In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  “This chicken is so tender!”

  “It’s rabbit, sir. Hopin’ ya don’t mind. Chicken wasn’t ready yet.”

  “Fine. Is it the whole rabbit or the rabbit hole?” As an awkward silence ensued between the two, Ethan continued. “Just, please, don’t tell me your name is Alice!”

  Wondering if her customer was daft, she had hoped he, at least, had tip money to spare for her trouble. Looking at him cockeyed, she noticed something odd about this interesting man in her midst, something different about him.

  From first taste to the bottom of the bowl, he devoured the meal. He looked up to see the hopefully non-Alice returning.

  “Will there be anythin’ else, sir?” She received her answer with one nod of his head as he lifted his bowl with both hands, the eyes of an innocent child staring up at her. She had no idea he was paying homage to Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist.

  “Please, ma’am, I want some more.” He was suddenly insatiable.

  Taking the bowl from his hands, she aimed to serve and please so she aimed for the kitchen. Smiling as she maneuvered through the burgeoning crowd, the woman shook her head. An expression belied a thought: “How curious...definitely daft!”

  Ethan did not know how it was seasoned and didn’t care. He’d had rabbit before but never with such bold flavors. Perhaps all the chemical additives in the food he’d eaten in the past (in the future) deadened the natural taste of things. He’d absolutely inhaled the broth, a bit more cautious in the dissection of the rabbit meat, insuring there was no pink left inside. Food poisoning was a consideration on this trip. Ethan needed to be fit and healthy to remain as light on his feet as possible. Even though he’d found that the Ten Bells Pub did it right, one night when the cook was off and someone else stood in and didn’t do it right could be disastrous for his research. He decided for the duration of his stay to stick to the basics, definitely the coffee! Using his piece of bread to sop up the broth drippings remaining on his plate, his gracious server had perfect timing, arriving with a refilled bowl, more bread and a fresh glass of water. Diving right in, it was pure comfort food.

  “Thank you, kindly.” Ethan made a muffled sound through wet bread. Gulping down the water, he was all ready to return to his coffee then get back to his journal, perhaps even make another entry. At this point, Ethan believed there was far more to document than the research or the murders. Drakes. Clemens. Edgewood, already a colorful cast of characters had made his acquaintance, even in blood red dreams! There was much to note, experiencing the era for every nuance it provided. If there were Scopes who have research submissions pertaining to this timeframe awaiting approval from The Consortium, his notes may give them even more insights, more of an advantage than what he was privy to as a historian. If this research ever went public in the future (one hundred and thirty-two years in the future) at least people would hopefully appreciate their creature comforts in the 21st Century. On second thought, they would still take everything for granted, just like he did. Ethan grinned. Never mind.

  About to open his journal, once more the woman serving him returned.

  “Like more coffee, would ya sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. Please.” Ethan was quite impressed with her attentiveness considering the congestion in the pub as more folks filed in by the moment, the talking, laughing and singing growing louder as time passed.

  Returning quickly with a fresh cup, she placed it directly in front of him. Ethan smiled in appreciation then dropped his eyes, scanning the pages of his journal. It took him by surprise when his server, without invitation, claimed the opposite chair. Ethan looked perplexed, wondering if this was a common occurrence.

  “Not from ‘round ‘ere, are ya?” She seemed mesmerized by him.

  “Why do you ask?” Cautious, Ethan did not want to answer questions by telling lies to cover his tracks across the centuries.

  “Ya stick out like a sore thumb. Where ya from?”

  “London. Well, Oxford.”

  A look of pity came over her face. “Aww, lost yer job, ‘ave ya? Not t’ worry, love. Yer not the first nor will ya be the last. Hard times. It’ll get better.”

  Ethan looked confused then remembered what he was wearing. His outfit was actually misrepresenting him, certainly not as a vagrant but more a man struggling to make ends meet. “Oh, yes, well, I can see how you may come to that conclusion.”

  “See? There ya go! Who bloody talks like that in Whitechapel, I ask ya?”

  Ethan realized he hadn’t kept consistency in his accent or verbiage. “Guess I’m not cut out for espionage, after all.” Ethan joked.

