Free A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper by Alan M. Clark

bulge in the crotch of his trousers. Again, he looked at her sheepishly.
    “Angus,” the handsome man called out from the corner of the room.
    Startled, Angus jarred the table and spilled the drinks. Polly pushed away, as the liquid flowed across the tabletop and dripped onto the floor. She didn’t want the smell on her clothing.
    “I haven’t touched her, Tom,” Angus said.
    The handsome man, whose name she supposed was Tom, had got to his feet and approached. Tall and strong, he made a striking impression as he stood over them. For a blue-eyed fellow, his skin appeared unusually dark. He wore heavy trousers and a loose linen shirt. “No,” he said, “but you’ll leave her be, now.”
    “Yes, Tom.” Angus found his feet, adjusted the lump in his trousers and left the pub.
    “Let me get you another glass of stout,” Tom said.
    “Thank you.”
    He went to speak with the publican, and Polly watched him. His fluid movements were graceful for such a solid fellow. He appeared comfortable within his body, making him all the more beautiful. Polly had never experienced such powerful attraction before.
    She got up and moved to the table he had occupied. I will talk to him, nothing more. Just one drink, and then I’ll go home.
    From her new vantage point, she’d lost sight of Tom. Craning her neck to get a better view, she saw the man approaching with a glass.
    No, not Tom—the publican. He set the glass on the table in front of her. “Tom gives you this,” he said.
    “Thank you,” she said, and the publican turned back.
    The handsome man had slipped away from her again. Polly slumped in her seat and let out a deep breath. Disappointed, she sat and sipped her stout. The brew lay flat on her palate and felt like warm dishwater in her gut.
    When she got home, her father was too stopped-up in the head to smell the drink on her. The time was early enough that the smell would have time to dissipate before Bill got home.
    Both men complained about the stale bread served with supper, but, as she’d predicted, neither of them knew about the poor quality of the ingredients with which she’d made the stew.
     
    * * *
     
    Polly’s second adventure of 1866 occurred four months later. Papa had twisted his ankle and couldn’t stand all day, laboring at the work bench that unfolded from his barrow. Polly started out to repeat the process she’d gone through before. Instead she bought a glass of gin at the Compass Rose. The liquid smelled like paraffin, but she swallowed the drink anyway and became so stumbling drunk, she had difficulty making her way home.
    Papa recognized her condition immediately when she arrived. “You’re in a shameful state,” he said. “Bill won’t have this.”
    With her father’s immediate response, she knew she faced serious trouble. The realization brought fear and nausea. Polly grabbed the basin from the bedside table and vomited hot and bitter into it.
    “Well,” Papa said, “that’s a start.”
    Polly sat on the edge of her bed and moaned, trying to get the taste out of her mouth, yet unwilling to get up for water.
    “Hush, or you’ll wake the boy.” Papa stared at her and shook his head. “I knew you were a drunkard when you were a girl of twelve and I saved you from the night. I suppose that weren’t enough punishment for you.”
    He meant the night the Bonehill Ghost came for her. Thirteen, Polly thought, I was thirteen. She hadn’t thought of the demon in a couple of years.
    “I’ll help you this time,” Papa said, “but you’d better make a change.” He took up the basin and hobbled on his bad foot through his room and out the back door to dump her vomit into a privy vault. Upon his return, he lifted the ewer from the bedside table, and poured water from it to rinse the basin. He tossed the rinse water out the back door. He poured fresh water into the basin and a cup. “Clean yourself up,” he said.
    Polly washed her face, and rinsed her mouth out. As she did so,