In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  With the exception of the necessities of meal and drink, Ethan took his advice and did his best impression of ‘ finals week’ back at Oxford where he’d bunkered in his dorm room, hunkering down to read for hours. Later in life, it is what he’d do during finals, reviewing papers from students, making painful corrections to the grammar and spelling, not to mention historical errors. Ethan wondered still, should his story ever be declassified and released to the public, would his students admire and respect his decisions? Would they appreciate how he used his own retention of historical data to maintain an advantage in the midst of newly designated priorities? Might they be fascinated by the gruesome nature of his necessary acts or would the campus grow silent and watchful as he passed. Only time would tell his tale of woe.

  Having polished off four borrowed books in four days, Ethan stayed true to his vow and laid low, trying to keep his mind busy during his otherwise tedious hiatus. The end of the week approaching, he’d paid the rent in advance so that his absence would not be noted. Management knew, even if he’d overlooked the payment, this tenant was good for the money, so there was no fear of eviction. However, Ethan’s plan was to take care of any loose ends prior to his departure. Returning to the bank once again, he reestablished his safe deposit box so he’d have a place to secure the medical bag and its contents. Just the thought of leaving his room unattended for a couple of days made him feel vulnerable, in some odd way, exposed, not trusting the innkeeper or his fellow tenants. It was something he would not risk so, on his way for a serving of bangers and mash, he stashed the bag in the vault, safe from thieves and prying eyes and the manager did not even try to service him with a kiss! Only Colin could “give us a kiss” !

  The time had come to take his jaunt, to steep himself in the delights of London. Taking his time to dress the part of an “English Gentleman” he’d be heading for a side of town he knew well and loved dearly. To visit downtown, Ethan would hire a carriage off of Whitechapel Road, deciding to experience the fullest ambiance of an elegant era. Reminding himself it was just for the weekend, to indulge his senses, it was something sorely lacking in his 19th Century experience and he desired to see both sides of London. A first endeavor into what was familiar real estate in his own time, color-lined streets of the capital were cluttered with vendors and entertainers, making the atmosphere electrical and alluring for the locals and visitors alike. Ethan instructed the carriage driver to chauffer him to Savile Row where there were shops stocked with the finest in men’s fashion to be found anywhere. Hard-pressed to add two new suits to his wardrobe, this current high fashion had literally been through the wringer over the past two murders. He wanted to be presentable for the women he had yet to encounter so, a bit begrudgingly, made the investment.

  Checking into a lovely, understated inn, the linens in his room felt like satin on his bare skin. Rolling around on the bed, he let the fine fabric caress him, a pillow embrace his head, having almost forgotten the feel of real quality beneath him. He donned one of his new suits, the less understated of the two, perfect for a night out on the town. Primped and prepared, Ethan was off to the concert hall a few streets away, strolling with an air of confidence, a tip of the hat to the ladies as he passed. An evening spent immersed in culture and classical compositions, filling his heart and mind with some of the world’s greatest musical creations in history was a pure pleasure. He went to Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta “The Yeoman of the Guard”. Ethan sat silently through most of the musical, even during the moments of brevity, in complete awe of his surroundings. The audience was refined, the cast as sublime, whether or not they were ghosts performing in his presence. But it was the play that captured his imagination, overwhelmed as he was to actually bear witness to it and in its own time, an astounding privilege. According to Ethan, the play was the thing! It pulsed through him, feeding his soul, expanding his mind. To be able to sit in an audience with many of London’s richest, most influential men helped him to purge his psyche of the filth and grime of the East End, daily encounters surrounding his meager dwelling not thirty minutes away by carriage. It was as if he was living in a different world, not just a different time in history.

  During intermission he kept to himself, listening to those around him engaged in conversation. Men of leisure, Ethan truly enjoyed their refined, proper use of the English language. In polite discussion, he heard no mention made of the murders, as if what was happening had no bearing on their world. No matter. If they knew at all, and they must have known, this was all occurring in a far off land to a far lesser class of people who didn’t really matter at all, or so it would seem. Ethan shook his head, wondering how they would react if they knew who was in their midst. Back to the play, the finale was grand!

  Ethan deliberately spoiled himself for two days, riding in fancy carriages, taking in the sights, dining in fine establishments, immersing himself in the culture, all but bathing in the experience. Luxury accommodations, the best of everything, Ethan was convinced he deserved it for the sacrifices he had made and would continue to, on behalf of history. Indeed, Doctor LaPierre fit into this realm far better than where his ongoing work was located, by necessity. No one stared or cared as his demeanor and character was, by nature, indigenous to this region of London.

