Beyond the Veil

by Erin Lee

  Don’t think about that either. Danger is nothing. You have more to fight with than the others had. They were walking streets late at night in darkness. That won’t be you. You’ll have a room like Mary Jane stacked with weapons. You’ll have the plan down by then. It won’t take him long. You must hurry. Researchers of 2018 will pick up on this fast, like the diary, like other things that came later and unexplained. They wonder how they overlooked it. They’ll process it for evidence. They’ll study the newsprint ink. They’ll look to check its authenticity and all the while, he’ll know. He’ll have to. He’s the only one who can. You left the hint. More than one of them.

  He won’t be able to resist. Nothing will piss him off more than a lowly whore messing with him. He’ll kick back. He’ll think he’s just watching the news. He’ll turn the television on and it will set him into an instant tailspin. He’ll be here in no time at all, through his own portal and with that time machine. He has to. But what if?

  No. It’s impossible. The picture. You sent in a picture of Elizabeth’s beautiful, intact face. The others with Uncle and her other husband too. He’ll make sense of it. Her infidelity. Hell, he’ll come back so crazed he’ll try to dig her up just to make a mess of her bones. They’ll run it too. It will be all over that Internet thing and no one will be able to stop talking about it. For one moment, and again, he’ll have his fifteen minutes. Only, these won’t be the fifteen minutes he lives for. They will infuriate him. They will speak of him as the one who couldn’t tame the wild shrew. They will glorify her, not him. She will break their proverbial glass ceiling of infamy as the one who got away from him.

  He won’t know what to do. He’ll have to come back. It’s not something he can live with. Gretchen and the others? They will matter none. He will blame them, of course. Hell, he’ll probably think she wrote the letter. But it won’t matter. He’ll already be lying dead and dismembered, in the boarding room. Yes. Come. Come play with me, Ripper.

  I couldn’t help myself. I was obsessed. I collected the knives, the kitchen tools, and anything sharp I could find and put them in a satchel. A week, maybe two. Four pence a night. Go to Hanbury Street and wait. Stay at 29. Stay there every night. Spend the rest of your time in the bars, picking up sweat from filthy men with bad intentions. Become Ingrid Josephine West, the Ripper’s next victim. Or better, undoing. Out infamy him. It’s the only way to chase him back to the past and rewrite history. I pulled my hair back and tucked it under my ratty bonnet, glad, for the first time, of my misfortunes in life. I ran the crimes, the pictures, the horrific mutilations through my head over and over again. They haunted me. Legs of otherwise trying to survive women splayed open. Blood coming from their vaginas. Pale, sunken hollows under cheekbones. Blood. So much of it. I thought of him, standing a head taller than any of them, his features sharp and that stupid hat. I thought of Gretchen, too, who should not even be involved with this. If it weren’t for the stupid time machine and the bending of our destinies. But there was more. So much more. And for all these things I vowed revenge on him.

  The clean slices through flesh. The jagged ones too, like he couldn’t make up his mind. The circumcision of genitals no one ever had the guts to speak of – the woman from the room whose labia and clitoris he’d sawed completely off. How he’d placed them on the boarding room nightstand, next to her bloody, severed breasts. That strange blue tint to her skin.

  Ripped fingernails. Many of them gone. It was a myth that none of them had fought. They had. I could see it. I had the portal now. And, while I hated watching it, I couldn’t turn back. Cuts, contusions, the tightening of his features as he went in for deeper slices. His rumpled hair, tumbling out from under that hat. Blood splatters everywhere and silly street cleaners with no sixth sense for danger coming out to the streets to have bodies and blood cleaned up before 6 am when the city would wake. I hated them all.

  Knowing what I knew now, it was impossible not to. But mostly, my contempt was for him – the man who’d chased my sister and the others through time and ultimately killed her. Stepping backward, I finally rested against the lounge, telling myself to calm down. I’ll get him here – somehow. If the newspaper article doesn’t do it, something will.

