Whitechapel District, 1:25 AM--
Hey, there, love, why don't ye give it a suck?
Ah, piss off! she snapped, tossing her head back and striding down the street towards the raucous doorway of the Ten Bells public house. She smiled at a woman in a red dress who was busy talking to another acquantence, one she didn't recognise. Evening. Liz. Any luck?
The woman known as Long Liz Stride shook her head. None so far. How bout you?
Nah. But the night's still young, she reminded, and opened the door.
The Ten Bells was a noisy, smokey establishment that made little effort to hide its innate griminess. Drunken patrons hung onto each other as they roared into each others faces, and prostitutes vied for attention among the clusters of half-empty beer bottles that covered most of the tables. She fought her way through the crowds, casting glares at the men who tried to put their hands on her, and finally secured a spot at the bar, where a man stood, drying a glass and looking out at his customers in indifference.
Hey, Mac, she greeted. Get me a bottle of your cheapest, won't ye?
And when d;ya plan on payin' me, Mary Kelly? he asked, fixing her with a cold stare. Your tab's already three overdue.
Ah, I'll get ye the money, Mac, ye know I will, she answered, sitting down on a rickety stool. I just need a little time, that's all. Now, are ye gonna get me my drink, or are we gonna spend all night blowin' smoke outta our rears?
he grunted, and planted a bottle of scotch and a slightly dirty glass in front of her. But remember, you owe me.
Aa, I'll pay you next week, she said, pouring herself a shot. As Mary sipped her drink, she noticed a man at the end of the bar, isolated from all the others. His clothing was elegant but disheveled, and he stared down at his drink with empty eyes that didn't seem to notice any of the activity around him. What's his story? she asked, pouring herself another drink. Ain't seen him round here before.
Mac shrugged. His name's Abberline, he said. Used to be a beat cop round these parts. Ain't seen im in about a year. Don't know why he's back.
She smiled. Looks like he's just come from Hell, she said. How long has he been sittin' there?
Three hours, Mac answered. Throwin' money away like it ain't nothin'. And, no, don't ya think about it, he warned, noticing the glint that had come into her eye. Drunk or no, he's still a peeler and I don't want no business with them.
Dearest Mac, she smiled. What in the world gave ye that idea? They're no friends of mine, I can tell ye that for free. she cast one last glance at him before turning her attention back to her drink. Although, he do make me wonder what the Hell he's doin' here...
Hey, there, love, ya want me t'give it a suck?
Abberline peered with bleary eyes at the black-haired woman leering into his face. It took him a moment or two to fully register what she had said. I...no! No, thank you... He rubbed his face, trying to cut through the haze in his mind. He'd spent nearly all he had in that blasted place, and it hadn't done the trick at all. He'd gone in there to forget, but each shot of fiery liquid only seemed to sear the memory of her death deeper into his mind. He narrowed his eyes and staggered forward, his mind pitching at the slightest movement, holding his arms out for support. He looked a buffoon to all passing, but he was beyond caring. He centred his entire concentration on getting onto Commercial Street, on getting a cab home. Home. If he could only get there, everything would be all right. A good sleep was all he needed. Yes, home...
He looked up, blinking. He turned as well as he could, but could not discern his surroundings; for this he cursed himself, as he'd been on these streets for most of his professional career, and so should have been able to tell where he was. But, he reasoned with himself, he'd never been drunk at night on these streets. There was the difference.
He walked forward unsteadily, trying to regain his composure as he passed the many whores and drunkards that frequented Whitechapel at night. Normally he would have been disgusted at this spectrum of humanity-- tonight, he found it almost comforting. It was strange the way a man could change in the course of a few hours.
Abberline turned into a dark passageway that he knew cut into the next street. He was rather proud that he remembered such a minute detail, and so did not notice the dark shadow that snaked behind him, did not notice the heavy footsteps that echoed his. He didn't notice any of this, in fact, until he heard a sharp crack and the back of his head erupted in pain, sending his numbed brain into shock. He pitched forward but was caught by rough hands that pulled him upright by a gigantic bulk of a man with a knife scar across his face that had seemed to drop from the sky. He didn't try to resist as his arms were seized roughly and pinned behind him, beery breath coming from a voice near his ear. Well, well, well. What ave we got
Looks like a right toff, a second voice said, the man that it belonged to smiling as he came closer. He regarded his target in bemusement for a moment, and then his face twisted and he slammed his fist into Abberline's face. Abberline blinked for a moment, breathing heavily as pain coursed through his head, thanking God that his nerves were too dulled by drink to feel much else. The man grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, the other hand pressing a small, glinting knife to his throat. Yeah, a right toff. And ye know we don't like toffs round these parts. Do we now, Robert?
