Lizzie

The following is a work of fiction. The main character, Lizzie, is loosely inspired by each of the canonical five victims of the serial killer Jack the Ripper in London, 1888. 

Trigger warnings for stalking, murder, domestic violence, alcoholism, child loss. 

Whitechapel District, London

October, 1888 

My heart raced as I stumbled over the rain-slicked cobble stones in the East London alley, my alcohol-laced blood surging through my veins. The dark figure loomed behind me, steadily closing the gap despite my desperate attempt to flee. My eyes darted around wildly, searching for something, anything, to save me from the fate that awaited me if I were to be caught in his grasp. 

I woke up that morning on the damp asphalt in the depths of the slums. Most nights, I wound up there, with only the squalid alleyway to call home. Bleary eyed, I sat up and stretched my arms over my head. I would need to come up with the fourpence required for a room tonight, I thought. My stiff body begged for it. 

“Good mornin’. Bit of the hair of the dog for ya, Lizzie.” Old peg-legged Harry Chapman held out his bottle to me. 

“Thank you, Harry… I’ve a splittin’ headache.” I took a swig of the warm ale and winced. 

“I ‘eard Clara found a bit a work at the tin factory over on Tanner Street…” He said. “Backbreaking work, it is. Don’t expect they’d want an old one-legged bloke like me.” 

I took my time standing up and adjusted my ragged skirts. “Thanks for the tip, mate.” Passing the bottle back to Harry, “I’d best be on my way.” I set off down Dorset Street with little in the way of a plan. 

Even in the early hours of the morning the London streets were bustling with activity. The market was packed with merchant carriages selling fruits, vegetables and baked goods. The contrasting scents of freshly baked bread, horse manure and smoke permeated through the air. I made my way through the chaotic maze of people, weaving through women carrying baskets in the crook of their elbows, children scampering about, and men with top hats resting on their heads. 

A pang of hunger vibrated deep in my belly as I gazed at a cart of bread. I stepped forward to beg for some when a shout from behind startled me. 

“Look out, mam!” The driver of the omnibus yelled. As I looked up, a team of two horses was pacing directly for me. I stumbled out of the way, colliding instead with the solid wall of a brawny man. “Sorry, sir.” I said, reorienting myself. He sucked on his pipe, looking down his nose at me. 

“It would do you good to pay attention. You never know who might be lurking behind you.” I nodded, momentarily frozen by the sinister chill in his tone. He adjusted the lapels on his black overcoat and turned away from me. 

The spell broken, I caught my breath and quickly made my way out of the market. In the distance stood Christ Church. Sometimes I went just to stare at its towering spire and stone columns. There was something vaguely spiritual about the way the sun shone around it on clear days. On this day, I hoped that the compassionate hearts of the godly people who worshiped there would help me with securing a bed for the night. 

“Please, sir… do you have a penny to spare for a poor lady in need?” I approached a kindly looking man who averted his eyes and continued walking. I sat on the stone steps of the church and waited. Most people walked by without giving me a second glance. A few handed me a coin or two. 

“Oh.. shoo, this is no place for filthy whores. Go back to the brothel you came from!” An old woman came waddling out of the church, shooing me away with a rag. 

“I’m not…” 

“Go!” She interrupted. “We’ll have no soliciting here in the house of the good Lord!” Before she attracted any more attention, I yielded. With my dirty clothes and sunken cheeks, most people looked at me and saw a prostitute, anyway. There was no use arguing about it, and after all, I supposed it was true, when desperation demanded. 

His breath was foul; the scent of decaying teeth and gin. His calloused hands groped me roughly as I stared at the ceiling. 

‘Do ye like that?” He asked over and over. As if this was something that I was supposed to enjoy. 

When he was done, he pulled up his britches, tossed a sixpence onto the bed next to me, and left. At least I had secured a warm bed to sleep in for the night. And he had forgotten his gin on the table. I drifted into sleep as the snow piled outside the frosted window. I would survive another night. 

It was a crisp Autumn afternoon as I crossed the bridge over the Thames. I wrapped my thinning cape tightly around myself to thwart the chill. The rumbling in my belly was becoming more pronounced as the morning wore on. I would need to find something to eat soon. 

I walked for four miles before arriving at 42 Durham Street in Vauxhall. I rapped on the door and waited. 

“Ah, blazes, Mary… it’s your sister!” My brother in law, George, yelled as he swung the door open. “Back again, aye Lizzie. What is it? Run out of money, have ye?” George rolled his eyes at me with exasperation as Mary hurried to his side. 

“George, please. Have you no empathy, darling? Lizzie, come in.” My sister’s circumstances were much more fortunate than mine; her marriage was strong and they had a quiet, simple life. Despite how contrary our paths were, as young women we weren’t so different. 

Thomas and I married when I was twenty seven years of age. A year later we welcomed our first daughter, Annie. Edward came next. His arrival came with great difficulty. He was disabled from birth. Shortly after, it became clear that I was unable to care for his needs, so George had him taken away from me and sent to an institution. Little Eliza was born the next year. 

Our lives were rather happy for a time. I did what any woman was supposed to do; I took care of my husband and my children. It was not until Eliza fell ill that things began to fall apart. 

“I’m afraid she will likely not last the night, Mrs. Conway. I’m so sorry.” The doctor held my hand as he delivered the news. 

“No. No, that can’t be true! She cannot die!” I attempted to break from his grasp and go to my daughter, “Let me go!” 

