The Samsara Project by David Burgess (romantic books to read .TXT) 📕

Chapter 1

Tuesday 3rd April 2006 – 14:30, Wimbledon and District Ladies Society

John Reynolds stood behind the podium facing his audience; He involuntarily cleared his throat, the rasping sound clearly picked up by the microphone just in front of him. The audience hushed and the room fell silent. John, realising he now had their attention, quickly glanced around the room and pressed the left button on his mouse and started up his Powerpoint presentation. The first image to flash up on the screen behind him was of a pretty 17 year old girl, taken around the late 1880’s in London’s East End.
“Emma Smith was 17 years old when this picture was taken and like many young women living in Victorian London she made her living as a prostitute in the Whitechapel district of London. It was rumoured, though never confirmed, that at the time, one woman in four was a working girl and most were able to make a reasonable, if not good living from their profession.”

Tuesday 3rd April 1888.

Emma had just left a ‘tom’ as she called her punters, and was walking back to her the damp, dark and foul smelling one room she called home. Emma though considered herself lucky; at least she had a room of her own. Many of her friends did not and she was only able to afford it because she was good at her work. “Why shouldn’t I feel good about myself”, she thought, “if I was in a normal job I’d feel proud if I was good at it? At least my ‘toms’ appreciate me, thank me, are good and kind to me. Well, at least most are. Not like those factory bosses, they’re the worst. At least I don’t have to work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week to bring home enough money to just about exist on.”
Emma turned into Osborn Street. She knew the area well, and despite what she had been warned about Whitechapel had never felt scared of walking through the streets alone. Here she felt safe.
The attack when it happened was as swift as it was brutal. The attacker hit her from behind with such force and power that she immediately hit the solid pavement beneath her. Emma felt her head hit the ground and bounce off it, jerking her neck upwards in the process before flopping down again. She felt herself go dizzy, her head begin to spin. Without warning her vision became blurred and her hearing muffled. She was still face down; the weight on top of her was like nothing she had experienced before, so heavy and so concentrated. She could feel the weight on her back forcing her chest into the ground, crushing her, forcing the air out her body and there was no way to replace it. She had heard that if you had to choose a way to die then lack of air was better than most, at least that’s what her brothers had told her. “It’s just like drowning at sea,” they said. “You just feel faint and then drift off to sleep.”
At this moment Emma knew that it was nothing like that, her body was screaming out for oxygen. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire, her agony was unbearable.
Emma felt a hand grab her hair. Her head and neck jerked up in a swift and sharp movement. The grip on her was strong. She could now smell her attacker. A strange thought entered her head, she could smell sweetness in the air, not strong but not unlike the faint scent of the flowers from the flower sellers she passed each morning.
The attacker had just made their first mistake, by pulling her neck up they had allowed Emma to catch her breath, not by much, but enough to put some fresh oxygen into her body, enough, with a rush of adrenalin, so she could force her body off the ground. This was something her attacker had not expected and it was more the element of surprise in her actions than anything else that caused the attacker to loosen his grip on Emma’s hair. Emma shook her head violently from side to side finally pulling her hair free from her attackers grip. Her attacker then leant back to try and regain his balance banking that his superior strength and size would be enough to hold the girl down. It wasn’t.
The element of surprise had now passed and Emma realised that she was now in a fight for her life. Emma had come from a large, rough East End family and was the youngest and smallest, only five feet two inches tall and a little over eight stone six pounds in weight. But what Emma lacked in size she more than made up for in strength and stamina. Emma had four brothers, all much bigger, stronger and tougher than she was and the one thing she learned from them was ‘winners don’t fight fair’. From a very young age Emma had learned that life was going to be hard for her and if she was to have any chance of surviving she would have to be as rough and tough, no, rougher and tougher than whatever was out there.
For the first time since the attack began Emma let out an ear piercing howling scream. At the same time she jerked her body round. The element of surprise was now starting, slowly, to turn in Emma’s favour. Her attacker had expected to make a quick getaway; he had not though taken into account the inbuilt survival instinct that we all possess. Emma continued to use every ounce of adrenalin fuelled strength she had and continued to twist and turn in every direction at the same time. She was now more like a trapped wild animal than a young girl. The attacker fell to the floor; Emma jumped up, still screaming, and kicked him hard and often. It did not matter to her where the kicks landed just so long as they did.
