Packed and ready to go, on his mark, Ethan still had nearly six hours before his stage cue. He used the time wisely to finish writing a pack of lies in his fake journal. Having been not in the least hard-pressed to find the identical diary with the leather binding, same type of bond paper within, he found it readily available on the open market. Documenting the encounters with these five women in an entirely different way, Ethan scribed eight entries dating back to his initial arrival up to and including tonight’s “Scope” mission. He was meticulous, planning to name one of over thirty suspects in his report to appease The Consortium brass. Countless embellishments, bells and whistles, occupied his mind to pass the time while recording the fictional version of history. As he wrote, he found it harder than he thought to simply make up this story as he went along. In fact, he found the fiction rather boring, not nearly as fascinating as his true account of events. Generalizing these encounters, he wrote descriptively about having to stay hidden in the shadows without intervening while each woman was brutally murdered by this 19th Century killer. He filled in the gaps with his experiences of the smells of the city, the taste of the food, especially those bangers and mash he’d grown so fond of, sharing the raw experiences of being back in history. He wrote eloquently about how much time he spent secluded in his room, never exploring the streets and people of the time, never interacting with the police and certainly not having any personal interactions with any of the locals in any way, especially any of the victims. He created the perfect portrayal of the perfect Scope. Anything and everything The Consortium wanted and needed to know, the epitome of a Flicker Project done right. Lies, all lies. Yet it was not quite perfection, not yet. There was still one more mission. One more woman. One more victim. Ethan had killed her a hundred times in his mind. Detached from reality, he was ready to go.
There was no protocol, no training; no standard procedures for what Ethan had to improvise almost from the moment he stepped through the Flicker. All he had at the beginning were his wits and his knowledge but somewhere along the way he was introduced to a friend, an ally, a partner in crime. Time approached him in the manner befitting a newly discovered relative, a brother in arms constantly watching his back, front and sides for whatever was coming his way. Oh sure, like any brother of lesser age, Ethan was teased and tormented by Time but it was done out of love, to make him more of a man, to make him stronger, building his character.
It was nearing one in the morning on this rainy November 9, 1888. Finality and beginning merged. Ethan was unshaven, dressed up in his second to last physician’s suit he had bought in London back in September. Over it he wore the long coat with trimmed astrakhan collar and sleeves, in his hands a pair of leather gloves. Standing beneath an overhang as the rain began to subside, knowing his encounter with Mary Kelly would begin on this corner of Thrawl and Commercial, though guised in the doctor’s apparel, Ethan would not be carrying his medical bag for this meeting. He had only brought the blade of familiarity and assistance to him which was concealed in a roll of clean rags from a supply stored in his room, all of it then wrapped up in plain brown paper and twine which Ethan was holding under his left arm as a parcel. He had put on the red felt hat and pulled it nearly over his eyes. Here on Commercial Street on an early Friday morning there was more exposure than any of the locations where he had to meet with his victim. Traffic was considerable and he did not need to draw attention from anybody other than the players from history, one being Mr. George Hutchinson. The sole witness of his interaction with Mary Kelly, he was a local worker, hard up and hoping to receive pity from her, asking to give him “one” on credit. She, needing money herself, passed up his penniless offer for a far more lucrative one, both profitable and logical, a prime night engagement.
It was two in the morning when Ethan spotted Mary walking in his direction on Commercial Street. Lifting his head to reveal his face from beneath the brim of his hat, hoping she would remember their brief encounter the evening before, as Mary approached him she did, indeed, recognize the man who had helped her up from an embarrassing spill in the mud outside the candle shop. She stopped to talk with him, beaming with both gratitude and, considering his apparel, the hope of a potential customer.
“Sir?” She opened their discussion with a nod.
“I thought last night you took the term dirty work a bit too literally. Are you all right, lass?” He asked as he put his hand on her shoulder. They both laughed.
“All right.” Mary responded, lowering her head, still slightly humiliated.
Her thick, Irish brogue accent was the only discerning difference between her and Abigail, the other clone who was evidently cut from the same cloth. Her smile, her laugh, even the way she looked up at him with her big innocent eyes, she was astonishingly similar to the other girls. She leaned in towards his ear, rising to her toes to get closer as if to share a secret, whispering her message.