  I closed my eyes and remembered that this didn’t have to be my last chance. Knowing the coward who called himself the Ripper the way I did, I knew, either way, he’d be back. He wouldn’t be able to resist the urge not to. It was something I could count on. History—for good or bad—always repeated itself. I remembered something Mum always used to say: “It’s the shared history stitched in a quilt of memories that makes the story.” She was right. I had to focus on the bigger picture, not the individual acts and not even my sister, Gretchen. There’d be plenty of time for details, for looking into his eyes and not blinking until I watched his soul bleed out, seeping into the very gates of hell. Still, my heart hammered, just thinking of him. With hot skin and another sleepless night ahead, it was impossible not to ponder him.

  I had no choice. It was my destiny. It was me who would chase him through the tangled trunks and branches of space and time into justice. It was all I had left. Think, don’t feel, Ingrid. And again, useless. Stop giving him this. The one who cares the least has the most power. Epic fail, again.

  That sad thing is, for as special as he thought he was—untouchable, really—he wasn’t. In the history of petty crime and large, he fit every profile there was. Beginning with minor deviances and ultimately growing balls, he was a man with no empathy for others who’d be callous enough, had he had more time, to dump women’s bodies behind shops and leave them to be picked at by birds.

  Sleep was useless. It wasn’t going to come no matter what I did. It was in that moment, I decided to go for a practice run. Without thinking more of it, I found myself slipping out the boarding room and into the dark streets on the slummy east end of London. The heels of my boots echoed down the quiet street, anger fueling me. I would get him this time, if he had the nerve to come. With a dagger from Queen Victoria’s tool closet, I needed little more than for him to show his face. A smile tugged at my own, thinking of him, daring him to come. I could get used to this – being the predator and not the prey. It might even be something we had in common. We all have a ghost in the mirror, don’t we, Ripper? Shades of each of us, in a way. For me, shades of Ingrid. For you? What will it be? Come out. Come out to play...

  Jesus. It’s like she’s talking directly to me. Daring me. But daring me to do what?

  Hudson is that. He is a serial killer too. He fucked up not only my dreams but his girlfriend’s too. Sure, I could blame it all on her. But if I am honest, Kat is only another of his victims. A twist of time or fate would soon have Kate chasing him too. Listening to her blabber on and on about him missing another ultrasound has me furious but not in a way I could have ever anticipated. She’s ruining her body for him and he can’t be bothered to show up for appointments? Even Jack knew enough to meet Ingrid regularly. Hell, he chased her—and she him—through centuries.

  I can’t take it anymore. I put my finger to my lips and Kat tilts her head. She looks around the restaurant as if someone has come in and will overhear something. My husband has her well trained. The whole thing is sick. In a moment of weakness, I do what I probably shouldn’t. I don’t think of Ingrid. I don’t want to think about what she’d say...

  “I have to tell you something. You will hate me for it. But you need to know.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, putting down a handle free cup of Chinese tea. I imagine her hurling it at my head in under a minute. I probably deserve it.

  I reach into my bag to find my brand new passport. I don’t expect her to believe me easily. Placing it on the table in front of me, I take a deep breath before launching in. “Do you know who I am?”

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead, and with both hands, she brings the tea to her mouth. I know that trick well. I’ve used it a hundred times on Hudson myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I say
, pushing my passport across the table. “I didn’t expect you to be, I don’t know, human.”

  To my surprise, Kat pushes the passport back.

  “I know who you are,” she says. “It’s only hair dye. I’m not the monster you probably thought I was.”

  I jerk my head back in total surprise. How she could have played it cool this long is something that makes me both envy and love her at the same time.

  “Oh.” I have no better word or response. Even Ingrid goes speechless sometimes. I bring the passport back to my purse. “Have you ever been to Venice?”

  She shakes her head from side to side.

  “Beautiful place.”

  “Yes. I hear it is.”

