In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  One, two, three, four, five, six. He would pace to the window arguing one side. One, two, three, four, five, six. He argued the counterpoint night after restless night. It never left his consciousness, even when asleep, claiming its place as an obsession at the forefront of his mind, a perpetual fantasy unfolding. Between meals, over hot coffee, at tea time, even while squatting over the disgusting shithole in the outhouse he considered the concept, dismissing it over and over again. Then, late one evening came a familiar knock at his door by an unexpected visitor. It was Abigail. Startled, Ethan crossed from the desk then paused, deciding whether or not to allow her into his room. She knew he was there if she had seen the light through his window from Bakers Row. After a moment, he opened it. The two of them just stood there peering at one another. Ethan did not just stare at her, he glared through her, hard and cold. He knew she was back for more money and she knew he knew the truth of it.

  “Fuck it.” He thought as he turned away then went back into the room, leaving the door open for her to enter. Perhaps he’d wanted to be entertained by her excuses or just a good lie disguised as a story. He figured any vituperation toward her would abruptly end with her immediate departure and a return to his endless isolation.

  “How’ve ya been, Arthur?” Abigail asked as she hesitantly entered his room. It occurred to her, gathering from his disdainful expression, what she had done several nights before by staging a false attack had been off-putting to him, beyond reproach.

  “Fine. I’m fine.” Ethan responded, if for no other reason than the fact that he’d always been a gentleman. He retained his civility with the lady in this uncivil realm, though he was far from being in a conversational mood.

  “What ‘ave ya been up to?” She fished for dialogue to gauge just how mad she had made him with her antics.

  “Just killing time.” Ethan quipped, his tone of voice terse. Briefly looking her way before turning his back on her, he faced out the window, hands in his pockets.

  Abigail felt the awkwardness in the air. Causing her to be even more ill at ease, she’d have to find the words to approach him, to beseech him, an entreaty regarding her need for more money. Was he still willing to be generous after what she’d done? Minutes passed before either of them spoke. Ethan turned around and looked at her. She was adorned in new clothing, a bonnet and handbag. He smiled apathetically.

  “Back for more money, I assume?” he said callously, indifferent to her plight.

  “Don’t go as far as it used to, ya know.” Abby replied with a flirtatious grin.

  A common tactic having no effect on Ethan, it was not her only tool in the shed. Promenading toward him, prancing playfully, he stood fast and stared down at her, only a pace or two away as she looked up at him with green puppy dog eyes. Again, little impact made, if any, his disinterest in Abigail’s circumstances duly noted, he was far more absorbed in his contempt for her, attentive to his own need to tell her what he thought of this travesty, taking his money under false pretenses. He could feel the rage rising with the memory of his shame when the blame for it was surely on her, having suffered an indignity due to her insensitivity.

  “You staged a play for me down there last time like I was some simpleton.” His condescending disregard for her was evident in abundance.

  “I did what ya asked. Ya wanted to watch me get roughed up by a customer and that’s what he did.” Rationalizing the scenario, absolving herself of responsibility, Ethan didn’t want to hear it.

  “It was not real.” He brushed past her, crossing to the foot of the bed. “You and your friend either knew him or let him in on the joke and I was the joke. You were bloody well laughing at me. I heard you.” Ethan tried to speak calmly but the anger was swelling inside. He knelt down, reaching underneath the bed.

  “I was laughin’, love, but not at you! I was laughin’ ‘cause I was stronger than ‘e was!” She began giggling again. Ethan was having none of it. Quickly muffling herself, seeing that he was not amused, Abby realized this man who had been most generous had particular tastes in mind. She could feel him despising her.

  Abigail had left the door open and this was nobody’s business but their own, so Ethan walked over to close it, concealing whatever he had retrieved. Continuing to plead her case, he heard every word, refusing to respond.

  “Look, Arthur, I may not o’ really got in mind what ya wanted. Ya been kinder to me than anyone I ever known in the city since bein’ here. Last thing I’d ever do is to laugh at ya and risk a good thing I got with ya.”

