Ethan awoke mid-morning around half past ten to a cool, cloudless sky. He had recovered from his childish outburst just six hours earlier, resuming his “mission” mentality immediately. First walking over to the dresser and washing himself down of the stains and vestiges of the night before, he stared at the remains of one of the two candles he had not extinguished during the night, burning itself out sometime earlier that morning. He knew the feeling. Not wanting to gaze in the looking glass, not just yet, he was worried what would be gazing back at him and thought it best to focus on things to be accomplished for the day. Once he had cleansed the crimson color from his hands and arms he dressed into one of his local outfits simply to hit the loo, visit the kitchen for some hot coffee then replenish his pitcher with fresh water. It was becoming a routine. The next task at hand would be the labor required to remove bloodstains from his clothing, a formidable task.
The buzz of the tenants still sitting in the kitchen was two-fold. First, the word had already gotten out about the two women murdered. Second, as the Daily News had been printed, the paper on the table, all of the talk was about the text of the first “Dear Boss” letter which was signed with the nom de plume “Jack the Ripper”. As Ethan walked past the table he stopped to sit on a bench and hold it in his hands, to read the words the first time they were printed. With his weary eyes transfixed upon the page, Ethan read the name of someone he knew in the paper. Soon everyone in the world would know the infamous name, the legendary Jack. He’d caught himself smiling at the thought “You don’t know Jack” then covered his mouth until the urge subsided. If anyone saw his face they’d think it an expression of shock, appalled by what he was reading. The letter was of course, fictitious, subsequent letters, as well. He need not concern himself with having to write anything to maintain the timeline. Too many researchers over the centuries were in complete agreement that this series of letters were fraudulent, conjured up for hype by someone within the press to sell more papers, maybe make a name for himself down the road. This was undoubtedly the nefarious work of a roving reporter willing to exploit these victims again for his own ill-gotten gains.
It was surreal for Ethan, holding this newspaper, seeing his pseudonym glaring back on the day it was conceived, concocted by another hand, another mind. Truth be told, Jack the Ripper was not born this very day but he’d certainly been adopted on it. As a historian, to touch and read the newspaper was fascinating. He snickered, relishing an important moment in time, proof enough that the “real” Ripper did not write them. Ethan had not lifted a finger or a pen to contribute to the growing frenzy, essentially victimizing these women twice, perceiving himself to be above that sort of thing. No mercy bestowed, whoever wrote them owned no moral compass. Ethan found it rather humorous. The name “Jack the Ripper” was invented for the sake of publicity, a name synonymous with carnage and depravity. No one ever dared come forward to claim credit for what was to become one of the most infamous names in recorded history. A cynical, heartless marketing strategy worked as the first printed letter and successive “Saucy Jacky” postcard, (both of which allegedly fabricated), drove people in Whitechapel into mass panic. His only “personal” correspondence would come in fifteen days when he would send tangible evidence to George Lusk, as President of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. The recipient of the package would receive something of substance, an actual clue significant to the case.
All the more reason for Ethan to remain in his room. Cast as the lead in the play, he was a horrible actor. He was afraid the conversations he’d engage in with anyone would surely turn towards these murders and he did not know if he could fake being shocked and mortified quite enough to suit his purposes or to cover his arse! Even though it seemed no matter what he did Time would fix it for him, he still had that scientific logic telling him not to tinker with the Universe. It was a tumultuous day in Whitechapel. At the minute he was reading the letter, proposals for reward offers were being discussed all the way up the food chain to the Queen’s desk, yet the case would soon become more convoluted, riddled with speculation. The suggestion had been made by Doctor Frederick Gordon Brown (who’d conducted the postmortem examination of Catherine Eddowes), that the murderer could possibly have had the occupation of a butcher, referring to the jagged cuts. Anti-Semitism was dividing the townspeople, adding to the case’s convolution. With Eddowes’ death bringing the City of London police into the fold, it contributed a jurisdictional conflict to the mucked up calamity of a notoriously failed investigation, going nowhere fast.
Ethan returned to his room, coffee and fresh water in hand. He’d have plenty of work to keep him preoccupied until he had to return to the hospital incinerator later at night under cover of darkness. As his clothes soaked he sat at his desk and opened his journal. No matter how morbid, he needed to document the “Double Event” and chronicle his personal take on it for posterity, taking his role in history seriously.
