He would enter Mitre Square through Duke Street via the dark narrow Church Passage. Due to time constraints, Ethan was being pushed harder than ever before. The precision timing over the next thirty minutes would be as crucial, if not more so considering precision cutting he’d have to perform. Assuming that the reports of encounters were accurate from the three men seeing Eddowes with a shorter man around 1:35 a.m., her body being discovered by PC William Smith at 1:45 a.m. meant his work had to be exact and swift. Time was really fucking with him in more ways than one. The really bizarre twist was that Catherine Eddowes was released from the local drunk tank at Bishopsgate Police Station less than twenty minutes before her date with destiny. When she signed out, she used a fake name: Mary Ann Kelly. Jack the Ripper’s last (agreed) victim and Ethan’s last task before returning through the Flicker was Mary Jane Kelly. He didn’t believe in coincidences to begin with but since his jump into the 19th Century and this unexpected role, he was sure that Time had a human quality with a wicked sense of humor.
Ethan moved further into the poorly lit Mitre Square and out of Church Passage where, in the minute or two after his entrance, the first scheduled appearance would be that of Police Constable William Smith who reported entering the Square at half past one. In fact, he arrived at 1:20 a.m. and left in less than a minute. Irrelevant as it seems, Ethan perceived it to be close enough. One milestone met, one historical part of the event now down on the schedule. Ethan then heard a female voice from the end of Church Passage near Duke Street. Staying in the shadows he could see a man and woman stopping at the entrance. She leaned back against a warehouse wall and faced the man leaning in closer to her. Ethan had no doubt, this was Catherine Eddowes and her customer, the man spotted by Joseph Lawende who was with two other men who were exiting the Imperial Club, a local social favorite, around 1:35 a.m. according to reports, but according to Ethan’s pocket watch it was 1:27 a.m.
Ethan need only hope that his friend Time was trying to make up for not letting him eviscerate Elizabeth Stride earlier and force this man to leave at an earlier time in order to give him a wider gap to work with than the reports had given him from the case, which was only about fifteen minutes. Ethan assumed the man or Eddowes didn’t like the arrangement of price and he walked off earlier than 1:30 a.m. causing Ethan to close his pocket watch and kiss the three-legged horse on the case. He then tucked it away in his coat pocket and opened the medical bag, extracting the knife he used earlier on Elizabeth Stride, sticky blood still hugging the blade for dear life.
Ethan saw Catherine Eddowes. After a hard night she appeared dead on her feet. If she only knew. For all intents and purposes, it was an apt description of the poor woman. She began to walk down Church Passage towards him. He moved over to the dark corner where her body would eventually be found and he waited for her to come into the square. Eddowes popped out of the passage onto Mitre Square, head down as she was fiddling with something in her hands. Ethan really wanted to find out just how Time was on his side. Instead of calling out to her or approaching her, he waited in the dark corner to see if she was scripted by fate to turn right and walk right into him. His patience paid with dividends. Catherine Eddowes indeed walked directly towards him, never looking up as she was still tinkering with whatever she had in her hands. Ethan had the blade hidden behind his left forearm, concealing the butt of the knife with his hand, rhythmically tapping on the handle against his pocket watch buried in his coat as if to relay Morse code to his friend to say “thank you”. Intermission had been stressful but now he could settle into the role. Time for the second act.
From the moment Ethan struck there wasn’t a word. The work ahead for him to do “the job” precisely required he begin as soon as possible and swift in completion. Ethan lunged for the considerably shorter Eddowes, grabbing her lush, auburn hair with his right hand, spinning her around backwards then to the ground, landing on top of her in a squatted position, leaning with all his weight forward with his left hand holding the knife and pushed it onto her throat with such weight and pressure it began breaking the skin and cutting into her larynx before he even began slicing back and forth. Although Ethan’s eyes adjusted to the extremely dark corner of the square, he couldn’t make out Catherine’s eyes while he continued to hold her down, sawing through her neck. Cutting from behind her left ear, through the left carotid artery, across to her other ear, not nearly as deep on the right where he started, he forced the knife all the way back to her intervertebral cartilage. Catherine Eddowes never had time to utter a noise before she died. The still canvas now before him was the gift, his chance to make up for his rush job with Elizabeth Stride and fulfill the heinous performance his role demanded to this point. Ethan was convinced that everything he did was under the auspices of Time, pulling his strings as a puppeteer. Ethan knew he was being manipulated and choreographed. He was the marionette, dancing to Time’s tune.