  Ethan’s position remained apathetic, his body becoming more rigid as he stood his ground, his back to her. Knowing most of what was being said was the prelude to a request for more money, he was in no mood to extend his usual noblesse oblige. Instead, Ethan became increasingly stern in demeanor. It didn’t matter that this was a business arrangement. She was a prostitute, by and by. His issue was being made a fool of and yes, her actions were partially to blame but Ethan was embarrassed by his lack of social education pertaining to women, professional or otherwise. He was angrier with himself than he was with her.

  “Arthur?” Abby moved up right behind him, reaching up to touch his shoulder. “How can I make it right?”

  Ethan spun around, verbally exploding as if she pulled a pin from an emotional grenade. “I want you out of my bloody room! Keep my money but go, now please!” He pointed toward the door, his directional hand clinging to his physician’s shoes.

  Abigail stepped back, more in surprise than fear. The time they’d spent together he had never shown any aggression toward her. She realized just how much she had hurt him with the mock attack staged in the street below. Ethan turned back around facing away from her again. Not another word was spoken between them. After a few moments, Abby walked past him and left. Hearing her footsteps echoing in the hallway, as she descended the stairs he began feeling as if he’d been too harsh with her, considering he was as much to blame by asking her to do something so extreme and dangerous. His lack of sexual prowess, his literal dysfunction with her led to a desperate conclusion and uncharacteristic scenario just to satisfy his newly acquired perverse appetite. Ethan had surely chased her off for good.

  He was alone again. It was something he was quite accustomed to, as if isolation was a tangible thing, a companion he’d shared his apartment with at Oxford, as well as the room he now inhabited. Communing with his loneliness, together once again, Colin seemed to be the only one who could trespass in his domicile and not disrupt or corrupt the solitude and sanctity he wore like a comfortable suit. Abigail deemed qualified to trespass as Colin did only because, to Ethan, her resemblance to young Maggie reminded him of home and a comfort he had longed for, she betrayed him. He placed his shoes on the dresser to polish them later.

  Feeling somewhat upset with his outburst, he began to undress for the evening, draping his trousers over the desk chair. Sticking his head out the window to gauge the temperature then decide how much of an opening to leave for fresh air, well, as fresh as Whitechapel could provide, it was getting colder toward the end of October. Intending to keep the window closed, leaving only a small gap to allow ventilation, as he reached up to shut it, Ethan spotted a familiar figure across the street. It was her. Abigail. Maggie. She was looking up at him peering through the second floor window. Ethan withdrew his hands from the windowpane and stared back down at the girl, wondering why she was standing there. Was she hoping he would ask her to come back up, in from the cold night air? Did she return to him because she had spent all he’d given her and was now without lodging? Before he could resolve his questions they were answered for him simply by watching what transpired. Abigail was approached by a man walking down Bakers Row. It was not the same man she put an act on with the last time. This man was shorter and thinner. He couldn’t hear the dialogue exchanged between them but he immediately became aware that Abby was going through with his original deviant request, in spite of having walked away empty-handed from his dwelling only moments befo
re this encounter.

  The stranger looked around, seeing the street was empty for the moment during the early morning hour. Removing his gloves, he began to freely fondle Abigail. It wasn’t welcome. The expression on her face belied the offense as he randomly and roughly ran his hands all over her. For a moment, Ethan looked away, partially due to his embarrassment for her and the equivalent shame in himself. Those reactions quickly subsided, however, vanishing as Ethan’s urges took ahold of him the same way this brute had taken ahold of her. He continued watching, the compulsion too strong, too primal to ignore. The gaslight lamps and their proximity to his window allowed Ethan to see her countenance as the man continued to accost her, having free reign over her body. She was grimacing from the manhandling and obviously, his uncaring departure from civility. The savage then spun her around, pressing her face against the wall as she cried out in pain, yelping like a wounded dog. Running his tongue along her left cheek and ear, she grunted from the pressure as he pushed against her then whimpered as he reached up underneath her skirt with his left hand, probing deeply inside her. He was violating her, hurting her, penetrating her, raping her by hand on a public street.

