by Heather Jones
Chapter 1: Anything for science
Beatrice kept her head low as she slipped through the bustling streets of Whitechapel, her hooded cloak hiding her face from passers by. She ignored the complaints coming from the people she bashed into and snarled at the young pickpockets whom she saw observing the crowd from the corners of the streets. She smirked as she saw the look of horror and disgust on their faces when she flashed what was left of her chipped yellow teeth at them. All of a sudden, she spotted the small sliver of sunlight coming through the endless sky of grey clouds reflect off a policeman’s hat a few feet away from her. “Bobby!” she heard one of the children yell. She darted to the right and made for a narrow gloomy alley. Her shoe soles flapped and her grubby feet got soaked as she splashed through puddles on the ill-cobbled ground.
A few yards away, in a cold and gloomy basement, a balding man with a thick moustache sang to himself cheerfully. “One, two, three, and chop!” Blood splattered down his attire, covering the previous, already brown and dried blood, with a redder and fresher coating. The man grinned, dropped his butcher’s knife into the pool of blood on his workshop table with a clang and strolled over to get a stained rag to wipe his hands. The red liquid could be heard dripping onto the slippery floor, drop by drop, seemingly getting slower and slower as time came to a froze.
Footsteps sounded, plodding down the stone cold steps. The old man didn’t move, and kept smiling whilst he wiped the blood off his knife. “Good morning Sir,” Beatrice grinned. She pulled off her hood, revealing her ginger ringlets as she stepped into the candlelight. “I see that you’re hard at work already.” The man eventually looked up, “Yes. Thank you for getting me this one last night, I know that it’s hard to avoid suspicion when you’re pushing a corpse and shovel in a wheelbarrow out of a cemetery.” The young woman laughed as she ran her finger across the workshop table to contemplate the blood. The stench of death and rot leaked from the underground workshop, up the grey stone steps and through the cracks in the damp wooden door onto the cold streets of Whitechapel, London. “Anything for science,” grinned Beatrice as she licked her finger clean.
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