DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN RIPPER STREET OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS ASSOCIATED WITH IT

*PROLOGUE*

Everyone that knew Marilyn Judge, now Jackson, would describe the 18yr old petite brunette as a sharp beauty, who's as giving and kind as she is easy on the eyes. She was always the level headed one, never acting on impulse or making rash decisions. Though she tended to have a sharper tongue than most ladies should. Being a logical creature, she thought things through precisely and had her entire life planned out since she was 9. Now in her late teens her life was not on the path she'd envisioned for herself. When her brother asked her to leave with him and his wife Susan when she was 15, she had wanted to yell and tell him to piss off. She was planning on going somewhere in life and she certainly did not intend on that place being prison. But, he was still her older brother, and technically her legal guardian.

*ALBERT*

Albert Flight stood by the station window, one eye on the watch on his wrist. It was just after 9:30, that magical hour when most of the traffic died down and the neighborhood in the old downtown area settled in for the night. Across the road he could see some early Christmas decorations, but he knew that the real lighting up would start in about two weeks.

She would be along soon.

He shifted the threadbare curtain a little to the side and tried to peer down the street, attempting to see her approach sooner, but he knew she would appear around the corner as always, and that he would have no chance to look at her neat little form until she does. He looked at his watch. Another minute had passed.

She would be along soon.

He fretted restlessly when the minutes continued to trickle away, like the incessant dripping of droplets in the back of his mind; a tap that didn't quite close all the way.

She would be along soon.

And then, finally at 10, she was there. His hands tightened around the folds of the curtain as he watched her round the corner, his very being tightening up in anticipation as his eyes followed her hungrily. She was wearing a dark, mid-thigh-length coat over a slender pale green dress, and he could see her shapely legs taking carefully measured steps.

Her head was bent down, as always, obscuring her features. He knew a little about her – her skin was milky pale in comparison to her dark coat. Her hair was also dark, long and straight, and was usually tucked away behind her ear. Her arms were always folded across her chest, as if she was trying to get away from her surroundings by climbing into herself. She was a picture of despondency and hopelessness as she walked down the pavement, the mist from the street puddles whipping around her legs with ghost-like tendrils.

She was breaking his heart.

He followed her with his eyes, knowing her pattern well. Under the next streetlamp she would stop, bend over to adjust her shoe in the weak glow, and then continue into the lower half of the building to see her brother. And he would have to wait until Jackson had gone into his work area until he could speak to her. What did it say about him, about how low he's sunk, that these two minutes of watching a girl walk down the street was the culmination of all his hopes and dreams? That his every day was spent in a state of endless waiting, waiting? He was forever waiting for something – for the night to be over so he can get up, for the shops to open so he can struggle down the stairs with his mind screaming in protest to buy coffee and a breakfast pastry. For the afternoon to pass so he could sit in the small little office the station was outfitted with and watch the sun set over the dingy part of the city horizon he was privy to.

He watched her as she stopped on cue, her fingers busily tweaking at the straps of her shoes. More than anything, he was always, always waiting for her.
She got up after a few seconds and his eyes followed her as she proceeded down the street to the station, her pace a little faster now, as if she was suddenly aware of the hour and the fact that she was a pretty girl, walking alone. When he could no longer see her, he pulled the curtains in place and turned around, facing the dingy office he slept in. And deep down, he knew, the longest wait of all was the countdown of years that would mark the end of his miserable existence.

*MARILYN*

Her feet were killing her. Her swollen ankle was throbbing from her earlier slip on a wet floor, and she wanted nothing more than for the day to end so she could go home with Homer who, if tonight was like any other, would tell her that they had to stay at the station overnight because of an autopsy that needed to be done. Her back was no longer aching as much as burning from carrying heavy trays of food back and forth, the pain a constant companion in her lower back. Angelo, the owner and manager of the small restaurant she worked at, had gotten one of the girls to wrap threadbare tinsel around the clock and cash register. Despite the fact that it was clearly older than the shop, it was still ugly and gaudy, a glittery, cheap string of false cheer that did nothing but highlight the shop's worn-down visage.