  The silence that sits between us is fat on understanding. She knows what kind of man Hudson is. She understands that she would only have been next. She’s angry, hurt, and maybe even planning to kill him herself. It’s a bond only woman who’ve been tossed around in relationships could ever understand. I pretend to drink my own tea as I look at her. Oddly, our stare down isn’t awkward. We’ve shared the same man and likely emotions. I have my marriage on the line and she has the baby.

  “I’m pregnant too,” I say, without thinking and unsure why.

  Her hands shake and it takes a second for her to steady the tea as she brings the porcelain cup back to the table.

  “Jesus,” she whispers. “I hate him.”

  “Me too,” I mumble, hating myself more.

  “When?”

  I don’t want to answer her. Being only three months along means he cheated on her too. At the same time, he was never hers for the taking and she knew it. “Three months.”

  “Oh. Bastard.”

  I’m not sure how to feel about Kate’s answer. There’s a part of me that wants to scream out that karma had its way with her. In truth? She didn’t. The stunning blue-eyed girl across from me is really only another of his victims. And as much as I hate to admit it, I can see what he sees in her. Polar opposites in nearly every way, it’s hard to understand his leap. At the same time, he was doing all he could to erase memories of me. He was trying to change his destiny. For him, Kat was his escape. I wonder if Ingrid and Jack ever went in opposite ways. They must have. It only makes sense and history does repeat... Insane. All of us. The tangled webs we weave. Now, I get to fake a miscarriage too.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hudson

  It’s been a month since Kate’s said more than three words in a row to me. Living like this is worse than it was with Mary, who was at least good at small talk. There’s no doubt in my mind that Mary’s pulled something. I just can’t imagine what.

  I sit at the bottom of the driveway, wondering if she’ll come out or if I’ll have to walk up to my own front door and knock. I could bust in, of course. I’m the one paying the bills and the house is half in my name. Affair or not, Mary has no legal right to lock me out. I can’t afford the Marriott forever. Staring up at the front porch, where I’d otherwise be worried about a new paint job, I can’t imagine why she’d double the life insurance for any reason other than some twisted plot to kill me. Between her old browser history and claims that it’s Jack the Ripper research, I don’t know what to think. She’ll get the house. She already has. It’s time to find out if she’s really pregnant. I promised Mom.

  Pulling the keys from the ignition, I take a deep breath and step out into the driveway. She’s already changed the code to the garage. I imagine she’s done the same with the locks. Out or respect and not wanting an argument, I knock three times before the door finally swings open. What greets me is like something out of the movies. My wife of ten plus years looks nothing like she did when I left two months ago. Her hair is platinum blonde and over her head she wears a black veil.

  “Halloween?” I ask. That was weeks and weeks ago.

  “Something like that,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can I help you, Hudson?”

  “I came by to pick up stuff,” I say, entirely full of shit but determined to get to the bottom of whether or not she knows about Kate. Mary is a lot of things but she has a horrible poker face.

  “Nothing here. Gave it all to the Good Will.”

  “My tools?” I refuse to give her the fight her glare tells me she’s prepared for. She looks like a moron with the fake hair. I don’t tell her, but bite the inside of my mouth avoiding it.

  “Yep.”

  “My weights?”

  “Those too. You can leave now.”

  “I pay the mortgage on this place.”

  “And you left. Residential abandonment. You should know better,” she says, smiling.

  Not so fast. “Yeah, well, I’m back.”

  “Didn’t work out with your girlfriend?”

  My jaw drops. “What girlfriend?”

  Mary laughs. “Oh, Hudson, be serious. Two women. Both pregnant. You think we won’t eventually put it together? You aren’t exactly great at covering your tracks. And Hudson River? My God. Not very original.”

  Fuck. She’s been all over Facebook. I could kill Kate. I warned her about this. I wonder how long she’s known. Christ, does Kat know too? “Look, I’m not here to argue. I’m here to pick up my stuff.”

  “Do you have any intention of being a part of this child’s life? Or, should I just write that off? I thought you wanted a kid? Wasn’t that what you begged me for all those years? Or is Kate’s baby enough?”

