There’s an optical illusion that many women take advantage of. Namely, the fact that if she wears good clothes – and by good I mean good quality as well as style – which frame, display or camouflage the correct body parts, she can hide the fact that she is not, lacking these accoutrements, physically attractive in any way.
A favourite technique is to display mounded breasts above scaffolding of the most torturous order. With enough money spent on the quality of this supportive structure, along with well-fitting jeans or, for those with a truly vile physiognomy, a buttock-revealing skirt, a woman can acquire almost anything within certain boundaries. I once met one woman who permanently penetrated the upper-middle classes by utilizing that method. Of course, she was killed by La Ripper Nuevo, but I’ll get onto that later.
Claire was a social climber of the absolute worst order. She would flirt with, pout at or fuck anyone she needed to to get exactly what she wanted. She was an valueless opportunist, who was, at one point, shagging every man in my social circle. It was a kind of open secret that she was the Club’s bicycle, but if anyone ever mentioned an observed meeting, the accused would of course have to play the ‘outraged and wronged’ part in that well-worn dramatic production.
I chose not to partake of that particular hobby, as I felt unenamoured with the idea of having myself covered in the excited excretions of other men. I can only imagine the disease and filth of which she became a fetid conveyance before the end.
The Ripper began small, unimportant and slow. He killed the unwanted and anonymous. It was a study in economic sociology. Only with Claire McClaren did he begin to hit the headlines of the wretched red-tops. The more serious papers would catch on before the week was out.
She had been fellating a happily-married real estate magnate. I think, after two years of untargeted promiscuity, she was searching for the role she felt she was born to play: that of a pampered second wife. Suitably serviced, my esteemed mustachioed friend left her alone to reconstruct her facade. That was the last bloodless encounter anyone ever had with her.
The thing I remember the most was her mother’s eyes when she visited the Club months later. The police were pursuing Mr. N. Ripper’s later victims and were not pursuing the specifics of Ms. McClaren’s case to the extent the senior Ms. McClaren would expect. So, she arrived at the club in ill-fitting, discount store clothes with a dog-eared picture of a young, unrecognisably innocent Claire. She asked stupid, repetitive questions and ultimately left disappointed. Her eyes, though; they seemed to be repeating the Guardian‘s now-famous account of the loss of her daughter.
She blinked: “Claire was slit from throat to genitalia.”
She wiped away a tear: “Her head was displayed on the mantlepiece of the almost deserted ______ Club.” (I choose not to name the club, as it has gained enough notoriety from this lascivious case as it is.)
She enacted what I think she imagined were puppy-dog eyes at a colleague in the hopes of more information, and they seemed to shout: “Almost all of the young woman’s organs were taken, save her reproductive organs, which were arranged in a nearby leather armchair.” It was an awful thing, too: that chair was terribly comfortable. With the police now, I suppose.
I understand that the Ripper plans to take a vacation. His senior partners seem to think he deserves a break, and I tend to agree. There had been an ‘action’, as he called them, every Sunday night for the past six weeks. He felt loath to break that record, though he longed for Vienna in the Spring.
Being the gentleman that I am, I felt the need to take over his responsibilities. That said, I have to admit that the chippy little thing who lives in an apartment opposite my own did prompt the decision. She comes home near-nightly with a bare arse, a stink of booze and a strange man or two. I have been spending my evenings in the club, post-golf, considering what I might do to cleanse her behaviour before the final chop…