“I was beginning to wonder if you had a voice, as you didn’t speak a word last night. That was a shock to me, a man left speechless!”
“You’ll be alright for what I have told you.” Ethan joked as he kept his hand on her right shoulder.
They began walking together down Commercial Street toward Dorset. Ethan was well aware that Hutchinson would follow them all the way to Millers Court, as he testified to the local authorities. He would first eavesdrop then later report parts of the conversation he overheard between them. Ethan had the dialogue memorized. He knew he would have to pause, speaking with her at the entrance to Millers Court for about three minutes according to “the script”. Ethan needed to justify the parcel beneath his arm, the one concealing the long blade that had a destiny with its victim. Improvising the tale of a shy artist who wanted to sketch her lovely female form in the medium he carried in a wrapped package, he offered her a generous payment to do so. That the discourse was awkward, the whole rendezvous making him visibly uncomfortable added to the allure for the young woman.
“All right, my dear. Come along. You will be comfortable.” It was all the man, Hutchinson, could hear Mary say from their conversation.
Ethan put his arm around her then began to enter Millers Court. Mary turned to kiss his cheek. As she did so, she noticed a few drops of the earlier rain still clinging to his face. Reaching into her bag to retrieve a clean handkerchief to wipe him off, she realized it was missing.
“Oh! I seem to have lost my handkerchief.”
Ethan reacted immediately to her remark, pulling out his own red handkerchief then presenting it to her, the perfect gentleman. Under watchful eyes of the witness, the two of them headed down the narrow passage toward Mary’s room. Once again, the advantage went to Ethan knowing the play, lines memorized, all the players and points where the characters would make their exit. Historically, George Hutchinson would never pass by Mary’s room or dare to look inside. Instead, he would wait at the alcove in hope that Ethan was a quick customer and he would still have a chance to talk her into a complimentary carnal encounter. He would stay there waiting until three in the morning, leaving as a regional clock chimed in the distance. Ethan knew he’d be alone with Mary. He knew he’d be alone with her all night. He never broke continuity with cause, no matter how mad he’d become, a man on a mission.
“It’s nothing fancy, mind you.” She unlocked and opened her door.
Mary’s room had all the creature comforts of a prison cell. Police photographs of her death and the room she’d expired in were burned into Ethan’s brain from the hours of studying every detail, yet they served no justice to actually standing in this tiny domain. There was a twin-sized bed and bedside table to the right as he entered the room, a table flat against the opposite wall underneath two small windows, one of which was broken and covered over with rags and a man’s coat to keep the cold air outside from seeping in. A small fireplace hosting a tea kettle filled the opposite wall of the room from the entranceway. It was drab and dark, nothing cozy about it but to Mary, it was home. She leaned over to light he
r new half penny candle.
“Will you need more light to paint my portrait?”
“This will do for now.” Ethan said politely, uttering the prophetic words.
“You may take your coat off, if you’d like.” Mary began removing layers of her own clothing, comfortable in her own place, be it ever so humble. She was likewise comfy with him, the artist, excited about having her image rendered on canvas.
The fact that more than a month had passed since the “Double Event” occurred, doing business on the streets of Whitechapel had resumed to a certain extent. People began to let their guard down as things slowly but surely got back to normal. Mary’s lack of an inquiry pertaining to Ethan’s identity was proof enough. Evidently, he’d gained her trust in front of the candle shop. She never even asked his name, let alone that of an alter-ego, nor did he offer it. Mary’s guest was welcome in her home, not a hint she might suspect him of being Jack the Ripper. No. Not him.
“I’d rather keep it on for the time being if you don’t mind.” Ethan fumbled with the package beneath his arm as well as his words.
“If it’s to your liking, sir. Might you want me to build a fire to warm you?”
“No, thank you.” Placing the package down Ethan turned toward her. “Actually, on second thought, why don’t you go ahead, prepare one but don’t light it, not yet.”
Mary shrugged her shoulders and did as she was asked. With the chore finished a few minutes later, she walked over to Ethan. Looking up at him with her flirtatious smile, she spun around once in place like a schoolgirl showing off.
“No one ever asked to paint me before!”
Ethan refocused his attention on the package, unraveling the twine.
