In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  Ethan thought he had made a poor judgment call, having taken an unavoidable but necessary calculated risk. As the night wore on he began to tremble, shaking from a decided chill in the air. At least he was counting on this mitigating factor and not a relapse. Perhaps Time was letting him know he was wasting it along with precious energy. No one matching her description had appeared in the night. He checked his gaudy pocket watch. Pushing two in the morning, it was a fifteen minute hike back to his lodging on Bakers Row. He thought better of his decision to linger in the cold air any longer. It was time to give up the ghost. Best to make a fresh start of it again tomorrow night, Wednesday night. As Ethan journeyed back toward his room, he’d been solicited a half a dozen times by the women of ill repute working his route of return, expecting one of those faces approaching him would belong to Abigail. No. Finally arriving, sniffles and a mild cough told him he’d made the right decision to rest before relapsing, yet, as he got undressed he threw each item of clothing on the bed in a fit of disgust, frustrated that his body hadn’t yet accepted (as his mind had) that he was a true deity. The God of Fate, still plagued by a mortal shell. Climbing in bed, relief came as his chills subsided, a comforting notion as he fell asleep. His body was not failing him again, just letting him know it was cold. As Ethan drifted off his mind laid out the plan for the next day, knowing from his research he’d stand a good chance of seeing Mary Kelly in person, finally acquiring positive identity of the last woman the “job” required him to kill.

  Morning came quickly with a sound sleep and no nightmares to disturb it. There was an air of amusement for Ethan about this entire experience. Had he not become the main focus of these murders and the history, legends and folklore that followed, this may have been quite boring. If, in the shadows of that alleyway on Bucks Row he had never come to the conclusion of his true role, or the role was indeed played by someone else of this era, the entire nearly ten weeks of his stay would have been nothing more than that of a stealthy sleuth working from the vantage point of dark corners, laboriously logging in the lurid details of his eyewitness accounts into his journal. He would have spent the majority of his time here in the solemn, redundant recounting of the adventures of another man from an objective perspective. Instead, it was entirely subjective and HE was the subject! Being the focus of this research far exceeded any imaginable scenario or expectation he and The Consortium could have ever conceived. His insight into how a serial murderer thinks would have been a tremendous asset in debriefing, used for the purpose of future study in sociopathic reasoning and actions, possessing intrinsic value beyond measure. Ethan had gone above and beyond the call of duty albeit for the betterment of recorded history with true and accurate firsthand testimony.

  “Firsthand.” Ethan chuckled as his thoughts this Tuesday morning directed toward the end of his mission, the foreseeable future, when he would return from whence he came. He was working diligently to keep the mindset that he remained disconnected to the work needing to be done for the “job”. There were men even in the 21st Century who were paid to slaughter countless defenseless creatures for the creature comforts of mankind providing food, clothing and many other needs of his species. It was expected of them to perform their jobs without regard to the morality of it, disallowing any sympathy for the living beings that needed to perish.

  Ethan killed four women so far and had only one more to go. The question was, could he be held accountable for enjoying his work? Didn’t the saying: “Always do what you love” apply to him just as well? He was torn about what gave him a greater pleasure. The stalking? Looking into their eyes as life left them or the accuracy and detail required in the mutilation to the exact specifications of history. He took pride in his work, in the discipline, following through with his own version of perversion, executing the non-interference directive with precision. He took joy in it. Ethan had the sense of great accomplishment. Pondering the fate of slaughtered animals made him hungry. He began thinking of having bangers and mash, one more time, before heading back to his lodging. Soon after the skies opened and the night was drenched by heavy rainfall. Though dismal was the weather, Ethan’s spirits were high, energy returning, excitement brewing, the day dragged on into the night. Ethan chose wisdom over bravery. He thought it best to stay in and continue concocting adventures in mockery he would scribe in the new journal, telling a tall tale. It did not take long for him to begin fancying himself a famous fiction writer. By the fifth hour, he was engrossed with his fabrication, losing both time and himself in the pages. He suddenly realized the lateness of the hour and pulled himself away from the journal and into bed. Ethan’s morning alarm came by way of some quarrel in the street below his window. His late to bed, late to rise new motto remained intact as, checking his timepiece, it was almost noon. Returning to the journal, he wanted to complete the thought he’d abandoned in the early morning hours due to fatigue. The one thought soon became ten more and before he realized it, over three hours had passed. He hadn’t eaten a thing or even had a cup of coffee, something he needed to do to keep his strength up for tonight’s excursion.

