I Love Livin' in the City

[thewiggins]

Title: I Love Livin' in the City
Author:  thewiggins
Rating: T for language
Setting: 1970s London
Characters: Joyce, Ripper, Ethan, Deidre, Randall, Thomas
Pairing(s): Joyce/Ripper
Word Count: 4,600+
Summary: Joyce meets the gang at Ripper's squat and falls a little deeper into his dark world. Sequel to Heart of the City. Basically all you have to know is that Joyce (fresh off a recent breakup with Hank), was vacationing in London in the summer of 1978 when she got robbed. She ran into Ripper and he offered to let her stay with him for a while.
Warnings: None
Author's Note: This story is unbeta'd and probably a little rough. I hope to get it beta'd and post to AO3 soon, so please feel free to point out any mistakes. All kinds of feedback are always welcome.
Capitano kindly emailed me that even though I missed the deadline, I could still post as long as I did before they did the round up this morning (UK time). So hopefully I'm not too late!
Also, this has been a crazy summer for me, so I haven't yet gotten around to reading many of the entries. I do hope to go back and read and comment when/if I have the chance!
Note on the title: Continuing this series' theme of taking titles from punk songs of the era, this story's title is from the song of the same name by Fear. You can listen here. Warning for offensive language though.

To Joyce, the memory of this night would always have the surreal, off-kilter quality of a remembered dream. Yet, she would also associate it with a sinking feeling of inevitability, as if she'd always been going to step through that doorway, and everything that had happened since would always have come cascading after.

Now though, Joyce’s only thought was to wonder why places always seemed so strange when you first saw them at night. Surely this London rowhouse didn’t have give off an aura of sinister power during the day.

She stood in what she supposed was a backyard, though the tiny patch of dirt was nothing like the manicured lawns of LA, or of her mother’s corner of suburban Illinois. The house, or squat as Ripper had called it, loomed above them, a black silhouette against the muddy umber of the sky. It seemed completely dark and dead at first, but as Joyce's eyes began to adjust to the gloom she realized that this wasn’t quite true. A couple of thin bands of light escaped from the ground floor, creeping through the cracks of boarded windows.

The idea of just turning around and walking away flickered through Joyce’s mind, but only for a moment. She’d gotten lost in the dim, seemingly identical streets within five minutes of exiting the Tube. Besides, she had no money, no place to go, and barely enough energy to walk another step.

And, if she was honest with herself, she was intrigued.

Ripper turned to her and flashed his crooked grin.

“Well, here we are then.”

He adjusted his grip on her bag and as he did, Ethan sauntered casually up the concrete steps. Ripper walked behind him and Joyce followed uneasily, coming to stand beside him at the bottom step.

Ethan gave the door a casual push with the tips of his fingers and it swung smoothly inward. Huh. It hadn’t been locked. No, it hadn’t even been latched.

“This, um,” Joyce said, aware that she was nervous and babbling slightly, “this must be a really safe neighborhood if you don’t even have to lock your door.”

Ethan shot her a slimey, sardonic smile, which seemed to be the only kind he was able to produce. Joyce didn’t like judging people before she got to know them, but she was really starting to dislike Ethan, with his artfully-sliced black button-up (who intentionally disfigured clothing?) and his superior attitude.

“Oh, the neighbors are lovely. Solid, respectable, boring. You and them might get along splendidly.”

“I’m not boring.”

Joyce knew her voice lacked any real force behind it, and regretted being far too tired to come up with a snappy comeback. Who was she kidding? Snappy comebacks had never been her forte. But she was damned if she was going to let Ethan see that she was getting to her, or that she was intimidated by a house. She trudged resolutely up to stand beside him on the top step, shooting him a defiant look.

Ethan grinned.

“Is that so? Well, I guess we’ll see.”

As he spoke, he turned and walked backward into the house, smoothly flipping a light switch and then facing her, arms stretched out to indicate his surroundings with a proud flourish. Joyce gasped. She hated having done exactly what Ethan wanted her to, hated the smug, triumphant look on his face.

But how could she have done any different?

