“This is gonna cost ya more, love.” She stated her position matter-of-factly, still peering out the window to determine the best possible vantage point for his viewing pleasure. Abigail sighed heavily then turned to look at him. “Right, then.” Holding out her hand, an expectation of payment in advance, he gladly obliged her request, finding her honesty refreshing, almost innocent if not for the seasoned response.
Ethan went into his pocket and gave her a generous sum for the impending task. There wasn’t a word or gesture of disapproval from her, as she could not turn down her best client. This was a business transaction, after all, nothing personal. Abigail knew if she held onto him long enough she could dare hope to escape the street life and invest the money wisely for her future. The amount he handed her could sustain her for nearly two weeks, or more. Looking at Ethan once again without judgment, she collected her belongings from the desk before exiting his room in silence.
Standing motionless for a few minutes, wondering if he’d exposed too much of himself in the process, he pondered his decision to divulge his most intimate needs. If the girl were to take the money and run, well, Ethan really couldn’t blame her. It was a lot to ask of anyone. He took a huge risk revealing his deepest, darkest desires to her, sharing a secret. Having developed this obsession seemingly overnight, with a chance of watching his fantasy being played out before his eyes from above, the man was barely breathing. His initial voyeuristic role, the one he’d been mentally prepared for by the psychology department of The Consortium (in false expectation of his role here in this century), his fixation had turned perverse and self-gratifying. At this point, his selfishness may have driven off his Maggie replacement, never to see her again. It mirrored images he had kept as postcards from The Valley of a fair maiden walking away across the soggy soil path. Recalling her soft, sweet voice as she fell once more, he had come to her aid. A knight in shining armor. A damsel in distress. It had all been so romantic in his mind. This role had expanded beyond the limited boundaries of propriety. To say he’d gone off-script was an understatement. This kind of improvisation could prove dangerous for everyone involved.
Ethan heard Abby’s voice rising as sweetly from beyond his window. He leaned over the desk, straining to see who her words were directed toward. It was another working girl doing her job on the graveyard shift. The ladies of the night had to be so cautious walking the streets, as it was potentially a path to the Death House then the cemetery. The two of them standing in the middle of Bakers Row, he could not make out the conversation between them but suddenly they both looked up at his window. Ethan quickly backed up into the shadows, acting like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wetting his thumb and index finger, he doused the candle on the desk, shrouding the room in darkness. Feeling safely cloaked, he leaned back over the desk to survey the scene. When he looked out again he saw Abigail’s friend walking off and Abby herself walking over and standing across the street, her back against a wall. The gaslight lamps were positioned fortuitously to his vantage point. He could clearly see the area where his female friend patiently awaited an approach from a suitor. It wouldn’t take long for the lass to get noticed, he presumed.
Shortly into his scoping out session, Abigail’s friend appeared with a burly man of average age and height. She walked him up to Abby, initiating what appeared to be a proper introduction destined to result in some improper behavior. Pressing the flesh, they shook hands as the other woman departed, continuing on down the street. They spoke for several minutes as Ethan stared at them, waiting with bated breath. He could see Abby’s face and part of the right side of her body but the man’s girth obstructed the rest of his view of the vision he recognized as Maggie Daley’s clone. It was too far a distance to hear conversation between them but he assumed she was following the directives issued.