  Setting out a little earlier that Wednesday night for his walk back over to Dorset Street, this time he extracted from his memory the recorded events of this day as to Mary’s whereabouts including a nighttime rendezvous with a man with bright white sleeves and an oversized white collar. Ethan needed only to position himself nearby the local candle shop where she’d been seen, there to purchase a half penny candle. Once acquiring a visual of her he could return to his room before the night air grew any chillier. To his advantage, strategy paid off with dividends yet unknown to him. Arriving outside the candle shop he discovered a woman who appeared to be in her twenties with light-colored hair. She was already inside speaking to the shopkeeper. He could not be completely sure it was her. From his vantage point, the shelves full of candles were obstructions, his view obscured. He’d have to patiently wait for her to leave and hopefully affirm that it was, indeed, Mary Jane Kelly. By walking close enough to discern the Irish accent indicative of her origins, she need only speak for him to know. She shopped for a few minutes before returning to Dorset Street.

  Stepping over the threshold, not paying any attention to the muddy cobblestone, she slipped and fell to the ground. Ethan instantly stepped forward to take her arm, assisting the lady to her feet. It was then, the moment when Ethan truly believed he had become a part of some elaborate hoax at the hands of Time or the Universe. As she stood then turned to Ethan, he shuddered in disbelief, as yet another immediate shock wave from the cosmos struck him. A fresh face splattered and speckled with mud, she was also identical to young Maggie. It was as if they were coming off an assembly line, first Abigail and now Mary Kelly, both passing for replicates of Ms. Daley. It was a stunning revelation. That expression of disgust with her plight took Ethan back to The Valley and time trials fit for a princess, to the night he and Colin watched in amusement as Maggie failed miserably to navigate the mucky quagmire that left her in much the same condition as the woman Ethan was holding onto while she, too, regained her balance.

  “Oh, manky!” She spouted. “Thank you, kind sir.” She spoke with a distinctly Irish accent as she began wiping off her coat and skirt with now dirty hands, making matters worse. Looking up into Ethan’s eyes, the man stared at her in astonishment, apparently in the midst of a powerful flashback.

  “You may let go of me now, sir. I’m fine.” Mary directed, glancing at his hand cupped around her delicate elbow.

  Ethan followed her focus then realized he was still holding onto her arm. As he released her from his grasp, he continued staring at the lass. She peered at him with curiosity because his gaze spoke of recognition from somewhere. What Mary didn’t know and couldn’t know, their cosmic connection was Ethan’s secret alone. The “look” wasn’t about some place but rather, from some “time”. He smiled knowingly as he thought: “It’s like plucking a needle from a haystack! Time, you are such a prick!”

 
Embarrassed, she brushed off her hands on her skirt then smiled at Ethan before turning to walk away from him, heading toward Commercial Street. Astounded, he could barely wrap his facile mind around the notion. To find her at all was amazing but then to find her with such ease, to discover that she was young Maggie’s second clone was at least mindboggling. He had no choice but to pause and reflect upon a cosmos capable of mockery and manipulation. Perhaps a little taller and a bit more buxom, according to her facial features she was none other than the sweet, innocent intern he had grown to love and miss in his absence. He watched as she plucked an inside pocket for a handkerchief to swab her face clean.