***
Journal entry ˜ 1 October 1888
Woke to a beautiful morning. There was a variety of late season finches singing outside my window. Started the day with a refreshing cup of coffee as I am soaking bloodstains from my soiled sleeves. Second “local” attire has been put on. Either I am becoming accustomed to the rough tweed or this was made better than the ones before. Once I am finished with fabric restoration, washing the medical bag then cleaning the instruments, I’ll be ready for more coffee and an in-house meal from the kitchen. Not going out anytime soon except to the loo again.
Oh, Anson! Once I’m back in the 21st Century I would like to talk with you about possible future Flicker projects and the fact that, well, it does not matter what they do. If the Princess Diana proposal is approved, then let the bloody Scope be on the motorcycle that drives the Mercedes off the road. It really won’t matter. TIME will reformat the storyline immediately and succinctly so that everything transpires as it should. Not saying he should get off the bike and shoot Diana in the head or strip naked proclaiming he did it! However, through my experience and involvement I have concluded that I was meant to be here. I was always here. This becoming more obvious with each execution of the job it is now my determination that the Flicker anomaly was always designated by fate to exist so events of the past could manifest as designed by Time. Pray to the time gods! They made the door that may allow us from the future to fulfill all of our roles in the past!
Upon my return you may have an ethical dilemma with what I’ve had to do to preserve history as it was recorded but I believe, in retrospect, you and the entire Consortium will thank me for what I’ve done and perhaps erect a statue in my name honoring my dedication to deciphering and keeping the non-interference directive paramount in my mind considering the sacrifices I needed to make emotionally and ethically so that we all may continue to exist in the only future we know.
Enough of my pontifications. I am 39 days away from my homecoming and have several requirements left to prepare for, then execute. Sorry for the ‘execute’ play on words. I’ve got a lot of down time but it wouldn’t be prudent to take another trip to the city of London for yet another concert or shopping spree. I think I will simply immerse myself in a few more books for entertainment and passing of time until my rendezvous with Mary Kelly on the 9th of November. Honestly, I cannot wait until I meet my final victim. The work I will do on her body is intricate and specific; artistic design. It should be fun. I can take my time with that canvas. Although I could not see their eyes, the texture of their blood, particularly Eddowes’ open abdomen was arousing, having to use only my sense of touch to find my hidden treasures. If I must say so myself, I’m getting very good at this!
***
Around midday, Ethan surrendered his coffee, celebrating an early tea time as he was on his third bowl of fresh water. Still washing instruments, or rather, soaking them then sterilizing them once more, he had slipped downstairs to boil a pot in the kitchen once it emptied of tenants, so not to draw any suspicion. After all, everyone in Whitechapel was wary of everybody else. There was nothing less than a palpable paranoia in the air. As he sipped the tea, he thought it best to load up on more items to keep in his room in order to reduce his time in public while he waited to do these recorded acts of Jack the Ripper to keep the timeline rolling along. To the detriment of his plan to hide, Ethan would take one of a few remaining excursions out amongst the crowds, avoiding reward seekers or police inquiry. Going out by early afternoon on a Sunday, the streets would be heavily trafficked with carriages and pedestrians, allowing him to blend in, little or no effort required.
Being British and looking the part eliminated him from being profiled by those suspicious of immigrants of one certain ethnic background. The recent suspicion of Jack the Ripper being a local butcher also diminished the odds of drawing attention, as typically their clothing and overall appearance was indicative of their profession. The suspect’s description was becoming more comedic and variable by the hour as just about every official on the case had a difference of opinion regarding a culprit, who committed these brutal slayings. Sailor, butcher, doctor, policeman, immigrant and even royalty! All would become targets of the investigation. Ethan didn’t worry about the man he’d seen with Catherine Eddowes moments before he killed her in Mitre Square. He wouldn’t be coming forward. If he fit any of these aforementioned categories or was perhaps an unfaithful husband, bringing attention to his encounter with Eddowes would result in nothing beneficial for him in the matter.
For Ethan, to be the sycophant to local authorities would no longer benefit him. Instead, it would cause suspicion as he might otherwise be ignored. He entertained the thought of returning to Spitalfields Market near Commercial and Hanbury Street where his “family friend” PC William Smith worked a beat, just in case he was to be stopped again. Smith would vouch for him. It was a beautiful day for a walk.