He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her into his body with ease, as she was an incredibly delicate creature. His available hand began groping her breasts while he pushed her up against the wall. Until that moment, Ethan hadn’t realized he already had an initial stirring, a swelling in his trousers. Reaching down to greet it, a warm welcome, he began rubbing himself in anticipation of what he was about to witness. Abigail pushed the man away, provoking him to get rougher, to have his way with her. Ethan was becoming more excited by the moment, excited in mind but not yet a full physical erection. Relishing the encounter unfolding before his anxious eyes, hungry for more, he was enticed, drawn to the events. Still, he was not getting truly hard. Something was not right, something he couldn’t put his finger on. As Abigail clutched the man’s massive forearms, he seized her by the wrists, lifting her hands above her head, pressing her arms against the wall behind her as he planted his face into her bosom. Alarmed, Ethan noticed something was wrong with this scenario. Abigail wasn’t struggling. In fact, she was fighting back her laughter which got the best of her. His “aggression” was causing her to giggle, enough to cause Ethan to abruptly deflate, feeling defeated by the charade of a performance. It appeared there was no shortage of bad actors in Whitechapel. Suddenly it all made sense. Abigail’s girlfriend had brought in a ringer, a man known to them. He was there to role play with the con-woman who took his money under false pretenses. The “couple” down below on the street were unaware they’d been exposed as frauds, so they continued. Ethan was livid, furious that he was being mocked by her and two accomplices, the one being played while they were laughing at him! They were both having fun and at his expense, playing with each other, putting on an act. Playing like children, but he was their toy. Ethan stepped away from the window, retreating into the shadows.
Hands on his hips, Ethan stared down at the floor, feeling an incredible hatred for someone he’d really begun to like. Duped and deceived, Abby had made a fool of him as much as he’d made a fool of himself. “I trusted that whore.” As he began pacing the room, rounding the rug, his emotions brewing in a cauldron of contempt, they bubbled to the surface as he spoke aloud. “Doesn’t that bitch know who she’s fucking with? I will kill her for this!” Those words came so naturally to his lips, the logical thing to say if one was a serial killer. An apoplectic rage rose in him to such an extent, he felt nauseated by his dizzying trip around the room. Stopping abruptly, regaining his equilibrium did nothing to decrease his agitation or ease a humiliation he was suffering. It felt as if his blood was literally boiling in his veins. It occurred to Ethan that he had never understood this phrase before now because he had never been this angry in his life.
The sense of betrayal was palpable, the desire for vengeance, undeniable. Abby had not respected his wishes nor issues. She displayed no regard for the trust placed in her to guard his secret. Her willingness to help him was duplicitous. “You bloody fucking whore. Fucking bloody whore. You sick, twisted bitch.” Becoming more furious by the minute, something warped inside him, something had changed. It felt surreal. “Bloody fucking whore, Maggie, you’ll pay for this.”
Closing the curtain, the room faded to black. He was blind with rage. Fumbling with the matches, he lit the candle on the dresser with trembling fingers then crossed to the window again, peering out through the corner, disguised behind the curtain. They were gone. Their play was over. Ethan turned, glancing toward the bed. Then he walked over, kneeling beside it, reaching beneath the frame, retrieving his bag containing the infamous surgical knife. Cleansed of the flesh of its recent victims, it appeared shiny and sharper than ever, hungry for blood. He began pacing again, slicing the air in front of him as if wildly searching for an invisible target. If Abby had been with him in the room, the knife might have found its natural purpose, the slicing of human flesh. Ethan may have been lashing out, slashing at thin air but he knew he couldn’t truly follow through with his immediate impulses, no matter how intense the desire. She wasn’t listed among the Whitechapel murder victims, at least not as one of his timeline requirements. To her benefit for the moment, she was out of reach. Paid in advance, she didn’t return to his ro
om and he did not expect to see her again. Ethan curled up on the bed beside his knife as his rage began to subside. Though it took some time, he calmed down enough to eventually fall asleep. In the days to come he had things to do of far greater consequence than offing a common tramp, or so he’d finally convinced himself. Too much time on his hands, too much Time on his mind, only sleep offered him any escape from the pain.
