Ripper Row

Confessions

I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. There are spiderweb like cracks that spread across the wall in thin streaks and my eyes flow aimlessly. Pierre, Pierre, Pierre... It really is a beautiful name. Pierre J. Marius. I wonder what J stands for. James? Jonathan? I suppose I could ask during dinner tonight. That is going to be interesting indeed.

There is a knock on the door and I scramble off of the bed. Pierre stood in the doorway, a small smirk on his face. "Are you excited there darling?" he asks.

"That would be one way to put it," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"Well then, shall we be going?" he asks, offering out his hand.

I take his hand and his warm fingers close over mine. It feels wrong for his hands to be this comfortable around mine. They should be cool to the touch, sending a chill down my spine like when I first saw his silhouette in Mary Jane's room. We walk down the corridors and he smiles over at me. "How have you been doing Love? I haven't seen you in quite some time," he says.

"That may be because your temperament cannot stand to be in the same room as my thoughts," I say.

"Only when your thoughts decide to impose on my private matters," he says, clearing his throat, "I'd like this night to go without fighting Riley."

"You said that earlier today and you ended up storming out of my room," I say.

He sighs. "I am aware that my temper rises in short periods of time, but I am attempting to make amends," he says.

"I suppose we will see how that well that will turn out," I state.

"Riley..."

"What? You've told me that once before and I almost believed you. There is no way we could be on a good standing if I cannot even know your name," I say.

But I do know his name. Pierre J. Marius... He is only unaware of that. We walk into the dining hall, where only two sets of dishes are set out along with some candles. The two of us sit in front of our meals, which look quite delicious. Lauren must be an excellent cook. "I do not understand why it is so important for you to know. The name Jack serves it's purpose and if nobody else knows then I see no reason for you to know," he says.

"Then how about a game? I try to guess your name and you tell me if I am close or not," I say, cutting my food, "It'll be fun."

"What happens if you cannot guess it? What is in it for me?" he asks with a small grin.

"Then your identity is completely safe and I will never ask again," I say.

"Fine," he says, folding his arms over his chest with an amused expression, "You get three guesses and two hints with each guess. If you cannot figure it out, then you must continue the rest of the night without asking me about anything personal and without argument."

"Deal," I say, confident that I will win.

I know his name, I just need to confirm it. "What's the origin of your name?" I ask.

"Excuse me?"

"Origin, such as British, Scottish, French, Irish-"

"French," he says.

"First letter?" I ask.

"You'll have to guess that yourself and I will either confirm or deny," Jack says, the devious grin not straying from his face.

"P?"

I notice the corner of his mouth twitch slightly, but he keeps the grin. "Yes."

"Okay, first guess is... Phillip," I say.

The grin has vanished now and I see his eyes slanting slightly as he looks me over. "No," he says.

He definitely recognizes that name. "Alright then, what about... Pierre?" I ask, "does that sound familiar?"

His entire body becomes rigid as he stares at me. I remain calm, trying to seem as innocent as I possibly can. "Phillip was my father's name," he says quietly, beginning to pour himself a glass of wine.

"Your-"

Jack holds up a finger to his lips, motioning me to be quiet before tapping his ear slightly. They're listening. The men must be right outside the doors, waiting for an opportunity to come in and destroy me. "So," I say, matching his tone, "your name is Pierre. Pierre J. Marius."

It takes him a moment to nod, taking a drink from his wine glass. "It has been awhile since I have been known by that name though," he says.

"Your family doesn't live in England, correct?" I ask, a large lump in my throat.

"They do not and good riddance too. I'd hate for them to be subjects to the Old World," he says in disgust.

"You're American then?" I ask, "I dunno who else would call this the Old World."

"I lived there with my aunt and uncle, they adopted me when I was a babe. I came back here to find my mother," he states.

"Where is your mother?" I ask, continuously pushing my luck.

His fist firmly clenches around the handle of his butter knife and I know that I pushed him too far; but he closes his eyes for a moment and slowly lets go. "Dead," he says.

Perhaps in normal situations, it would be necessary to say 'I am sorry for your loss' or apologize for bringing it up in the first place. This is not a normal situation though. He is the Ripper and he murdered my sister. Therefore, I should have no sympathy towards him. Yet I still glance down at my plate, letting the silence consume us. "Riley?"

I look back up, seeing Jack- Pierre- whoever he is supposed to be. "Are you alright?" he asks.

It is that expression again, the one where he seems concerned for me and kindness can be spotted in his eyes. It continually confuses me. "Why tell me this now? Days ago you would have prefered to kill me than admit these things," I say.

"I had a change in heart."

"You seem to have those a lot," I say. He wants to make amends, he has a change in heart.

"I'm not going to lie to you, I have been doing a piss poor job at keeping to my word at times," he says, "but I am trying, that I can promise."

Before I can process it, his hand is holding mine gently. "Promise," he whispers.

I nod my head slowly. "Okay Jack," I say.

"Pierre," he says, smiling slightly, "please call me Pierre. It's been so long since I have heard someone call me that."

I smile, "Pierre..." I say, "one more question."

"I may have an answer," he says.

"What does the J stand for?"

"Jaccques. It's always been the name for the black sheep of the family in past years and I suppose my father thought it would be amusing," Pierre says, "but lets eat."

And we did. The rest of the night was wonderful. So wonderful that the simple fact that I was eating dinner with Jack the Ripper, or that he murdered Mary was in such a far corner of my mind it did not even exist. It was just Pierre and I.