MRS. BENTHAM
As do I.
(A pause)
But . . . what about this?
FADE INTO: the SOUND OF BLOOD in JACK’S head again, propelled by a DARK HEARTBEAT.
TABLEAU SEVEN: IN MILLER’S COURT
FOOTSTEPS on courtyard stones; a woman DRUNKEN LAUGH. She fumbles with a key.
MARY KELLY
(With a faint Irish lilt to her speech)
Here it is, your honor. Not much, but I call it home—
when I’ve the rent.
They move inside. While staggering around, in a bad parody of genteel hospitality:
MARY KELLY
Fancy a drain of gin? Only got the chamber pot to offer it in.
Still, we’re all friends here, ain’t we? What with me in nowt but my unmentionables, an’ all . . .
(She giggles again, as though embarassed by her own repulsiveness)
Or p’raps you’re admiring my etchings. That’s what I call ‘em,
There’s been so many ‘round to see ‘em.
(JACK doesn’t laugh)
Not much fun, are you?
JACK
No.
A CLICK as he opens his bag. His HEARTBEAT SPEEDS UP.
MARY KELLY
‘Ey, a bag. You a doctor? What d’you got in there, anyways?
JACK
A cure for anything.
There’s a WHICKER of air as JACK whips his knife out and ar
ound, striking in the same motion. A SOUND OF IMPACT. MARY KELLY GASPS, then CHOKES LIQUIDLY, GURGLING. This comes at almost the same time as a THUMP: her falling onto the bed. Cloth rips, chased by a WETTER, MEATIER sound, like a butcher at work. Liquid SQUIRTS and SPLASHES.
Finally, JACK’S HARSH BREATHING and RACING HEARTBEAT drown out the sounds of his work.