Ethan stood in a narrow hallway. A staircase to his left lead to a shadowy upper level. In rough form, it probably looked like the back entrance to any number of similar row houses. But the split-pea-colored walls were covered in scrawls of graffiti, which seemed to crowd to take up every available inch of space. The graffiti varied broadly in size, color, and artistry. Mostly it was scrawls of words, illegible from this distance. The largest and clearest piece of graffiti was a massive set of black letters that climbed up alongside the stairs. Fuck off Bailiffs! It read. Joyce wasn’t sure what a 'Bailiff' was, but the sentiment was clear enough.

Ripper stepped past her, grinning at her flabbergasted expression.

“Well,” he asked from just inside the door, “you coming in, or what?”

Joyce hesitated for only a moment before putting on her best unfazed expression, the one that had allowed her to bluff at being far cooler and more worldly than she actually was during her first weeks of college, and stepped through the door.

Ripper’s grin widened and he turned to Ethan.

“See? Joyce here’s alright.”

He slid Joyce’s bag to the floor and slid his arm around her waist.

“Welcome home, luv.” He gave her a slight peck on the cheek that left her blushing. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the gang.”

“Wait,” Joyce said, turning and sliding out of Ripper’s arm, “shouldn’t we close the door?”

Joyce turned to the door only to see it swing silently shut on its own. Weird. The floor must be a little uneven here or something. But even stranger, a symbol painted into the doorframe glowed slightly. It reminded her a little of  a pentagram, but with a lot more embellishments. It would hardly have stood out from the other graffiti if it weren’t for the glowing.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Homeowners insurance,” Ethan answered cryptically, at the exact same moment as Ripper gave his own, equally cryptic explanation.

“A hobby. Come on. I’ll explain to you later, luv.”

Huh, Joyce thought as Ripper and Ethan lead the way down the narrow hallway, it was pretty clever using glow-in-the-dark paint like that. I almost thought it was magic  or something for a moment!

She watched as Ripper and Ethan casually sidestepping a hunk of fallen plaster in the middle of the hallway that was easily the size of her mother’s favorite serving platter.

The floor underfoot, Joyce noticed, was old wood that had been painted over many times, greyish-paint peeling back to reveal patches of peach and the same shade of green as the walls. It looked like it hadn’t been swept or mopped in years and was covered in paint splatters, dirt, plaster dust, and strange blotches that Joyce was sure she didn’t want to identify. A faint whiff of vomit hung in the air, though it was mostly covered by the more powerful smells of cigarettes, body odor, and, strangely, some kind of spicy, unfamiliar incense.

The end of the hallway split into an unlit room that looked like a kitchen to the left and what must be a living room of sorts to the left. This room was nicer than the hallway, though only marginally. The walls were covered in graffiti and crudely-made posters, but at least the smell of vomit had lessened, even as the smell of body odor and cigarettes had increased. A seemingly permanent haze of smoke hung in the air and Joyce did her best not to cough. But at least a not-entirely-filthy ottoman rug covered the floor. The room was occupied, two heads turning to look up at them as they walked through the doorway.

One, a young woman with short, spiky black hair, was reclined across a loveseat that had seen better decades, her fishnet-clad legs throw casually over it’s back.

“Hey! I was wondering when you lot would get back.”

A young man who had been slouched backward in a battered armchair seemed suddenly and jerkily to animate. He leapt to his feet, a bottle of some cheap-looking beer clutched loosely in his hand.

“Ripper! Ethan! How were things out in the trenches?”

He threw his arms around each of them in sloppy hugs, spilling some beer on Ethan’s back. Ethan scowled and visibly stiffened and Joyce couldn’t help smiling just a little at the sight.

While Ethan's carefully sliced shirt and Giles’ battered leather jacket and ripped jeans had certainly made for provocative looks, this guy seemed determined to beat everyone in the world in a strangeness competition. He wore black jeans that seemed to have been cut apart and inexpertly sewn back together (along with what must be scraps from several other articles of clothing), a slim black jacket who’s too-short sleeves seemed to emphasize the lankiness of his form, and, under the jacket, what looked like an actual garbage bag held together with safety pins.

“And who’s this?”

His overbright eyes turned to her, scanning her up and down as if she was the strangest and most marvelous thing he’d ever seen.

“She’s marvelous! But not exactly one of the regulars, is she?”

“Everyone, this is Joyce. Found ‘er at bloody Piccadilly Circus. She’s gonna be stayin’ with us for a while. Joyce, this is Dee, Randall, and Scuzzer.”