No, Charlie, we certainly don't, the man called Robert said. Check is pockets, Charlie. Might ave somethin' interestin'.
Abberline stayed silent as Charlie rifled through his coat and jacket, turning out pockets and spilling the contents onto the stones at his feet. He pulled out a leather billfold and flipped it open, looking inside. His eyes lit up and he whistled. Look here, Robert, he said in astonishment. He's a peeler!
A peeler? Robert tightened his grip on Abberline's arms and spoke into his ear, his words dripping in poison. Now, what are ye doin' here, peeler?
I was about t'ask im the same thing meself, Charlie said, shoving the knife at his throat again. Well, now, what are ye doin' out here for in such a state, guv'? Thought peelers weren't s'possed t'get drunk. Can getcha into trouble. As he spoke, he twisted the point of the knife slowly, methodically. Abberline felt the blade pierce his skin, and droplets of blood spurted up to splatter his collar and jacket with spots of crimson blood. Lots of trouble, the man grinned, showcasing a mouthful of broken teeth. What d'ya suppose would happen, Robert? the man asked. What d'ya suppose would happen, if our fine young man showed up with his throat cut? Ya think anyone would miss
I dunno, the man called Robert answered. Looks like e ain't one of the tops in is field. Maybe they won't miss im much.
Abberline looked at them apathetically for a moment, then craned his head up, baring his throat to the blade. If you want, he said calmly, slurring his words only slightly. Go ahead, sir. I won't stop you.
The man with the knife widened his eyes in surprise for a moment before bursting out into raucous laughter. Go ahead, e says! he cried happily. Go ahead! Dammit, there's a good un for ye! Now, me dear peeler, what would ye say if I were to...
They all turned at the shout. Standing in the mouth of the alleyway stood a woman, her arms crossed on her chest, her face angry. What the Robert muttered. What the ell are you doin'
Might as the same of you, she said, walking forward. She looked at them in disdain before speaking again. Ain't you got nothing to do but rob a drunk man? Really, you're gettin' below yourself, ain't ye?
Ah, piss off, Charlie snapped. Ain't none of your business, no how. Who cares if a peeler gets cut? Less out ere, the better.
You should care, she replied. S'posse he's important, ye thought about that? and what happens if he shows up dead? The whole of fuckin' Whitechapel's gonna get cleared out, that's what! They don't look to kindly on cop killers.
Charlie looked at her coldly for a moment longer, then tossed his head towards Robert. Ye eard er. Let im go.
But, Charlie...
Just do it, ye bastard! he snapped, pulling away the knife. Unless ye want t'end up in prison.
Robert grunted a bit, and then released him. Abberline dropped like a sack of potatoes to crash onto the stones, jarring his shoulder and hip before falling still. Charlie's shadow cast over him, and then a foot slammed into his stomach, sending a shock wave of pain rippling through Abberline's body, setting his nerve endings on fire. He tasted blood in his mouth and gasped for air, watching blearily as the two men pushed past the woman to escape to the street. He coughed as she approached, a small scarlet trickle spilling from between his lips.
Bloody bastards, she growled as she bent over him, turning him over onto his back. Hey, you all right? Can ye get up? He nodded dumbly and pushed himself up onto his knees. She pulled on his arm and helped him get to his feet, supporting him as he stood uneasily in the alleyway. She released him and bent down, picking up the items that had been scattered onto the stones by Charlie. she said, handing them back. I think that's everythin'. Charlie's a right bastard, but e can be scared off by prison. Now, c'mon, let me get a look at ye. She held his chin gently and moved his face side-to-side. Well, ye'll live, she announced. Not too bad. Now... she trailed off as she noticed the spotting on his shirt. Shite, you're bleeding! she cried, noticing the gash on his neck. Ah, Christ... She pulled out the handkerchief poking from his pocket and pressed it to the wound, frowning. Those sons-of-bitches. They really did a number on ye, didn't they?
Abberline said nothing, but raised his head to look at her face for the first time. He blinked his bleary eyes, rubbing at them with his fist before trying to focus them again. he asked quietly, his voice disbelieving but hopeful.
She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. Sorry, guv'. It's Mary, Mary Kelly. Though, I suppose I could be Victoria if ye want me to.
He closed his eyes as she dabbed at the cut with his handkerchief. I'm sorry, he whispered. I thought...I thought you were someone else.
That's all right, she said. Ain't the first time it's appened. What's your name, then?
he said, catching his breath. It's Fred.
Well, then, nice t'meet ya, Fred, she said. Here, lean on me, yer havin' a right hard time walkin'.
He smiled as he stumbled forward, resting his weight on Mary's willing shoulder. Look at me, falling over myself, he said. You'd think I were drunk.
