Maybe Jack was a Jekyll and Hyde as well. Maybe all through that summer of 1888 he was going to classical music concerts by lovely young violinists and pianists (were there young female violinists and pianists in those days? what were their names?) in the West End at lunchtimes, filled with overwhelming feelings of love for his wife, crying his eyes out, and then just at night he was out hunting prostitutes in Whitechapel. I know after a long period of being good, my well starts to fill up, and I develop a real delicious longing to be naughty again. Every night I go to work on the 67 down Commercial Street, past the Ten Bells, and the white spectral Christchurch, and the alleyway where Miller’s Court and the doorstep where Mary Kelly’s bed precisely used to be, and get off opposite St Botolph’s Church, and cross Vine Street where Jack perhaps headed up on the night of the double event, blood-soaked, where the whistle-blowing policemen chased him knowing it to be a dead end, only to find him…vanished. I cross Vine Street every night and think of him.