Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

Another one dead, and papers had given the murderer a name, but no one was using it yet. The police still called him "The Whitechapel killer," and the people on the streets called him just "the killer." Nothing more was needed. Almost everyone found time on their walking commute that morning (some leaving home to get to morning shifts, some going back home from night shifts to sleep through the morning) to peer at what neighborhood rumor held to be the bloody patch of Whitechapel Road where the body was found. Rose and a few others pointed out that the real crime scene was behind a house on Hanbury Street, but that didn't seem to matter to everyone else. Women fretted and men puffed their pipes and everyone stared at the blood (or whatever it was) and talked. "T'ain't for the likes of us to judge her now," one woman said. "That's right," said her friend. "No matter what she done, it was an awful turn.” "They're saying it's a gang of robbers doing the killings," one man said, refilling his pipe. Another shook his head. "That's a got-up yarn. I rather wish it was true Bet your money this ain't been done that way." There was muttered agreement all around. The people of Whitechapel Road were rarely challenged in their expertise in the field of what wasn't so. The average East Ender would admit that she might not know much but insisted she had a good enough head on her shoulders to at least never be fooled. It was an important distinction. "Thank God I needn't be out after dark," ...

... another woman said. "But my two girls have got to come home late and I'm all of a fidget." At that the crowd began to drift away, as if afraid they'd be preternaturally stuck to the spot until dangerous nightfall. They exchanged a few "Good mornings," and "Best of lucks" as they went. Rose stayed behind, using a neglected cart on the corner as a stool. She was now almost completely certain she was going to die. "Don't talk like that," Mary said, although Rose had not actually been talking at all. Maybe the other woman was particularly talented at reading her face, or maybe Rose had simply said the same thing enough times in the past. Mary was buying hatpins from a woman at the mouth of the alley and seemed quite pleased with herself when she showed them to Rose. Her smile was as bright and clean as a spring morning, and her dress and apron were immaculate. Even when she spent all night on the street Mary still kept her aprons perfectly white. It was almost annoying. "You're not going to die," Mary said, sitting down next to Rose and watching a new gang of morning gawkers. "I mean, you are going to die. But not now. Not soon." "The woman the other night didn't think she was going to die. None of the other murdered women did either. What makes us so special?" "You've had too much news is all," Mary said. "Come on: Good food and a good song is all you need. No more being glum." "I'm not glum," Rose said, standing. "I just know the way things are. No one cares what happens to us, ...