As Ethan approached the third table with a covered body he was running out of corpses. An irrational fear instantly swept over him. What if Annie’s body had been removed already? What if she’d been transferred to the morgue near Scotland Yard due to the severity and related nature of the cases and crimes committed? What if? The Whitechapel murders got the attention of the public, in spite of the profession of the victims. What if the authorities felt it prudent to isolate the corpses, moving them from the mortuary to a more secure location? Nothing in Ethan’s recollection of his research noted the body’s location between its initial delivery to the mortuary and its final resting place. If this were true then there would be no way for Ethan to retrieve the three brass rings and realign the historical record, reaffirming that these rings were no longer on her person by the time Annie was examined then autopsied. Mortified by the thought of it, he knew there would be no going back to an untainted future. This was his ultimate moment of truth.
Pulling back the sheet from the head of the third corpse, Ethan stared at possibly the most beautiful face he’d ever seen, that of Miss Annie Chapman. With one huge sigh of relief, he dropped his head then shook it as if disappointed in himself for his lack of trust in the Universe. Once again, he gazed upon the ephemeral seductress.
“Fancy meetin’ you here.” He arranged the words to counter the conditions and circumstances of their fateful reunion. Reaching for the folder beside Annie’s head, Ethan flipped through the coroner’s report and the police records, in search of only one document until he reached the personal property manifest that logged all items found on the deceased when brought in. Examining it closely, Ethan was shocked.
Long black figured coat that came down to her knees
Black skirt
Brown bodice
Another bodice
2 petticoats
A large pocket worn under the skirt and tied about the waist with strings (empty when found)
Lace up boots
Red and white striped woolen stockings
Neckerchief, white with a wide red border (folded tri-corner and knotted at the front of her neck
Scrap of muslin
One small tooth comb
One comb in a paper case
Scrap of envelope containing two pills. It bears the seal of the Sussex Regiment. It is postal stamped “London, 28 Aug., 1888” inscribed is a partial address consisting of the letter M, the number 2 as if the beginning of an address and an S.
“Where are the rings?” Ethan asked himself silently as he placed the file down, yanking Annie’s hand out from under the sheet, the hand where he’d seen the three rings during their early morning encounter. There was nothing on her fingers. Ethan pulled the sheet completely off, exposing her naked body to the light, revealing the results of his handiwork that he was oblivious to while he frantically searched the area around the body only to discover they were nowhere near her. They were gone. Sometime between when her body was discovered and its arrival at the mortuary, some desperate and greedy bastard lifted the brass rings and pocketed them. Ethan closed his eyes, standing there anchored to the floor as if his feet were cemented to the foundation, then, as if he had no control over his own body, he began to dance.
Ethan realized and finally accepted one certainty he would not make the mistake to doubt again. The Cosmos, the Universe, Divine influence, no matter the driving force, it would not let the course of history be corrupted or interrupted. Perhaps the rings had always been removed in this manner, part of a storyline never told in the history books because it was always assumed Jack the Ripper took them. He was never in danger of creating a new timeline. He never could. As he danced, he softly sang the lyrics to the Rolling Stones song, “Time Is On My Side”. Yes, it was.
“Time is on my side...oh yes it is.” Swaying in rhythm with the tune, he bent over, singing it softly to the lifeless face of Annie Chapman, as her swan song.
“Time is on my side, Maggie. Yes it is!” He knew it wasn’t her, but she too was due a celebration, Annie, her stand-in. “Time is on my....” Ethan stopped mid-lyric and stared harder at his victim’s face. Then, without a thought, leaned in and kissed her tenderly on her cold, dead lips. It was partly a gesture of appreciation for playing her historical role, for being ring free, partially because he needed to say goodbye. Then there was a piece of that kiss he did not understand nor cared to consider, the strongest urge of all. He then retrieved the cadaver sheet from the floor and draped it again over her body, laying the accompanying file beside her. He did not bother to speak to the two men playing cards as he passed them exiting the mortuary. There was an impervious power that had come over him. He was now reassured by destiny that there was no possible way to fuck this up because the immutable laws of living history would not and could not allow it. He walked the streets of Whitechapel in 1888 gleefully singing a song written in 1963. Ethan was a rolling stone and would gather no moss on this journey through time.
“Time is on my side, yes it is.” Over and over again. To the onlookers he passed, they could’ve only thought an improper gentleman was either intoxicated or insane. Little did they know who they were passing by, their street side diagnosis far more accurate than they truly knew. As Ethan continued singing, tipping his hat to pretty ladies, some giggled, amused by his crazy antics, while others were rightfully wary of him, attempting to avoid the man altogether, crossing the street as he drew near. Who could blame them? Ethan was quite the sight.