  Ethan could not look away from the event he orchestrated. He was experiencing the role he was initially tasked to complete during his time in this century in its pure form and intent. He was a Scope. A spectator. A voyeur. The curious thing, though, was his profoundly unattached reaction to her plight, the incongruity of a response he could not control. Ethan was so fixated on the visual experience of watching this woman being assaulted, he was not even aware of the physical effects taking place within him. Ethan suddenly became aware that he’d begun rubbing himself over his undershorts, bringing him to the point of a full and fruitful erection, something he’d not been able to achieve for quite some time. While ecstatic knowing his impotent condition was not permanent, he questioned the circumstances, wondering whether or not the incidents occurring during his time here were the cause of his deviance. What if it had not transpired as such? What if he had only been relegated to the role of observer, as initially scripted? Would his undiscovered eroticism have emerged as he watched the Ripper murder the women or was it made manifest by his role in the play? The stipulations of arousal, requirements were less than conventional and not something he’d ever had an appetite for in any capacity. Ethan could feel it. He was changing, becoming someone else, something more. His thoughts fractured in his mind, splintering into hundreds of fragments.

  Maneuvering his left hand underneath the waistband of his shorts to make better contact with himself, Ethan’s pleasure was short-lived as Abigail suddenly pushed away from the wall, causing her assailant to stumble backwards, almost falling. The pitiful woman standing on Bucks Row burst into tears, sobbing audibly enough for Ethan to hear from his window. She was not able to go through with it. His erection quickly ended, as did his fleeting excitement but he was not upset with her. Abigail had helped him restore his sense of sexual worth, for however brief the attempt was, reassuring him that, in spite of appearances to the contrary, all was well. As Ethan continued to watch, the man adjusted his clothing and looked around for witnesses. There were none except for Ethan, from a distance, from above, looking down upon her like a guardian angel who refused to intervene. He briskly exited the area. As it became quiet and still again, Abigail gathered herself then walked away.

  Ethan abandoned his vantage point, falling back onto his bed, visualizing over and over the images from his window, hoping to recreate his illustrious arousal, to no avail. He thought kindly of his young Maggie replacement somewhere out there on the streets, crying, undoubtedly confused. What she did must have been difficult. What she did, she did for him. Abigail obviously loved him to make such a sacrifice, or so he thought. As much as he knew the truth of it, he’d hoped the man who was molesting little Abby was the real Jack the Ripper. To have the chance to finally watch the brutal slaying of this helpless young victim right there below his window would have been satisfying beyond measure but to observe it from the safety of his own room would have been even better than witnessing it from the shadows of an alley, as it was always supposed to be in all its rage: splendorous carnage. However, as his mind wandered, he imagined being down there in place of that thin stranger, completing the task, unlike his lame replacement who had let Abigail get away. If you want a job done right...

  In the privacy of his mind he could do anything and not worry about betraying the timeline. The things he could imagine eventually entered into his dreams as he dozed off. Any other person would awaken screaming then label it as a nightmare. He had now become accustomed to it and almost felt it necessary to adopt a mental preparedness, awake or asleep, for all he had seen and done and still was tasked to do. No one in this time or the era he would return to would ever comprehend these sacrifices made for the good of the future, yet, there was no denying his enjoyment of it. Ethan slept deeply, peacefully, with a smile on his face.

