The Devil of Whitechapel (Under Editing)

ii-iii. Selina

          

Selina woke up on a dingy mattress in a God-awful room with her hands cuffed behind her back.

She was used to two of three of those sensations. Over the years, during her career as a prostitute, she'd found herself in her fair share of dives. For the most part, though, they all resembled the room she found herself in at that moment: peeling wallpaper, water damage on the ceiling, floors that looked like a dozen cats had scratched them over the years, drapes that were little more than rags, windows that hadn't been washed in a decade: in any other circumstance, she probably wouldn't have been all that concerned about the rusted bars on the windows, too. After all, this was Whitechapel, London's most notorious neighborhood. Of course, though, all that, coupled with the cuffs on her wrists and the Negro standing over her, watching her, made for a pretty dismal situation.

And so, Selina did the only thing she could think of, she screamed as loud as she could.

The Negro didn't try to stop her; he didn't even flinch. "Ain't no good, screamin' like that."

He proceeded to pick her up – much more gently than she would've expected from the bastard that knocked Abberline unconscious – and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Selina kicked him in the stomach with as much strength as she could muster. Still, nothing: not even a grunt for her trouble.

"Ain't no good, lady," the Negro said, again.

"Why do you keep saying that?" she snapped.

"Boss owns everybody in this place: you ain't going to make it down them stairs if you go an' try runnin'."

She hated to think of it, but that big, stupid brute had a point.

She heard the lock on the door click and creak open, revealing the all-too familiar face on the other side.

Selina froze.

It was Whelan. The man she'd stabbed when that whole mess in the alley went down. And boy, did she not like the look on his face.

"This bitch isn't giving you any trouble, is she?" Whelan said, pulling the knife from his belts and twirling it between his fingers. "If she is, I wouldn't mind helping you out with her a bit."

Selina could feel her hands starting to shake. She knew all too well that she wouldn't last long at Whelan's mercy.

The Negro didn't sell her out, though, surprisingly enough. "No, sir; no problems, at all."

Whelan sighed. He almost sounded disappointed. "Boss wants her right now, if you aren't too busy." He nodded at Selina. "And don't forget about the damned bag: remember how mad the boss was when you forgot about that, last time?"

Last time?

"Yes, sir."

With that, Whelan left, leaving Selina with the Negro.

He sighed as he pulled a black sack from his belt. "Sorry, lady: rules is rules."

The Negro put the sack over her head, plunging her world into darkness.

***

The room Selina found herself in when the sack came off was much, much different than the other room. It looked like some fancy office, with mahogany-lined walls, leather upholstered chairs, an ornate desk, university diplomas framed on one wall, a bookshelf with fancy books on another wall; all of it was tied together by the man that sat at the desk. He was an older man with salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, glasses, a well-tailored waistcoat over a silk shirt, the gold chain of a pocket watch hanging out from his pocket; he looked like the exact opposite of a criminal overlord.