  “Love, as precious as ya are, don’t matter. What’s ya name?”

  “Arthur. The name’s Arthur.” Ethan responded. “And yours?”

  “Maggie.” Drying her hands on her apron, she reached across the table to make a more formal acquaintance as he cordially extended his own hand.

  Another Maggie. Ethan reflected back to the last time he saw the mud-splattered assistant at the Flicker time trials in The Valley.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”

  “So, Arthur.” Maggie said with a hint of sarcasm as if she knew he’d lied about his name. “What brings ya to Whitechapel?”

  Ethan could not tell a stranger the truth, not even his fictitious title of “doctor”, as it wouldn’t help and may yet harm his need to lay low. His fake title was intended only to provide access to areas where physicians would be allowed to enter.

  “I’m a historian. I’m doing some research for a book on the history of London’s vast cultural origins, thus explaining my desire to fit in.” He tugged at his lapel.

  “Well, ya’ve come to the right place, love.” Maggie waved down one of her co-workers and asked her to bring along a pint of beer.

  “Aren’t you working?” Ethan asked, a logical assumption.

  “Me? Nah. Been off for near an hour now.”

  The quizzical expression on Ethan’s face made her erupt with laughter. She had been waiting for him to finish his meal, hoping she could spend time with him.

  “Then to whom should I pay my tab?”

  “Tab? Beg ya pardon?” Maggie looked as puzzled as her patron.

  “So sorry. I meant, who is it I must pay for the food and drink?” Ethan corrected himself for his out-of-century terminology.

  “Why, this lady right here.” Maggie said as her friend returned with the beer.

  “Oh, then I’d like to pay for her drink, as well.”

  “Well, who’s this generous gentleman, Maggie?” Inquiring as she set down the pint, she was a cheerful sort, appearing tired around the eyes.

  “Rose, meet me new friend...Arthur.”

  “It’s an honor m’ lord.” The second server curtsied as if standing before royalty in a mocking fashion, giggling.

  Ethan gazed at the woman hovering over the table, waiting for payment. She’d bloomed long ago and clearly, the blush was off the blossom but there was a beauty about her that could not be denied. Reaching into his wallet below the table, Ethan removed the money for the meal and drinks, including a tip for Rose. When she left he passed a tip to Maggie, as well, in addition to what was covered on the bill.

  “Ya not propositionin’ me, now are ya, sir?”

  “What? Heavens, no. You brought me coffee, water and my meal. It’s a simple gratuity, a gesture of thanks, nothing more.” Ethan said nervously.

  Maggie laughed aloud again as she downed her beer.

  “Oh, you’re a fun one to mess with, ya are! Have a beer with me but allow me to pay. My pleasure. Yer a delightful sort, if a bit mysterious.”

  “That’s not proper. I should pay.” Ethan argued the point.

  Holding out the tip from Ethan, Maggie asserted, “But sir, ya already did!” She flagged down Rose in passing, having her fetch another pint for him.

  For the next several hours the two of them chatted, Ethan always being on guard not to reveal anything of his identity
or purpose for being here, even the persona he assumed for the jump. He was strategically probing Maggie for information about this strange land he was in and getting a perspective from a living person from this time. After all, it didn’t all have to be about the murders and his research. This was his opportunity to learn the back story of the actors in a grand stage play.

  Ethan was always fascinated with women from history. He had his own opinion and perspective, coming from a time, an era when the opposite sex had more power, position and choices in everything. A history of the species was confusing for both sexes. Women no longer fulfilled a typical role in society. For most of the civilized world those times were gone forever. From corporate executives, combat soldiers, politicians and professional athletes to mothers who’d deliberately chosen to work even harder at home raising their young, the women from the 21st Century were the first of only a few generations to achieve some semblance of freedom in their lives.