Mary didn't say anything, but pushed through the throngs of people lining the dirty street, ignoring the amused gazes that they received. Where d'ya live? she asked after a while.
He looked at her suspiciously from the corner of his eye.
she asked, incredulously. You're drunk, beat up, and bleedin'. If I don't get ye home, who is?
he muttered. 17 East Poplar. There's money in my coat pocket.
Mary silently fished her hand into his pocket and pulled out the money, casting angry glares at the throngs that regarded the bills with envy. She raised up a hand at a coach passing by and shouted. she called. Hey, I got a sick man ere! Stop, won't ye?
I'm not sick, he protested weakly.
Yeah, and I'm the Pope. C'mon, she said to the cabdriver, who was looking at them with a bemused expression. Ain't ye never seen a man worse for wear? Help me with im, won't ye?
The coachman pulled open the door and Mary helped Abberline into it, propping him up in his seat as the coach began to move. 17 Eat Poplar, she called up, and then turned back to Abberline. Hey, ye gonna be all right? Mary asked, noticing his blanched face. Ye gonna be sick?
He shook his head. I'll be fine, he said. I'm just tired. So...bloody tired.
Well, ye just hang on a little longer, she said, rubbing his back. Ye just hang on, yer almost home. What the Hell brought ye out ere tonight, anyway? she asked. This ain't really the right neighborhood for chaps like ye, is it?
He shrugged. I suppose not, he said. Don't really know what I'm doing out here, myself.
Right, well ye just sit tight, she told him. And you'll be home fore ye can say Jack Robinson'. Ye sure ye ain't gonna be sick on me?
Yes, I'm sure, he said. If I was...oh, look. We're home.
Mary looked up to see a cramped home, tall but plain, looming out of the night. There was a wreath nailed on the door and a small row of flowers in the window boxes. It must have been cheery during the day, but at night it was almost oppressively gloomy.
The cabdriver opened the door and Mary shoved the money in his hand. He pocketed it quickly and looked at them. Do you need help...Miss? the driver asked, noticing Mary wrapping her arm around his passenger's waist. If you need...
I'm fine! she snapped. Now, I gave ye the money, so shove off and let us alone.
he nodded, climbing back to his post. A nice night to both of you!
Right, so where's your...Ah! Right, get back! Back, dog, back! Mary kicked at the small dog that nipped at her feet, growling as it ran around them.
Abberline groaned. Down, boy.
The dog looked at him for a moment and then cocked his head, trotting back to his basket by the fire. Mary looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Real nice fellow, she commented, then looked around the parlour. Nice place ye got here, she said admiringly. Real nice.Ye live here by yourself?
He nodded. I do now.
She caught his tone and frowned. What? Someone die? she asked. She paused, noticing his expression. Sorry. If ye don't want t'talk about it, than y'don't hafta.
Thank you, he said. I'd rather not. He removed his arm from her waist and held onto the back of a chair. I think I'll be fine from now on. Thank you.
Mary looked at him and shook her head. If ye try t'get up those stairs yourself, you'll fall and break your neck. Here, let me help ye.
he said, too tired to argue. Second door on the left. Watch the rug, it tends to slip.
Mary heeded this advise as she helped him up the stairs, pausing every so often before tackling another one. When they finally reached his bedroom, she let go of him for a moment to turn up the gas lamp that hung low from the ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the sudden light. The bedroom was small, with clothing and personal items put down in haste and forgotten. She noticed a pair of ladies shoes by the dresser, and wondered for the first time whether her charge was married, and whether or not his wife would be too happy to find her husband in the arms of a Whitechapel unfortunate. She didn't ask these questions, however, and instead sat Fred' on the edge of his bed, loosening his tie before leaning him back on the pillows. she said, lifting his legs up onto the mattress. There, you'll be all right now. It was nice t'meet ye, Fred. If you're ever in Whitechapel again, look me up. Goodnight, now, and ye sober up.
She turned, and was surprised to see his hand on her wrist. She looked back at him, and was started to see him looking up a her, his eyes alert and aware. Don't go, he said, looking up at her, his dark eyes pleading.
She looked at the hand on her wrist, and then to his eyes, staring up at her intently. They seemed to her to be the oldest eyes in the world, dark and empty. Lonely, she realised. She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. All right, she said softly. All right, if ye want me to.
He looked at her a moment longer, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch up, almost against their will. Thank you, he whispered. Thank you, Mary Kelly. Thank you.
Mary sat, silent for a minute, unable to speak. Sitting on a bed of fresh linens, in a home on Poplar Road, surrounded by photographs of happier times and crushed by the waves of melancholia that radiated from this strange man in front of her, she felt a million miles away from the back streets of Whitechapel...and somehow, like she'd never left.
And for Frederick Abberline, somehow it was all he needed.