  Whelp. That answers that. Fucking Christ. What else? No wonder Kat’s been such a bitch. They’re probably working together to plan my death. “Oh, give it up. You aren’t pregnant.”

  Mary’s eyebrows raise. “I’m not? Shall I take another test right now? Would that help you out?”

  Now, it’s my turn to fold my arms over my chest. With both feet planted firmly on the front steps, I nod. “It would.”

  “Then come in.”

  I watch her pull the stick out of a sealed package. I watch her bring it to the bathroom. I look around the living room as I wait for her to emerge with what she’ll inevitably call a false negative. But she doesn’t. Ten minutes later, I sit in the middle of my former living room staring at a true positive. Fuck.

  I hate myself for it. Mary has a great point about this. For years, I’ve asked her for a child and now, here it is. I want to rip her stupid wig or extensions off and shake her. I want to shred her stupid veil. Maybe I could get custody. If I could convince a judge that she’s totally crazy, chasing a serial killer through pages of history, then maybe...

  “When do you see the doctor?”

  “Already did. Due May 27. Don’t you ever call your mother? She knows. She’s all excited about gender.”

  “What is it?”

  “Too early to tell,” Mary says, shaking her head.

  I try to picture Daisy with a baby brother or sister. Then, I try to imagine Kate even allowing it. It’ll never happen. I’d have a better shot with Mary, who will be less maternal: less protective.

  “Okay, then. Well, let me know how I can help.”

  “I won’t need any of that. We’ll work that out—the financial stuff—in mediation.”

  “But I’d like to be involved.”

  “After the baby is born, you can. But I don’t need some soon to be ex-husband poking around at my prenatal appointments while he plays house with another woman. I won’t be forcing you into ultrasounds, if you know what I mean.”

  How she knows I’d been living with Kate is a mystery. If I could get on the computer, it would tell me things. But with how unhelpful she’s been, uninviting even, well, I might as well give it up. I have no idea how to respond to her. Changing the topic, I ask, “Isn’t hair dye bad for a kid? Or is that a wig?”

  “None of your business.”

  “If it impacts the kid, it’s my business.”

  “If you cared about the kid you wouldn’t have left.”

  “I didn’t even know you were pregnant. I found out by postal service if I remember correctly. Cl
assy, Mary. Classy.”

  “Well, it’s just as well. I wouldn’t want you with me for a kid. Is there anything else you need, Hudson?” she asks, flipping her hair.

  That’s when it clicks. The wig, hair, or whatever it is: it’s familiar. The gas station. She’s been following me. She has to know exactly where I lived with Kate. She knows about Kate. She knows Kate’s pregnant... She’s probably been in the hotel too.

  “You’ve been following me.”

  Mary shrugs. “And?”

  “Sick.”

  “No, Hudson. Sick is you. Sick is your twisted game of pitting two women against each other. Of creating the entire situation. You can leave now. I promise you, we’re both better off without you. Girl power. Like I said, think pink. And how do you feel about the name Ingrid?”

  Her confidence is unshakable. I’ve never seen her quite like this.

  “Are you taking your meds?”

  “None of your business. Now, you can leave or I can call the cops.”

  “They won’t throw me out of my own home.”

  “They will if I feel threatened,” she says, smiling. “Look at me. Petite. And you? Well, you could stand to lay off the Fritos.”

  Fuck this. For now, she can win. I’ll handle her in court. Bitch.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary

  It’s surreal. I’m no longer angry. I may even return the hammer. I can’t imagine what Ingrid would say if she found out. But in many ways, I’m sick of her too. She’d agree with one thing: a girl has a right to her own will. It’s my turn now. And he’s not worth it. My words fly across the page like never before. I don’t need Ingrid or Jack or even Hudson. I write only thinking of Kat, remembering back:

  “I like you.”

  I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at Kate with disbelief.

  “In a friend way?”

  She reached down and touched my inner thigh. A pulse of excitement shot through me, which I didn’t understand. I had never wanted a woman in that way—well, except that night.