  In the 19th Century, women lived in constant survival mode unless they’d been born into aristocracy, provided the wealth of a name, hence entitled. For all the rest there was always the necessity to fear men. From a young age they were taught by other women, mothers and siblings or, for orphaned girls, by experience, that they were the weaker sex and needed to be strong in other ways. They had to develop a skill set. Unless they had access to education, the females of society were destined to serve the males through skills in cooking, cleaning and seduction, servicing their dominant male counterparts. They had to learn to manipulate situations to their best advantage, conceived to prolong their survival in the midst of a bleak existence.

  Amazed by having this woman Maggie sitting across the table from him, Ethan could get a firsthand description of her reality, the tale of her daily struggle. Maggie shared little of her personal history but spoke of women in plural, giving examples of friends, fictitiously named or not, detailing the strife she’d seen them overcome or succumb to over time. He was captivated, his rapt attention fixed on every word she uttered. Ethan was studying Maggie, memorizing her, taking mental snapshots of his companion, spellbound by the subject matter. She had an earthy appearance. Her life here had taken its toll, along with the drinking which, by Ethan’s estimate, was definitely a regular part of life, considering the way she’d already thrown back two mugs and ordered another round. She appeared to be in her thirties but he would never ask such an improper question. She was a woman more on the heavy side but shapely. She knew her size and carried it well with jovial charm and wit. Ethan was impressed with her, using what little empathy he could relate to, her strong will and determination, not allowing rough living conditions to shake her foundation. In fact, she knew no other way to live.

  Her intense eyes were the most intriguing part of her, filled with a wisdom and pain and joy. Of course, Ethan was only able to use his life as reference in this real time scenario, not having this resource of live interaction with the literary works he studied at Oxford as a student, teacher or Scope. He found her enchanting, her many anecdotal references to the colorful people of town, riveting. She even brought up Drakes and Clemens, although Ethan chose not to acknowledge his familiarity with either man or anyone else he’d encountered in his travels. He just let her garrulous nature flow. There was no romantic attraction, nor could there be, considering their age difference, though he was definitely enticed, drawn to a lifelong dream fulfilled as he spoke with somebody who might as well have been a ghost. He was engaging in a living history lesson. For Ethan, theirs was a cerebral connection, although she continued to flirt while sharing story after story. Slowly nursing his pint, caught up with the beguiling character sitting across the table from him, Ethan felt like a small boy sitting in the cinema for the first time, watching the magic of moving pictures, enthralled with every nuance of the moment. Maggie didn’t seem to mind.

  They spoke, or rather, she did for nearly three hours. In that time the pub patrons had become considerably inebriated, a rowdy crowd, yet all the noise was absorbed before it ever reached Ethan’s ears. He was oblivious to his surroundings, listening only to Maggie. Of course, with a few more pints, she too became more boisterous, to a point where the stories were becoming redundant, as cloudy and incoherent as the crowd. Ethan checked his pocket watch, more than a force of habit.

  “Ya’ve someplace to be?” Maggie seemed disappointed, sensing their evening together was coming to an end.

  Maintaining his demeanor, Ethan’s heart jumped a little knowing he was deeply into the first full evening of his stay and needed to depart the scene, deferring to the pending reconnoiter he’d yet to complete, the alley where Jack’s first victim would be found. Ethan apologized to Maggie, excusing himself, explaining that he needed to return to his room to document as much of her story as he could recall. Maggie offered to help him remember anything he forgot the following night, as she would be working the same shift. Pretending to be a socialite, extending her hand for Ethan to kiss, he preferred the cautious approach, reciprocating with a proper handshake.

  “See you for dinner tomorrow, then?” Ethan confirmed the appointment.

  “Are ya asking me t’ dinner, sir?” She flirted in jest, knowing his intention.

  “No. I mean...sure if....” Ethan was placed in an awkward position.

  Maggie laughed, quickly vanishing into the crowd like a ghost into a wall. Ethan once again navigated his way to the exit. The time had come to go to work.

  Ethan’s plan was to take a nonchalant stroll, wandering the path to Buck’s Row where the murder took place, but first he had to scratch his itchy legs. Noticing the streets were still quite congested at 9:19 in the evening on the chilly Tuesday night, under cover of darkness, Ethan felt an advantage of anonymity that the daylight had robbed him of earlier, as he’d felt exposed to the eyes of all he had passed by. Now, shrouded in the shadows of dimly lit streets and alleyways, it didn’t trouble him to have his fancy physician shoes on. Sadly, they would still have to go, to be replaced by lesser quality footwear of these times, more prevalent in Whitechapel.