“Is there really paper and pastel in your parcel there that you’ll use to draw me, sir?” There was respect, reverence in her voice. After all, he was a professional, his manner of dress and his speech reassuring her of it. There was something different, something special about this man. He was not the usual local street vermin she had grown accustomed to and acquainted with over time.
“Yes, direct from France where I studied under the great artist, Ethan LaPierre.”
He dared the cosmos, risked using his own name as a blatant, arrogant challenge to the Universe. Ethan smiled knowingly. Deity. Untouchable. The director and the star of the play. His artistry would soon be displayed on the skin canvas of a young Irish lass. His artist’s brush would be in the form of a blade, as sharp as his memory.
“Afraid I don’t know much about art or France or anything else, for that matter.”
Mary joked lightheartedly at her own expense, a self-deprecating humor Ethan found charming as he smiled her way again. Continuing to disrobe while he looked on in silence, Mary took her time. She made an effort on Ethan’s behalf, seductively loosening up the strings of her blouse, dropping her skirt to the floor. Folding layers of clothing over a chair, her boots got propped by the fireplace. Once it was ignited, they’d be nice and warm for the morning. Mary would never see the glorious light of day again. When she’d reached the thinnest undergarment, he stopped her before completely undressing, leaving her in only a slightly tattered white cotton chemise.
“No, please. Leave this on. It will add a bit of mystery for the viewer.”
“Do you mean your painting, my likeness might become famous?”
“I assure you, it will.” He coyly replied.
Her implicit trust in him bore no relevance to Ethan. He was center stage, a role to play in history. Their scene was set and tonight, he’d be the “artist-in-residence”. This was to be Ethan’s final encounter, his masterpiece. Destiny placed him on that stage and handed him the perfect script. Directing himself to get on with it, the actor had a job to do. There he stood in that enclosed room with hour upon hour in which to do his detailed work. He asked Mary to position herself on the bed, lying on her back. She followed instructions well.
The night table next to the bed was elevated above the mattress, obscuring her vision of what was in the package Ethan was unwrapping on the top of it, prompting Mary’s curiosity. Trying to prop up on her elbows to see his instruments of artistry, Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and made the physical suggestion that she stay prone on the bed.
“Just wanted to see all the pretty colors.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you will, but only if you’re a good model and lie still for me.”
Ethan fiddled with the paper and loose rags hiding the knife to make it seem he was compiling his parchments in preparation for a rendering then he leaned toward her. “You do have a beautiful neckline. Would you mind turning your head to the right, facing the wall? I’d truly like to capture your profile.”
Flattered by the compliment, Mary acquiesced to his better judgment, an artistic flair for the dramatic, turning her head to face the opposite wall from the side of the bed where Ethan stood. Nothing but the portrait on her mind, it had been thirty-nine days since the Ripper last struck. For too many, making money was a much greater concern than a murderer in their midst, especially one who seemed to have vanished into thin air, until now. There was nothing else on her mind but fame and fortune.
