In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  “The manager’s got grounds and tea for sale.” The man pouring his own looked at Ethan, assuming his funds were meager. “Here, have some of mine, old chap.”

  “How very kind, sir. Thank you.” Ethan lifted a cup and saucer from the table. The brew had a bit of a bite to it, but then again, the only bad coffee is no coffee so he was happy to have it, thanking the gentleman again as he left.

  Feeling brave, he decided to take a stroll over to Whitechapel Road. Perking up his appetite, the coffee got him moving. Ethan had seen a few eateries in his travels, some serving food much closer to where he now resided. Ten Bells Pub would have to wait for dinner. He’d likely see Maggie for a bit while he dined before his Scope work began in earnest. For the time being he’d be content to purchase something to take with him on his trip over to Bucks Row.

  There is a trick to finding good food in a new town. Follow the line. Just beyond Turner Street on Whitechapel Road was a place that only had a window. The locals staying at his lodging told Ethan they cook the best bangers and mash in the entire area and the line for orders was always a dozen people deep. It was run by a family; mother and daughter cooked and the father ran the concession window. It took him almost ten minutes to reach the window, almost ten whole seconds to eat it. Another example of all the additives of the future tainting the full flavors of food, he savored the delicacy because he had more than his share of bangers and mash in and around Oxford, yet this was perhaps the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Enjoying his meal ever so much, Ethan indulged himself, doing something Colin Bishop would do. He got back in line for a second helping. Asking the proprietor to double wrap it, he bought a bottled lemonade for the journey.

  One road down was Corner Street which took him directly back to Bucks Row. Ethan located a secluded spot across from the boarding school and sat on the ground with his back up against the wall of row houses. Nibbling on a second order of food, he washed down the bits with his beverage. All the while Ethan was thinking. Every last detail of the murder engrained in his memory, he visualized the timeline like a calendar leading up to and after the death of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols. He’d seen the months passing before his mind’s eye, coming to this day, 30 August 1888, the day before the night of her death.

  Suddenly those bangers and mash were not sitting so well. Ethan dreaded the actual event so much, the thought of it was literally turning his stomach. Before the jump he had been totally detached from the reality of these brutal slayings. Having interacted with Drakes and Clemens and Maggie and other assorted living persons from this time, it gave him pause, reconsidering the concept. What he was about to witness tonight was very real. Now, more than ever he needed to apply his logical, disciplined training, the scientific mindset to get through what would be a horrible scenario happening in real time in front of him. He had to remind himself to detach from the reality and objectively watch it unfold. He could not afford to care.

  As he sat there, a small boy who was passing by stopped and stared at his food. The lad was all of seven or eight. Big brown eyes and brown hair with bangs draped across his cheeks, pants too short and shoes too large, he licked his lips as he stared, obviously an orphan living on wits alone. Ethan thought of Oliver Twist and could not resist offering the young boy what remained of his meal, a gesture of kindness. Snatching it from Ethan’s hands lest the man change his mind, the poor boy ran off yelling “Thank you, sir!” as Ethan thought, “The guttersnipe I’ve just fed may have been Tony Blair’s great grandfather!” He smiled sadly, seeing such a desperate act of self-preservation or the epitome of self-service. Either way, it broke his heart to see a child suffering on the streets, the plight of too many children in this dark era. He seemed to Ethan to be a survivor. There but for the grace of God. Who to bless them and keep them safe?

  Standing, sipping the last of his lemonade, he intended to walk the area in front of him one more time. Scrutinizing this place was imperative. He had to know each cobblestone in every alleyway, especially along the main drag of Bucks Row where history recorded the location of the body’s discovery. There could be no obstacles, no debris visible that may endanger his mission in the early hours of tomorrow. He should be able to slip in and out of the zone with ease. His knowledge of constables on duty and their standard shift routes provided Ethan with an accurate timetable in which to maneuver into place without risk of detection. He’d recalled a memorable moment from his past, serving to remind him of the solitary nature of his work.

  Ethan began reminiscing about times when he’d taken Colin to this spot, having him play the role of Jack the Ripper. Colin enjoyed it when Ethan invited him along. He would look for lovely female tourists in the area and tell them he was portraying Jack the Ripper and needed a “victim” for his research while Ethan scoped out the different vantage points from which to observe. He appeared so sweet, so innocent, they would always agree to play along. As the “Bishop” on the chessboard, moving his angular strategy to coerce the pretty players, he was a caractère naturel for the part, even the devilish grin Ethan supposed the truly fiendish killer donned during his brutal attacks. At The Valley Colin reprised the role and used the same approach on the young female Flicker trial staff. Sometimes he wished Colin had come back with him, as a second pair of eyes and his lighthearted attitude would go a long way toward easing the gravity of the task, the weight of its inherent responsibilities, but there was no way Colin would ever cope with these trousers or the living conditions. Ethan thought, “No way Colin would come here!” Scratch that thought. Scratch that leg. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. He knew tonight would not be an opportune time to be itchy anywhere. His next stop would have to be on Thomas Street to purchase some undergarment stockings. As the time was fast approaching, Ethan could sense the darkness of it now, no laughing matter.

  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 rese
arch. 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.