He couldn’t screw this up if he wanted to because he would not be allowed. He need only conduct the intricate cuts and slices to her body and history would record it as such, the same as before. It was dark and he had to dive in, literally with both hands. Feeling the form of her face, he located her eyes which were still open. He’d read they were a deep shade of hazel but he just could not see them. Softly shushing an already silent woman, with two fingers he closed both of her eyes. This allowed him to take the point of the sharp surgical steel knife and cut into her eyelids, slicing top and bottom of both eyes about a quarter to a half an inch out from the nose and all the way through the membrane. The angle forced an unavoidable collateral cut to the bridge of her nose which Ethan enhanced by pushing the blade point deeper into her face on the right side of her nose bridge and ripping downward towards her mouth, severing all the muscle and tissue along her cheekbone. His blade reversed course and dug into her gums then upper lip before he angled the blade in such a way as to slice through her nose from the nostrils to the bridge again, sawing back and forth until only the superficial skin was all that was left to hold the nose on the face. He made another cut near the nose bridge and yet another from the right side of the mouth, all looking like random jabs at her face but were, in fact, all precisely where they needed to be. Like slicing sandwich meats, he turned the blade sideways and carved up the woman’s right cheek, leaving the skin flapped back in a triangular shape. He obliquely cut through the lobe and auricle of the right ear.
He was performing surgery in the dark using a mental stopwatch, as if trying to set a world record. Hurriedly, he moved from atop Eddowes’ chest and kneeled on her right side, yanking apart Catherine’s buttoned coat and man’s shirt she wore so he could more easily pull the multiple layers of skirts she wore to keep warm well above her sternum region, fully exposing her midsection. The first two jabs and the cut in the dark missed their mark, hitting the inner left groin separating the labium and leaving a flap of skin on the groin. He’d attempted to readjust but stabbed and cut into her right inner thigh. Feeling around her pelvic region to get his bearings, Ethan realigned, driving the blade straight in and down above Catherine’s pubic region then began a steady slicing of the abdominal muscles. At the naval, he cut around to the right and under to the left before continuing to the breast bone, leaving her belly button supported only by tendrils of the rectum muscle on the left side of the abdomen. Making oblique cuts at the top and bottom of that long opening, he separated her midsection, exposing her internal organs. He’d already made several stabs and cuts into her liver. Ethan had to remove her intestines, covered mostly in feculent matter, placing them on her right upper chest and shoulder. Not letting go of the knife, a two-foot long section was then cut away from the intestine, which he methodically placed between her left arm and side. He was now unobstructed and able to cut away other appendages and remove both her left kidney and Elizabeth’s womb without disturbing the vagina and cervix. He opened his medical bag which he’d pre-lined earlier in the day to avoid leakage issues he had suffered harvesting Annie Chapma
n’s organs. Placing both her kidney and her womb inside the medical bag, he then cut away a section of her apron and placed it within, as well.
