In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  Turning on his side, Ethan began vomiting violently which, in turn, woke him up abruptly. The fever had broken, his body purging whatever remained of the illness on the floor beside his bed. He was weak, shaking, stirred to the core from a nightmare but he knew he had made it through and was going to live. As Ethan laid prone, bathed in sweat, struggling to breathe the putrid stench in the air, he opened his eyes. He was alone. All alone but alive.

  It took Ethan the better part of a week to fully recuperate. No question about it, he had knocked on death’s door. Remaining diligent in his recovery he took care of himself, continuing to nourish and rehydrate his depleted body. During his first trip to the kitchen since his rescue by a kindly woman, he asked the other tenants about the nurse, wanting to thank her and compensate her further for many self less, caring acts if she would accept it from him but she’d already finished with her classes and had returned to Greenwich. Told by one of the boarders that he’d been leveled, laid waste for a week by that insidious fever, as he regained his strength, any remaining signs of sickness dissipated. Saturday afternoon moved into night, Ethan spent this time returning his focus and efforts to his mission, back on the job again.

  The first priority was to regain his chronological bearings. Not having a clue as to what time of the evening it was, he looked to retrieve his pocket watch from the top dresser drawer so to help reset his internal clock by seeing that familiar face, a loyal timepiece that worked in collaboration with his schedule. It was not where he had placed it. He began searching the entire room, each and every crevice where he might have relocated or hidden it during his delirium, no memory of where it went. His money, identification papers, clothing, shoes and medical equipment were still in his room, every possession accounted for, all but his pocket watch. Someone had claimed his precious timepiece. Ethan considered the possibilities. It could not have been the nurse. She could have sold the medical instruments for a far greater profit. If her son had been with her, while his mother’s patient slept, he might have swiped some clothing, as winter was approaching, less likely the watch. No, no. The culprit seemed obvious. Only one person would have taken it.

  A week prior, while Ethan was downstairs in the kitchen feeding an ill-prepared pork dinner to the tenants, Abigail had plenty of time to rummage around the room in his absence. She may have always had it in mind to liberate the timepiece from Ethan, seeing him glancing at it from time to time during their earlier liaisons. He figured she took it to sell or she made it a keepsake of their short-lived relationship, albeit one purchased, paid in full. To roam these streets of Whitechapel looking for her would be nothing less than an exercise in futility. Hoping she would first admit to the theft and second, return the watch was sheer folly and he knew he didn’t need to have that much exposure and/or visibility so close to the completion of his work. Reconciled to its loss, he had no choice but to seek a replacement. Everything done in life was contingent upon those three hands and twelve numerals keeping Ethan on a tight leash, in sync with the world around him. There was just no way he could continue, no way to complete his mission without a proper pocket watch. Based on his innate dependency, a need for his companion, Ethan required a reliable, ongoing communication with his punctual partner in crime. Imperative that he maintain the means of a direct correspondence with his accomplice Time, it would be impossible to fulfill his mission without an accessory to the murders. Ethan realized Abby was the likeliest suspect and felt he’d fallen victim to a thief in the night, a con woman, duped by a mere mortal. After all he’d done for her, that ingrate had kidnapped his best friend, no ransom note left in her wake. He felt naked, exposed and vulnerable without it and wanted to punish Abby, to take it back from her but he could not. It was gone with her. Looking all around the room, shaking his head in disgust, Ethan spoke aloud in his quiet space, no tick tock to keep him company.

  “More’s the pity.” It was the last trace of humanity, a final expression of caring about anything. He spoke the words softly into raw, damp air he’d breathed with a sigh of regret. Choosing to take both Saturday and Sunday to rest and fully recover, he decided to begin the planning phase on Monday for the final victim. This was a time to reflect. Ethan knew he had to shed stress as its presence would inevitably prolong his recuperative process. No. He refused to perseverate about it. He had to regain his strength, reset his internal bearings. Come Monday, he would refocus all his energy and attention on the mission, his curtain call, the final murder.

  ***

  Journal Entry ˜ 30 October 1888

  It’s the day before All Hallows’ Eve. Back at Oxford, I’ll bet there will be some wild weekend costume parties with female students barely dressed and the drunken debauchery of the boys at the school running amuck. But not here. These Christians are afraid of their own shadows nowadays and celebrations in Ireland and Scotland before All Saint’s Day are considered Pagan rituals to most Brits. I am the horror show, the monster they fear more than demons, because I am real. What I’ve done and have yet to do will be more legendary than any creature manifested in the night by religion or writer alike. I exist as fear buried in their hearts, the plague on their minds. I am the story they were told as children, the beast who would come for them if their wicked ways were exposed. My story will be told forever. I am immortal.

