My name is Fay

It is Whitechapel, London.

It is December 26th, 1887. Boxing Day.

My name is Fay. I should be dead.

Before a year is over, I will be.

* * * * *

'Fay! More... drinks!'

This is the sound I hear as I drift past the table. This is my step-brother who calls this out, and he even has the cheek to smack my bum as I walk past. I have lived with him, and his two sisters, for almost all my life, along with my father and step-mother. My mum died giving birth to me, so I never met her, but my father tells me she was a proud and strong woman, and I should be happy to be her daughter. I am, though I can't understand for the life of me why he remarried. My step-mum is a fat, vile and twisted bitch, and almost permanently drunk.

Although, when I say I live with them, I mean that I occasionally sleep and eat there. I have never stayed in that grimy flat for more than about twenty-four hours at a time. To be honest, I do generally prefer being on the outside of those four walls, even if it means I wonder round in the thick smog, or the pea-soup, as some people ingeniously call it. And I may have to sleep in doss houses sometimes, but they pay me no trouble if I pay the rent and keep quiet, which I try to do. At least I haven't turned to alcohol. Yet.

I work here, at the pub just off Mitre Square, in Whitechapel. It is not pleasant, it never has been, and it almost definatly never will be. My so-called family are minus my father at the moment, for he is working still, even if it fuels my step-mother's drinking habits. He is an honest man, and didn't deserve this life, but then again, life isn't fair. Them, my so-called family, have come here for post-Christmas drinks, like they do all the time, but they just make up special occasions to come out, such as 'three weeks until Valentine's day drinks,' or 'It's my 23 and two thirds birthday drinks,' or even just 'June 17th drinks.' It's crazy, and I know I should probably get them some more booze to fuel their addictions, but I have just come off my shift, and they drive me nuts, every single day of my life.

So I just carry on drifting, past them, past the bar, then through the doorframe, as the door got knocked out from a fight last week. I drift down an alleyway, then another, the greenish smog lit dimly in front of me by one of the feeble oil lamps that line the streets. I think this is the only one left working at the moment down this whole street, and the others will probably never get replaced. It's a good thing I'm not scared of the dark. But even as I walk, a shape forms out of the shadows, but I don't worry, for it is only Giles, the homeless man who lives down here. I flick him a portion of my wages, because I like him, but he is the only person I ever give money too, and I won't let anyone bully me into it either. My nickname might be Fairy Fay, but I am far from defenceless. You should see me in a fight.

I have decided that tonight, I won't bother going back to the flat, for whenever I go in there I feel terribly claustrophobic, and after they stumble in through the door and sober up enough, they will either kick me out or try and beat me senseless. I suppose you can guess which option I would go for. Some of my friends would probably take the beating, as lots of people are scared to walk the streets of Whitechapel after dark, for who knows what is hiding in the shadows? Even though I don't mind being outside, I hurry towards the nearest place I can sleep, as I don't want to be mistaken for a prostitute again. I did try that once, more for a dare and the experience than anything else, but all I can say is never again. I don't know how these women do it, almost every night, to make a living. Most of them are terrible alcoholics, though, and that must take a massive edge of doing that job. That is why I am so lucky to have the job where I do, and I have also seen what the alcohol, mostly cheap gin, does to people.

I near the entrance to the Hanbury Street doss house, No. 29 I think it is, but I can't be sure, all the street numbers are long gone, and the buildings are so cramped and wonky, it's hard to tell where is where anyway. Before I can make it through the door, though, another figure rises up out of the darkness. I'm not too worried; at least I'm not to start with. I can just tell him no, maybe have to show him what for, and then I can be on my way. Simple, right?

I had no such luck. He approached me, and I could see that he was young, and had dark hair and eyes, wearing a deerstalker hat. He was clean shaven and had a long, dark coat on as well. He seemed fresh, like he didn't belong in these parts. He looked like he was going to ignore me at first, so I just nodded to him and carried on walking to number 29. He was almost out of my eye line when, without warning, he shoved against me so I flew into the wall of the derelict building I had been going past. Some wood splinters and dust fell down and made me cough, but I tried to keep quiet. This man was now close to me, and to my horror, he had a knife out. Still, I wasn't too fazed. Personally, this had never happened to me before, but some acquaintances had, and hadn't come off to bad for it, had they? Maybe a couple of scars, if they were lucky. I suppose now is the time to show him that I'm not totally helpless either. So I rest my hand on the knife I have hidden beneath my skirts, and then hold it in my hand for when the time is needed.

He is now close up to me, with his knife up against my throat, telling me to come with him, do as he says, or otherwise he will slit my throat and gut me like a fish. I can imagine what I would look like, and it's not a pretty sight, so I push that image down and out of my head and force my hand with the knife to come up. I see it glint green and sliver in the moonlight and the factory smoke, and I press it to his throat in the same way that he is doing to me.

We stay like that, unmoving, for how long, I know not. I could have been hours, minutes or seconds that we stood there, staring into each others eyes, a silent challenge. It must have been a strange sight, for anyone else that saw us, but they know not to pry into other people's business unless they want a tooth or two knocked out. But after that space of time, I see his eyes glint with faint amusement, and he draws his blade away, leaving only a thin graze of blood on my throat. That knife was sharp. I take mine away too, for at least now he knows that I am quite capable of defending myself, and I'm happy to see a few beads of blood on his neck as well. He chuckles, almost to himself and says to me;

'I won't kill you tonight, Fay. You're too pretty. But don't expect this to be the last time we meet.'

Then, he carries on his way. I shake my head to clear it, proud of myself that I am only trembling slightly, and I tell myself this is just adrenaline. I check my pockets to see if he stole anything and find that he hadn't, so I continue on my way to 29 Hanbury Street, more or less unfazed. I do not even register the fact that he somehow knew my name.