He pointed in turn at the young woman on the couch, who lifted a cigarette-wielding hand in greeting; the energetic young man, who shook her hand as eagerly as if he’d just been introduced to the queen; and a slumped figure in the corner who seemed to have forgone furniture entirely and who’d barely moved since they entered the door. He looked up now, giving her a bleary look and raising his bottle in greeting.

“Uh, hi everyone.”

The girl on the loveseat, Dee, Joyce corrected herself, swung her legs down leaning forward and looking at Joyce with intent interest.

“Oh! An American. Don’t suppose you’ve ever been to CB’s have you?”

“Sea Bee’s?” Joyce asked, perplexed.

Randall, who had begun pacing the room with a bubbling, restless energy suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, turning to her in shock.

“CBGB's? In New York?” Joyce shook her head feeling as if she’d failed some crucial test. “Ripper, your girl here doesn't even know about CBGB's! And she's an American. What shoddy, second rate Americans they're pumping out these days."

He tutted and shook his head in mock outrage.

"Shame you being in America all this time and never going to CBGB's. It's bloody brilliant from what I hear! And ever since The Roxy’s closed there’s fuck-all to do here in London.”

“Sorry to disappoint you," Joyce replied, glancing at Dee who'd slumped back in the loveseat, her earlier eagerness gone. "I've never even been to New York.”

“Oh. That’s alright," Dee responded, dropping her cigarette into an empty beer bottle that sat on the battered side-table next to her. "Hope you don’t mind me askin’ but why are you here? Randall’s right, you don’t exactly seem like the type.”

Ripper answered for her.

“Girl’s gone through a patch of rough luck, needs a safe place to stay while she gets herself sorted.”

Randall giggled. “So you brought her here?”

“Oh, shut your gob!” Dee said, shooting Randall a playfully angry look. Joyce noticed that she was wearing more eyeliner than she’d ever seen on a single individual. Easily enough for five UCLA coeds. “I think it’s sweet.” Dee's darkly-outlined eyes narrowed at Ripper. “It is sweet right? You’re not thinking of taking advantage of the girl, are ya?”

Ripper grinned sardonically at her as he lit himself a cigarette. “Why, Dee. When have you ever known me to be anything less than a perfect gentleman?” He said this last around the cigarette, sarcasm dripping from his words.

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but the others seemed to take it as a joke. Ethan leered and Dee snorted while Randall let out a surprisingly high pitched giggle.

“Ripper…” Dee began, her voice indulgent, yet with a firm edge that Joyce couldn’t help admiring.

“Right, right. I'm not a gentleman. But I already told the lady that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to and I meant it.”

Dee nodded, seeming satisfied.

“Well, that settles that then!” She patted the loveseat next to her, and Joyce came hesitantly to sit beside her.

“Welcome to the squat,” Dee said, giving Joyce a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Have Ripper n’ Ethan gone over the rules for you?”

“Uh, there are rules?”

“I know right?” Randall exclaimed. “Aren’t we supposed to be against rules and all that? But really, the rules‘re simple. Pretty much anything goes. ‘Cept no heroin. And absolutely no huffin’ except in the attic.”

“No… huffing?”

“Right. Glue, spray paint, lighter fluid, other nasties. You huff?”

“No!”

“Good, good. Bad habit huffing. Most of us in the core group don’t huff, but we don’t like to judge and people are always coming and going around here. Do you want to here my anti-drug message for the day?”

“Uh, sure.”

Randall stilled, affecting a stiff posture and a stuffy accent.

“Children, don’t do glue.” He grinned, immediately breaking character. “’Cause that shite will rot your brains out!”

He cackled enthusiastically at his own at his own joke.

“Did I sound pompous enough? Like a respectable member of the establishment?”

Dee laughed.

“Oh, yes, Randy. It was great, really great. That’ll really teach the Youth of Today to straighten up and fly right. Course, I don’t think Scuzzer here has to worry about his brains. He doesn’t have any in the first place!”

Scuzzer looked up from his bottle.

“Oi! I resent that.” He blinked a couple of times. “Got brains. Just mostly don’t like to use ‘em.”

He took a long pull from his bottle.

Dee rolled her eyes.