She ended her shift at nine-thirty with an argument with Angelo who wanted her to stay for 'stock taking', his term for sexually harassing the girls when there was nobody around to help them. She refused and, knowing her brother worked with the police, left without another word.

She clutched the black carry-all that held an extra shirt and slacks for Homer, some clean socks, a dress, a comb and a few tampons in case she ever needed them unexpectedly. The cheap second-hand pocketknife was stashed in the pocket of her coat, where she could reach it were anything to happen.

She was in a bigger hurry than usual, walking as fast as she could on her sore ankle and looking around her edgily. The shadows seemed denser, the streetlights dimmer, the air quieter. She hated this part of the city during the night. It was dark and it smelled like old trash and the murky, filthy water of the puddle that littered the street. She was being stupid, Marilyn decided. She had been walking this route every night for the past three years, and nothing has ever happened to her before.

She swallowed her fear and walked on down the street. The rest had not done her ankle good. It was cooling down and stiffening up and she winced each time she stepped on it. She limped around the corner that would take her down the semi-nice street with the old buildings. Most of them had been townhouses in their hey-days, but they had fallen into slight disrepair since. She imagined living in one of them. It would be warm, and the roof wouldn't leak in eleven places every time it rained. She wouldn't have to listen to the sound of sex or pinch her nose at the smell of whore. In the winter, she would light a fire in the living room, and she and her brother would sit in front of it.

And maybe the sky would rain money and Unicorns soon.

This was certainly not the best part of London. Standing across the street from her destination, Marilyn saw nothing but dull, worn, dirty brick. The building she was interested in was two stories high and at least a hundred years old and the street level windows were covered in metal caging. The ground level seemed to have started life as a small holding building, with offices on the floor above, because the bricks on the above floor looked newer and redder. The entire neighborhood was made up of similar structures, interspersed with garbage strewn, potholed, lots. At one time, serious retailing in mom and pop stores occurred there, just like every other city. Perhaps butcher shops, small glasses repair, leather goods, shoe repair, convenience goods and dry goods. And like everywhere serious alcohol production and bootlegging began to choke the life out of every village, town, and city. It was clear that alcohol had taken a stronghold on this exact block. Now it is factories, rookeries, chop shops, brothels, and seedy pubs. This neighborhood was stuck in no man's land; both years away from rejuvenation, and decades past its prime. The date was the 3rd of December, and the time on the street clock said ten p.m. Everything was closed, except for the bars and the police station across the street. The one place that never closes.

She walked into the station and heard what could only be her brother yelling. "I swear, if you say one more thing I'm going to break every knuckle in your goddamned hand! All fifteen of 'em." He was standing in front of Inspector Reid and Sergeant Drake. "Your hand only has fourteen knuckles." She said as he walked toward the three men. "Not now Mary." Jackson said holding up a finger and storming off to his infirmary.

"Miss Jackson, why don't you take your things to the other spare room upstairs. It seems as though your brother will be staying here tonight." Inspector Reid spoke to her, nodding towards the upstairs. Marilyn smiled at him and said her hellos to everyone and continued up there, leaning against one of the doors, was Detective Flight. "Miss Jackson," he spoke to her.

"Please call me Marilyn."

"I take it from the bag that you and Jackson will be staying here tonight?" Albert awkwardly notes in his thick Irish accent, pointing at the bag. Marilyn nodded. "Well, ill be over her if you need anything."

"Yes," she laughed," you tell me every time we have to stay the night."

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK!? DO YOU LIKE IT? I COULDN'T FIND ANY STORIES WITH DETECTIVE FLIGHT AND IT MADE ME SAD BECAUSE I LOVE HIM AND THINK HE'S MISUNDERSTOOD. ANYWHO REVIEW AND SUCH, AND ILL UPDATE AS SOON AS I CAN