The chattering outside his lodging along Bakers Row had gradually turned into a whisper. Everyone was afraid and no one knew who to trust. The warmth of smiles and greetings from a passerby was nowhere to be found. The women were terrified and the men were paranoid. Sheep. Up and across Hanbury, he arrived at the market to find no policeman present, something he found rather odd. Then he remembered from his research, they were cloistered in preparation for the hunt. In two more days the officers would begin a door-to-door search, covering a two-hundred yard radius of Dorset Street, the area authorities concluded must have been where the murderer was hold up. Indeed, Ethan’s placement was fortuitous. Whether it be Polly Nichols or that good old chap Time helping him along his mission, either way, relocation to Bakers Row had put him outside of the search grid. The conspicuous police absence meant they were already at their respective stations receiving instructions for their Tuesday kickoff of a comprehensive search that would require over two weeks to finish, yielding absolutely no dividends. Over 100,000 flyers were to be distributed during the same period of time to the apprehensive residents of Whitechapel.
On the mornings of Friday 31st August, Saturday 8th and
Sunday 30th September 1888 women were murdered in or near
Whitechapel supposed by someone residing in the immediate
neighbourhood. Should you know of any person to whom
suspicion is attached you are earnestly requested to
communicate at once with the nearest police station.
Spitalfields was a busy place on any given Sunday, no different than any other marketplace from any era, the one day of the week people got out and about. Ethan strolled around the market in a leisurely manner. As if on holiday, he was absorbing it, taking his time, still taking snapshots in his mind. Stopping at each vendor to see if there was something which caught his wandering eye, he had purchased two large boxes of fruits and vegetables, one tin can and lid as well as a cheap bundle of rags to wrap a few bloody organs in, by necessity. Spending most of the bright afternoon there, Ethan noticed the interesting juxtaposition between the blissful day and the solemn air of those suspect and suspicious alike around him. Having only one more important stop to make, it was to purchase a bottle of wine of common vintage for an uncommon usage. All errands completed, he continued along the way, returning home without incident.
Eager for the late hours of the evening to approach, Ethan was already changing into his upper class wardrobe. The inside of his medical bag was securely lined with fresh rags. The object to be transported was neatly wrapped as a butcher would do prior to delivering an order of meat. Although he’d planned ahead for this late night trek to pay a visit to the hospital incinerator, anticipating minimal staffing, he chose to do so only as an extra precaution. It probably would have had no bearing on the outcome regarding when to go, as Time would manipulate events to accommodate Ethan’s necessary movements. It was merely a good time to do the deed, as he had no previous plans for the evening.
Street traffic was lighter than usual, and yet, for an outer section of London, the population dictated that the odds of people still out at all hours was not uncommon. During this particular period in history local authorities estimated there were more than twelve-hundred prostitutes working in Whitechapel on any given night. It was surely a busy district of the city. In light of the recent murders, he was certain that number dropped somewhat but for most of these women the necessary risk of going out to earn a living meant the risk of death while the killer was on the loose. It was a necessary evil, food and shelter paramount over safety. The women had no choice but to rely upon their own keen observations so to keep their wits about them and likewise, keep their heads. In tandem, customers during this time had to convince the prostitutes they were not cold-blooded killers before any agreement to have sex was struck. It certainly seemed everyone was on the defensive. Most working girls, from an overabundance of caution, would stick to regular male faces and attached appendages with which they were familiar.
As he continued his walk, there were those coming and going to and from work and of course, there was a police presence, as if they were guarding the fair maidens rather than pursuing them for arrest. He spotted a small cluster of police along the way to the hospital and fortunately, positioned at such a fair distance, there would be no definitive encounter. Except for the few ignored proposals from vendors and vermin his arrival was swift and unencumbered. As expected, London Hospital was staffed by a skeleton crew at this time of night. As long as he’d dressed the part and carried his medical bag, he felt safe from discovery. Not one staff member lifted a head or a finger from paperwork duties or patient care rounds. It was as if he had become invisible, free to carry out “the job” in the incinerator room. Ethan tossed the human remains he was carrying into the intense flames and kept vigilant watch until the rags and contents were all engulfed by the inferno. Time brief, job done, time to go.
