Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... and leave in the spring and never have to come back to the East End, with its cold nights and coal dust and dead women cut up in alleys. Rose could hold onto the hem of Mary's dress as she flew both of them off into some wild fairy tale life where they’d become a different people entirely. That was something she could do. Or she could just take it. There was enough money there to get Thomas out of jail with enough left over for Rose to go somewhere else and get a new start. Not as far as Paris, God knew, but she didn't need Paris. Just somewhere safe. Rees would interrogate her about where the money came from, but he wouldn't say no to it. Nobody would ever know. Except for Mary, who in all odds would never forgive Rose...but what would it matter? What good was all that money to a silly drunk? She'd fritter it away eventually. Probably she had more than once already. To Mary money was a toy, but to Rose it was two people's lives. It would be the right thing to do in the end, wouldn’t it? She rolled over, cross with guilt. Could she really do something like that to a woman who might well have saved her life? A friend who even right now was probably sick to death with worry that Rose was out on the street or dead in a courtyard with her throat cut. What kind of person was she? Mary would be beside herself. She might even-- Rose sat up in bed. She might even come looking for her. Mary was big-hearted and not always the smartest. She just might go out, alone, at night, onto the ...

... East End streets where the killer was still waiting, for Rose's sake. On any other night Rose would have stayed in anyway (no sense both of them being in danger), but now, with the serpent of guilt crawling through her gut... She got dressed. It was another rainy night, and before she'd walked half a block she was longing for the fireplace in the Miller's Court room. Indeed, the warm orange glow was visible on the windowpanes even as she crossed the square. Rose's heart lifted; Mary was in. From the looks of things, she was awake. Rose hurried the last few steps and, finding the door locked, knocked a little too fast and a little too loud. There was no answer, and none the second time either. Rose peered through the window but couldn't see anything except a blaze so intense that all of their fuel at once probably couldn't have produced it. Frowning, she reached through the broken window and, with some effort, unlocked the door. It creaked open. A pungent sizzling smell wafted out, making Rose's eyes water. It was a moment before her vision cleared...and she saw what was on the bed. In the hellish glow of the fireplace the blood looked black. It was so much blood that it must have soaked the thin mattress completely through. The bed's very frame would be stained. The shape that lay on the mattress only just looked like a human body. It was somehow...less. It made Rose think of a sand castle half-eaten away by the tide. There were indistinguishable shapes strewn over the sheets ...