“Anyway Randall, you missed the most important rule.”

“I did? Right, yes, I did! Very important rule, if you don’t want to piss off ol’ Rippie and Ethie here. Don’t mess with the books.”

“Books?” Joyce asked, confused.

Looking around the sparse room she couldn’t see the slightest hint of a book.

“In the boys’ room upstairs,” Dee clarified, “they’re Ripper an’ Ethan’s mostly. You’ll know them if you see them, musty old leather things, full of freaky illustrations.”

Joyce’s brow furrowed and she turned to Ripper, who was still leaning in the doorway.

“You have antique books?”

“Oh, these aren’t just any antiques. I’ll show ya sometime maybe.”

Ethan scoffed.

“I hardly think Joyce here would get much out of them. She’d probably prefer to read inspirational books about seagulls.”

Joyce’s mind’s eye flashed to her battered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the book that had gotten her through her high school years, still displayed a place of prominence in her childhood bedroom. Well, she’d be damned if she’d let someone whose shirt was more hole than fabric keep talking down to her like that.

“I read,” she said, “a-and not just about seagulls. I’m a year away from graduating from UCLA with a bachelor’s degree in art history so I might understand a lot more about those books than you think. Maybe even more than you do.”

“Ooh, I like you,” Dee said, grinning widely and wrapping a friendly arm around her shoulders. “I think you’re gonna fit right in around here.”

“See Ethan,” Ripper said, grinning that crooked grin of his. “The girl’s got brains. She’ll see the books if she wants. Later.”

“OK,” Joyce said. “I think I get the rules. No heroin, no glue sniffing…”

“On the main floor,” Randall interjected.

“Right. No glue sniffing on the main floor. And no looking at Ripper’s books without permission. Got it. Where… Uh. Where will I be staying?”

“Well, that depends,” Dee said, her tone businesslike, “were you planning on sleeping with Ripper?”

“No!”

Ripper looked amused at the forcefulness of her denial.

“I… uh, I really just want to get some sleep,” Joyce concluded lamely.

Dee shrugged.

“Alright!”

She hopped off the battered loveseat and stood, stretching her arms out in front of her and popping her knuckles.

“I’ll show you the girl’s room upstairs and you can dump off your stuff. Come on!”

Joyce said a somewhat awkward goodnight to everyone in the room and followed Dee, grabbing her heavy bag from its place by the stairs. One of the steps sank ominously beneath her feet when she put her weight on it and for a split second, Joyce had the sensation that she was gonna fall. She gasped.

“Oh, sorry,” Dee said, turning around, “I shoulda said watch the step! I just get so used to hopping over it. One of these days someone’s gonna put their foot right through it!”

Another large chunk of plaster seemed to have fallen from the ceiling on to the top of the stairs. Joyce stepped around it, looking hesitantly at another graffiti-covered hallway.

“First time in a squat eh,” Dee asked, looking thoughtfully at Joyce.

Joyce found herself grinning ruefully.

“It’s that obvious?”

“No, offense, but you don’t exactly look like you’re livin’ the lifestyle. I mean there’s the hair for one thing…”

“Is there something wrong with my hair?”

“Guess not,” Dee said. “I mean if you’re into that sort of thing. It’s just these days, everyone’s got to have such perfect, shiny hair. Long and beautifully permed or what have you. Trying to look like they’re on the cover of a bleeding magazine. We’re against that. It’s one of the ways we set ourselves apart. Does that make sense?”

“Uh, not really.”

“That’s OK. You’ll pick this stuff up. I get the feeling you’re a pretty fast learner.”

As she spoke, Dee pushed open the door to what looked like it had once been a child’s bedroom. The walls and what little furniture there was were painted a garish pink. These walls were also marred by graffiti, though not as much as the rest of the house. The graffiti here was also more legible than elsewhere. It seemed to mostly be quotes from various sources, probably mostly song lyrics or poems, though none that Joyce recognized. A neat, blocky black script spelled out the words, “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine,” over one of the windows. A large upside-down cross had been drawn next to it. Joyce had never been particularly religious, but she had gone to church as a little girl, and she vaguely wondered if she should feel offended. She decided that she was far too tired and had far too many other things on her mind to worry about questions of theology.