  Ethan took in as much of his weekend away as possible, to realign his mind and purpose before the tedious carriage ride back to Whitechapel Road, from where he would disappear into an alley leading back to Bakers Row and his humble domicile. Arriving just after nightfall on Sunday the 16th of September at the door to his room, Ethan never felt the place so heavy and dark, as if in his absence the spirits of Polly and Annie moved in and waited for his return. Every thread of his weekend escape unraveled with the first footstep through the door, absorbed by its darkest shadows, no light in sight. He felt it right down to his last fiber of consciousness, sucked back into the abysmal void of duty and despicable acts towards two more women in two more weeks. Placing his new attire on the bed, Ethan began to undress, removing a familiar ensemble, the original fancy threads he’d worn upon arrival and chose to wear for his journey back to Whitechapel. The cuffs of the jacket, shirt and bottoms of the trousers were beginning to appear threadbare, well worn, having to scrub the bloodstains clean. He compared it to new ones on the bed and knew it was a prudent move not to wear either back to the filth of Whitechapel yet when he glanced back at his new suits, he noticed they’d already begun to take on the dingy pallor of the East End, a shame. The area certainly had an influence on everyone and apparently, everything. He missed London proper and already longed to return.

  “Perils of the job at hand.” Ethan uttered, an attempt to recenter his psyche for what had transpired and the actions to come. It was a typical Sunday night, nothing much to do on this side of town. He curled up on the bed and fell asleep reading.

  The next morning Ethan returned to the bank on Whitechapel Road to retrieve his medical bag, knowing its contents would soon be needed. In addition, he would stock up on sundry supplies from Spitalfields Market and return home for a spot of tea, delicious tea he bought over the weekend while he was in London Central. He thought he’d wear one of his new suits for the brief quest, just to break it in. He had also purchased a new pair of shoes even though the ones provided for him from The Consortium were top notch, durable as well as broken in, really quite comfortable. Finishing his tea, Ethan once again exited his room and entered onto Baker’s Row where a Monday seemed no different than any other day in the realm of possibilities of encounters both welcome and not. His destination unplanned and unimportant, he merely wanted to try his legs in preparation for the double murder.

  Perhaps the anonymity of downtown London restored some sense of wonder he had for the historical era he found himself in at this point in time. Ethan wanted his eyes and mind to drink in more than just those four walls of his room. Amongst the hordes of people rushing by hurriedly with purpose along the streets were men in work overalls and heavy boots, gentlem
en in coat and top hats and ladies in custom fashions from skirt to bonnet. He fell more so into the latter category of gentlemen. On this stroll, as he had sensed earlier, Ethan was aware of a subtle yet a consistent change. Navigating passages between buildings he noticed far fewer faces, seeing more so the tops of hats and bonnets. Most of the people were seemingly avoiding eye contact, opting instead to keep their heads down with the mood.

  Annie Chapman’s murder was certainly fresh on the minds of the townspeople and palpable fear was overcoming the other stenches in the air. The women seemed hesitant to draw any man’s attention from a simple courteous smile and nod to more forward suggestions. It was best, safest to focus on the road ahead, arriving at one’s destination in mind in one piece without bringing any unsolicited approach by some stranger. Many of the local men hung their heads low, as well, but in their cases, it could have been to avoid eye contact due to the increased police presence on main streets. They weren’t guilty of being Jack the Ripper but it was apparent some were responsible for other crimes, perhaps crimes that had gone unpunished. As scrutiny intensified it became as thick as the air they breathed. It was obvious to Ethan, who knew about the increased presence in law enforcement from historical record that this was more of a visible deterrent and social assurance that local authorities were on the case, even though behind the scenes, they still didn’t have a clue, no concrete leads to go on as to whom this monster, this murderer could conceivably be.

  Ethan’s casual saunter guided him onto the familiar Commercial Street. At the corner of Hanbury Street near the marketplace the crowd began to bottleneck, being filtered through several officers randomly questioning some of the men passing by. Instinctively, Ethan felt the urge to turn around in an attempt to withdraw from this otherwise unavoidable encounter. Instead, he thought in terms of what experienced lawmen would do, how they’d react should any of them see him fleeing the scene. It would undoubtedly spark more interest than pushing through the crowd in hopes of being one of the men allowed to pass. Ethan also felt his good friend Time was on his side, by his side, still accompanying him. It would never allow history to be altered, so forward he pushed.

  There’s something that happens to a person when in the presence of the police. Even the guiltless have a hard time attempting to act innocent. One does not know if, whether looking down at the ground or up in the air will create suspicion in the eyes of the constables. Ethan’s eyes were fixated on the direction of his path, chin up, the proper posture for a man worthy of the fine gentlemen’s suit he wore. It was certainly apparent as Ethan approached closer to a half a dozen uniformed officers, this was definitely a casual yet visible presence in an effort to make the public feel more comfortable and secure in knowing they were on the beat, always on the job. The questions the officers posed to randomly selected men passing along the street, from his vantage point, certainly seemed to focus on the killings as they asked about their whereabouts, employment and residence. As the questions were answered the constables jotted down the responses in report pads, which is precisely what Ethan had to avoid. His full access to all of the reports logged by the local municipality, Scotland Yard, as well as every news article, private case journal and file authored by anyone involved in the case, his research showed no record of his fictitious name being logged. He’d figured as he came closer to the police they would wave him on through due to his professional, upper class appearance. He may be right that Time was his companion on his journey but Ethan did not realize Time also had one sick and twisted sense of humor.