  I’m only noting this for my own recollection as this entry is on the tail end of a week of terrible fever. I say only for me because I’ve thought it through and realized my journal cannot return with me. Nothing can. The embodiment of my experiences during my time here will be returning only as memories. Once I’ve stepped through the portal my account of these events will be presented during the debriefing, given from a very different perspective, an account misrepresented as need be. Everything must be replaced with authentic duplicates of proper vintage. All I brought with me must be destroyed. Any and all remaining evidence will be properly disposed of in due course, as what would never be discovered in this time would certainly become exposed in the future, including this journal, covered in contaminants. There is not enough soap and water in the world to wash it all away.

  For two months my knowledge of the past has helped me to save the future. Now it is my knowledge of the future which will aid me in covering my tracks in the past. To fail to do so would mean my own future would be jeopardized, left resting in the hands of others who may not see or might not want to admit that what I have done, what I’ve given of myself is a godly gift, mankind touched by the divine intervention of one wise enough to foresee the outcome without it. There are those who couldn’t possibly fathom the sacrifice I have made, those so jealous and suspicious of a deity they’d sooner lock me away or, I forbid, burn me at the stake as a heretic. Powerful people, woefully misguided souls would be disrespectful of a decision made to carry on, consequently preserving the precious timeline with my unwavering commitment to the Flicker program. Would they rather have me committed to an insane asylum? Could they ever accept that I did this for them? Would they ever accept my sacred role as a humanitarian or would they instead sentence me to death for my perceived infractions as crimes against humanity?

  No. I must and will discard every remnant of myself before returning, including this journal and a corresponding persona making these entries, what would be read as a flagrant admission of guilt. They can’t be trusted with the truth, an urgent need to irrevocably alter the project to satisfy the demands of Time. Poor, ignorant souls, those lowly mortals. They know not what they do – or would do if given the chance. No. I cannot risk my work and I will not sacrifice my life to a lack of comprehension.

  ***

  Over the next week Ethan had to have closure on his trails, starting with a few final necessary purchases. His health restored, he embarked on foot then took a few carriage rides in search of an identical medical bag. In addition, he also required a complete duplicate ensemble of the physician’s attire he wore as he stepped through the doorway into the past. Because those donated items were v
intage, any forensic examination of the replacements would verify the authenticity. There would be an inspection of all his effects simply to identify and categorize all the microbes of the era that might have hitched a ride, those escaping or immune to the chamber. From those forensic tests The Consortium could possibly document what was truly in the air of old England at that time and compare it with samples of other elements from that period that had been collected and stored for this very purpose. With this kind of expected oversight and dissection of these materials, there had not ever been any consideration by Ethan to return with all the contaminants in his possession. Stains on his clothing and the medical bag would be detected immediately. Although there was no way to identify Ethan as the killer he would be hard-pressed to explain why those body fluids did not match his DNA. Oh sure, he could masterfully manipulate and manifest a story, saying that after every slaying he approached the bodies where he’d knelt down or placed his bag carelessly in the blood but to him it was ludicrous. He was perceived as being too intelligent to make such a novice error in judgment. It was smarter to walk back through the portal untainted, clean as a whistle.

  Frustrating as it was, Ethan was finally able to locate and purchase the clothing, journal and doctor’s bag he needed to replace the incriminating evidence he’d worn and used for the duration of his stay. It was necessary to procure a few additions to his attire in preparation for the next act in this play: a soft felt hat, a long coat with an astrakhan collar and sleeves, a red handkerchief, dark spats and light button-over boots. While he was out shopping, his mind wandered as he watched the many men around him, an endless supply of suspects for Scotland Yard to scrutinize in search of a killer. He marveled at how easily he passed among them, how simple it was to hide his identity, to steal the trust of others in an instant. The women of Whitechapel knew it could be any one of these otherwise innocuous men but those who worked the streets knew they may be next, yet they risked life and limb every night to make a living. He reflected on the irony of it while scanning the crowd as he passed them by in a carriage that took him to the front door of a jewelry shop. While inside, he’d located a horse pin tie clip and also acquired a replacement pocket watch. A tad bit gaudy with a big gold chain which had a large seal and a red stone hanging from it, something about the garish timepiece appealed to him. “Ah, Abigail.” Ethan shook his head as he thought about all that had transpired between them. There were parts of history he was absolutely sure were of such a bizarre nature, it was Time setting up the scene, setting the tone, just sitting back in a lawn chair with popcorn saying: “Let’s see if I can get him to wear this!” At times it felt like he was being played.

