A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (32 page)

"Oh, Robert, please open your eyes, my love, just let me know that you can hear me, anything, please, just give me a sign."

I felt Sarah take my hand in hers, and without really realizing I was doing it, I squeezed her hand gently.

"Oh thank God," I heard her say, and with a superhuman effort I slowly forced my eyes to open. Sure enough Sarah was sitting by the side of the bed, but it wasn't our bed. It was one of the all too familiar purely functional beds beloved of the National Health Service. I was in a hospital! But how; why? I was confused, and it took more than a little effort to ask the simple question…

"What am I doing here?"

"Oh, my poor Robert," Sarah replied, "you've been here for two weeks, you were in a motor accident with your poor father. You've been in a coma, and I've been here with you all the time, my love."

I was more than confused by then, and I must have looked it, as Sarah continued.

"You must have been having terrible dreams, Robert. You've been screaming and shouting all manner of strange things, and you've even thought that Jack the Ripper was in the room with us."

I was about to say "But he was", when I suddenly realised I must have been badly injured in the crash, and somehow in my delirium after whatever they'd done to put me back together, I'd hallucinated the whole thing. There was no journal, no great-uncle Jack the Ripper, and no curse upon the family. My great-grandfather had had nothing to do with the case, and I'd dreamed the whole thing in my own drug induced state.

As the days wore on I grew stronger, and Sarah, who loves me more than I have a right to expect from any person was a constant strength to me, never leaving my side, always there to hold my hand, to talk to me, even being the one to break the news that although I'd survived the crash, my father hadn't been so lucky. He was dead, as I'd known all along from my dream. The funeral had been held as I'd languished in the hospital; my brother having decided that to be the best course of action, as no-one knew if or when I'd come round.

Two weeks after waking in the hospital, and with most of my injuries reasonably healed, I was deemed well enough to leave the hospital. The doctors made me promise to spend at least a month resting at home before even thinking of returning to work, and I was still weak enough to readily agree to their request.

Sarah drove us home, and I was elated at the prospect of sleeping in our own bed once more, of being able to hold her in my arms properly, and just being able to relax and begin to enjoy life once again. It was strange, but all my grieving for the loss of my father seemed to have been wrapped up in the dream state I'd lived through in the hospital. I reasoned that in a semi-conscious moment shortly after my admission I'd probably heard someone say that my father hadn't made it, and perhaps that had been the trigger for the strange set of circumstances that had taken over my brain as I languished in that bed.

On the way home Sarah told me that her sister Jennifer had given birth to a beautiful baby boy, whom she and her husband had called Jack, and again I presumed that I had overheard that information as Sarah mentioned it to someone in the hospital, perhaps even to me, as she'd said that she'd spent many hours at my bedside simply holding my hand and talking to me as I'd lain asleep in a comatose state.

That first night at home was sheer bliss, Sarah held me close to her in bed, and with her arms around me I fell asleep in no time. There were no dreams, no nightmares, no visions or spirits to disturb my sleep. The next morning I awoke feeling bright and refreshed, and ate the best breakfast I could remember eating for years. Sarah insisted I sit and relax afterwards; she had nothing to do that day and would happily sit and keep me company.

She went to the bookcase and selected a novel for me, a Clive Cussler, she knew he was one of my favourites, and that I'd bought that particular book just before the accident, and therefore hadn't read it yet. She made sure I was comfortable with my feet up and a cup of coffee, and seated herself in the chair opposite with a book of her own, and the morning began to pass in idyllic tranquillity.

At about eleven-thirty the telephone rang and Sarah quickly held her hand up to me in a signal that she'd get it. She rose and walked across the lounge to pick up the phone. I took little notice, it was probably her sister with news of little Jack. A minute or so later Sarah called to me from across the room.

"Robert, my darling, it's David, your father's solicitor. Apparently your father left a strange package of very old papers in his care to be passed to you after his funeral. He wants to know when you'll be well enough to go and pick it up…?"

Robert Cavendish died in 1998, aged just forty two, and just two years after the car accident that claimed the life of his father. Though his wife Sarah devoted herself to his care after the accident he was never well enough to return to work, and his health, both physical and mental slowly deteriorated as time went by. She told her sister Jennifer that Robert was never quite the same again after receiving a package of his father's papers from his solicitor, but he would never talk about it. It still came as a surprise to his wife, however, when he was diagnosed with a brain tumour just six months before his death. It was inoperable, and spread rapidly, and Robert eventually died peacefully with Sarah at his side. As he lay in bed, his life slowly ebbing away, Sarah swears that Robert suddenly opened his eyes wide, look upwards towards the ceiling, and a strange look came over his face, followed by his last words, "They're here."

They had discussed the aftermath of his death in detail upon his terminal illness being diagnosed. Sarah followed Roberts's last wishes to the letter and he was buried near his father, with just family present. In accordance with his firm instructions Sarah emptied the safe in his study, and lodged a sealed package she found there with Robert's solicitors, with instructions that it be passed to his nephew Jack upon his reaching the age of twenty one. She had no idea what was in the package and Robert had expressly stated that she must never open it.

She continues to live in the house she shared with Robert, though she has often remarked to her neighbour Mrs. Armitage that she can sense a presence in the house, as though Robert is watching over her.

Robert's nephew Jack Thomas Reid is now ten years old, and the apple of his parent's eyes. He is a good looking boy, and in many ways bears a striking resemblance to his uncle Robert. In the last twelve months, however, the boy has begun to suffer from some strange behavioural problems, and is fixated with the sight and smell of blood. His parents hope he will grow out of this odd characteristic, and Jack is currently undergoing therapy with a specialist child psychiatrist.

Author's Footnote:

Students of the Jack the Ripper phenomenon will doubtless form their own conclusions as to the identity of the Ripper, as depicted in this story, based on clues provided in this book. I would ask those who have studied the case for many years and who may have their own solution in mind to remember that this tale is nothing more than a fiction, rather than an attempt to throw new light on an old subject. The suspect I have used as my model for the Ripper may or may not have been the infamous Whitechapel murderer, and the tale related in these pages is simply the product of an author's imagination. Or…is it?