The attacker started to get up of the floor. He noticed Emma’s bag, lying on the ground where she had dropped it at the start of the attack. He made a run for the bag. This time he was just a bit too quick for her. Grabbing the bag he ran off into the shadows of Whitechapel.
Emma stood up, gasping for breath. Every nerve in her body was tingling. She felt cold and shivered. Looking around her she saw no one. Emma started to slowly walk but the enormity of the attack overwhelmed her and she dropped to the floor and started to cry, a small sob turning quickly into a flood of uncontrollable tears.
After what seemed an eternity Emma stood up and still sobbing ran the rest of the way home to the sanctuary of her one room.
Emma Elizabeth Smith may have considered herself to have been very unlucky that night in Whitechapel. She was in fact very lucky for this attack is considered to have been the first attack carried out by the serial killer who later became known as Jack the Ripper. The ripper must have learned a hard lesson himself that night because as far as we know Emma Smith was the only person ever to survive. From that point onwards, whenever the ripper attacked he was the only one ever to walk away and each murder scene he left behind was more gruesome and more grisly than the last.
John looked at his audience for the first time since the start of the presentation. Experience told him that he had kept their attention during the opening sequence. That did not surprise him. As a time served investigative reporter and crime writer for over fifteen years this was a presentation he had delivered on many occasions. In fact far too many to remember just how many. He now had his delivery down to an art form, knowing when to stop, when and what to emphasise and when to shock. That, he secretly admitted, was something he enjoyed. Tonight he had been invited by the ladies of the Wimbledon and District Ladies Society, a long established group of middle to upper class ladies who prided themselves on the charitable events and functions they put on throughout the year. Maybe giving something back gave them a sense of ‘doing the right thing’ although John suspected it was more likely to be a feeling of superiority. With associations such as this one that was usually the case.
What John was not aware of was that there was more than one lady in the audience who did not care at all about Jack the Ripper but had come along simply to see and hopefully meet John Reynolds. John was thirty eight years old, always immaculately dressed, made to measure suit, crisp, freshly pressed shirt, silk tie fastened with a Windsor knot and highly polished handmade leather shoes. A trim five feet ten inches tall and a respectable thirteen stone four pounds in weight ensured he looked as good in his clothes as the tailor had intended. John had a good growth of well groomed dark brown hair and hazel coloured eyes. He also had a classical Roman nose, slightly out of shape due to a playground fight when he was thirteen. Despite the fact he did not exercise on anything like a regular basis John was in good physical shape. Toned and athletic without being overly muscular he was, according to most of the women he worked with, drop dead gorgeous. John though had never thought of himself as being anything special and most of the time he found the female attention and flirting made him feel uncomfortable. Flirting and small talk was something he had never quite mastered.
John continued with his presentation. On the screen behind him came a photograph of Dannielle Eddowes. “Dannielle Eddowes is believed to be the rippers’ sixth victim. The photograph behind me clearly shows the extent of the escalation of violence and mutilation the ripper had worked up to. This photograph was originally black and white but thanks to the photography and IT specialists at the National Daily Herald we can see the scene as the detectives who first arrived would have found it.
The photograph on the screen was a very graphic account of what must have happened. The mutilation and gore was clear for everyone to see. Dannielle Eddowes stomach had been sliced open spilling intestines and guts out over the floor. Her uterus and left kidney had also been surgically been removed, in her case without any anaesthetic and while she was still alive. The picture clearly showed the expression on her face, the horror and abject terror of what was happening to her was clear for all to see. The only hope for her was that death came quickly, although this is doubtful. Around the audience John heard the familiar sound of coughing, followed in one cases by a retching noise. A Chair was moved quickly backwards as the women ran for the toilets at the rear of the hall.
John concluded his presentation twenty minutes later. The group politely applauded and John left the stage to join them for a buffet supper and to answer the many questions that came his way.
The evening had been organised by the Secretary of Wimbledon Ladies Association Mrs Janet Costello. Janet was also a long time family friend of Anne Reynolds, John’s mother. The two women had in fact attended school together and Anne knew John well. Despite being well into her late sixties