Before he could clean up, he heard the unmistakable hard soles of a constable on patrol by the name of James Harvey who came to a halt inside Church Passage before entering Mitre Square then turned back down the passage away from Ethan and his victim. Officer Harvey’s appearance was a warning signal to move his arse! In only four or five minutes PC Edward Watkins would discover the remains of Catherine Eddowes. It was time to go on to the third and final act in tonight’s play, taking an alternative route. He’d traveled through Church Passage via Mitre Street to King Street then past Duke Street. Knowing not to take the identical route twice, Ethan traveled Stone Lane, crossing Middlesex Street into a small alley called New Goulston Street. Where this intersected with its original namesake, Ethan stopped. Goulston Street was quiet and empty. Pausing, not to reflect but merely to clean off the remnants of the murder, he wiped his knife of the blood, tissue and fecal matter, using the piece of torn apron. This was where he would replicate history, leaving the cloth on the ground inside of the frame of an archway of this soon to be busy boulevard just below where he would write in the chalk he had borrowed, words Police Constable Edward Long would soon discover scrawled on a wall about 2:55 a.m., which stirred up more confusion in the case. There was controversy as to what exactly was written on a wall, as well as its meaning. PC Long reported one version and Detective Halse, yet another description and no photographs were taken of the location because the order was issued by Sir Charles Warren, head of the London Metropolitan Police to wash the wall down before the nearby marketplace became filled with immigrant vendors. Ethan chose the words Sir Warren put in his report:
“The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing”
Unlike Ethan’s role surrounding Mary Ann Nichols or Annie Chapman’s death, he never really struggled in his mind whether he did everything exactly as history recorded it. He was now in the hands of Time. Working in near pitch black darkness, for him to try to meticulously duplicate the injuries presented by Dr. Gordon Brown in the postmortem report would have taken a miracle (or more time than he had) to perform. He had to trust his colleague and logic that whatever he did to both of the women he’d murdered tonight he had already done historically the exact same way. The curtain was closing on this final act and the man at center stage in the lead role was taking his final bow. Ethan went home.
Arriving back at his lodging at 3:19 a.m., Ethan considered everything that had transpired outside of his room window was exactly as history recorded. Now, with the “Double Event” completed, he need only wait to see if his theory was right and all was as it had always been. Ethan had avoided as many gaslight streetlamps as possible, any exposure or human contact while returning home because he had no idea how much blood and other fluids from the women he’d victimized had gotten on his clothes. Once inside his sanctuary he locked the door and lit the two candles in his room, one on the desk and the other from the dresser. Before disrobing he’d briefly glanced over his outfit for signs of that early morning carnage. His sleeves expectedly received the worst of it, blood staining both coat and shirt. He avoided stepping in any blood but several drops were on the topside of his shoes, most likely from when he was inside Eddowes’ abdominal cavity. Splatter was also present on his trousers, though not apparently so while he was walking through the dark alleys. In fact, it was his wise decision not to wear one of his fancy new suits for the task. Ethan disrobed, once again becoming what was more and more comfortably naked. Distant police whistles had died down from earlier when he heard them as he moved further and further from the murder scenes. Everything playing out as it should. He was down to the last assignment of this mission. The last woman. The last murder. In thirty-nine days, Mary Jane Kelly would die.
There was something wrong. Ethan lay naked, sprawling out on the bed, staring at the ceiling above, hands behind his head. He tried to label his emotions but could not. From the point he surrendered to Time’s construct he’d felt cheated, dissatisfied with his role, as if being guided like a small child needing to have his hand held to cross the street or the stage, insulting his intelligence. He was given a script which he’d memorized, no improvisation necessary, no alteration to the construct already provided for him. Were he offered artistic license he would have written his part in the play with a more generous timeframe in which to work. There was no time to interact and to meet his co-stars, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, before cutting into their throats to the point of almost decapitating them. Ethan was not a coldblooded killer. He was an artist. His script would’ve included some interaction, maybe a dinner or a romantic run through the rain before he took his blade to their bodies, some kind of meaningful interlude. He would have loved to see their eyes, transforming from an expression of pure adoration to abject terror then ultimately, to a lifeless stare. He’d found himself agitated, indignant as he rested his sore body and sulked, his self-perception under attack from within.
Successive emotions building upon previous feelings as he laid there, he had to wonder why, how could Time betray him after he’d done everything asked of him? There would never be another opportunity to not only observe history but become a major character within its story. Upon the conclusion of his debriefing, he knew The Consortium would never again allow a risk of interaction in any future Flicker / Scope project approvals, no matter how descriptive Ethan would be in explaining how it would not affect the time continuum. Anson would be too paranoid to listen to him. This experience would be studied and analyzed for decades to come.
