Back we go, back to Whitechapel 1888 when London squirmed in fear of the bloody blade of a remorseless and seemingly unstoppable killer. Although there are many familiar elements at play in this dark story I would wager the killer in the story is not the one you most associate with this time and place.Spring heeled Jack still stalks this autumn of terror but so does someone or something else .This is the tale of the Torso Killer, a killer whose hideous work is overshadowed by the hysteria generated by the diabolical work of the more notorious Jack The Ripper but whom in sheer gory terms is actually worse and even more grimly disturbing(almost as disturbing as the rigid unyielding and utterly merciless Victorian class system as portrayed so brilliantly by the author) Sarah Pinborough really brings very vividly to life the era and how tough the times were for the poor and those without the benefit of means.There is horror between the pages of this book and terror making its vile way up from beneath the city streets and into the hearts and minds of men. As chilling as the supernatural elements of the book are it is the real world poverty of the soul which is the real disturbing stalking beast. The poor of Whitechapel seem to drown their anguish in an endless fountain of gin and sell the only thing they own to fuel their thirst; their own bodies. There is no pretense of a dark romance or a poetic supping with panthers. This is a cannibal feast of flesh with appetites stoked to ravenous in the shadow of a beast. A beast that revels in cruelty, madness and mayhem.
1888, what a year for dark thoughts.
