It was raining. The shadows of the buildings flooded the streets, the few lamps which littered the sidewalk were lit, the flames within leaping from the howling wind. It was no place for a young girl to walk alone. The heels of her boots clicked along the ground, competing with the heavy rain for dominance of sound. Wet strands of hair clung to her skin; the make up which she had worn ran down her face, a demented clown rather than a beautiful girl. No man would want her company for an evening whilst she looked this way. But the bundle which lay in her arms was enough to make everyone stay away from her, the haunted look in her eyes told of a spirit broken. The driving rain hammered against windows and doors all around her, drenching the clothing she wore. A common whore for a unsatisfied gentleman. The frowning town houses which lined the streets glared down at her, cursing the ground she walked. The wind whispered what she had done; every raindrop which fell reflected her dark deeds.

The long skirt of her dress dragged along the ground, puddles staining the fabric. The rouge which had been smothered on her cheeks was gone, her face pale, ghost like. She could have been dead, nobody would have cared less. The family she had left so long ago had new children, they didn’t want her anymore. The fabric which she cradled in her arms concealed something dear, something frowned upon.

She could tell she wasn’t alone. These Victorian streets shouldn’t be walked be girls such as her. There were dangers about, horrors which plagued the streets. The rain fell and she walked on. She seemed to know she was being followed. She didn’t scream. She didn’t try to run away. His footsteps were heavier than hers, puddles scattered as his boots hit them. His breathing fouled the air, laboured. She could almost smell him approach her. But she didn’t change her course or even look over her shoulder. She kept on walking, dragging her dress along the ground, the water pattered down on her body wetting the bundle in her arms. He was wet too. It didn’t inhibit either of them.

He was getting closer.

His pace was faster than hers, he was in a hurry. The flames from the lamplights jumped, the light from them flickering on the walk way. Girls like her were in danger from men like him. The street was ending. To turn left or right could mean escape, but she stopped. She stood and stared at the sign which creaked above a brokers shop as it swung back and forth. The rain fell and the wind blew, tossing her sodden hair and clothing around. She didn’t seem to notice, she didn’t even blink. Her eyes were blue, abnormally so. He would have noticed if he had looked in the window of the shop. She could see him come to a halt behind her.

The top hat upon his head made him seem taller than he really was. She saw something glimmer as he raised his arm, something silver, sleek and sharp. It fell down through the air towards her. But she wasn’t afraid. She turned her body and faced him.

A gun shot echoed through the night.

His body fell unto the ground, his clothing wetted beyond sodden. Blood blossomed over his breast, mixing with the water and falling down to the road. His face was shocked, his mouth hung open in horror. The knife clutched in his hand had been ready to murder.

Smoke billowed about her, the pistol in her hand hot from use. She looked down at it, held in her hands; she was calm as she wrapped it once again in the mess of fabric. She turned and walked away. The click of her heels disappearing into the night.