  Journal Entry ˜ 22 October 1888

  I’m the man that time forgot. Nearly a week now of living in a void. There was no reason to feed the pages of this journal with the doldrums of the last week. I’ve had no visitors of any sort. Not that any were expected, although from time to time I’m sure I hear voices in the walls of my room saying HELP or MURDER. Maybe I’m getting visitors of a unique sort and sound. I often talk to them with no response. Earlier today, being a Saturday, I browsed the marketplace and a man directed me toward the local butcher shop where I purchased two decent-sized cuts of a pig. I want to keep my wits and my knife sharp for my next historical event. I plan to do some curvature work on the meat and bone, as this next event is to be most creative carving with the blade of all five of these women. Mary Kelly has to be Jack th.....I mean MY best work! I need to practice my filet work and deep cuts, which is always hardest, cutting through tough tendons and muscles to perfection so that what will be discovered later as the last true victim of JTR is exactly what history recorded. I’ve decided to remain naked in my room most of the time to preserve my attire and just because I’m beginning to like it. Before this entry I placed the meat on my chest and belly. It was cold and slimy but had such a cooling effect to it. Later I will place the two pieces on the bed and sleep beside it then when I wake I will lay them lengthwise as Mary Kelly would be laying and begin my carving practice. Once complete, I will roll my body over it naked, then, bring it to the public kitchen downstairs and make a feast for all the tenants of the lodge. Food of the gods.

  ***

  To Ethan’s credit, if nothing more so, he was a man of his word. When applying himself, putting his mind to the task, he was meticulous in word and deed, to a fault. Everything he planned to do he followed through with including a generous banquet of seasoned pork for the tenants dining in at their lodging’s kitchen. Everybody was gracious, grateful for his magnanimity and cooking skills. Not a morsel remained. Before leaving them to their devices Ethan uttered a favorite phrase: “Bon appétit!”

  Retiring back to his room after a round of appreciative gestures, he carried a hot cup of tea in hand to cut the chill on a particularly cold night. Becoming relatively comfortable with his fellow tenants, Ethan felt secure enough with his surroundings to leave his door unlocked whilst he went downstairs, so he did not have to fumble with a key when he came back up. Ethan found his room occupied. There she was: Abigail. He had not seen her since she ran off in tears down Bakers Row that intense night nearly one week before. Having taken it upon herself to freely enter his room while he was in the kitchen, she was poised near the window.

  As he stepped into the room closing the door behind him, Abby turned around, glancing his way then returning her attention to the panes of glass.

  “What’s it like?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ethan asked, walking close enough to discover she’d been drinking, detecting the telltale essence of liquor in the air.

  “Watchin’ me. What’s it like t’ look out this window and w
atch me?” Abigail faced him directly, her question as pointed. “Can ya see me looking at ya?”

  “Yes.” Ethan was cautious in his response, sparse, not knowing her demeanor.

  Lost in thought, Abigail peered out the window as waning rays of evening light washed across her shoulders, illuminating her eyes with the golden glow of sunset. She appeared in silhouette like a fallen angel Heaven sent, a celestial vision.

  “I wanted t’ do it for ya, I really did but I got scared. We talk, ya know, all the girls, ‘bout the killin’s. They call ‘im Jack the Ripper, ya know.”

  “Yes.” Ethan answered again in brief.

  Abby stared at him with desperate eyes, her penetrating gaze speaking volumes. He almost dropped his tea cup as she wrapped her arms around his body. Squeezing him tightly, tears welling up, she continued.

  “I thought long and hard, I did, and it came t’ me that havin’ ya watch me, if it was him, the Ripper, ya’d come an’ save me, ya know, before ‘e done me in.” Abigail was quivering like a scared little girl lost in the dark. “Even if ya didn’t make it in time ya’d catch the bloody bastard an’ end ‘im for killin’ me and scarin’ me friends, too.” Wishful thinking on her part.

  “Yes.” Ethan uttered, this time with a vacant smile, an expression Abby wanted to believe meant she’d be safe from harm in his charge. Ironically, to Ethan it meant it could not happen to her because there was no possibility Jack the Ripper would be down there on Bakers Row while he was up here observing her. Abigail was in the arms of a madman and because of it, was probably the safest girl in town.