To Kill Again: Episode One

by Darren Howell

  Dyson and Sarah’s argument. Becoming more and more heated.

  SARAH: I loved you!

  DYSON: You never said it. Not once.

  SARAH: I never... You could’ve given more!

  DYSON: More! What the hell did you want me to do?!

  SARAH: I wanted commitment. Marriage. Kids. I wanted you. But you were always too tied up with work or Alan bloody Dyson to notice.

  DYSON: (O.S.) We hadn’t even noticed their car. Until it was too late.

  FLASHBACK - INT. SHITTY JALOPY (STATIONARY) - CONTINUOUS

  The Geezer considers their options.

  GEEZER: Frankie don’t want no screw ups. Fuck it, kill ‘em.

  The Rastafarian floods the car with cannabis smoke and cheers.

  RASTAFARIAN: Ya man! Let’s cook us some bacon.

  He reaches behind his seat. Pulls out a disposable rocket launcher. He winds down the window, manoeuvring his torso into the rain.

  GEEZER: Try not to miss!

  FLASHBACK - EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS

  The Rastafarian laughs as his finger flips up the safety. Tightens on the trigger.

  RASTAFARIAN: Fuck --

  Startled by something, he turns his head.

  CLOSE UP: looks straight down the barrel of an automatic held by --

  DYSON: (O.S.) A figure dressed in black fatigues. He even had a Balaclava on.

  RASTAFARIAN: Who the --

  BANG! The man in black shoots the Rastafarian in the face, killing him instantly.

  The ejected shell case bounces on the wet tarmac. Rolls under the car.

  FLASHBACK - INT. POLICE CAR (STATIONARY) - CONTINUOUS

  SARAH: John Dyson. Scared to commit!

  DYSON: Scared to commit? How could I commit when I never ever got what I needed to hear. Never. Not once.

  A single gunshot cracks on the wet air.

  SARAH: And why do you think that was?! You knew! You knew I --

  Dyson throws his hand over Sarah’s mouth, snapping his head round to look through the rear window.

  DYSON: Call back up!

  He draws an automatic from within his jacket. Throws open the door.

  FLASHBACK - INT. SHITTY JALOPY (STATIONARY) - CONTINUOUS

  GEEZER: Motherfucker!

  He tugs an automatic from his pants, but he’s too slow. The figure leans in and fires -- BANG! -- catching the spent case in his hand as the Geezer’s head ruptures.

  DYSON: (O.S.) STOP! POLICE!

  FLASHBACK - EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS

  The figure looks at Dyson charging toward him --

  DYSON: STOP POLICE!

  -- dropping to his knees.

  CLOSE UP: outstretched fingers flail around under the car for the stray shell case.

  DYSON: (O.S.) But he couldn’t get it.

  The figure jumps up, launching into an Olympic-worthy sprint. Too quick for Dyson. He stops at the car. Aims fast -- BANG-BANG-BANG!

  The figure jumps and swerves as brickwork explodes all around. Nevertheless, he charges onward and disappears from view.

  DYSON: Fuck...

  He glances in at the two bodies. Pulls a face at the mess.

  END FLASHBACK

  And we’re back on Dyson.

  DYSON: So who did it? Rival gang?

  A room full of uncomfortable faces stare back at him.

  DYSON: What, nothing?

  DETECTIVE: Not a sausage, guv.

  From another:

  DETECTIVE #2: Who’s fucking mad enough to take on Frankie Khan?

  DYSON: Good question, add it to the rest. Top of that list: there was half a million on the back seat. Nice little bonus for the shooter. Why didn’t he take it?

  DETECTIVE #3: You scared him off?

  DYSON: No, he could’ve took me down. Gone for the hat-trick. He wasn’t in this for the money.

  Thunder rolls, shaking the windows.

  SARAH: (joking) Why didn’t we take the money?

  Everybody chuckles as Dyson points at two detectives congregating at the nearest desk.

  DYSON: Nick, Tony, I want Khan brought in. See what he knows about his ex-employees.

  Trainee Detective Constable TONY ROBSON, 20’s, a fresh-faced pup in his first week in CID, holds his hand up.

  ROBSON: Khan wouldn’t blow his own people away would he, Detective Inspector?

  Sarah throws him a ‘How little you know’ look.

  DYSON: Jerry?

  Face etched with concern, Matthews is too engrossed in his cell phone problems to hear.

  DYSON: Jerry?!

  MATTHEWS: Guv?

  DYSON: Take a couple of lads. I want Khan’s offices searched, see what you can turn up.

  MATTHEWS: Um, yeah. We’re gonna need a warrant.

  DYSON: So get one. Barry, bring in my grass. He set this up. He gives you any shit, remind him how well child molesters are regarded inside.

  Detective Constable BARRY HENDERSON, 30’s, scratches his head.

