The cobblestone streets had gone dark, whatever streetlights that had been lit must've been blown out by the gusts of wind that came in off the harbour only a few streets away. "A storm is raging," said one skeevy looking man in an alleyway, ''Best get inside, love."
'Love,' thats what they called her, no, that was what they called every woman who had the sense to walk about London this time of night, or rather the courage. There was no sense in taking such a risk at all, you either had to walk the street at this hour or you were shut up in your cozy flat already fast asleep. Most women walked this lane at night as part of their job, as a way to put food on the table, though most had begun to turn in early nowadays, some refused to work at night altogether, especially after those last five murders over in White Chapel. This woman did not have a reason, she had a good income in a safe job, but she was, none-the-less, walking down Pickery Street paying no mind to the caterwalls of the drunken men in the alleyways.
"Where yer goin' miss?" Stuttered a sickly looking young man, who's breathe wreaked with the smell of stale alcohol, he reached out his hand from underneath his trench coat and shakily went to grab the woman's wrist, "My flat is that way."
He placed his fingers around her bony arm and tugged slightly, the woman froze, but not in fear, "Remove your hand!" She demanded simply, but with a strong and commanding voice, even then the man kept his hand there grinning slyly. "Remove. Your. Hand."
The man's hand stayed put and ever so swiftly did the woman slip her hand into her purse and pull out a revolver, ever so gracefully did she turn and twist her wrist from his grasp, and ever so boldly did she hold the gun to the drunkards head. "Whoa! Lady, shite! No, need ta blow my brainsh out over summtin like thish!"
"Step away," Muttered the woman, cocking the revolver and fingering the trigger, a cheeky grin growing on her face as she watched the man make a cowardice run for it. She watched him as he cantered down Pickery Street, hollering about a mad woman. She squinted her eyes, locking them on him. Then she pulled the trigger, the sound of a gunshot would wake many people who lived on Pickery Street that morning, but it would not wake the man who touched Evelyn St. James.