Ethan’s rage should have grown exponentially leading up to the fateful date of 16 October 1888, yet a certain serenity rooted instead, an almost divine calm within him. To a logical mind there would have been no blame for a behavioral pattern of intense emotions including anger, betrayal and guilt. Ethan remained tranquil in the midst of his turmoil, too calm to react. He had never been trained, his psyche never prepared for concealing or suppressing such an extreme change of character in the middle of the play, cast as Jekyll and Hyde, performing both roles simultaneously. Even during military preparation, he was not instructed how to be two men at once. He was on his own and should have been scared. In spite of it, he was calm. Though incapable of masking his pain Ethan was capable of internalizing it, playing the part to perfection. He got quiet inside, still. Peaceful. Even in anguish he remained calm. It occurred to him with a grin, if he were currently evaluated by the Flicker medical staff and told the truth, he would immediately be admitted to the psych ward where he would live out his days. No coming back from this leap. Yet again, he was calm. They’d instantly detect definitive signs of mental instability, even in his completely composed rendition of a story, alerting them to signs of his time spent slipping into insanity. Of course, doctors would feel the need to label it specifically: sociopathic behavior. Ethan smiled broadly at the thought.
The enabling methodology he’d developed over these many weeks, suppressing a personal angst, allowed Ethan to clutch the important details of the case still to be fulfilled by his alter ego. Later that day, George Lusk would receive the only “true” correspondence from the notoriously named “Jack the Ripper”. The letter would be sent along with a gift through a meticulous array of deceptive routes designed to be entirely untraceable back to Ethan. It would come to be known as the “From hell” letter. Mr. Lusk, as President of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, would have the unfortunate task before him upon delivery of a package, contents within telling their own gruesome tale. He would discover the letter along with a decanter which contained a portion of Catherine Eddowes’ kidney, a keepsake Ethan coveted, kept hidden in his dresser drawer, pickling in red wine. For two weeks he had hung onto it, waiting out the clock...and the calendar. Everything in its right and proper time. A patient man when need be, he relished the thought of watching Lusk open it up, a fantasy, as he would’ve had to hand deliver it to bear witness to the event. Medical science of the era had not yet dreamed of forensic advancements which would lead to identification through the DNA matching of victims. However, it had progressed enough to assess the sample as human and female, obvious circumstantial evidence notwithstanding. A fact that this last victim had her kidney removed resulted in the eventual press reports he read, leading Lusk to assume the section delivered to him was that of Miss Eddowes. Ethan knew the letter by heart, yet he never understood why it was written as such, with its glaring errors and misspellings, nor did he enjoy writing it the way it was, so contrary to his language usage, always meticulous. Just another one of Time’s little jokes and pokes at Ethan. He reminded himself it wasn’t personal and not to take it that way, as Colin once said. More food for thought.
From hell,
Mr. Lusk,
Sor,
I send you half the
Kidne I took from one woman
and prasarved it for you
Tother piece I fried and ate is was very nise,
I may send you the bloody knif that took it out
if you only wate a whil longer
Signed
Catch me when you can
Mishtar Lusk
Illiteracy ran rampant in impoverished Whitechapel. Its glaring errors, the mistakes were deplorable to a fault, deliberate, in a mocking manner to those of the times. If Ethan had concocted it from his own imagination, it might not have been too far off from the original. The perfectly written letter “From hell” would have tipped off the police that the culprit they sought was a highly educated man. Let the mind games begin.
***
Journal Entry ˜ 16 October 1888
I have come to terms with the fact that I will most likely not return this journal to The Consortium authorities upon my arrival into the 21st Century. Not one single person, not Anson, Colin or Maggie could comprehend the necessity of my actions. Not even myself. I just know the actions and not the intent would be judged. I began this as a spectator but soon became the focal point of the research. I was, no, I AM the project. I may have had some inner struggle with what I’ve done and still need to do before leaving this place, but I am reconciled to the role I play, resolved with these events as I should be, providing the ends to a means and the means to an end.