Although the mortuary on Old Montague Street had been the stopping point for the last two victims, those who expired (not under criminal circumstances) while in hospital would be brought to the basement morgue until processing was completed. The corridor taking him to and from the incinerator passed by two access doors to the morgue. As Ethan was walking along he was drawn to the sign like a child with a sweet tooth spying a big glass display in the window of a candy shop. He entered the morgue which, of course, was void of the living, but had six covered bodies on wooden slabs in various stages of preparation before autopsy then release for burial. He’d noticed one corpse was a young woman, in her late teens or early twenties, he surmised. Removing the sheet covering her to the shoulders, she did not have any indication on her body identifying a cause of death so she must have succumbed to some kind of internal injuries or disease. The lass was beautiful, appearing to be in perfect condition. Flawless skin, her long auburn hair drew him closer to her side, an enticement to touch without threat of retribution. Stepping closer, Ethan leisurely observed her form, taking in every detail with rapacious eyes. He began caressing her silky hair, daring to continue running his fingers tenderly across her cheeks then slowly, delicately down the center of her chest between her breasts to the middle of her abdomen, as if seducing a lover. He wondered if she had died a virgin or knew the pleasures of the flesh before expiring.
“Fancy a dance with an older chap?” Ethan asked, almost expecting a response.
How pale she was from head to toe. Fully exposed, she was no more than five feet in height. Lifting the body off of its slab, when he swept her up in his arms, in spite of her being unresponsive, dead weight, she felt like a toy doll, albeit one with rigor mortis setting in.
“Honey, you’re a little stiff tonight.” Ethan improperly joked, but who was there to judge him? The girl in his arms? He felt free, knowing Time would protect him. He laughed aloud, quickly wedging his face into the nape of her neck, muffling his ode to joy. Her feet dangled free as he began waltzing around the room with her in tow, moving as gracefully as possible between the autopsy tables. His partner was not being cooperative.
Their intimate dance had a soundtrack. Ethan suddenly heard a song in his head, humming along to a favorite tune by Tom Petty, an American singer he’d admired since youth. “Last dance with Maryjane, one more time to kill the pain.” Yes! This morbid mannequin’s name must have been Maryjane or he wouldn’t have thought of the song! A mind whirling with their bodies, Ethan thought himself quite mad for a moment but only one shard of a second. Then he thought himself brilliant. In light of his current fluid feelings, a madman was awash, feeling everything. Every human emotion balled up in a fist. Ethan took it like a man, one strike after another, but the pain of the emptiness came in his unfulfilling liaison with Maryjane. She was as cold as ice.
Returning the girl to her resting place on the table, he repositioned then covered her precisely as he’d found her. Realizing his actions were hovering on the brink of insanity, it was crazy for him to think he could enjoy a dance with a body no longer alive. Had he felt the life leaving her, it may have been more satisfying but the lass he held so closely was long gone, dead to him, no attachment formed by the union. It was then he realized the most intimate and personal aspect he could ever imagine experiencing had already happened. He had felt human life slip away and craved it, a sensation unlike any other. It was his consolation prize for these last two victims, as he was deprived of peering into their eyes. His vindication came in taking from these women the flow of life’s blood. Considering the personal sacrifices he’d made for the sake of Time and its demanding schedule, he had fulfilled his obligations to date and wanted to know what was in it for him. It wouldn’t be asking too much.
It took Ethan no time to return to his lodgings. He could not undress fast enough, taking a moment to pose nude before his mirror image with narcissistic intention, a true reflection of himself. From the top drawer of his dresser he retrieved Catherine Eddowes’ kidney, still wrapped in rags. He didn’t bring it to the incinerator because he was not done with it yet. Gently unwrapping the vital organ she no longer needed, he carefully placed it in a small tin can he had bought at the market earlier. Stepping over to the desk Ethan grabbed the generic bottle of wine and opened it, poured just enough into the tin to completely cover the kidney before placing the lid on the can. Masking the smell of decay, wine also inhibited the degrading process. Replacing it back in the top dresser drawer, he carried the remaining bottle of wine over to the desk and sat there drinking it as he stared out the window. He was wide awake.
Something of a transition in Ethan’s biological chronometer had occurred, as it was becoming more and more apparent to him. A seismic shift in routine, he’d been going to bed later and waking up barely before noon, a drastic contrast to his Oxford schedule just over a month earlier. He’d always realized he would be having many late nights on the job but never expected to become a true night owl. There seemed to be a shift to his inner clock. Laying naked in bed before one in the morning, he found himself once again staring up at the ceiling. He laid there for over two hours then finally fell asleep from sheer boredom.
