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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.