Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

Later that night, in the labyrinthine streets around Whitechapel, Mary Ann Nichols leaned against a wall and took a swig of cheap gin from a hip flask. Trade was poor tonight. Perhaps her clientele had been put off by the rumours that were circulating. Not that she believed in any of that sort of rot. If you started to give credence to that kind of fancy, God alone knows where it would end.

Then she heard the footsteps. They were somewhere between a fast walk and a slow run. More of a scurry, she thought. You’re wasting your time with this one, she thought, but nonetheless, she called out as the man came close.

“’Ere! You! Fancy a good time?”

The man stopped and looked at her. He was of medium height, but held himself in a kind of upright crouching position. His hair was greasy and unkempt.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I said, d’you fancy a good time? We all needs a good time every now and then, don’t we, luv?”

“I’m sure I don’t catch your drift, young lady.”

“All right, I’ll tell you what I do. I do sous-pelisse, I do straight French, red hot Dutch, Wellington’s fancy – that’s with or without the boots – but I don’t do no Prussian.”

The man gaped at her.

“No, sorry, luv. Prussian’s right out. Ever since the wimmin’s sexual health team came round.”

“Madam, I am not interested in that sort of thing at all. I am a missionary.”

Mary Ann laughed. “Ah, I get your drift. Funny, we don’t get much call for that these days. Still, takes all sorts, and at least I gets to lie down. OK, this way, and I’ll throw in a Belgian for free.” She made to take hold of the man’s hand.

“No, madam. I have no intention of partaking of your sordid trade. My esteemed patron would cast me to the four winds if I were to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh.” There was a particular relish in the way that the man pronounced the word “flesh”.

“Oh, Gawd. I get it. You just want to talk. I get a few of those. So what’s the problem? Wife don’t understand you?”

The man bridled at this. “The impertinence! Madam, I can assure you that my dear wife … my dear wife … is … is very … dear to me.”

“Then what is it you want? I ’aven’t got all night, you know,” said Mary Ann. The man was getting on her nerves. At least two more potential punters had passed by on the other side of the street whilst they had been talking. She was losing money, and if she didn’t get in a few more jobs before the night was up, she wasn’t going to be able to pay for a bed for the night.

“Young lady,” said the man, with an air of triumph in his voice, “I have come to save you!”

“Save me from what?”

“Not saved from, my dear, saved for. Saved for the Lord! My patron has charged me with establishing a mission for fallen women such as yourself.” He leaned in closer. “And I see that you have fallen a very long way indeed. I have found you not a moment too soon.” And with this, he grabbed her by the arm and began to march her away.

“Oi, Mister,” said Mary Ann, digging her heels in. “Wait a mo’. If I come with you, do I or do I not get a bed for the night?”

“The Lord will provide,” he said.

She weighed up the pros and cons. “All right, you’re on,” she said. “Just this once. As long as there’s not too much Jesus. And what did you say your name was?”

“My name? My name … is Collins. You may call me … Mr Collins.”