Dear Genevieve,” she would say, “I love that you are full of finer feelings and insist upon protecting me from myself, but if you do not rodger me this instant, I may perish away for the lack.“
Although, did two ladies together call it rodgering? Or was there a proper, more feminine word? Gertruding, perhaps?
“Rory: “People are being serious.”
Jazza: “There’s a serial killer out there. Of course people are being serious.”
Rory: “Yeah, but what are the chances?”
Jazza: “I bet all of the victims thought that.”
Rory: “But still, what are the chances?”
Jazza: “Well, I imagine they are several million to one.”
Jerome: “Not that high. You’re only dealing with a small part of London. And while there might be a million or more people in that area, the Ripper is probably focusing on women, because all of the original victims were women. So halve that–”
Jazza: “You really need another hobby.”
The hand plunging through the glass. Nails rending flesh, blood rising hot and thick and smelling like copper. Mud and the stench of decay as she heaves herself across the glass barrier. Snarling, her upper lip curved, a tendril of yellow spittle dribbling down her chin. The slits of nostrils flaring as she catching her prey’s scent.
Harvey wasn’t interested in the clothes, it was the masks that mesmerised him. They were like snowflakes: no two alike. Some were made of wood and of plastic; some of straw and cloth and papier-mâché. Some were as bright as parrots, others as pale as parchment. Some were so grotesque he was certain they’d been carved by crazy people; others so perfect they looked like the death masks of angels. There were masks of clowns and foxes, masks like skulls decorated with real teeth, and one with carved flames instead of hair.