For the next four days, with the exception of trips to the outhouse and kitchen for coffee and a book from the library shelf, Ethan never left his room. In that time he ate and read and drove himself crazier. Once awakening, he’d sit at the desk later and later, watching activities in the street from his window. The door-to-door search had begun nearer to Dorset Street and he could see all of the flyers being distributed on the road. Somewhere in the district were some busy men trying to piece together a puzzle, each and every fact thrown at them over the month plus of carnage added to the enigma now known as Jack the Ripper. They’d eventually seek out a psychic who was deemed a damn fool. Even dogs did not seem up to the task at snout.
Adding background music from a silent film to this whimsical ballet now being performed, it had great entertainment value. The dog and pony show. Police officers raced around Whitechapel, quickly getting nothing done but appearing busy doing it. Tomorrow would be the same, identical to this day and so on, monotonous in the extreme. Ethan felt like he was at Heathrow and his plane was delayed, forever. In hindsight, if he could have and would have known his true destiny in this story, he would have used Flicker after every murder to return to the 21st Century for the hot showers and a chance to sleep in his own soft bed, perhaps stock up on the delicious local bangers and mash he loved so much before making the leap. Everybody back at CERN would certainly enjoy the authentic meal, especially Colin. That would have been the ticket to ride! Jump in, do the deed and get out, quite like having sex as he recalled from his youth as a student. It was a vague recollection, at best.
Ethan had not thought of sex in an eternity. He romanticized all the time, even to the point of arousal, imagining a rendezvous with a beautiful 17th Century French maiden, perhaps a World War II British nurse. His thoughts being drawn to the act, the physical satisfaction, Ethan pondered his circumstances. Having been inside of three women from the perspective of pain in the last month, he thought it might be nice to be inside one for pure pleasure. His brief dance date with the corpse of a girl in the morgue was the closest he had been to a woman without cutting her head off since his junior year at Oxford. It was similar though not exactly as he remembered, feeling the weight of a woman in his arms. Perhaps it was precisely what he’d been needing, a little affection. Hell’s Belles, there were over a thousand women working the streets of Whitechapel. He was bound to find at least one with some modicum of conversational skills and basic intellect, someone quite like Maggie the barmaid. Maybe Anson had sent him on with so much money precisely for this reason, almost as a dare, to go make a little mischief during his down time. As this titillating, rather salacious idea occurred to him, Ethan suddenly felt a distinct life force entering his body again, causing him to tingle in unmentionable ways, in some places more than others, liberating him to fantasize about keeping company with a lovely lady.
The grudge match ensued between his fear and his libido. Hormones prevailed. To the victor (or rather, to the Ethan) go the spoils. Excited, filled with anticipation, Ethan began to prepare just after eight in the evening as if he was going to his prom. Shaving for the first time in more than a week, including the moustache he’d grown for the “Double Event”, his effort presented a smooth, clean appearance. He washed down twice then chose the second fancy outfit from his trip into the city of London to wear for his night out on the town. In desperate need of a haircut, he would have to attend to that in the days to come, though he’d assessed the growth as manageable once wet down and slicked back a bit. Ethan then took the time to organize and put away or hide all of his identifying items such as the medical bag and his documents, should he have the opportunity to entertain a guest in his private quarters.
It took three hours to prepare for this excursion, two devoted to his appearance then another sixty minutes to muster up the courage. Stepping out “out of character” was terrifying. Ethan had flown on autopilot since Annie Chapman’s ring epiphany, relinquishing all decision-making to destiny, but this was not a recorded event. This was about making choices on his own behalf, frightening and exhilarating in equal measure. He needed a little risk and some female companionship and it may just be what the doctor ordered to feel some semblance of normalcy again, if possible. He wondered if he would ever feel normal again. With one final personal inspection in the mirror he looked like a proper English gentleman of means; all dressed up with someplace to go. Ethan thought he looked pretty damn good by candlelight.
Money tucked inside the breast pocket of his jacket, his timepiece attached to its fob and his trousers, he pulled it out to check. Nearly 11:30 p.m., it was, indeed, a good time for a chance encounter with a lady of the evening. As Ethan exited the room he locked the door behind him then went downstairs, out the front door onto Bakers Row. For the first time since his arrival he did not have a direction to follow, no research to do or obligation to meet according to the dictates of his master Time. Ethan was free to wander the streets of Whitechapel in search of a nameless woman with whom to share some shameless time. It was only a matter of time before he’d find what he was searching for on the streets of London.