Even though the broken window had been insulated in a makeshift manner, the cold night air still seeped into the room, causing a drop in temperature, enough that when Ethan dug the knife into the left side of Mary’s neck, steam pushed out from a deep wound, the heat of her blood escaping like a puff of smoke. Before she could utter a sound he covered her mouth with his hand then began rapidly sawing away at the flesh just below her jaw line and across her throat, creating the appearance of a crimson necklace. Blood sprayed out like a geyser, redirected by its impact with the sleeve of his coat, deflecting backward to the wall Mary’s bed was fixed against. After the initial spurts, pulsing up and out of her throat, it oozed instead, forming a pond. Her only attempt at thwarting the attack came instantly, bringing up her right hand as a reflex. Trying to scream, trying to free her mouth from Ethan’s palm, her hand met the blade, cutting the back of it wide open, slicing her thumb to the bone. Pulling it away in an instinctive reaction to the pain, Ethan went in for the kill. The blade’s persistent jagged motion gaining momentum, he leaned in harder, launching all of his weight behind the knife. Pressing on Mary’s face, desperately seeking the sound and physical sensation of the serrated blade meeting the bones of her vertebra to indicate his success, once detected, he drove it home with purpose, dragging the full length of the steel across her larynx, clear through to the left side of her throat. Ethan’s entire focus was on the immediate and lethal near-severing of her head. His visual focus, however, remained fixated on peering with pleasure into the windows of her soul. The expression in those eyes stabbed him right back, penetrating Ethan as deeply as the knife he’d plunged into her neck, maybe deeper, perhaps to his soul if one still existed at the core of a monster.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Ethan repeated the words with a whisper, as if lost in the throes of a passionate liaison, at the height of orgasm; an acknowledgement that what she was doing to him, for him, was a pleasure beyond all measure. As the blood escaped her body, what had been stolen from him the night of the double murders had been retrieved. It became an almost unbearable anticipation. Still holding his hand tightly over her mouth, the last moments of the life she cherished unfolding under Ethan’s knife were expressed by the intoxicating anguish in her eyes, that helpless gaze she shared with him as she stared from the left corners of their sockets. Mary could not scream. Any air remaining in her collapsing lungs seeped through that bloody gash, bubbling to the surface of a gaping wound in her neck before it could ever make it to her shredded vocal chords. Her eyes were doing the screaming. He could hear it, music to his eyes. A symphony orchestra, visual stimulation, a visceral composition rivaling the works of Mozart or Beethoven, its emotional complexities were astounding, a private concert of pain for an audience of one. Then Mary’s eyes went dead. This concert was over but he still had an encore perform
ance of his own yet to come. He was satisfied with what he’d rendered thus far, enjoying his work.
Over the course of events, experiences he’d had while visiting the 19th Century, of all his interactions, the one constant conductor of the symphony, director of the stage and confidant of a killer was Time. Yes. Certainly there were moments when his accomplice was a benefit to Ethan but, as of late, he was growing weary of the tiresome constraints put upon him. This was the moment when Ethan would liberate himself, no longer a slave to the mere seconds and minutes Time allowed, no longer subject to its whims and flights of fancy. He’d been entrusted to sanctify the annals of history. This time he had power over Time. He would finally take what belonged to him during the expansive window of opportunity he had in which to do his work, to create his final masterpiece. He would have the hours, the privacy, the blade and the body of this young woman. Mary. She was his canvas, his model and his muse on which Ethan would paint the broad strokes and fine lines of history, writing her place in history in blood. It was 2:30 in the morning.
Unlacing her chemise undergarment in an erotic manner, it was no longer white, saturated with her blood. All the while, Ethan continued staring into her dead eyes. He fantasized about a scenario not unlike this between himself and young Maggie, but there would be no need to cut her throat. There would be no struggle, no disguise necessary. Ethan wouldn’t need to masquerade as an artist or anyone else. He could be himself and she would succumb, surrendering her will, her body and her life. He would make the role he’d play, his own. In time, he would have her all to himself, claiming her soul. He’d have to wait for Maggie Daley but would first exercise his patience on the form of the woman who now laid dead on the bed beside him as he sat on the edge, studying his blank canvas. Pulling away the chemise to expose her entire naked body, the darkness of the room obscured his view which would not do. He’d dealt with that when he had to perform his work on Catherine Eddowes in the shadows of a London street, relying strictly upon Time to guide his hand exactly in accordance with what history had recorded. No. Ethan would not allow his invisible ally to dictate the conditions of the final, most detailed work he’d been tasked with, so he stood from the bed, retrieving the half penny candle she had bought previously when she’d done her muddy-Maggie impression outside the candle shop. Carefully moving it across from the table to the bedside, requiring more than ambient “mood” lighting, he sought out another candle. Finding one half-burned but still very useful, he lit it as well then placed it on the bedside table, illuminating the nude, motionless body of Mary Kelly. Adequate for his purposes, Ethan stood above her, assessing, planning the work, a role he’d have to perform, taking his time, for quite some time. He drew from memory, every written report and photographic detail of the death of the woman in front of him, charged with duplicating or rather, repeating the episode to precise specifications. Postmortem descriptions chronicled by Dr. Thomas Bond and Dr. George Bagster Phillips allowed him to burn into memory every disfiguring cut that had been made, that he’d have to do. Ethan’s arrogance reemerged with his determination for absolute accuracy.
In A Flicker Page 44