Journal entry ˜ 30 August 1888

The proverbial countdown has begun. In a little over twelve hours I will become immersed in the darkness, witnessing the brutal murder of a woman I’ve never met, yet know all too intimately. This is my first journal entry from my second flat in this century. Maggie the barmaid is to thank for all of my creature comforts. Her latest witchery, convincing me to buy leg stockings, yet I must confess, no more itching!

I’ve cleaned and dried my physician’s outfit I came through with, as well as my nice high end shoes. I need to be as comfortable as possible in this covert operation. Silent as the grave in my approach and observation. This would be a four day jump if all my research was about one death and one killer, but there are five women that all seemingly fell under the knife of one man, or maybe a woman? Time will tell. If Jack the Ripper is actually the one person committing these five particular murders then I must complete my project fully, down to the last of his victims, returning with definitive proof of who was history’s most notorious serial killer and that, indeed, these deeds were done by one. Once I identify the culprit, I will attempt to track this individual, compounding the evidence of my discovery.

All my research, the years spent looking at forensic photos, examining cadavers in the university’s medical department, reviewing all the police and medical reports from each of the murders and the numerous Flicker trial reenactments have all led up to this moment in time. My reason for being a Scope in 19th Century London, my life’s work, begins with the end of a woman’s life. All I have to do is watch history repeat itself and be the proverbial fly on the wall, out of sight, invisible and obscure. I own this night, wings or not.

I’m off to the Ten Bells in about an hour to meet with Maggie, have a couple of cups of coffee and eat something that isn’t an animal, a rancorous thought prior to tonight’s pending visuals. Only for tonight I hope, because the bangers and mash I got from a window was too delectable to dismiss from the eight additional weeks I will be here. I may be the first Scope too fat to fit through the Flicker doorway upon my attempted return! Colin, do you remember our talk in my cold, gray little room? This is what I meant. I know my research. I know you’ll feel as confidant in yours.

***

Ethan waited a little longer than expected before heading off to the pub. Stalling for time, he wanted to avoid the rain. It started pouring outside and although he was wearing a recent acquisition, nothing to write home to mother about, he didn’t need to be soaked for dinner or, God forbid, end up with a cold, sneezing in the shadows of Bucks Row in the wee hours of the morning. Though it would be considered cool for a summer evening almost any place else, for England, in August, it actually felt warm and breezy, quite beautiful, if only the rain would pass. The ensemble of vest, tie and a coat kept him comfortable, offering some shelter from the storm. Oh! How he longed for his elegant umbrella, mahogany in his hand, left propped in the corner of his flat. “A bit inconvenient to retrieve at the moment!” Ethan smiled at the thought, a subtle reminder of what an incredible journey he had made through time.

Out the door of his room just past 5:30 p.m., steady rain had tapered to a drizzle. With still a ten minute walk ahead coupled with the late start, a change of plans was in order. Ethan thought it best to skip his previously intended trip to the bank, likely closed by this time, no ATM at his disposal to replenish his funds. Maggie had put a serious dent in his wallet the night before...beer, beer and more beer...he laughed at the thought of it, how well the woman could retain fluids! But he still had enough on hand to buy his dinner, as well as hers, along with her beverage of choice, should she join him after her shift for another delightful chat.

Mist rising after the rain, lingering drizzle quickly dissipated. Ethan decided to take a nonchalant journey, the tourist route from his time, maneuvering through the streets of Whitechapel undetected, one of the locals on a bustling Thursday afternoon. He had wanted to take his time, absorbing more of the ambiance, the characters of the area, he wanted to breathe the air, albeit stinky. Visually, it was a cornucopia of delights, like the many vintage photographs he’d studied coming to life before his mesmerized eyes. A change of plans with time to spare, this was a selfish endeavor, not particularly pertinent to the tighter rungs of his project other than descriptions he could offer upon his return, notes for his journal. However, as a Scope, this was inherent to the project’s design, integral to his overall perceptions of the mission.

Along the way he passed an outdoor flower stand. Although he never had any interest in Maggie from a romantic perspective, nor could he, Ethan was so grateful for her kindness, friendship and generous assistance in making his visit that much more pleasant, helping him adapt, providing him with a level of comfort somewhat closer to his life in another century. To her, what an upper class doctor from London expected and deserved. Aside from the obvious, no electricity and indoor plumbing, he was relatively cozy in his new room. An expression of appreciation in the form any woman most desires and admires, Ethan bought a bouquet of freesia, gardenias and daffodils, a glorious mix for Maggie, made at his request.