Still, I log these events for my own posterity. In packaging the parcel to George Lusk, I had to slice away a piece of Annie Chapman’s kidney to accompany a letter which I had memorized every word of during my project research. The “From hell” letter was the only one Jack th...I wrote. All the others were fakes and propaganda. Before disposing of the remaining kidney part via the hospital incinerator, I held it in my hand with a primal urge to slice it up and eat it for dinner. I stared at it with a knife and fork in hand for what seemed like eternity, thinking of the character of Hannibal Lecter and his mention of fava beans and a nice Chianti. That was with a man’s liver, not a woman’s kidney. I’m not insane nor am I a cannibal. I’m having to deal with all the pressures of the job and its Time requirements while all along, dealing with liars and betrayers pretending to be my Maggie. I’m closing in on my encore performance with regards to my final victim, Mary Kelly. Wish me luck! Oh, hell, I don’t need it. Time is on my side.
***
The days following the delivery of the “From hell” letter to Mr. Lusk were, for Ethan, like walking in his sleep. His excursion to the hospital incinerator to dispose of the kidney’s remains then subsequent trips to the market and his favorite bangers and mash place on Whitechapel Road were without any incident. Relinquishing his will to the fact he would never be caught left him feeling somewhat empty and all but invisible. Ethan was genuinely frustrated that his dedication to duty, masterful duplication of historical events would never be fully appreciated, nor would he be commended or even recognized for these sacrifices and effort extended in the name of continuity. Only Ethan and the eyes of Time would ever truly know the lengths he had gone on behalf of every individual who existed past these events. If history recorded that the culprit responsible for the Whitechapel murders had always been someone from this era then Ethan could never divulge his main role. He would have to give credit for these five brutal slayings to one of the dozens of suspects compiled over the decades of research and evidentiary analysis. Ethan would have to lie about the true identity of the infamous killer never named, never caught. He would forever remain silent as to the truth about what transpired during his Scope project. He was not happy about giving credit to another man but it could not be helped. He couldn’t trust the authorities in power to understand the sacrifices he had made in protecting the timeline. Instead, they’d lock him away for the rest of his life for doing exactly what would have been expected of him if they had known about it.
Ethan continued wrestling with his darkest thoughts over the next few days, as images of his victims still fresh in his mind plagued him. He felt so robbed, cheated of the intimacy he’d savored with his first two victims, denied him with the last two women. Pacing those six steps to the open window, six steps back to the foot of his bed, talking to himself about this option of possibly murdering other women during the two and a half weeks of uneventful time leading up to the murder of Mary Kelly
on the ninth of November, he had developed a killer instinct. It was an increasingly strong desire to see the pleading eyes of another woman as his knife sliced through her skin, releasing the warmth of her lifeblood from her throat, as practice. He was a perfectionist, after all. Imagining himself close enough to her face that, in another scenario, it would be a prelude to a kiss, perhaps he might seal it with one while her life drains away, marking her departure from the world with one gentle, affectionate final pressing of his lips to hers. How sensual, he thought. How utterly romantic.
With each passing day it became more of a struggle for him to listen to the logic and structure of his duties in keeping with the historical events laid out before him, to mind his own business. But what if? He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering. Could he be at enough of an advantage over those hunting for him to pull off a few collateral murders? He could be more discreet, properly disposing of bodies rather than leaving them out for display on the streets of Whitechapel. What if he was so protected by recorded history that if he’d butchered a few more women to appease his urges it would not and could not be linked back to him? Didn’t it stand to reason that if he went ahead and did it then it would have already been done? After all, he thought, there were women missing all over London. In fact, the torso of a woman had been found in an abandoned building during this time, nothing more of her ever discovered, though she had been there for quite a long period of time, certainly prior to his arrival. Besieged with thoughts of murder and mayhem, this temptation was becoming overwhelming. Recreating scenarios, thinking of myriad ways for him to fulfill his destiny, Ethan envisioned acts of carnage, of murders never attributed to Jack the Ripper but actually not committed by him. He even considered the obvious disposal of the bodies in the basement incinerator of the hospital, a piece at a time, whatever he could stuff into his medical bag. The malignant concept crept into his insidious mind. What were a few more missing prostitutes in this chaotic time?
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