She noticed that, despite the graffiti, the room looked generally better cared for than the rest of the house. Little touches of hominess and comfort were scattered here and there. Deep red curtains covered the windows and a lamp with a beaded shade stood next to a pile of tattered paperbacks. A pink dresser sat in one corner, clothes spilling out of a half-opened drawer.

The strangest thing about the room was its lack of bed frame or even a mattress. Instead, next to the lamp, was a thick pile of blankets, stacked together to form a makeshift bed.

“So,” Dee asked, “how do you like the place?”

“It’s… homey?”

“Yeah,” Dee replied, plopping with casual grace onto her makeshift bed, her booted feet sprawled out in front of her, “I try to keep it nice. Not like the boys, who’re happy to live like animals more often than not.”

Dee repeated the gesture from bellow, patting the pike of blankets next to her, encouraging Joyce to come sit beside her. Joyce eyed the blankets somewhat dubiously, hoping that they were reasonably clean, but decided that she’d probably offend Dee if she refused to sit.

“We’ve got more blankets in the closet out there.” She gestured out at the hall. “I’ll get some for you in a minute and we’ll set you up with a little bed of your own. It’s not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but it should be comfy enough. You probably don’t know this but you’re actually quite lucky. There are much, much worse places you could have wound up in. I mean, you generally don’t see roaches, ‘cept in the bathroom and the kitchen…”

Joyce’s spine stiffened and she repressed the urge to leap to her feet.

“Wait, there are roaches?”

Dee laughed.

“Yeah. Never lived in the big city have ya? Roaches are a part of life. But as I said, there are far worse places you could be. Some squats they sleep ten to a room with roaches crawling all over ‘em and a stinky piss-bucket in the corner. I’ve been in a place like that once. No hurry to go back. Course, even the worst squat is better than sleeping on the streets. Safety in numbers and all that. Plus the whole barrier thing, though I’ve heard rumors that that doesn’t always work with squats.”

Joyce was thinking about asking her what barrier thing, but Dee kept speaking, not giving her a chance.

“Anyway, here, we’re living in squatter luxury. Only five regulars in the house, a bit of decent furniture… Ripper even rigged up the water and electricity for us.”

“So not every, uh, squat has electricity?”

“Hah! Not hardly! They don’t exactly like givin’ the stuff out to those as don’t pay. Fucking fascists. You’d think things like water and a decent place to stay would be bleedin’ basic human rights, but why give it for free when they can charge you out the arse?”

“Oh! So you don’t pay rent either?”

Dee laughed a long and hearty laugh.

“Just what exactly did you think a squat was, luv?”

“British slang? Like 'flat' or 'apartment'? … I guess must seem pretty naive.”

“Oh. You are. But don’t worry.”

Dee gave Joyce an encouraging smile and a playful nudge to the arm.

“Stick with us and you’ll be OK. You’ll be a proper punk in no time.”

Joyce wasn’t entirely sure what a punk was, except that it was incredibly clear that everyone in this house was one. And that she was far from sure that she wanted to be one. Still, Dee clearly meant well. Joyce returned her smile.

“Well,” Dee said, jumping to her feet, “you stay here. I’m gonna get some blankets and see if I can find a pillow for ya somewhere. Think the boys might have one somewhere in their room. I’ll be right back.”

The moment Dee left the room, Joyce felt the fatigue that she’d been fighting off descend on her like a heavy wool blanket. She knew if she let herself lie down there was a good chance she’d fall asleep, but she was just too tired to keep herself upright any longer. She reclined on Dee’s bedding, keeping her head propped up on the palm of her hand. That should help keep her awake.

She was blinking sluggishly, her eyes staying closed a little longer each time. Don’t fall asleep, she reminded herself, don’t fall… Fall into what? Her thoughts were tumbling through her mind like drunken dancers, disjointed and strange. Images flashed through her mind’s eye. She wasn’t sleeping so it couldn’t be called a dream, perhaps a vision would be the better word. She saw the house as a vast malevolent entity that surrounded her. Groaning floorboards opened up to reveal a giant mouth with graffiti blackened teeth… She could feel her head jerking forward, sliding off her hand. For a terrible moment, she thought she was falling…

And then an amused chuckle from by the doorway caused her eyes to fly open. She sat up, hand instinctively moving to smooth her hair.