He had been walking a while when he noticed something remarkable. With the addition of the stockings he had not felt the least bit of an urge to scratch anyplace on his body. He felt like a local. Surprisingly, it felt good. Checking his timepiece, nearly six o’clock as he approached Ten Bells Pub, as expected, he found the place busier than his previous visits, a crescendo building, rising to a fever pitch attained on the weekends. That is when the fights break out, according to Maggie. Ruffling through the crowd, hoping to find his friend or an open booth in the back, his usual table was occupied and he could not find Maggie. Assuming she was in the kitchen, most likely in the weeds, he searched for a seat.

As Ethan passed through the pub, flowers in hand, all the women smiled at him. Some looked at them longingly, others teasing him, curious to know the true object of his affections. “Are those for me?” He smiled uneasily as he stood out like lilacs in a snowstorm. Making his way to the bar he found a free stool. The bartender was a stocky man with a black moustache, gruff and quick to question a customer.

“What’ll it be, mate? Here for some beer and skittles?”

“Is Maggie here, per chance?” Ethan queried.

“Who?” The bartender was unable to hear the name over the rabble-rousers.

“Maggie.”

“Don’t know any Maggie, mate. Are you orderin’ or not?”

“Yes, um, coffee please.” Ethan was taken back by his abrasive manner.

The barkeep appeared insulted that the order did not include alcohol, predicting by his expression that Ethan wasn’t going to be a big tipper. A Thursday night bust. Never considering the tip, or lack thereof, might be contingent upon his attitude, he instantly prejudged Ethan the most difficult patron in the place, delivering one long, hard stare before delivering the coffee. With its arrival he wrapped his hands around the mug, scanning the pub, trying to find a friendly face among the motley mob.

“Her name’s Maggie. She works here.” Ethan figured the chap must be new and didn’t know all the staff by name yet.

“Don’t know ‘er. Don’t care to.” With that, he turned and walked away toward a more promising patron. Bloody bloke.

Spotting Maggie’s friend, the one who’d served them beer, Ethan reached out to touch her arm as she passed, getting her attention.

“Excuse me, Rose, was it?”

“Love, ya can call me whatever ya want if them flowers be for me!”

“Actually, I was looking for Maggie. Is she here?”

“Maggie?” The woman looked confused then appeared to regain her senses.

“Oh, Maggie! Yes! No, sorry love. Sad to say she got fired last night.”

“I beg your pardon? Fired! Why in bloody hell was she fired?” Disbelief in his voice, Ethan awaited the answer, searching the barmaid’s eyes for the truth of it.

“Uh, stealing, I heard.” The bartender yelled for Rose, flipping his hands from the wrist, gesturing for her to move along. “Sorry, love. Customers waitin’.”

As she rushed through with her tray to pick up drinks and attend to her tables, Ethan sat there stunned, in mild shock. What the hell happened? Why didn’t Maggie come to him for help? He would have at least done something more to reciprocate her kindheartedness other than innocently contributing to her drunken delinquency. Suddenly dispirited, his one true friend made in the new “olde” world was gone but not forgotten. Ethan’s heart sank, not knowing how to find her or if he would ever see her again. It was beyond disappointment. He was saddened because she was the one person that could lift his spirits and even make him laugh a bit before a morbid undertaking the wee hours would bring. Staring at his mug, he was not in the mood.

“I’ve changed my mind. Bring me a pint instead.” Ethan spoke emphatically.

“Well, that’s the spirit!” The bartender seemed more amenable.

Ethan sat there nearly ninety minutes nursing the beer along then drank his cold coffee, staring off into a void as if he’d lost his security blanket. “Keep the change.” As he paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, it immediately changed the barkeeper’s disposition. Spotting Maggie’s friend clearing off a table, he approached her again.

“Rose? Sorry to trouble you. Might you know where Maggie lives?”

“She was over on Thrawl Street, got evicted last night. Sorry love. I wish I could be more help.” Rose seemed genuinely sympathetic to her plight and his, as well.

