Whitechapel by Matthew A. Hamilton

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She left the Frying Pan Pub at 2:30am. She walked in zigzags and talked to herself. She turned onto Bucks Row. The boarding school was dark and silent. She thought she heard a child’s voice up on the roof—they often played there—but realized it was only the wind whipping across the alleyway bringing the last smells of the afternoon thunderstorm. A man approached her and offered her money. Having little she accepted. He took her hand, guided her deeper into the darkness. He gently spoke to her. “My place is very near here,” he said. I have warm food and beer, tea if you rather take that.” “Thank you,” she said. “You are a kind man, kinder than that bastard on Thrawl Street.” She cleared her throat and spit. “He kicked me out of his Inn, you know, said I didn’t have enough money. I assured him I would have it very soon.” She took off her black bonnet. “I showed him this. I told that bastard to save a bed for me.” “The bonnet was a gift?” the man said. “From your lover, perhaps.” “Yes,” she said, “a gift.” “What is your name?” he said. “Mary,” she said. “Mary Nichols. But my friends call me Polly.” “May I call you Polly?” “Certainly.” As they neared the Blackwall Buildings she asked, “Do you live here?” “Yes,” he said. He drew his knife. Polly saw it flash under the street light. Before she could scream her mouth filled with blood.

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