As she stood there in the vast, eerily silent room, its darkness penetrated only by the soft glow from the oil lamp she carried, it came to the redhead that she must demand payment in full from the Justice. SHE MUST KILL HIM! It was the only way. Having mulled over the alternatives – including blinding or crippling him – she always returned to the obvious. But she had no intention of swinging for the deed. Not her. Because no man was worth that. Not even scum like the Justice. So she must be very careful.

Quickly, the redhead crossed the kitchen, going silently towards the big, dark-wood dresser, where the longest, sharpest knives were kept. Here she positioned the lamp on top of the dresser, so that its light shone directly into the drawer. Taking malicious pleasure in the choosing of the instrument, she spent a moment or two picking up the knives one by one and turning each one over in her hand, before deciding on a long, slender, meat-boning tool. The feel of it seemed right to her, and she was satisfied that, when it entered his heart, the Justice would have no time to struggle.

A wicked smile lifted her scarred features as she began her way upstairs. It had occurred to her that, if he had spent himself well in his night of debauchery, the Justice should, by now, be in a deep slumber, as would the whore who had been unfortunate enough to bear his weight on top of her. She would not disturb either of them, so quick and silent would she be. Better still if the Justice had sent the whore away when he had finished with her, she thought.

The redhead knew well enough which room the proprietor would have allocated to such a ‘distinguished’ client as the Justice. The best room was situated at the end of the long corridor. Tiptoeing on bare feet she went quickly there, pausing outside the door, her courage fast deserting her. She had never been more afraid! But what was that? Someone crying out? A muffled, frightened sound, like someone was choking!

‘Get a hold of yourself, girl,’ the redhead murmured. ‘Do what you’ve come here to do… then show a clean pair of heels before some nosey bugger claps eyes on you!’ She would have turned the door handle there and then, but her feet seemed fixed to the spot. She couldn’t do it! Not kill somebody in cold blood. Disheartened, she turned away. But then she raised her hand to run the tip of her finger along the scar that had drawn itself deep into her cheekbone. He had done that! Oh, but murder? Could she really murder? With her luck, she would be bloody sure to be hanged for it, she argued with herself. Yet she wanted him to suffer, like she had suffered. Slicing his face would have given her great satisfaction, but even that could never be enough to compensate. Suddenly some slight noise drew her attention. What was that? There… there it was again. A muffled sound, and a whole flurry of noises, as though in a struggle, ‘or passion-starved bodies going at each other like there were no bleedin’ tomorrow!’ she whispered, making a small snigger.