Ethan handed her a decent tip along with the bundle of flowers then left the pub. Bewildered, his mind still buzzing, he wandered the streets in the vicinity, heading in the general direction of his lodging, though he felt no urgency to return there. It meant sitting alone in his room trying to make sense of something nonsensical. He simply couldn’t understand. Was she too proud to ask for help, or just too stubborn? Reluctantly making his way over to Thrawl Street, he knew this was where so many desolate souls congregated, including Miss Mary Ann Nichols. God knows he was not looking for her and he would see her soon enough at the end of her life. Instead, he was searching for his friend Maggie, anxious to help, to return the kindness she’d so graciously extended since their initial meeting.

“Want the business?” Quietly approaching him from behind, a woman proposed with a colloquial expression prostitutes used to solicit clients. Ethan did not respond or even dare to glance back, fearing it might be “Polly” Nichols. Even in his current somber mood, he kept the non-interference protocol paramount in mind at all times. Several other ladies of the evening made the same proposition, an all too common inquiry. Rapidly realizing this was a wrong turn to take, he did not want to go down that road, literally or figuratively, especially tonight. It was time to focus on the job at hand and return to his room and his mission, preparing for what was to come on Bucks Row. Arriving there just past 9:30 p.m., he felt all alone in the world.

Lighting only one candle, placing it on the dresser beside the pitcher and bowl, Ethan allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. He sat down at the foot of his bed, lost in his thoughts for far too long, perhaps for an eternity. Draping his coat then vest on the corner spiral post, he tried to shake off a defeated spirit that truly had no rational merit. People lose jobs all the time, lose their homes daily. If Maggie stole from the pub it was to keep a roof over her head, nothing more. This was her natural history, her destiny unfolding, nothing he could do nor should do about it. He knew that kind of thing was a common occurrence. This rumination was uncharacteristic. Ethan knew he needed to let it go, at the very least, lay it aside for the time being.

This fascination had gone woefully askew. Engaging with Maggie as he’d done then losing track of her created unsettling sensations in the man, detecting emotions he did not expect to feel. Maggie meant much more to him than being an indigenous specimen of the era, more than a subject of study. Standing, he began pacing around the woolen rug, doing the mental work necessary to reset his priorities for the night. As his pace then his breathing gradually slowed, he reestablished his focus on a set of predetermined goals. Exercising a favorite metaphor, Ethan adopted the mindset of an Olympic skier, a Scope adapting to a slippery slope. Visualizing Bucks Row, navigating the mental maze of paths and exit routes consuming his mind, he paced six steps, turned, then paced six more. Over and over like the cadence to the rhythm of his heart, eyes closed, Ethan refused to open them again until he achieved his in the zone status in the veritable time zone in which he now found himself, attaining a confident invisible cloak of knowledge. Once a calmness and certain purpose was again instilled at the core of his being he could then begin preparing for what he’d come here to do...watch. Ethan opened his eyes.

Having laid out all his clothing for the night, the doctor’s attire he’d traveled in through the Flicker, he disrobed, shedding his common clothing in lieu of finer fare. Standing naked at the water basin, washing himself in an almost ritualistic manner, Ethan wanted to feel as pure in mind and body as possible prior to what he would have to witness, a fateful hour coming closer with each passing moment. From time to time, he’d glance out the window, gauging the weather conditions, becoming noticeably cooler as the night progressed. Periodically checking his timepiece like an expectant father would, he was awaiting a death instead of a birth.

Back on course, his mindset exactly where it needed to be for the task at hand, at last check it was almost midnight. Intending to wait until the last minute before leaving his room, allowing for the dissipation of street traffic, thinning the chances of any testimonial account of him being seen roaming alleys in the night, he planned his exit for 2:45 a.m. Having factored every possible scenario into this equation, it allowed him a six-to-seven minute window of opportunity to move into the position he’d chosen to observe from well ahead of the arrival of the players...hopefully.

Suddenly Ethan was overcome with a craving for caffeine, his most basic need. Redressing in his commoner clothing, he went downstairs to the night manager to buy coffee grounds for the kitchen kettle. Being so late, unencumbered with duties, the young man volunteered to make the coffee for his tenant. Waiting for it to brew, Ethan propped himself in the doorway, quietly surveying Baker’s Row, sensing the chill in the air. Looking up into the clear sky, but for a few soft clouds whisking by, the temperature felt far cooler now, expected to drop further as history recorded on this morbid date destined for the history books, a story from the ages, for the ages. As Ethan patiently waited to watch this event unfold, he considered the facts of the matter, the case that forever remained an unsolved mystery until now. Though some would die sooner than others, the cold truth of it was simple enough to comprehend. Everyone Ethan encountered in the year 1888 already qualified as the “living dead”. They were ghosts but tonight was the night a ghost in Whitechapel would bleed.

