The Church Street Harlot

Concealed within the blackness of a cab, Mary alternated between terror and calm. Thus man was not what she had expected. Yet she might have guessed that the perpetrator of such sophisticated killings would be a sophisticated man. Mary was half in awe of him. What woman would not be? He was alluring, and he almost seemed to taste of danger. It was a potent mixture. Mary kept stealing glances at him. He looked back, half smirking. Mary shivered. Then she remembered the knife concealed within her breast. Its cold blade gave her comfort.

The cab stopped. It did not seem to have been moving for long. Where had be brought her? Mary had half expected him to take her on the streets. But he had simply whisked her away. To where? Alighting from the cab, Mary looked around. It seemed like an ordinary Whitechapel street. With a wave of his arm, the man directed Mary into a shadowy doorway, and she climbed the stairs. The building appeared to be derelict. As she ascended the damp, narrow passage, Mary chastised herself. Of course, it made sense. The killer would not just cut up his victims on the street. It would be too great a risk. So be must bring them here. To his den. Mary had been brought to his lair. Where there would surely be no prospect of escape.

She pushed aside the door at the top of the stairs and entered the room. The man entered behind her, closing the door. This time, Mary did not contain her gasp. The man laughed. A low, rattling laugh.

"Welcome," he said.

Mary looked around, wide eyes adjusting to the gloom. What from the outside has seemed an ordinary, run-down building was like a cave inside. The room was dark. It seemed to go a long way back. A myriad of mirrors only made it look bigger. A canopy of purple silks hung from the ceiling. Candles burned low in their brackets, dripping black wax into tarnished silver holders. A huge, four-poster bed, lined with black velvet, occupied the centre of the room. And the air was thick with incense. Mary thought she could smell opium in the seductive smoke. Then, beneath the perfumed scent, she thought she could smell blood. Her insides lurched.

The man approached her. He had removed his coat. He wore a waistcoat of quilted crimson silk. That too reminded Mary of blood. He stood behind her. His hair brushed her cheek.

"Undress."

Mary did so. She peeled off the corset that contained her knife, and tossed it to one side. She had no choice. She could not act now. She would have to wait until he was vulnerable. And this room was probably stuffed full with the instruments of torture. She discarded her underskirts. The man lay sprawled on the bed, watching her, until she had stripped and has nothing but her lingerie.

"Stop. Come closer."

So she sat on the bed with him. He untwisted her hair.

"What is your name?" she asked, seized by a bold impulse.

He merely smirked at her, as he continued to unspool her curls. "That is not important."

Mary knew what would come next. She was an expert; she knew all of the signs. So when he pilled her towards him, savagely, locked her in an embrace, a forceful, flaming kiss - she did not think of her plan, or its execution. That would come later. She thought only of the present. Of her form twisting upon the silken bed.

The man was insatiable. He took her twice, three times. It did not matter to Mary. What disturbed her was not what he did to her. That, she did not mind. Even as death lingered on the stairs. Even as the night wore on, and she knew that her dissolution was approaching. He was like a wolf, but she clawed back, with ferocity - and she was equal to it.

But after the third time, he raised himself up, resting on his elbows, and fixed her with such a stare.

"Now," he said, in a ragged, lust-soaked growl, "Now."

"Now what?" Mary asked, and she found that her voice was reduced to a cracked whisper.

He did not answer. He got up from the bed, crossed the room, and opened a drawer. With his back turned to Mary, he began looking for something. The sinister clink of metal echoed in her ears. She stood up, too, limbs quivering. Naked and vulnerable, she might be, but she would face death on her feet. She looked around, calculating - perhaps - but no.

He had turned to face her, and he held a long knife in his hand. A blade, sharpened to a razor's fineness. It reflected in the candlelight.

"So you know why I am about to do this?" he asked, with a low voice.

Mary shook her head.

"I barely know myself. Is it for power, or for beauty?" He seemed to speak to the blade, almost lovingly. "No matter."

Then he flashed Mary a half-insane grin, and lunged at her. With a shriek, she ducked. He chased her around the bed, slashing at the air, and she knew that if he caught her, she was dead: he would be too strong for her. He had almost cornered her. Then, desperately, Mary dived behind one of the many mirrors, and for a moment, it was a shield between them. He reached around it, attempting to grab her by the throat. Then Mary took the mirror, threw it between the, and it shattered. He screamed, and recoiled, for a second. Splinters were embedded in both of them. Blood ran down Mary's arms. She took a broken shard of mirror in her hands, and then, wrestling, he forced her down onto the bed, held the knife above her eyes - and froze. He froze, as she drove the shard of mirror between his ribs.

His eyes widened. Then he gave a final, insane laugh. He fell, face down, on the bed. His own blood gurgled sickeningly in his throat.

Mary stood for a long time. Hours, perhaps. Or maybe merely minutes. Her breathing returned to normal. She picked the glass from her arms. Now, what to do? She knew just the thing.

She dressed herself, hastily. She took her own knife from her corset. Them she slashed down the drapes that hung from the ceiling. She soaked them with the wine she found in a drawer, drinking some for herself, too. Then she wrapped the body in that purple shroud, and set fire to the bed, heaping on all the candles she could find. A choky inferno filled the room.

Mary ran down the stairs, and out into the night. The place was deserted. By the time the blaze was discovered, no traces would be left. No one would ever guess. Her involvement would never be known. And neither would the identity of the killer, if he had any identity at all.