Lately, however, when he wasn't at the den chasing the dragon, he spent his evenings with far more interesting, yet not very responsive companythe disemboweled corpses of Whitechapel whores.
Suffice it to say, he much preferred the quiet days of the dog and the drink.
He approached each murder with the poise and strong stomach of a true professional, and did not appear to be too terribly affected by these most gruesome and mysterious murders. The only one who suspected it to be taking any sort of toll on his mental and emotional well-being was Sergent Godley, who'd always, ever since the beginning of their partnership, made it his business to make sure that Abberline was at least somewhat all right, something that was a constant annoyance to the inspector, but also secretly appreciated. No one else gave a damn about him, anymore, and though Godley's affection often came in the form of a lip-splitting slap in the face and a few reprimanding words, it was still better than the nothing he recieved from everyone else...
...until just recently.
His sweaty fingers grasped himself tightly but gently as he waited patiently for his brain to switch gears. He closed his eyes and tried to banish all the images of blood and gore and mangled prostitutes that had been plaguing him night and day, in his dreams and before his very eyes. He wasn't sure which frightened him more; the dreams and premonitions he had, or the actual thing, which was somehow less real than what was in his head. He tried instead to picture her face, soft and pale, curls of the brightest and most vivid red spilling down, all around in tight spirals, a few wisps caught in the corner of her pink and pouting mouth. Her eyes, the deepest green, so dark that they sometimes appeared brown; so bright that they sometimes appeared blue. They seemed to change with her mood, which was always as firey as her hair. Whether she be frightened or enraged, excited or sorrowful, there was always such passion burning behind those beautiful eyes, so intense and alive, even when her friends were being slaughtered, right and left.
How he longed to touch her...to help himself to a handful of those soft curls, and not just those that graced her pretty head. He wanted to run his fingers along her jawline and cheekbones, to cup her face with the palm of his hand and caress her full lips with his thumb. As he stroked himself beneath the covers, he imagined how soft and fleshy they would feel beneath the pad of his thumb, how wet and warm her mouth would be when his thumb parted those gorgeous lips and stroked her tongue as she sucked gently at his thumb.
Being close to her made him nearly as mad as all the chaos that constantly surrounded him. So often he tried to convince himself that he could have her, any time he wanted. It would be so easy to just invite her into his home, one evening. To explain that the case was wearing on his emotions and sanity, and that her company would surely help. Or to press her against a wall in an empty alley, somewhere (which, he knew, wasn't the easiest to find in Whitechapel). Would she refuse, after he'd bought her dinner, taken her to the gallery without shame and otherwise shown himself to be trustworthy? She might...
...she might just think that his being kind and generous to her was simply his way of getting into her knickers, like so many other men had done. She was a whore, after all...but Abberline went against his natural instincts as an inspector and tried to ignore that small detail. He didn't really see her as her profession, but as simply herself; a lovely girl who was dealt a rotten hand in life and could not help her situation...but he could. And he wanted to...he was just hesitant to get too close to her. He hadn't been close to anyone since Annie died, and the thought of having to go through that again, well...he'd just as soon die, himself.
But surely, there would be no harm in getting to know Mary for who she really was and not just the walking, talking sexual favour that everyone else saw. And suppose he -did- get to know her, when all of this was over, and they made love, would he be expected to pay her, like so many, before him? No. He could take her away from that life of degradation, forever.
Godley had, of course, guarded against it, discouraging his friend from falling for a bangtail for his own good...but it was too late, for that. He was damned, for sure. She had awoken his male instincts and now he could never really sleep.
He moved his hand more swiftly up and down his length as he pictured her breasts, round and supple with nipples the same lovely pink as her mouth. He slowly ran his tongue along his top teeth and tried to imagine how divine it would be to have one of them between his lips.
Sweat was beginning to form in a thin sheen upon his furrowed brow. As he continued the movement under the blankets, his entire body began to perspire, and soon, small beads of it could be seen dripping from his temples to cheekbones, and down to his unshaven jawline before completing their journey at the base of his neck and dissolving in the white cotton collar of his shirt.
His breathing became heavy, small growls catching in his throat as he exhaled. His eyelids fluttered and he clenched his teeth. He was almost there...
"Still in bed, inspector?"
His eyes flew open, his hand jerked instinctively away from his erection and he sat bolt upright at the sound of a man's gruff voice as its owner walked brisquely into the bedroom.
"Godley...?" Abberline breathed, confused. His sweaty brow crinkled at the centre as he gathered the blankets to his waist to hide what lie beneath them from the eyes of his unexpected guest. "What time is it?"
"Nearly eleven, man. I was expecting you at ten! You been in bed, all this time? Are ye not feelin' well, then?"
Abberline swallowed hard and raised his eyebrows to try and open his eyes against the dim light of the room. It -appeared- to be nighttime...but then it was often cloudy in the city, and the heavy drapes were drawn shut over the windows.