“Sir?” The lad had not come emptyhanded, the aroma preceding his alert.

Standing behind him holding a hot cup of coffee, he looked at the mug then the man with a smile of gratitude. Well paid for his time and effort, he returned to his nook while his tenant turned to once more stare out the door. The presence of people on the street waning, a few stragglers passed by. Making short order of his first cup, he went to the kitchen, refilling it before turning to go up the stairs. It was then that he noticed something he hadn’t seen earlier. In the narrow hallway to the back door leading to the outhouse, just to the left of the stairwell was an alcove, a cubbyhole, really, yet it contained nothing less than the wonders of the world. A small lending library, no more than a dozen books awaiting his detection, John Milton’s “Paradise Lost” was included, as was William Blake’s “Songs of Innocence and Experience” and one well-worn volume of Alexander Pope’s “The Rape of the Lock”. The Bible, along with several other books, obscure titles lost to time, he’d discovered a treasure trove of delights. Two books had been placed face down, both considerably frayed. Ethan flipped the first, revealing a copy of Lewis Carroll’s “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” which he instantly tossed back as if plagued by a Universal curse.

“Fuck off!” Ethan said with a smirk, speaking to it as an animated thing.

He turned the second book over and burst into laughter. Daniel Dafoe’s classic “Robinson Crusoe” written in 1719. There wasn’t a literary work that could parallel Ethan’s plight in this new land more than the story of the shipwrecked Englishman and his daunting task of strategy and survival, minus the cannibals. Having read the tale countless times, he’d found it fascinating that it was first published as a fictional biography, as if “Robinson Crusoe” wrote it himself, and second, the actual author, Dafoe, was once a British spy. More astounding was the fact that he had not noticed the bookshelves during trips to the loo. More disturbing, these literary masterpieces were likely used as bathroom reading material. Counting twelve steps to the second floor, Ethan returned to his room, book in hand. A plan made to lose himself in the novel until it was time to go, he delved deeply into a poignant and beloved passage, knowing precisely where in the text to locate it. “All evils are to be considered with the good that is in them, and with what worse attends them.”

There were certain entitlements to oneself. Indulging in what makes one happy should be a priority but is oftentimes sacrificed. Ethan always loved books. Though in print, he imagined the writer putting paper to pen. As a teacher, he assigned many of these giants of literature to his students. All he did was pass the word, so to speak. It was these authors who had made their imprint and had the honor of being conduits of hopes and dreams, depicting a creative core of life for generations that followed. Ethan browsed the pages, selecting some of his favorite passages to revisit, thinking that he’d like to be remembered one day for this journey, pen to paper, recorded for posterity. Upon his return he would have eventual permission from The Consortium to declassify this mission. He’d write about his experiences in a memoir, something readers would come to know and love in time. Dutifully checking his pocket watch, it was 2:25 a.m. Time to dress the part.

Ethan was beginning to develop a finer appreciation for his fancy vintage duds. Peering in the only looking glass in the room, ALICE came to mind. He took a step back then another, improving the vantage point to accommodate his height. Gazing at the reflection of his image in the mirror mounted just above the basin, from what he could see, he appeared a fine figure of a man, distinguished, a worldly sort. Ethan stood taller, finding this authentic garb more appealing by the moment. Projecting himself back into the future on a lark, he smiled coyly imagining the reaction of his students were he to walk into his seminar in such apparel. Would he be dubbed the new trendsetter on campus or the laughing stock? An icon, a classy counter-cultural influence sporting alternatives to denim jeans and designer shirts students typically wore or would he be someone mocked then directed toward the drama department? Professor Ethan LaPierre: Fashion Guru! Chuckling, relaxing his shoulders enough to realize how tense he’d become straining to maintain a statuesque posture, he bent over, extending his long arms to the floor, lacing his self-restored physician’s shoes as the finishing touch to his outfit, one fit for a gentleman and a scholar.

Composing himself, Ethan drew a deep breath where he stood, filling his lungs to capacity while assuming his former upright position. During this pass before the glass, he caught a glimpse of his own expression. Startled, his features exposed an underlying emotion, a hint of a grimace on his lips, dread in his eyes. Naturally, he was nervous. A gentle man would soon witness a historically hideous attack, death resulting. Gazing into his own soul, Ethan lingered with the image, acutely aware he was still holding his breath. Deliberately releasing stored oxygen with his angst, expelling it from his body with an intense rush, drawing another breath in to replace it, by necessity, in an instant it occurred to him, he had adjusted to the putrid stench of the air. He was almost ready to go.

