–This mural of Mary Kelly, depicting her as the person she was before she became known as the final victim of Jack the Ripper, gives me so much respect for the artist, whoever they are.–
London is glossy and black under fallen rain. Orange globes, cast by over-hanging lampposts, shine on the slippery pavements. The metal gates of Spitalfields Market are tucked to the sides, leaving a dark space into the market-hall.
Inside, the muffled music from the surrounding bars does not penetrate quite to the centre. Skeletons of market stalls sit at odd angles, their chipped wooden tops and anorexic frames exposed and stripped of materialism. A damp huddle of people walks into the midst of the tables, anonymized under umbrellas and hoods.
A tour guide, young and smiling, trots to the front of the group, carrying a rucksack in one hand and a large yellow umbrella in the other. She keeps the umbrella over her head, despite the cover provided by the market-hall. Continue reading “A Bloody Mary”