  Keeping his distance, Ethan followed her. She walked along speaking to others on the street in passing. There was an immediate knowledge that she was Mary Jane Kelly. His curiosity sated, he could’ve confidently returned to his lodging and done so long before the cold night set into his bones, yet he found himself fixated on the impossibility of another identical vision. Ethan felt so connected with her he had to follow her, as if he had no choice in the matter because she was towing him along. Blending into the crowd, she returned to her small room just off the narrow passage on Dorset Street leading to Millers Court then she reemerged after a few minutes, apparently stopping in only to drop off the candle. Then, entering the courtyard, she was approached by a man of decent tailored clothing whom she spoke to for a long time, giving Ethan a chance to hear more of her lovely, lilting Irish accent. He must have been the man Thomas Bowyer witnessed Mary talking with at this time. Ethan scanned the yard to see if there was anybody else focused on the couple chatting. It reminded him once more of a play. Standing there and looking on, right on cue was the obvious character of Thomas Bowyer. He had paused in passing to watch Mary Kelly converse with the man for a trice before crossing through the courtyard.

  Ethan’s main fixation most certainly remained on Mary Kelly. He was no longer listening to the accent. He simply couldn’t stop looking at her. The first four women he’d killed were in their forties, drunken and haggard, beaten down by a rough life on the streets. Mary still possessed a certain innocent quality in her life, the life that now belonged to him, a life and subsequent death he’d known of in the 21st Century. The grand finale of this play had him revisiting imagery that would make something which was not supposed to be personal, very personal. For Ethan, it would become the pièce de résistance of the closing scene, his curtain call.

  Returning just past midnight, it was a cold, light rain beginning to fall. As Ethan stepped inside he removed his hat and coat, shaking them vigorously to rid them of any residual moisture then he laid them aside, peeling off other layers of clothing. Down to pants and undershirt, Ethan had to stop for a moment. He’d felt something building inside, a feeling he could not label as anger or hatred or even nervousness. It was an anxiety-based emotion with no defining origins. Something primal, it kept crawling beneath his skin. He felt the oppressive weight of what clothing remained on his body and couldn’t wait to shed it but stood there instead, wondering if it was the anticipation of killing his next victim, Mary Kelly. Was this emotion filled with a fear that Time kept toying with him, constantly sending him reminders of Maggie Daley? Fear that he was going to have to cross that fine line to murder the one thing in his future / past that he clung to for sheer sanity? Or was he angry at the girl who, through no fault of her own, so remarkably resembled the Flicker intern?

  Ethan once again sought answers from the reflection in the mirror, staring at the unshaved, unkempt face directly in front of him. He grasped the edge of the dresser top tightly, bracing for the one time that son of a bitch spoke back and told him all the answers to his questions regarding his actions, regarding his feelings. It became, for a while, nothing less than a bona fide stare down. Who would blink first? Ethan won the competition as the man looking at him cracked a crooked smile.

  “What are you laughing at?” Ethan asked as the spirit mocked him by mouthing the same words, no sound. “You’re the one causing me these emotions, aren’t you?” A broad smile returned to the face opposite Ethan’s in confirmation of the question posed. A demon in the looking glass was a true reflection of himself, of the demon within him, planting thoughts and visions, placing ideas in his mind to keep Ethan unbalanced regarding his reasoning for any actions taken during the most important mission of his life. There was an incessant whispering in his head, a voice trying to persuade him to listen to the voice above and beyond his own logic, an evil torment in the night willing him to do its bidding. Having made it through these many weeks and also completing his missions made him question whether or not the whispers were a better guide than his own judgment. Ethan leaned in toward the mirror and the reflection engaged identically. Nearly eye-to-eye with his alter ego, Ethan spoke truth to power.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” No truer words ever spoken, off to bed he went.

  The date was Thursday, 8 November 1888. Only one day before Ethan’s return through the Flicker doorway, only one victim remaining, he woke early, just before nine in the morning, with his singular mission in mind. It seemed like years since he had been in the 21st Century. He still had the presence of mind to realize that the things Time had forced him to do during his visit here had warped and twisted his thought process about the world, both worlds. Professor Ethan LaPierre would not return through the portal the same man he was before he made the leap of faith into the past. After everything he had done and all he’d experienced while there in 1888 Whitechapel, he’d not just profoundly changed, he had become an entirely different man. It would require every last ounce of energy to suppress the newfound rage and silence his addiction to it. He laid very still, lost in the ether, lost in time itself.