Wouldn’t it have been something to have a few amazing personal characteristics of himself added to the story by getting to know and perhaps even love these women prior to the moment he killed them? Ethan began pounding his fists into the mattress on each side of him in, exasperated. In such a sweet spot, to be robbed of time, he resented being slighted, not factored into the equation. Stiffening his body in primal rage, he appeared to be having a child-like temper tantrum, acting out for not getting his way, angry at Time playing a parental role, telling him he couldn’t have his toys. In fact, just like a spoiled little brat.
“I hate you. I hate you. I fucking hate you.” Repeating it through gritting teeth, his jaw clenched, tears of frustration formed in Ethan’s eyes. His emotions directed towards his only friend in this strange land, Time had abandoned him, too. The huge “Double Event” was over and there was nothing to do about it but fret, acting out in the privacy of his room until the tantrum passed and he finally fell asleep with a blood-covered thumb tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Ethan awoke mid-morning around half past ten to a cool, cloudless sky. He had recovered from his childish outburst just six hours earlier, resuming his “mission” mentality immediately. First walking over to the dresser and washing himself down of the stains and vestiges of the night before, he stared at the remains of one of the two candles he had not extinguished during the night, burning itself out sometime earlier that morning. He knew the feeling. Not wanting to gaze in the looking glass, not just yet, he was worried what would be gazing back at him and thought it best to focus on things to be accomplished for the day. Once he had cleansed the crimson color from his hands and arms he dressed into one of his local outfits simply to hit the loo, visit the kitchen for some hot coffee then replenish his pitcher with fresh water. It was becoming a routine. The next task at hand would be the labor required to remove bloodstains from his clothing, a formidable task.
The buzz of the tenants still sitting in the kitchen was two-fold. First, the word had already gotten out about the two women murdered. Second, as the Daily News had been printed, the paper on the table, all of the talk was about the text of the first “Dear Boss” letter which was signed with the nom de plume “Jack the Ripper”. As Ethan walked past the table he stopped to sit on a bench and hold it in his hands, to read the words the first time they wer
e printed. With his weary eyes transfixed upon the page, Ethan read the name of someone he knew in the paper. Soon everyone in the world would know the infamous name, the legendary Jack. He’d caught himself smiling at the thought “You don’t know Jack” then covered his mouth until the urge subsided. If anyone saw his face they’d think it an expression of shock, appalled by what he was reading. The letter was of course, fictitious, subsequent letters, as well. He need not concern himself with having to write anything to maintain the timeline. Too many researchers over the centuries were in complete agreement that this series of letters were fraudulent, conjured up for hype by someone within the press to sell more papers, maybe make a name for himself down the road. This was undoubtedly the nefarious work of a roving reporter willing to exploit these victims again for his own ill-gotten gains.
It was surreal for Ethan, holding this newspaper, seeing his pseudonym glaring back on the day it was conceived, concocted by another hand, another mind. Truth be told, Jack the Ripper was not born this very day but he’d certainly been adopted on it. As a historian, to touch and read the newspaper was fascinating. He snickered, relishing an important moment in time, proof enough that the “real” Ripper did not write them. Ethan had not lifted a finger or a pen to contribute to the growing frenzy, essentially victimizing these women twice, perceiving himself to be above that sort of thing. No mercy bestowed, whoever wrote them owned no moral compass. Ethan found it rather humorous. The name “Jack the Ripper” was invented for the sake of publicity, a name synonymous with carnage and depravity. No one ever dared come forward to claim credit for what was to become one of the most infamous names in recorded history. A cynical, heartless marketing strategy worked as the first printed letter and successive “Saucy Jacky” postcard, (both of which allegedly fabricated), drove people in Whitechapel into mass panic. His only “personal” correspondence would come in fifteen days when he would send tangible evidence to George Lusk, as President of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. The recipient of the package would receive something of substance, an actual clue significant to the case.
In A Flicker Page 33