A sudden change of pace, he bustled around the room, making certain all of his documentation was in order, identification required should he be stopped by a local member of the constabulary. There could no pitfalls along the path, making his way into the shadows. Finally, pulling his watch from its pocket, it read 2:39 a.m. Ethan was punctual by nature and this would be the most important appointment he’d ever keep. Leaving with ample time provided him breathing room before arriving at his destination to witness an event which, like a vacuum chamber, would remove every last atom of air from a timeless bubble about to form around Bucks Row.

The antique skeleton key in hand, he slipped it into the two-sided lock. Turning the handle, opening the door before grabbing his bag, any semblance of calm he’d achieved prior to his scheduled departure dissipated instantly. Stunned, stilled by a sight, the woman lingering on the other side of the door had her hand raised, balled up in a fist, preparing to knock, perhaps working up the courage to do so. Caught completely off guard, Ethan stepped back. It was poor, pitiful Maggie. Disheveled, a bit unsteady on her feet, before Ethan could speak she launched forward into the room, wrapping her arms securely around his neck, clinging to him for dear life. He caught her by reflex, requiring both of his arms and all his strength to hold her upright. Timing is everything and this qualified as bad timing.

Under the current circumstances, he accounted for her behavior as a wanton act of desperation, a cry for help, perhaps pure emotional exhaustion, considering she’d lost her job and had no place to go. Having endured both a firing and eviction within the past eighteen hours, Maggie was overwrought, vulnerable; a sad state of affairs.

She kissed him, a sloppy and awkward attempt, at best. No question of her being inebriated, the smell of hard liquor heavy on her breath and bitter on her lips, Ethan pulled back, immediately launched into a memory of a similar frat party experience. Quickly peeling the woman off of him, Ethan grasped her firmly by the shoulders, holding her back while holding her up to keep her from falling down drunk.

“Maggie! I was worried for you. I heard what happened at Ten Bells. I’m sorry.” Ignoring her advances, Ethan tried to speak rationally to the woman.

“Bloody Bells! Oh love, I hated it there. Yer the only good come of it.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Ethan asked rhetorically. The answer was obvious...clearly, more than she could handle and it certainly wasn’t beer.

“Jus’ a nip, doc.” She stood at attention, saluting Ethan as one would a military man. That action threw Maggie off balance and she crumpled in place, folding like an accordion, collapsing into his arms again.

Ethan provided support, guiding her further into the room, closing the door with his foot to preserve Maggie’s privacy, as well as his own. No need to cause a scene, particularly at such a late hour as well as a critical moment in history, it couldn’t be tampered with, regardless of circumstances. Her untimely arrival, her presence was far more than an inconvenience for him, it was potentially disastrous for his project. She’d have to go so he could do the same. Removing his hands from her shoulders, Maggie freed herself then cavorted around the center of the boarding room she’d arranged for him, taking the liberty of making herself at home. Sauntering about as if pretending to be one of the royals at a Grand Ball, she was the belle, twirling her shabby skirt, creating the breeze that lifted it in an overtly flirtatious manner. Ethan noticed Maggie was still wearing the same dress she had worn the other morning while assisting him with his lodging. The only addition to her attire appeared to be a new bonnet. Pointing it out with some pride, she brought it to his attention as an enticement, the article of clothing he would surely want to remove first. Seductively running her fingers along the edge, playfully entangling them in soft satin ribbons, she giggled then dropped one arm, lifting her skirt provocatively higher, throwing her head back and off kilter again. Steadying her gait with the help of the bedpost, she began to lift the hat off her head as an intimate act, an inviting gesture, intending to stay for a time, perhaps for the night. Ethan abruptly stopped her momentum.

“No! Maggie, you must go. Now.” Ethan was kind but firm. All of her dancing and prancing came to a halt, her forlorn eyes staring into his own, penetrating him, pleading with him and passing through him on the way to nowhere.

“Ya don’t like it, doc? Doctor, don’t ya like me? I thought we was friends here.” Her effusive demeanor told Ethan this impasse wouldn’t be easily resolved.

“Yes! No! I mean, can we please do this tomorrow?” He was getting flustered.