  Ethan knew he would have to conceal his amorous inclination toward his young Maggie, should he see her again. As a strong motivation during his undertakings in the 19th Century, she was now and forever a part of it but would remain unaware of the roll she’d played in his mind’s eye during this mindless abandon of reason over these past months. He would play these events like a poker hand, close to the vest. He’d bluff his way through the debriefing, knowing all too well that the truth would hurt many, mostly him. Ethan knew he could not risk the possibility that they would not understand that he did what he had to do. With that thought he rolled out of bed. It was time.

  His final day began by laying out three complete ensembles of clothing on the bed: what he would wear for the day’s preparations, what he would wear that night for his interlude with Mary Kelly and finally, what he’d be dressed in for his return home. Once outfitted in his local attire, Ethan’s first order of business was to go to the bank on Whitechapel Road and withdraw his remaining funds. He’d planned to seek out the manager to offer a bribe of sorts. By means of a “charitable donation” made in cash (one at the man’s discretion to distribute), Ethan wanted all record of his account discarded. It needed to disappear with him. His best guess? The money would disappear, going directly into the banker’s pockets. It was not uncommon in the 19th Century (nor even the 21st for that matter) to buy someone’s loyalty and his expectation of the manager did not go unrealized. He was in and out of that bank in no time with what money he needed in hand, all the remaining funds gone but not forgotten by a banker perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut for a price.

  Returning to his room, occasionally peeking down the stairs, Ethan waited until everyone in the lodging house had stopped by the kitchen for lunch before moving on. After the traffic died down he went there to set up a large pot to boil and sterilize all of his surgical instruments, with the exception of the eight-inch blade. His plans for the day were underway. Once they were thoroughly cleansed, any contaminants removed, he dried them as well, neatly placing them into the duplicate medical bag he’d purchased for his trip back into the future. He had to be methodically prepared for any contingency, ready in advance to make the leap. Knowing he’d have ample time mattered not as Ethan was obsessed with the deta
ils of his mission. The Flicker doorway would still be wide open for the full twenty-four hours of November ninth, to allow enough time for him to return at his leisure without feeling rushed. Acting in haste due to a smaller window of opportunity, too brief of an access period could cause critical mistakes to be made. Ethan had considerable time to think everything through, including what he would do once he returned to the future.

  By the completion of his outdoor errands, he’d already begun to feel the bitter cold setting into his bones as the sun began setting. The rain had moved in, dowsing him enough to require a change of attire earlier than expected. Redressing into his “work” clothes for the final encounter of his stay, he stared into the mirror, thinking “This is who Mary Kelly will meet in a matter of hours...when she meets her fate.” Cold and calculating, he snickered at the image then moved away from the looking glass. He’d seen enough. As each task was completed, his pocket watch continually kept pace to tick-tock away the minutes, the excruciating hours of anticipation. As he waited an anxiety revisited him, once again building to a crescendo, a fever pitch. Undefined and uncontrollable, the same feeling that consumed his consciousness the previous night returned with a vengeance. It didn’t fall neatly into a category or a subset of emotions but was instead, an integral part of the equation. Not fear, not dread, more like butterflies fluttering about in the pit of his stomach, much like the feeling one has before embarking on a first date with a new partner. Thinking about it, Ethan decided it was all part of the play, that sensation one gets while waiting in the wings, waiting for his cue to step onstage, as if for the first time, but it was not stage fright. No. He knew his lines, his part in the play. Every cue, every mark, each and every move he would make, all committed to memory. Ethan even knew when and where to exit the scene of the crime and yet, still, there it was again, taking up residence in his gut, lodged in his throat.