Arriving back at his lodging just before midnight to a dark room, he opted not to light the candle as he disrobed, enough ambient streetlight to navigate around his living space. He considered “destiny” his new companion, laughing aloud as he had the notion to waltz on down to the privy naked. It was all so bizarre, contrary to his character and demeanor in every conceivable way, yet Ethan seemed to be allowing these thoughts and urges to enter his mind, deliberately inviting them in, allowing himself to experience subsequent feelings as deeply, trying to process and label it. Otherwise, how could he possibly understand it? Regardless, he was going through a tumultuous evolution, emotional upheaval. Things he had seen and done, what he was doing would not make sense to the 21st Century man named Dr. Ethan LaPierre, but for the “time traveler” caught up in events unfolding, these unspeakable actions taken, in time, would become historical if not legendary. Not a thought or emotion, however bizarre, would be unexpected. Would it consume him? He had to wonder.
There he stood at the dresser again, staring at his own reflection, asking a mirror for answers, trying to comprehend what was going on behind the eyes peering back at him. “Mirror, mirror on the wall.” Wishing it would speak aloud he initiated the conversation, withholding some questions he was just too fearful to ask. Ethan had to have faith that the answers would come, all in good time. Breaking away because of the deafening silence, looking instead at the medical bag he had placed onto the dresser, in the morning he would take a journey over to the tailor shop and purchase another set of clothing to replace the set he’d wrapped hemorrhaging organs in with haste. Oh yes, the bag needed to be cleansed along with its contents. The bag. That room was dark and the black leather of his medical bag seemed almost void of color with the exception of a few shiny blotches on its corners where the blood had dried. Ethan remembered the mutt in the street and its fixation on his leather bag. He lifted it above his head to examine it more closely, to observe how much dried blood was actually covering the base that drew the animal to it. Well. It was considerable. He brought it right up to his nose to inspect it as if he, too, had developed an enhanced sense of smell. He sniffed for the bloody aroma but really did not detect much until the tip of his nose touched the leather. The sudden urge took over, an overwhelming urge. Why did the dog lick the bag? Was there a mysterious potency to coagulated blood? Why was the substance so enticing to him? Whenever Ethan had cut himself on occasion, mostly paper cuts, as anyone does he’d lick the wound, tasting his own blood while searching for a banda
ge. A basic human instinct, he’d thought, but does another person’s blood possess a different taste or possess magical qualities? Ethan sniffed around the bottom of the bag a few times before sticking out his tongue. He mimicked the lapping motion of a dog’s tongue as he drew the bloody leather closer to his mouth. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. It was too disturbing. Retracting his tongue, he lowered the bag, never breaking eye contact with the insane doppelganger staring back at him.
What was it? What was this “thing” gazing back at him, contemplating him and scrutinizing his existence so severely? Was he witnessing a monster in the making? Was this conversion to perversion permanent or a temporary malady? The man had to ask but there was no answer forthcoming. Ethan placed the bag down and backed away from the image until he was concealed by shadows, to see those eyes no more. He slid along an inner wall, scraping his bare back against exposed nails, taking no apparent notice of the pain. Once out of direct sight of its reflection he climbed into bed and lay face down on top of the covers. No one came to call that night, no poets or prophets graced him with their presence, no songs sung to lull him to sleep. Ethan was abandoned by his nearest and dearest, as he laid there alone in the world, only daring to hope that morning light would make things right in his mind. Hoping the blame would fall on fatigue and not fate. It took him almost two hours to fall asleep.
Chilled air filled the room. Ethan finally opened his eyes to the morning light. With a purposeful agenda ahead for the day, he rose from the warmth of his blankets and walked to the window. Passing the mirror, he noticed it seemed as if the demon had disappeared and only his mortal reflection remained. Looking out onto Bakers Row once more he watched the bustling crowds of men and women scurrying along to their various destinations and duties. Drawing one deep breath of tainted morning air, Ethan welcomed the malodorous lingering scent of what he could only describe as the “life” of Whitechapel. Even the grim category of “death”, be it the expiration of a person, dog or rat, added to the fragrance of the street’s presence and aromatic personality. If Ethan were to travel out to the open countryside and lush green fields of England right now he wondered if these horrendous missing smells would linger in salacious appetite, awaiting their return to his nasal passages.
Dressing the part for the day as a local instead of the doctor, Ethan then decided the first order of business was seeking out a sense of normalcy in the form of coffee. He finally had some down time between events and intended to use the next twenty-one days to fullest advantage. Three weeks until the next victims of Jack the Ripper were murdered, this was his time to prepare, to relax. He still needed to cleanse his medical bag and surgical tools this morning then make another trip to the tailor but those priorities aside, he had to make sure he had no contumacious encounters with local authorities. In just another day George Lusk would be elected as President of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee and soon after there would be patrols of local shop owners roaming the streets in the evening hoping to become a visible deterrent to the Ripper’s agenda. Ethan knew he would be contacting George Lusk later, yet, once again, had a unique advantage over the committee, police and Scotland Yard, knowing every move they would make long before anyone ever conceived of which direction to take with this baffling case. He knew everything before they did.
All dressed for success, Ethan made his way downstairs to purchase his grounds for that first delicious cup, taking it with him to the public water well just down the road to replenish his pitcher. Stopping in the common kitchen, he poured the water into a hot pot to boil then went back to the well for more. Back in the kitchen again, he refilled his cup then took it upstairs with him, returning to his room. It was wise to multitask, to use his time as well as it used him. Heading back down the stairs to retrieve the boiling water, he transferred it into the bucket, what he’d use to cleanse his instruments and medical bag. Once in his room again, he soaped up then soaked the surgical steel. Cleaning off the leather exterior with wet towels, setting it to dry on the windowsill, he allowed his tools to soak, giving him some free time to write in his journal. A stitch in time, so to speak.