"...sorry...I..." He lay back down and covered his face with his hand, trying to hide the pain that was quickly replacing the pleasure in his nether regions. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well."
"If it was too early for ye, ye could've jus' said so an' that'd be that. I'm goin' down ter th' Ten Bells. Got some small business ter take care of, but I'll come back in an hour or so. 'Opefully ye'll be feelin' a bit better by then, eh?"
Abberline nodded and scrubbed his brow with his sleeve. "'Opefully..." he muttered, his hand snaking back down beneath the heap of fabric situated over his crotch to relieve his aching erection.
"Oh, by th' way, inspector," Godley said, apparently having turned on his heel when Abberline wasn't looking.
Abberline groaned despite himself and brought his hand back up to rest on his chest. He drummed his fingers in no particular rhythm against his heaving sternem as he waited for Godley to finish speaking.
"I spoke to your Jezebelle again last night, after ye'd left. Bumped inte 'er on th' street. Told me a few things what might be of interest to ye."
"I'll be sure ter catch up with 'er later, thanks," he said, the impatience behind his calm voice threatening to push through. He'd barely even heard what the sergent had said, so focused was he on his own manhood. His ears perked up at the mention of Mary, but right now, there was something further south and far more important perked up that would have to be dealt with before anything else.
"Right, then," he said, tipping his hat before turning to leave, ihopefully for good, this time/i Abberline thought ruefully.
He craned his neck and watched the large man lumber down the hallway and finally out the door.
No sooner had the door shut behind Godley than he'd thrown the covers from himself, grabbed his cock, which was now as hard as a metal post, and given it the last few firm tugs that was necessary to send him violently spiralling into pleasurable oblivion.
His mouth opened wide and his eyes clenched shut as he gasped and shuddered in the most satisfying orgasm he'd had for a very long time. His testicles had been swelling with tension for weeks, something which wasn't helped by that firey Irish rose, one bit. It felt so good to finally be rid of it.
But there were still many things troubling his abused mind, things which would not be so easy to aleviate; things far more complicated than interrupted masturbation, and yes, even more frustrating.
There were people Abberline would have to talk to, and soon. These conclusions he was coming to wanted confirming, and there was just one person who could do that.
He would speak with Sir William, that afternoon, but only after he spoke with Mary. Maybe she'd realised something that could be of use to his investigation...or maybe she just wanted to see him. He hoped that last bit wasn't just wishful thinking, though he knew it probably was. Although, she did seem to have taken a liking to him. She smiled a lot, and wasn't afraid to get close to him...but then, she wasn't really afraid to get "close" to anyone...
Since his wife died, Abberline hadn't been exactly what you'd call a very positive person, but he was trying very hard to stay on the bright side of things, for sanity's sake, and to muster enough courage to make a move on Mary, without seeming like the complete rascal she was accustomed to dealing with and therefore negating any progress he'd made with her, thus far.
Confused and unsure of himself, he sighed and closed his tired eyes. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to keep doing this to himself before he really -did- go mad, but he -did- know that he was nearing his wit's end.
He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. All he did was think and drink and feel sorry for himself, though he wouldn't readily admit it to anyone, especially not Godley, whom he trusted more than anyone.
He didn't know what to do. He knew he should just get up, get dressed and go meet Godley, but he didn't want to. He didn't really want to do anything. Lack of sleep had raped him of motivation and energy, and all he could do was lay there, staring up at the stained white ceiling whose plaster had been chipping for years, cracking gradually like the walls of his fragile mind. He could repair them, but it took too much effort and energy he didn't have...it would be a much easier task if he had someone to help him with it...
When he could no longer lay on his back and stare blankly at the ceiling, he turned over on his side, and when he could no longer do that, he reluctantly peeled himself from his bed and dressed himself. He wanted a bath, but that would just mean more idle time; time which he would be left alone with his unstoppable thoughts. The wheels in his head were turning so rapidly he fancied he could hear them whirring about between his ears. He had to get away. He had to be distracted.
He would meet Godley at the pub, talk things over, probably scratch a few things into his little black book, and go on to talk to Sir William and Mary, and take more notes. He often wondered if writing things down like he did was actually beneficial, at all; he had a photographic memory, and anything he'd ever seen or heard was automatically recorded in the back of his mind, on a notebook he carried with him, everywhere. It was useful, but also a mixed blessing, for though things were constantly being added to it, some things were all but impossible to erase, even with the help of his poison of choice. Indeed, sometimes the opium did just the opposite, forcing him to relive some of his most painful memories.
He patted his dog on the head, placed his hat upon his neatly combed hair, put on his overcoat and left his apartment, wondering if, when next he returned home, another murder will have been committed, and if so, who will the victim be? iPlease, not Mary/i he prayed to whatever god would listen. But no, she wouldn't be hurt. He would see to that. He was going to solve this case, get his promotion, get the girl and live happily ever after. Right?
It was a hard piece to swallow, but after a glass or two of whisky, it would go down much more smoothly, and Abberline was extraordinarily thirsty.