Her eyes were blurry with fatigue, and at first, she could only see the outline of a figure at the door. Still, she knew who it was. She blinked to clear her eyes. Ripper, of course. She felt she was already memorizing his lean, muscular outline. He flashed that already familiar sardonic grin.

“Looks like you’re making yourself at home.”

“Mmm… Yeah. Dee’s just getting blankets and stuff for me. I guess I didn’t realize quite how tired I was until I sat down.”

“Not surprised. You had quite the rough day.”

Some of the edge had left Ripper’s voice.

“Yeah. I’ll be OK though. I just need some sleep. Thanks by the way. For letting me stay here. And for being a gentleman.”

Ripper looked rueful.

“Oh, like I said to Dee, I’m no gentleman.”

Joyce opened her mouth to reply when Dee arrived back in the room, heavily laden with a thick stack of blankets, a pillow in a garish green and yellow floral-print pillowcase tucked under her chin.

“Alright, Joyce? He’s not bothering you, is he?”

Joyce shook her head and Ripper chuckled.

“Under your watchful eye, Dee? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

Dee dropped her pile the pile of blankets on the floor.

“The poor thing needs some sleep. Now clear off!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ripper said, flashing a sarcastic salute.

He turned back to Joyce, giving her one last crooked smile. He had two smiles, she’d noticed. The easy, sarcastic one that he used frequently to sling barbs with Ethan and his other friends. And another, more elusive creature that seemed to express something more genuine, a glimpse beneath the mask, maybe. This had been the second type of smile. Joyce hoped she wasn’t blushing.

“Good night, Joyce. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Dee said, pushing him playfully backward. “Now get out!”

She shook her head and closed the door on him.

“Stay on your guard around that one,” she said, turning to Joyce. “Bloke’s got a heart of gold buried somewhere in him, but it’s buried deep.”

Joyce nodded sleepily. She knew better than to have any kind of a relationship with a guy like Ripper. Of course, she did.

Joyce rose sluggishly to her feet and helped Dee set up the bed. Makeshift bed, when they were done Joyce had to admit to herself that it did look reasonably comfortable. And she was tired enough that she’d probably be able to sleep anywhere.

“There we go,” Dee said, giving the ‘bed’ a satisfied pat, “that should do you for the night. I’m gonna be downstairs with the gang for a while. Need anything before I go?”

“No. I think I’m… Oh, wait! Where’s the, um, bathroom?”

Dee laughed.

“Down the hall, on the right. Might not wanna take your shoes off before going in.”

“Oh. Because of the… roaches?”

“That’s one of the reasons! See ya, tomorrow, Joycie! I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”

A little later, after she had brushed her teeth and cleaned her face in the little bathroom (which was no nicer than advertised), Joyce let herself sink into her makeshift bed. She was convinced that she’d fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. But, with that almost spiteful contrarianism that sometimes strikes at such moments, her brain was buzzing. Everything from the unfamiliar shadows on the wall to the sounds of loud guffaws that she now noticed drifting through the floor below her seemed to conspire to keep her from falling asleep.

Strange. She thought. It was as if her body had covered a great distance in that day and her mind was only now struggling to catch up. She’d started the day as an ordinary tourist in an ordinary London hostel. And now she was in this strange place surrounded by strange people. She thought of Ethan’s condescension, of Randall’s bizarre yet infectious enthusiasm, of Dee’s cheery certainty that Joyce would become more like them in time. She thought of Ripper. Tough, jaded, sardonic Ripper. And of that possible heart of gold that she thought she’d caught occasional glimmers of, flashing up from his depths.

Oh, nothing would come of it. Nothing would come of any of this. It would just be a couple of day detour in an otherwise ordinary vacation. She was dipping her toes in this strange world, but that was all. Just another story she’d eventually tell her friends about her London adventures. She was a reasonable, mature 23-year-old woman who knew better than to go diving into the deep for something she might or might not find.

Yes. She wasn’t going to fall and she wasn’t going to dive. Ripper wasn’t Hank, this wasn’t California. This wasn’t her life, it was just a pit-stop. A dream.

And yet, as the unfamiliar darkness of the house finally folded over her and dragged her down into its embrace, it was with images of Ripper’s second type of smile flitting through her mind.