come and join them in the field; but
he would soon grow restless and impatient, wanting his brother to come down and
swim in the river with him. He would
refuse to sit down and join in the ritual threading of the flowers; for he was
clumsy and would probably only have broken the chain. The murderer leans on the railings, looking down into the filthy
Thames below. He can remember those
days as though they were only a moment ago, or even as though they still exist
for him, trapped beneath the false glass surface of his mind. The past becomes the present; it all churns
up into one vast tangled stew of memories and experiences, experiences and
memories, he doesn’t know which anymore.
But he doesn’t allow this long grey area to worry him. He accepts all things with a protective
layer of dignity wrapped all around him, an air of melancholy resignation,
which shields the inner core. The inner
core, which no one can reach; his own alienation from himself terrifies
him. He is not in control anymore. Slowly the murderer descends the steps of
the Embankment to the water’s edge. His
dark eyes scan the surface of the water sadly, as though searching for some
lost part of himself. He strokes the
wavering line of his thin moustache, looking around quickly. His movements are changed; he drifts without
reality no longer. Stooping right down
and simultaneously drawing his hands from his pockets, he washes both them and
the knife in the river. He thinks for a
moment of dropping the knife into the Thames but decides not to; it has become
almost a part of him now, moulding itself to him like a sticky extra
organ. With a knife in his hand he can
dictate the circumstances, he can carve out the niche he wants them to fill. He replaces the knife in his pocket and
climbs the steps back up to the roadside.
Back
in Hanbury Street, the Police Surgeon throws a piece of sacking over the body
of Annie Chapman. There is an almost
tangible feeling of relief amongst the other policemen in the yard, though
still, nobody says anything. The
Surgeon watches them standing around in silent groups, cracking their knuckles
nervously. One of them begins to whistle
softly; but the sound soon trails off, crushed by the brutality of the situation. The Police Surgeon picks up his bag and
begins to walk out of the yard, going out through the back gate so as to avoid
passing the body again. He must now
return to his office and write a report on the state of the butchered remains
of Annie Chapman. He closes his eyes
briefly as he pauses, one hand on the wooden board which serves as a gate. The photographs he has taken cling to the
retina of his mind’s eye. He wonders
how the murderer is feeling now.
Now go to Chapter Nine.