***
Journal Entry ˜ 9 September 1888
One day past my second non-interference directive to maintain the timeline as history recorded it. In the early morning hours of yesterday I proceeded with the murder of Jack the Ripper’s second victim, Annie Chapman. Well, my victim as fate would have it. All of my fears relayed to you previously have now manifested.
There was no last minute rescue of my new role by a demon of this era claiming the title of serial killer. My deepest fears now fully realized, this task must be fully, correctly performed. The recorded manner of this second murder, like the first, was carried out with exactness according to my knowledge through research down to the blade cuts and organ extraction. To my fear, there was an assumed error in my procedure, in failing to remove some possessions of the victim, but as it turned out the action was never mine to take. I have been struggling with conflicting thoughts and emotions over the past week. I now feel with this down time I can regroup and hold fast to the purpose of my actions and intent honoring the laws of physics.
I might take in a concert in London next weekend when I go shopping for new physician’s suits. God knows I need a little pampering right about now. There is an ethereal comfort knowing now more than ever that history was not only my ally but a supportive friend, lately letting me know everything will be alright and no worry needed. While my opponents are busy arresting John Pizer, also known as Leather Apron, busy forming vigilante parties, I’ll be in downtown London dining in fashion before attending a classical performance surrounded by England’s upper class. It will be a pleasant change of pace from my work, exiting if even for a weekend the doldrums of the streets of this impoverished section of the greatest city in the world. Oh! And I want to pick up some decent tea while I am there along with some tasty pastries! At last! Something to get all excited about. It will be a little boring for this week as it is best to limit my outside activities. The news of Annie Chapman’s death, her murder is spreading through Whitechapel and is kicking up the emotions of the townspeople. Well, at least the view from my window will be interesting!
I will still have to go see my friend Clemens at the tailor shop and pick up some replacement garments. There is nothing worse than wearing the same clothes over and over. Any sense of purity and purging of the filth of this inheritance helps me.
***
There was enough emotional conflagration going on in Whitechapel for anyone to get burned who looked or acted suspiciously. Ethan needed to lay low for a week. Yes, time was definitely on his side but there was no need to take unnecessary risks of chance encounters of the wrong sort. In broad daylight he could easily blend into the traffic of crowds along the main roads, to get some errands at the bank and tailor completed by nightfall. It wasn’t that he was a marked target or had been identified, but why make himself conspicuous? He’d been foolish to parade through the streets the night before singing a song that didn’t yet exist. He was not about to rationalize his irrational actions following perhaps the strangest series of events in Ethan’s life. He simply needed to play it smarter, adding a hint of slyness into his daily routine. It was a process and Ethan was a transformational work in progress. There was still an unknown factor at play, as he was yet to determine if the timeline was fragile or firm. This aspect of the conversion remained to be seen.
By necessity, Ethan had to finish cleansing and drying his medical bag, satchel, rags and equipment. Soaking in the pitcher for some time, he began to wipe down these formerly stained instruments. Having purchased a loaf of bread in the kitchen, he knew it was used in history to absorb congealed blood during wartime and other conflicts. Using it on all of the tools in his bag, he made blood sandwiches, a variety of blades and other devices as the ‘meat’ of the meal. Astonishingly, it did the trick. Sopping up fragments of Annie Chapman, the carnage
was no longer detectable on the leather or the steel. He inspected them, laying each object out, spaced apart on the dresser, there to air dry. He then placed the bag on the desk near the window to catch some of the sunlight and hoped it wouldn’t shrivel and pucker the way leather sometimes does when wet.
The morning was cool, crisp and clear. Ethan was eager to get out and complete the tasks planned for the day. He drank the last of his coffee and departed the room, stopping at the back alley toilet to pee. He had probably used it dozens of times by then, convinced he would never become accustomed to that unbearable stench. A quick trip to the pisser then he’d be on his way to the bank on Whitechapel Road, he was on a roll. Intending to make a considerable withdrawal in preparation of his “vacation” in Central London over the next weekend, he would need provisions as his sequential plans included becoming a recluse until then, quarantined in his room for as long as necessary leading up to the next event, two murders set in time on the thirtieth of September. His previous interactions with the branch manager bordered on awkward, an ‘at your service in your face’ approach Ethan found disconcerting. He feared on one of his visits the man may attempt to kiss him, judging by the royal treatment he received during his past encounters, including the last one with a local constable in tow. Picking up the pace, Ethan intended to make this trip to the bank expeditious and uneventful. Then he would head to the tailor for additional trousers, jacket, a new shirt and tie to compensate for the items he’d had to incinerate. Able to complete both ventures with no trouble, he returned to the room where he would remain for the balance of the day. Choosing yet another book from the little library, reading freed his mind from boredom, literary escapism in its purity.
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