“We can do it?” She expressed with induced excitement. “Well, let’s do it now! Won’t take that long!” Maggie suggested facetiously, with a wink.

“No Maggie, I have to leave now, don’t you see?” He tried reasoning with her.

Stepping further away from him, her posture altered in an instant, sizing him up from top hat to the bottom of his shoes. Crossing her arms over her chest, she used her forearms to hoist her bosom higher, a force of habit, no doubt.

“Well, I do see! Don’t ya look all proper like, all dressed up with somewhere to go and some bloody hour, eh? My! Oh my Arthur, ain’t you the poshy gentleman?” A smack of sarcasm spoke before the next words could pass her distilled lips. “And I s’pose I ain’t the properest kind a lady for you, sir.”

“It’s not that. Not at all. Look, you need to leave now. I have someplace else to be and quite soon.” More frantic by the moment, Ethan could not afford to be kind but his stern disposition wasn’t working either.

“Why? Ya got a meetin’ at this time o’ the mornin’? Someone ya need to go n’ examine, doc?”

“Maggie! Please!” He begged her to leave, as much with his eyes as his words. “I’ve something urgent to attend to and I mustn’t be late. I’ll give you whatever you need for lodging tonight. I’ll meet with you tomorrow.” Ethan reached for his wallet to retrieve an offering which she promptly refused, rejecting him along with it.

“Don’t want your monies, love. That’s not who...not why I’m here.”

“Please do me this favor, just go. Please.” Beads of sweat lined his brow.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll be off, then.” She said in a whimsical tone, tipping her head to him while curtsying. She stumbled toward the door while Ethan faced away, feeling terribly bad, about to abandon her in a time of need. It was painful to watch. As he turned to make his apologies, he saw her quickly lock the door and remove the key. She spun around, leaning back against it, eyes awash with the glaze of intoxication. Unsteady on her feet, as if the door was holding her up, she grinned as she dropped the key down her blouse, quickly buried in the cleavage of her ample breasts.

“No! No! No! No! No!” He blurted out the word in rapid-fire succession.

“Why go out, love? I’ve gots the goods ya want right here. I’ll stay the night.”

“Maggie! What do you think you are doing? Give me that key!” Extending his hand to receive it, she ignored his request, projecting her body off the door.

“C’me on and take it, doc.” Another playful reply, she sashayed across the floor to the center of the room, passing him on her way to the bed. Cat and mouse.

“I’m not joking, Maggie. I demand you give me the key!” Insisting she comply with his directive in the most commanding voice a passive man could muster, Ethan was at a loss and clearly at a disadvantage. For someone not in the least bit assertive by nature, the situation made his skin crawl from within, as if the vermin of London had infiltrated him by osmosis. Taking one long stride, shoulders back, spine rigid, Ethan placed himself squarely in front of Maggie, reiterating his clear demand with emphasis. “Maggie! Give me the key!”

“Tells me what ya really want, love.” She taunted.

“The fucking key.”

Maggie grabbed Ethan by the crotch, giving a spirited squeeze as she giggled.

“Let’s trade me key for yours.” Ethan leapt backward, nearly losing his balance, shocked that he’d been groped. Rendered breathless, Maggie’s next words flushed his face of blood and sent chills down his spine.

“So, d’ ya want the business?” He had heard these familiar words before on the streets of London. The reference was specific, no mistaking the intention.

“What? What did you say?” Squinting his eyes as if hoping it would help with his comprehension, Ethan couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Come now, love, ya know what I mean.” Maggie patted both sides of the bed as she sat, yet another invitation issued.

Ethan’s eyes gave away his awareness of what she was giving away for a price.

“I been playin’ a role too, all this time just...like...you...Arthur.” She spoke his pseudonym with a deliberately acidic accentuation.

“Maggie, I really don’t have time now...” Ethan got that much out of his mouth before she interrupted him.

“That’s not my name!” She shouted, shocking him into silence. “And Arthur is not yer real name...ya didn’t know that first...when I yelled Arthur ‘cross the street that time, ya know.” Slurring her words, they were loosely strung together.

“There were people everywhere...and the traffic passing by, I couldn’t hear...” Ethan tried to excuse the lapse he remembered before she cut him off again.

“Don’t bother bloody lyin’ to me, love. I tells ya I know enough about you mens to know when yer lyin’.”

Before continuing on with a drunken rant she paused, attempting to fix her hair and dress with a press of her hand here and there.