  It was Monday, November 5th when Ethan finally had everything needed for his encounter with Mary Kelly, a woman who seemed to have the world at one point. Only twenty-five years of age, she was considered to be an attractive woman with blonde hair. By this time her relationship with Joseph Barnett was on the rocks and another prostitute, Maria Harvey was staying with Mary in a small room she rented at 13 Millers Court, or 26 Dorset Street, depending on the research. Regardless, it was the same room, the same physical address, through a small alcove off of Dorset Street overlooking Miller’s Court. It merely depended upon the perspective of the witness statements and records. Ethan would wait until the following night to travel to that section of Whitechapel again to hopefully get a glimpse of a living, breathing Mary Jane Kelly. To try and pluck her from the street would be all but impossible, the proverbial needle in a haystack. Ethan had never seen any other photographs of her besides crime scene images which would not help him, as the mutilation done, what would be done to her left no identifying facial features. In that bizarre dream he had as his fever broke he had recognized the woman straddling him then stabbing him to be Mary Kelly only by intuition, a self-manifestation of appearance, a stand-in for the role. By positioning himself near her current residence he might possibly capture a glimpse of her to insure the timeline would succeed beyond theory in the early hours of November 9th. Of course it would. It must. Time was still on his side.

  For over two weeks Ethan had not shaved. His hair, moustache and beard were fairly well-developed. It was not laziness or even illness that kept him from keeping up with it. Instead, it was part of the plan, part of the character role based on witness descriptions surrounding the death of Mary Kelly. All that hair was itchy and Ethan was unaccustomed to being ungroomed. Once again standing before his reflection, the mirror belied his actual persona. He appeared as someone or something else. As he peered into the looking glass, he suddenly felt an irrational anger toward Mary. Perhaps it was the dream. He was not pleased with her actions, gutting him during an unconscious event when he was most vulnerable. What had he ever done to her? This was not supposed to be personal. He was only preserving history. Why should she attack him when he had never provoked her? It was selfish on her part, a blatant attempt to corrupt his work. For that reason alone she made him angry. He wouldn’t make his work personal as far as what was to be done but that did not guarantee he would not take some measure of personal pleasure in what he needed to do to her. Would his mission transform into an act of divine retribution? Time would tell. He scratched his itchy cheeks and chin then abandoned the mirror for the time being.

  Monday night was the first night in weeks Ethan laid his head down on the bed without feeling exhausted. Tasked to play catch up, having lost almost a full week to fever, instead he stared at the ceiling for most of the night but he wasn’t thinking of coming events, nothing about what he was going to say or portray himself as to Mary Jane Kelly during their forthcoming encounter, undoubtedly the hardest, most intricate “job” he had to do. All Ethan focused on was listening to the voices outside his window on the street below, listening intently for the voice of Abigail. For the life of him he had no expectations of reacquiring his watch, but still, he wanted to see her, his Whitechapel Maggie. If in the middle of the night he was awakened by a knock at the door he’d probably tumble onto the floor from shock and excitement. Abby was the embodiment of young Maggie (if young Maggie had been into his sexual perversions) yet, only Abigail knew them and still loved him in spite of it, kissing him, though bruised and battered due to his proclivities. Stealing his pocket watch was akin to claiming him as her territory. Her remembrance, the treasure she would hold onto and cherish for the rest of her days. That knock at the door never came and he never heard her voice again.

  It was critical for the next two days for Ethan to scout the area of Mary Kelly’s residence, to finally get a firsthand sighting, a visual recognition of what she looked like alive. His research had only provided a written description of her appearance. The autopsy photographs were useless. Without question, he’d need to identify her in person before Friday morning arrived. A long, heavy coat would be a necessity for their fateful early morning encounter as the temperatures would plummet, near freezing. He would dress warmly for tonight and tomorrow’s surveillance certainly, as Ethan could risk wearing the heaviest of overcoats, even though it was far more easily identifiable than most garments of its kind. After all, there were never any witnesses describing a man in a long coat prior to the morning of the ninth. He felt safe enough, shrouded in the secrecy of Time’s protective covering. However, there was the testimony of one Mr. Thomas Bowyer who saw Mary with a man of dressier appearance resembling the one seen with Elizabeth Stride, no doubt the shorter man who shouted anti-Semitic remarks before disappearing into the night. There were several testimonies transcribed, witnesses who reported seeing different men with the victims near the time of death, of various degrees of height and dress, many of them in the five and a half foot range. It seemed he would need to play the waiting game and make his first introduction to her at the time history had recorded.

  Dressing the part, preparing to meet the elements head on, Ethan left his room just past midnight, now Tuesday. The air was cool. It rained earlier in the evening, kicking up a plethora of odors, the damp atmosphe
re absorbing them like a sponge. The stench of the city traveled through his nasal passages, something he’d become so accustomed to it wasn’t much of a hindrance anymore. Activity on the city streets of Whitechapel seemed fairly light, as many might have expected the precipitation to continue through the night, right into morning. For the moment there was a break. Ethan was hoping for his own break as he hung around Dorset Street, nearby the archway leading into Millers Court. Mary Harvey was rooming with his next target but would move out tomorrow, finding new lodgings. Ethan would be observant of two women exiting that small archway together. Still not having any way other than her hair color and Irish accent to identify who, if any woman emerging from that dark passageway, might be Mary Kelly.