  Having taken countless walks in a London of the future, sometimes attempting to deliberately get lost then find his bearings once more, to familiarize himself with every major road and narrow alley, his safety was not an issue in the 21st Century. Most of the areas he now walked would eventually be cleaned up and restructured for businesses to thrive and tourists to enjoy. What he found in this time was a need to be more aware of his surroundings because of the depravity, destitution and sheer desperation running rampant. The local gangs in the vicinity were also a major issue for anyone holding valuables. A dark alley and one club to the head and possessions were gone along with the assailants, perhaps a life lost in the process. Walking these side streets was the quickest route to Bucks Row. Traveling by Old Montague Street onto Bakers Row then onto Whites Row (which turned into Bucks Row) took Ethan roughly ten minutes, his brisk pace maintained, interrupted only by a few brief stops to scratch his tortured legs.

  Once Ethan reached the location of the first murder it all became quite clear. It was “real” even in the dark of night. Walking through this narrow passage, workers’ housing on the left and large warehouses on the right, it was easy to see the strategic value of committing a violent murder in this area of town. For a predator of women, this environment was superb. A series of sick acts diagnosed as cowardly in nature, the obscurity of the dark not only allowed the assailant to remain unseen but added to the fear of his victims leading to the horrific attacks. In the distance, Ethan saw shadows moving through the rolling fog, a backdrop of lights coming from an open window or one of the few streetlamps. Scratch the legs. Scratch the legs.

  According to detailed historical accounts, the corpse of Mary Ann Nichols was discovered on Bucks Row between 3:40 and 3:45 a.m., 31 August 1888. Found near the gate of an immense building being used as a boarding school, Nichols was first spotted by a warehouse worker by the name of Charles Cross who thought her body, because of the la
ck of light, was a discarded packing tarpaulin he’d hoped to use or flip for profit. Ethan could only imagine his surprise when realizing it was the body of a woman. Cross then waved down another workman on his way to a warehouse. Robert Paul and Charles Cross approached the victim, crouching near the woman’s body which lay prone on her back, the layers of her dress pulled up to her waistline. They both felt her face, which was still warm, but the hands and feet were cold. Her lack of a response confirming the woman had expired, neither of them had noticed the brutality of her demise, only that she was dead. Both men went in search of the police, leaving the body which would soon be discovered by Police Constable John Neil. Walking his Whitechapel beat, the constable wasn’t half an hour into his shift before coming upon the corpse, a rude awakening in the wee hours of the morning. Using his lamp he could see the blood and cuts to her throat.

  Ethan knew this story like it was his own biography. Neil spotted a uniformed colleague passing the end of Bucks Row. Using his lamp to signal Police Constable John Thalin, letting him know of the gruesome discovery, he sent him to fetch Dr. Llewellyn. Meanwhile, the two warehouse workers, Paul and Cross, located Police Constable Mizen, alerting him to the location of the body. PC Mizen arrived shortly after PC Thalin went for the doctor who’d arrived at the crime scene at four o’clock. Examining the woman on site, he declared her deceased.

  Having read all the reports, all the books, having seen each autopsy photograph released by the coroner’s office, imagery of these five victims branded on his brain, the history was ingrained in the man. Having studied every documentary made on the subject gave him a familiar sense of Whitechapel, not to mention the meticulous recreations conducted during numerous Flicker trials at The Valley. No arrogance to Ethan’s persona, in fact, quite the opposite, his natural humility was an attractive characteristic, a trait known to all. However, when it came to his knowledge of this case, there was no one dead or alive who knew it better. Ethan was confident in his belief that he had the upper hand, able to observe, even second guess a coldblooded killer, doing justice to due diligence of his research. It mattered not whether “Jack” had been street vermin (which was doubtful) or somebody politically connected or, by conjecture, someone in the medical profession, it was entirely irrelevant.