  “Afternoon, sir. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Well.” Ethan scrambled for an excuse. “I’m actually late for an appointment.”

  “I understand that, sir. Won’t take but a minute then you can be on your way.”

  The officer politely insisted, taking Ethan by the upper arm, guiding him out of the conveyer line of people moving through the marketplace. Rather nervous, this detainee was trying to quickly decide how to avoid being asked to identify himself by name, only to become cataloged in the officer’s book. He feared returning to the 21st Century only to discover the fictitious name The Consortium (and he) came up with was now a part of the Jack the Ripper case file. It would be nothing compared to whatever ripple effect it would otherwise cause. He thought perhaps he should play the authoritative role, barking at the officer as if to reflect having a position of power that could make the bobby’s life a living hell by just talking to his superiors. As he rapidly plotted his strategy, he asked for the man’s name to which he replied.

  “Police Constable William Smith, sir, and might I ask yours?”

  Ethan recognized the uniform insignia identifying the officer’s division and the three-digit personal I.D. number. He had just been dealt a huge cosmic poker hand equivalent to four aces. His years of background research on everyone involved in this case included the personnel files of one Constable William Smith.

  “Smith? My God, man! What’s happened to you?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” The officer looked confused and taken back by the question.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me now, my good man. Arthur Bridgeman. I knew your parents Richard and Eliza when I lived at Milton under Wychwood in Oxfordshire. I came over for tea on occasion when you were just a lad.”

  The officer was visibly struggling with his memory so to place the gentleman’s face. Ethan knew he had to seal the façade with a little more detail.

  “Oh dear. How dreadfully forgetful of me. If memory serves, then I owe you a belated ‘Happy Birthday!’ young man. I remember attending a lovely party for you around this time of year, if I’m not mistaken. I believe it was your fifth, as I recall. What are you, twenty-four now?” Ethan was conducting the interview.

  “Twenty-six, just past the quarter century.” The bobby seemed a bit shaken by his failure to recollect this charming man, extending his hand in friendship yet still unable to hide a shade of embarrassment, not remembering a friend of his parents.

  “Twenty-six is it then? My word you’re actually making me feel quite Neolithic at the moment. My apologies, you said you needed to see my papers?”

  “That won’t be necessary Mr. Bridgeman.”

  “Doctor Bridgeman, if you please.” Ethan boasted in jest, casting his gleaming grin down upon the bobby. There it was. The smugness returned to Ethan, knowing his good friend Time was once again right there beside him. He could have ended this interaction sooner but was just beginning to have fun.

  “Doctor then, sorry sir.” The officer continued. “You workin’ in hospital then?”

  “Actually, I’m here to deliver a seminar. In fact, I’ve arrived from my office in northern London.” Ethan’s smile was broad, warm and inviting. The bobby lowered what defenses he possessed instantly.

  “Brilliant! Has anyone on staff there told you about the murders locally?”

  “They have.” Ethan responded. “Absolutely tragic, Smith. Any leads?”

  “Honestly, several. None of them worth a pence if you ask me.” Smith said.

  “Well, London’s finest is on it. I’m sure something will surface.”

  PC Smith lowered his report log book as Ethan had hoped without recording this encounter and discussion and once again extended his hand for Ethan to shake.

  “Well, I won’t keep you sir, seeing as you said you had an appointment.”

  “Yes, I’d best be off.” Turning to leave, Ethan looked back once more. “A real pleasure to see you, lad...all grown up! Give my best to your parents.” He turned, walking away from the officer.

  “They both died in a fire, two years back.” Smith spoke woefully, in a somber, quiet tone, his words lost in the ether but Ethan heard them, though he did not turn to react or respond to the news of their horrible demise. He could not turn around because he was forcing back laughter. Not only in the admiration of his cleverness, but in the cleverness of his good old friend Time who was, more than at any other point
before now, on his side. Time had murdered Constable Smith’s parents only for Ethan, in case Smith decided to bring up the name Arthur Bridgeman to which they would have no knowledge and things could have become complicated for him. He waited until he was out of sight and rounding the corner of a tobacco shop to let it fly, an outburst that left him in tears. Ethan peeked around the corner several more times to make sure he did not draw the attention of officers, but as far as those who were walking past, the men and women judging with disdain. Both their trepidation in step and their facial expression caused him to point at them and laugh harder. It was time for a good, hearty laugh.

  Eventually Ethan made his return to the room. His route was unencumbered nor remembered as he was totally in the clouds for the entire walk back. Upon closing the door Ethan collapsed to his knees, exhausted from his fits of laughter and pure euphoria. The encounter with P C William Smith and Ethan’s false affiliation was indeed entertaining, but what had him in hysterics, now rolling around on the floor, was his sudden enlightened acceptance that his close companion had even played one on him. Time was manipulating everything as it had always done. It has been said that “time” is a manmade concept but then so is “divinity” and “the cosmos” and anything else his species and his species alone manifested to explain why things happen the way they do. Ethan chose “time” as the designation from all the other variables because it was all-encompassing to thought and deed.