“A sickly girl of twelve hardly has a chance against meningitis, dear, she is better off with the lord.” Thomas said, detachment lacing his words. He walked the doctor to the door and the two of them talked momentarily. I climbed into the bed with my daughter, caressing her blond hair and kissing her cheeks. I lay there with her until she was cold and they came to take her away. 

Even then, I did not get up. I lay in her bed for days. I did not eat. I only drank water when my mouth was so dry I could scarcely swallow. I was the empty shell of my former self. 

One day, in a desperate attempt to numb myself, I got up for a bottle of rum. I drank until the searing pain I felt in my heart was dulled to a gnawing ache. And I did not stop. Thomas hated me for it. Day in and day out, his hatred for what I had become manifested through violence. 

“For Christ’s sake, Lizzie! Pull yourself together!” He yelled as he shook me, his fingers leaving five purple bruises on my arm. That was the last time that I allowed him to mark me. In the dead of night, I walked away with only a bottle of rum, a tin can with four shillings and the clothes on my back. 

“Lizzie, you do not look well.” Mary studied me, concern washing over her face. 

“I am okay, Mary. I only came to see you.” I eyed a bottle of brandy on the table behind Mary, hating myself for how I schemed to take it. “And I wondered if you might have a few pence to spare…”

“You know that George does not approve of my enabling you.” Mary laid her hand on my arm to comfort me. “Lizzie, I must say I am very distressed for your well-being. The papers have been reporting that women are being killed in London.” Tears welled up in her eyes. There was nothing I could say to ease her mind.

We sat together for a while. I’d always felt safe with her. Our childhood was not an easy one. We spent our formative years in Bermondsey Workhouse as orphans, having lost both of our parents when we were children. 

“It is good to see you.” She hugged me tightly. “I know that you keep your secrets from me. But I am not blind to the state of you. You dress in rags, you are too thin. Just please, look out for yourself, Lizzie.” 

I secured the sixpence Mary slipped me, as well as several pieces of bread and cheese, into a small drawstring bag and made my way back towards East London. If only I had turned the opposite direction, I may have eluded the tall man in the black overcoat altogether. But perhaps it did not matter. Perhaps he was hunting me all along. 

I did not notice him following me at first. Afternoon in London was teeming with people and I kept my head down, preferring to avoid the attention of the watchmen. But as I stepped out of the public house, a bottle of rum safely hidden in the folds of my skirts, there he was. Leaning casually against a wall with his arms crossed. He was staring at me directly. The dark overcoat, the tobacco pipe, the empty look in his eyes. There was no question that it was the same man I had bumped into earlier. 

I averted my eyes and turned the corner, making haste to disappear into the busy market. I was only able to let out the breath I had been holding when I was fairly certain I had lost him. I pulled out my prized rum and took a long swig. 

I spent the next several hours wandering, begging and drinking my rum. All the while, I was unable to shake the sense that someone was watching. By this time, it was nearing sundown and the dense London fog was moving in. Damp and chilled by the crisp October evening, I made my way to find a bed.

As I set out, the last of the merchants gone for the day, the energy of the street had shifted. The merchants and patrons swapped for scantily dressed prostitutes, intoxicated men and people huddled around fires for warmth. 

With the moon tucked in behind the clouds, the street was nearly pitch dark. The fog diffused light from the street lamp was all I could rely on to provide a small semblance that I was heading in the right direction. As I turned into an alleyway leading to Hanbury Street, I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps a few feet behind me. A sense of dread washed over me like a crashing wave threatening to knock me over. I quickened my pace, occasionally stumbling, cursing my drunkenness. I reached out for the brick wall to my left, steadying myself as I moved forward. 

I stepped out on the main street, glancing over my shoulder. There, a few feet from the street lamp, stood the man who had been stalking me all day. I was sure of it. He resembled an imposing shadow looming in his black clothing. He was still. A sinister, calm air about him. Like a spooked horse facing a hungry wolf, I searched wildly for a way out. I turned and ran. My unfortunate life flashed before my eyes. The faces of my children, my parents, my sister. 

I desperately want to say that by chance alone, I made it out alive. I want to say that a random passerby on their way home stopped to check on me and offered me safe passage. I want to say that a watchman arrested me for intoxication. But that is not the truth of it. 

It was in a dark yard, next to a fence, where the tall man in a dark overcoat grabbed me. With one arm, he yanked me to the ground as if I was a rag doll. I fought him. I kicked my legs as fiercely as I could; I scratched at his face; I screamed out for help. But his strength overpowered me. I did not stand a chance. 

He stared at me with those cold, empty eyes. And he grinned. He enjoyed watching me struggle. The last thing that I felt was the sting of the cold metal against my throat. He held the knife there for a moment, staring. And he held my gaze as hot blood showered over his face. And then there was nothing. 

The next morning the sun was warming the damp street, the autumn leaves drifting lazily through the air, when a scream cut through the early morning peace. I was found by the random passerby that I desperately needed hours before. The police came and took me. An autopsy was completed; my ruined body identified; a news article published. 

It was reported that I was yet another victim of the serial killer dubbed Jack the Ripper. In the years since, the infamy of my killer lives on. His name is adorned upon my gravestone, a museum has been dedicated to his crimes, and he is the theme of many literary works. Conversely, I have been all but forgotten, dismissed as though I deserved my fate. When my name is mentioned, if it is at all, they will say that I was merely a prostitute. 

Dedicated to Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly.