Blood expelled through her nose splattering on his right hand, still covering her mouth. He removed his hand, realizing she was incapable of making any accidental or deliberate sounds as the life force left her body. Plucking the handkerchief from his vest pocket, Ethan tenderly cleaned her face. He knew he was not done, yet. He had to complete this morbid task, maintaining the integrity of the timeline. He had gotten her where she belonged, where she needed to be, in time and on time. It was an issue of authenticity, this matter of continuity. Having no choice but to desecrate Polly’s body in the most gruesome way imaginable, this was no longer a matter of life and death. Based on what he knew he’d have to do next, he cursed God for his role in history and thanked God that she was already dead.
Lifting her woolen skirt to the neck, his swift action as a single sweeping motion revealed her lower extremities to cold air she could no longer feel against dead skin. Though he’d known of the absence of undergarments, it was nonetheless a shocking sight to see her so exposed. The abdomen and genitalia visible, Ethan firmly seized the handle of the knife, fixating on all the documented details, postmortem findings of the murder and the subsequent disemboweling. He could not close his eyes and plunge right in. Instead, he had to watch what he was doing, duplicating the details. Choosing a location, he jabbed the blade into the left side of her belly. With a flick of the wrist, a twist of the knife, a nick of the liver, the stand-in for the brutal butcher forever fixed in history, Ethan attempted to fix history. He could feel the spearhead impacting her vital organs. Dragging it down toward the vaginal cavity, he delved deeply inward, straining the sore muscles he had already used to carry his victim to Bucks Row then lay her at death’s door. He stopped, retracting the eight-inch blade, assessing the damage inflicted, Ethan took a deep breath then refocused. He noticed how warm her blood was to the touch, how moist flesh clutched at his hand from within her core with each impaling blow as if clinging to life from beyond the grave. Keeping count in the same way he’d always counted the steps of a staircase, Ethan had to be exacting. The clock was ticking. He had no time to check the time.
Deliberate in his approach, the man stabbed repeatedly into Polly’s lower torso, penetrating to bone, decimating the pelvic region. Every gouging, ripping, serrating motion kept him preoccupied with getting it right. It was now Ethan’s blood racing, pulsing through his closed veins and arteries. He could feel the rush of heat surging inside his body. His hands were no longer trembling. His mind steadied, he watched his own handiwork, horrified and astonished by the amount of blood in one human body. He struck at her flesh with such force, each withdrawal of the weapon exerted pressure enough to lift her corpse from the cobblestone. Polly Nichols felt immortal to him, still alive in some inexplicable way, yet Mary Ann Nichols, Polly, Maggie was dead and, in some way, so was Ethan, as if he’d just cut his own throat. Time would tell but for the moment, he felt like one of two victims, the lone survivor.
During the next few minutes Professor LaPierre continued on, against his will, to play the heinous role of Jack the Ripper. He despised the faceless man who never showed up and put him in such an untenable position. Choosing the spots recorded, he impaled the blade into the right side of her belly. He had no choice. As to what would be historically and accurately chronicled of the murder, the angle of her body allowed for most of the blood to flow underneath her, gradually soaked up by her clothing, leaving only a small pool behind her back. Standing to reason, considering that blood was no longer pumping through her fragile heart, given willingly to the man of her dreams, a ticket out of abject deprivation, Ethan could not bear to think of her as Maggie or Polly or Mary Ann Nichols. She had expired. She was a corpse. Catching his breath on the breeze, he made several more documented cuts, jaggedly slashing across the lower abdomen, opening a fissure that provided visual access to her lower intestines. Duplicating the depraved mutilation was a challenge, the most grotesque kind of reenactment Ethan could conceive.
In went the knife again, this time into the lower right side of her stomach then down deeply into the pelvic region, repeatedly plunging the weapon into her lifeless form while keeping close count. Maintaining his concentration and conformity, just as meticulous with the murder as he was with his research of it, he knew the precise number, the precise locations, depth and breadth of every puncture wound inflicted, recorded for posterity, spending years of his life pouring over every detail. He knew what to do and he was nearly done. Ripping her body cavity wide open with a single slash, he exposed her internal organs. Each strike more severe than one preceding it, according to the coroner’s report that’s exactly how it happened. The adrenaline racing through his veins bulging with the rapid flow of his own blood, sweat raining from his brow, the aggressor was exhausted, gasping for air in much the same way his friend had only a few minutes earlier.
A quick comparative analysis, Ethan recalled the images of this victim hanging on his office walls, autopsy photographs displaying every lurid breach of her body. Looking down at the gaping wounds he’d duplicated from memory, they matched. Suddenly he wondered, had he acted prematurely? Had the REAL Jack the Ripper been hiding in the shadows all along, watching over Ethan committing the barbaric act in error, the murder of a victim not rightfully his own? A woman HE had been destined for, deprived of because of an overzealous professor? An understandable paranoia developing in his mind, considering even the potential paradox of another Ethan from another time lurking in dark alleys, in the shadows of his soul, a fellow Flicker traveler might be watching him at that very moment. No! He could not wrap his otherwise facile mind around the convoluted concept. Self-loathing aside, the work he needed to do was finished. He’d done all he could to preserve the integrity of the crime scene as a historical event, the authenticity of the timeline for the sake of an unknown future. Nothing had changed except him.
Peering once more at her face, into the open eyes of the woman who was once “Maggie” the barmaid to him, until a mere forty minutes before when he had first mouthed the words “I’m sorry” Ethan said it again. In hushed tones, expressing his regrets, he was drowning in sorrow, awash in emotions flowing through him as fast as the blood flowed from his victim. Shock. Horror. Grief. Anger. Being plunged into a predicament beyond his control, compelled by the cosmos to take control of a situation not of his making, circumstances he could never have predicted, a flood of remorse burst from his heart, pouring from his eyes while he sobbed.
Disposing of the knife, throwing it back into the bag, he snapped it up with one hand, placing the other over his mouth as he raced across the street to the relative safety of the alleyway. Remaining in a crouched position, his urgency was no longer born of the fear of detection but the visceral sensation that he was about to be sick. Barely making it into the secluded corner he had chosen to observe the proceedings, Ethan covered his mouth to muffle the distinguishable sound as he began to retch, catching the contents of his stomach in the hand drenched with the rusty residue of coagulated blood congealing between his fingers. It came over him in waves as he knelt down near some discarded construction materials. The vomiting was violent, no doubt due to the compelling event, compounded by the knowledge of what he’d done; sickened by this part he played in history. Mind reeling, thoughts fracturing with reasons why he had to kill a friend then mutilate her corpse, he was overcome. A human being lost her life to the hands he found himself staring at, reflecting upon what had occurred...and why...and what may come of it.
Did this mean he’d have to murder the other four women he was there to simply observe? Would he become a suspect in their brutal slaying? Never in all of his life, not even during the first three days he had spent here in the Whitechapel district of old London, had anything been quite as real as it was in that moment spent peering at his own bloodstained palms. Closing his weary eyes, Ethan’s tears escaped from the corners, cascading down, absorbed by his collar. In his mind’s eye he could see an image of young Maggie stumbling in the mud, leering back at
him with playful disdain, a postcard, the keepsake he had carried with him into the past. It has often been said the first cut is the deepest and what he had done cut him to the core, there as a permanent scar. Pulling out his pocket watch, it was 3:32 a.m. In touching it to open the face, blood smeared on his faithful companion, the three-legged horse.
Despair he could not escape, no matter how fast or far he ran from the scene of the crime, Ethan lingered in the shadows. Perceiving himself to be as much a victim as Polly, she’d paid with her life to fulfill her destiny, to satisfy a dictate of history. In playing his part, Ethan might have sacrificed his soul. No exit from this hell, his reality could neither be fully denied nor reconciled. As a mind expanded can never retract, innocence lost is never regained. Tucking the timepiece back in his pocket, he trembled in the corner of the alley like a little boy lost in the dark. Every muscle in his body shaking violently, every pore of his flesh producing perspiration, Ethan was too physically and psychologically exhausted to make his way out of this alley to Bucks Row then back to his room. He’d have to wait out the timeline, go through their gruesome discovery of Mary Ann Nichols’ corpse, maintaining his position as the proverbial fly on the wall, wingless, anticipating the arrival of two men who’d find her along with the subsequent constables and the attending physician. This was the way it was all supposed to play out. Ethan imperceptible in the shadows, there to simply watch it transpire, veiled from history itself. The time neared 3:40 a.m.
As if on cue, one man fitting the description of Charles Cross approached from the left. He’d paused, looking in the direction of Polly’s lifeless form, moving ever closer until he stood beside her corpse. Like viewing a movie he’d seen a thousand times, Ethan knew the entire script by heart. Cross would notice Robert Paul, also leaving for work, calling him over. With each anticipated movement of what was recorded history following suit, Ethan was painfully assured that the timeline was still intact. The pain he felt was in knowing his actions in killing Mary Ann Nichols may have, in fact, always occurred, yet he was in disbelief, in denial of a potentially unavoidable truth. He appeared to be like a gentleman at Wimbledon, sitting center court, turning his head left then right, looking continuously toward both ends of the street, still hoping to observe the real Jack the Ripper running from the shadows as he escaped unscathed. Ethan considered the consequences of his actions. He blamed the real killer for leaving blood on his hands when he was but an innocent bystander. Perhaps the true hunter saw Ethan early enough to allow him the kill.
Thus far there was no other motion but the two men looming over Polly’s body. Uncertain of her demise or if she was passed out, they pulled her layered skirt back down to cover her out of respect, an act of human decency. These men, on schedule, left to alert the local authorities. The next cued character arriving at 3:45 was police Constable John Neil. Coming upon the corpse, PC Neil used his lamp to inspect the body. As he proceeded to discern her demise Constable John Thain appeared up the street. Neil flagged him down with a wave of his lamp.
“Here’s a woman with her throat cut!” Neil shouted to Thain. “Run at once for Dr. Llewellyn.”
As the officer continued to initially examine the woman, he walked around and, at one point, shined his lamp on her throat. From his vantage point Ethan could see the result of a carnage he created in the light. The urge to vomit returned. It was too overwhelming to control. He once again put his hand up to his mouth then turned his head to muffle what sound he could, but it projected from his mouth with such force, it sprayed the ground around him. As his throat constricted the uncontrollable guttural choking noises emerged. Looking back toward the street he saw the officer looking his way. PC Neil began walking across Bucks Row toward that sound. As he raised his lamp, Ethan inconspicuously slid further backward into the protective shadows of the alleyway. The range of the lamp he held wasn’t considerable but it did offer enough illumination to pose a problem if the constable removed the eerie dark shroud Ethan was using as cover. If the bobby came any closer there would be no shadow left for him to hide in!
When he was halfway across the street someone called out his name. Constable Neil turned to look at whoever was coming up Bucks Row. He walked toward who Ethan could only expect to be Constable Mizen who was alerted by the two workers about the fallen woman. Both men walked back to the body. The cast of characters in the play kept coming onto the stage, from Dr. Llewellyn who examined the lady on site, declaring her dead at 4:00 a.m., all the way through the ancillary characters who hauled her away to the morgue, others who would remain at the scene of the crime to wash away any evidence of it. There was no preserving anything for future reference, a far cry from modern times. In 19th Century London, the intention was to preserve the peace, thereby removing Polly’s body then washing down the blood to prevent gathering onlookers from spreading the word, done to avoid panic in the local population. There were no forensics specialists, no “crime scene” tape or any other technique developed, perfected over time. There was no murder investigation in this regard, no official protocol implemented because it did not yet exist.