Ethan was at a loss for words, locked in the surreal lost world of his room. This stranger stood from the bed, extending her hand, wanted to try again with a formal greeting.

“Start over, shall we? M’ name ain’t Maggie...m’ friends calls me Polly.”

The floor beneath Ethan’s feet suddenly destabilized, shifting in place. Shaking, he began questioning his own existence and hers in an instant of pure panic. Hoping her response to his next query would result in removing the true fear tightening his throat, it was blocking the passage of words needed to ask what he must.

“Polly? Polly...Nichols?” He could barely utter the name, choking it out with a nearly inaudible whisper, but she heard him.

“Yes! Ow’d ya know that?” She asked with a smile, softening haggard features, taking it as a form of flattery, almost relieved to finally drop the façade.

Ethan stepped closer, hoping it was his ears deceiving him and not the cosmos.

“Mary Ann Nichols. Born 26 August 1845 to Edward and Caroline Walker in London, England?” Ethan could no longer chance a coincidence, just as Polly could no longer smile. As though every word he spoke kicked her further away, knocking her off balance, she staggered back, trying to get away from him.

“Oh, bloody hell! Ow’d ya know that? Who, what are ya?” Alarm in her voice, she leered at the man who knew too much about her.

The two stared at one another in silence. Ethan had not noticed the resemblance, having only seen her corpse in vintage photographs, the details of her face obscured. This was nothing he’d trained for, nothing he could’ve anticipated or even remotely prepared for, as a scenario unfolding before his disbelieving eyes never crossed his mind, not as a Scope, scientist, historian or doctor of letters. Dumbfounded, he was a helpless victim of circumstance, as was she, the intended victim still keeping her distance. Time was suspended. Submersed in the fog of conscious thought relating to the current and pending event, he had to quickly reconcile this painful revelation, coming to terms with the truth that the woman about to become the first victim of the notorious “Jack the Ripper” had locked herself inside his room. A woman he’d befriended and felt sorry for because of her losses in life would shortly lose her life as a matter of destiny, becoming a figure in history.

There had been a reason for the hours of non-interference discussions with The Consortium brass and this was precisely it. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Ethan inadvertently invested himself emotionally into someone intricately involved with the historical timeline of events. Maggie had no significance. Polly did. According to his perception of things, Maggie was irrelevant to these proceedings, a side show; the common barmaid with an equally common side job, to make ends meet. It never occurred to him that Maggie might play such a pivotal role in history. She’d become part of his journey and now he would have to let her go, literally, to her death.

The timeline derailed, getting it back on track was the priority. He had no choice but to detach, no matter how difficult. Likewise for Ethan, a cruel twist of fate but at least it would not cost him his life. He had to convince Polly to leave, condemning a friend to death, sending the defenseless, unsuspecting soul out the door alone, into the darkest of nights. This was not a choice. It was history. No time to think, barely time enough to act, Ethan didn’t have time to tell another lie. Lifting the watch from his pocket his heart nearly stopped at 2:51 a.m. as the shot of pure adrenaline surged through his veins, a bolt of lightning; the ultimate wake-up call.

“Mary...Polly.” Stepping closer, he tried to reason with her as she stepped back. “You do not understand. You really need to give me that key and leave now.”

“No! Bloody come clean...who are ya, a bobby? How d’ ya know who I am!” The more upset she became, a reaction amplified by abundant alcohol in her system, the farther away the suspicious woman stepped from his tenuous approach.

“No! No! Hell no! I’ll explain it all tomorrow.” Stepping forward again, Ethan knew there would be no tomorrow for her.

“Who are ya then?” She demanded again, anger raging in her sparse words.

“There’s no time! Give me the key!” Ethan demanded, moving closer.

They maneuvered about the room, Polly going backward as Ethan leaned in. He wasn’t one to grab at her the way she had done with him, no attempt made to search her bosom. He wouldn’t push her around but he needed to push the issue. Her head was spinning in circles, as was the room, a dizziness undoubtedly due to her severe state of inebriation. Disoriented, stumbling over the lip of the rug, tripping, twisting, and turning, unable to catch herself, Ethan reached out to save her but Polly went down too hard and fast, striking her head just below the left ear against the corner of the solid oak bedpost. It knocked her unconscious. Having fallen with such force the impact spun her around to the right, that side of her face slamming to the floor with one dull thud. Mary Ann Nichols, Polly appeared to be dead to the world.