In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  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...” Et
han 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.