The Bargain

18 July 1888

Today, she had exchanged her dignity for money.

The woman sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating the sudden turn her life had taken. Resting her head on her hands she settled into the bed, glancing around the tiny room that she called hers now. Everything she saw reminded her of her new status. She was a kept woman now. A result of her little bargain.

A knock sounded at the door. That would be him. The man who had bought her. She could still remember him vividly from their meeting the day before. Tall and elegant, he had seemed like one of those charming gentlemen that her friends had told her about. He wasn’t of course, for no gentleman would buy his women from the likes of the seedy pub, The Ten Bells that she had asked to be her mediator. But one could always dream. Still, there had been something about him that had made her feel uncomfortable. A dangerous edge that he seemed to be hiding from her. Sure, he had given every appearance of being pleasant and amiable yesterday, but she had sensed a muted aura of danger around him. Still, she had no choice but to take him, for the sake of making a living.

Rising, she walked to door and opened it, then gasped when she saw the bauble in his hands. Simple but pretty, the gold chain was something she would never have been able to afford. With a happy smile she accepted it, than turned so that he could clasp the chain around her neck. Perhaps this deal wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

18 July 1888

The man strode out of the flat. The darkness of the night surrounding him and hiding him in its shadows. His mouth quirked up in a little smile as he thought of the silly little girl he had left behind. How he hated them! Cheap whores looking for some fun, thinking they could manipulate the men they chose to take into their beds. They were all the same. Drain the man till he was dry then move on to another one. The man spat on the ground bitterly. Never again would anyone be fooled by their innocent looks and their sweet, deceiving words.

“They will pay!” he told himself with vehemence. Tonight was just the first of many.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Guardian, 19 July 1888

Prostitute Found Murdered

“At about 3.40 in the morning, the body of a prostitute was found on the ground in front of a gated stable entrance in Buck's Row, a back street in Whitechape,l two hundred yards from the London Hospital. The prostitue, who has been identified to be one Ms Mary Ann Nichols, shows every sign of being the victim of a murder. Police say....”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

19 July 1888

He had come back late yesterday. She had not questioned him of course. Ever since his father’s death, he had withdrawn into a little shell, emerging only for food. She worried about him. How long could he go on like this, existing not living. So she had been overjoyed when the day before yesterday, he had elected to spend the day in town instead of moping in his room. But then he had returned, still in a morose mood and her own mood had taken a turn. It was all because of his wretched father. The man had been a nuisance. She could not truthfully say that she was sad at his passing. The only thing she regretted was the effect this had on her son. The boy had been unusually close to his father, even though he was nothing like that terrible man. So his father’s death had sunk him deep into a chasm of misery from which he refused to emerge.

“Only think”, she asked herself, “what would have happened if he found out that his father’s death had not been caused by heart attack but instead a prostitute”. It had served him right of course. He insisted on visiting them, and if he had treated them as badly as he treated her then he had it coming. But if her son ever found out the real cause of his death, then there would be hell to pay.

But it looked like he was recuperating. He had arrived late last night and he had seemed in a far better mood than she had expected. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Sitting down at her coffee table, she reached for the papers that lay on the other side. The news on the front page evicted a gasp of horror from her, before she engrossed herself in the news.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9 November 1888

He swirled the cloak around himself, becoming one with the darkness of the night. Yet another one, he thought with a manic grin. They called him Jack. Jack the Ripper. How they feared him. Every one of those dirty little sluts! They were right to be scared. He would rid Britain of their stain soon, free it of their kind. They were disgusting and they soiled the Britain’s pristine reputation. The people could only thank him for what he was doing.

He smiled yet again, satisfied. All of them had been so stupid. It was true, they were scared that they would be the next victim, yet they continued to ply their trade. Only idiots would do such a thing. Or those motivated by greed. After all, prices had gone up since the murders began.

He had made a bargain with each of them,