The event having reached its conclusion, Ethan remained in the alleyway until the murder scene was cleaned up and the police left the area. No one emerged from the other hiding spots around Bucks Row. No REAL killer for whom Ethan did the job, no sign of Colin observing him and no future Ethan observing himself fucking it up. Now well past 6:00 a.m., people were beginning to file out of their homes and into the streets on their way to destinations unknown. It was safe enough for him to step out from the shadows to blend in, bloody hands plunged into his pockets, head down. For the sake of his remaining sanity, Ethan searched every last crevice with his eyes, every potential hiding place he had located on his earlier preemptive scans of Bucks Row. He needed to be absolutely certain, beyond any doubt, there was no one who’d been scoping out the Scope for the entire episode, no one who knew his secret. He did not even know who to look for! Unless he’d encountered either Colin or himself from yet another Flicker jump, he could not be sure the person he would stumble upon was the real Jack the Ripper or just another local seeking shelter from the elements. His only hope, if he did locate someone and they were the real killer, once they locked eyes, (or if he displayed a smile of mocking intent, knowing what Ethan had done for him), he could then afford to feel a sense of relief that what had to come no longer need involve him. Unfortunately, there was no one to be found. No one came or went prior to or during the time he was committing a brutal murder. It became painfully clear. IT became real. People walking past the former murder scene were likewise walking right past a murderer.
Time to return to his room, the man did not meander. Maintaining a professional demeanor, the medical bag looped over his forearm, he kept up the pace as if on his way to an appointment. The sunrise muted by cloud cover, Ethan marched on to his intended destination, noticing every single detail of the journey, as though he made a unique transition from a three-dimensional existence to a multidimensional plane of action in which everything leapt out at him. The flower in a window box bending toward the light, the patterns of tracks wagon wheels make in the mud, the rim of a woman’s skirt torn loose from its lace fabric, he saw everything with different eyes. Arriving at the back entrance to his lodging, he quickly passed the kitchen area so not to engage with anyone in any way. The imperative was simple, to get his bloody body behind a closed, locked door. He located the key in his pocket.
Entering the room, it had a different air about it, the space in which everything changed. It was time to gather his thoughts and perceptions, to begin processing the event. Sitting on the bed, tears spontaneously burst forth, catching him off guard. It was an explosion of emotion quietly falling from his eyes. He couldn’t pretend that it hadn’t happened. Privately pondering the consequences of his actions, Ethan had to come to grips with what occurred and why, to justify and sanctify his role. What he had done preserved the historical timeline, nothing more significant than ke
eping a misalignment of time from changing the world. A glitch in time saved by divine intervention? The nausea returned with the thought of it.
“Why the fuck am I here?”
It all seemed beyond implausible, quite impossible! Maggie really being Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, coming to his room drunk, knocked out before she could even get where she was supposed to be killed. No fiction writer could make this shit up! Ethan still couldn’t believe it, in spite of the fact that he had already lived it! To his knowledge, no one saw a thing. No constables knocking at his door, no accusations flying around in print, not yet, he was not a suspect. That one close call was reason enough to remain ever mindful of the inherent risks, keeping an even lower profile, a decided necessity. Ethan had to get naked, burdened by the weight of his clothes.
With the exception of some of Polly’s blood and his vomit still on his sleeves, the outfit was stain free. He removed all but his shorts. There was still half a pitcher full of water from his last wash down so he immediately placed the sleeves inside to soak with hopes of removing the stains. He’d once more found himself sitting on the end of his bed. Ethan was in uncharted territory on a cosmic course charted, one he had no part in, no knowledge of, but planned out long before he stepped through the doorway called Flicker, long before he’d opened the door to his flat when Colin told him his fate, long before he’d opened the door to his room one fateful night to find the face of a friend named Maggie staring back at him like a ghost.
In A Flicker Page 24