  HENDERSON: Sticky Dave ain’t a nonce, guv.

  DYSON: Yeah, well we know that... (beat) Any questions?

  Detective Sergeant JIM MITCHELL, 30’s, steps up with a confident swagger.

  MITCHELL: Yeah...

  He throws a thumb back at Dyson’s glass walled office, to where the ball breaker from last night sits rigidly. Waiting.

  MITCHELL: Who’s the stiff?

  INT. DYSON’S OFFICE, POLICE STATION - MOMENTS LATER

  The door opens. Dyson enters. Gives his visitor a wary once over.

  The ball breaker stands and clears his throat, regarding Dyson with demeaning eyes.

  MAN: Detective Inspector Dyson?

  Dyson nods. Extends a friendly hand.

  DYSON: Acting Detective Inspector, it’s only temporary. You’re American.

  The Man doesn’t reciprocate the gesture.

  MAN: I can see why they promoted you.

  Not a good start. Dyson retracts his hand with a scowl.

  DYSON: What can I do for you?

  The Man takes a moment to look out over the office beyond. Everyone busy and out of earshot, he returns to Dyson. Drops a bombshell.

  MAN: Detective Dyson, you’re dead.

  DYSON: What?

  MAN: Or at least you should be.

  DYSON: What...

  MAN: I assume that I’ve suitably grabbed your attention. My name is Brad Ratski. I work for the United States government.

  DYSON: United States... What? Which department?

  MAN/RATSKI: That isn’t important. To the men and women outside of this office, I’m Special Agent Michael Ackerman with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re liaising. That’s all you’re permitted to say. Are we clear on that?

  DYSON: No. I’m not clear on anything right now. Who the hell are you?

  RATSKI: You’re to accompany me immediately. You have a very important appointment.

  DYSON: Who with?

  RATSKI: I’m not at liberty to discuss that at present.

  He opens the door. Dyson slams it shut.

  INT. DETECTIVE’S OFFICE, POLICE STATION - CONTINUOUS

  BANG! Several detectives jump. Look over.

  INT. DYSON’S OFFICE, POLICE STATION - CONTINUOUS

  DYSON: I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this is England. You know fish and chips, rain and football. You guys don’t own it. Not yet. So unless you start giving me some answers, I’ll have you nicked for obstructing a police investigation, wasting police time. Whatever you like.

  Jaw tight, Ratski relents. Gives a curt nod.

  RATSKI: Very well, Detective Dyson. Your appointment is with... the President of the United States.

  INT. SUV (MOVING) - DAY

  Neither Dyson or Ratski utter a single word. Lost in thought, Dyson stares from the window at the rain-lashed London streets.

  EXT. DORCHESTER HOTEL, MA
YFAIR - DAY

  The SUV pulls up in the parking lot. Dyson and Ratski step out into the rain, darting under the cover of the main entrance. A doorman scuttles forward and opens the door for them.

  INT. CORRIDOR, DORCHESTER HOTEL - MOMENTS LATER

  The whole floor’s lined with Secret Service AGENTS in matching suits. Dyson and Ratski make their way up to an impressive set of wooden doors. Two Agents stand either side. One steps up, holding out his hand to Dyson.

  AGENT: I’ll need to take your firearm, sir.

  Dyson glances at Ratski.

  RATSKI: It’s the POTUS. What did you expect?

  Dyson unholsters his weapon. Hands it to the Agent reluctantly. Ratski knocks. Whispers to Dyson.

  RATSKI: You’ll shake his hand and sit only when offered. Also you’ll address him only as Mr. President, President Garrett or sir.

  DYSON: How should I address you? Dickhead?

  The doors open. Another Secret Service Agent ushers Dyson and Ratski in.

  INT. EISENHOWER SUITE, DORCHESTER HOTEL - CONTINUOUS

  The Agent steps out of the room and closes the doors.

  An elderly, grey-haired man, easily identifiable as the PRESIDENT of the United States, turns. He offers his best politician's smile.

  Ratski scowls at Dyson. ‘Don’t fuck this up!’

  The President rushes forward, welcoming hands outstretched.

  PRESIDENT: Hello, John. Do you mind if I call you John?

  DYSON: Not at all.

  He fires Ratski a deliberate sideways glance.

  DYSON: As long as I can call you Bob.

  Ratski seethes. The President, Bob Garrett, 66, laughs heartily. He slaps Dyson across the back, motioning to the sofa.

  PRESIDENT: I like that! Come, come. Sit down.

  Dyson does as instructed, looking over quizzically at an oxygen tank and mask in the far corner of the room.

  The President slips gingerly into a leather chair opposite. Notices Dyson’s interest.

  PRESIDENT: I just get a little short of breath sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about. Can I get you anything, John?

  DYSON: Well, an explanation would be good.

  PRESIDENT: I understand. And I can only apologize for the cloak and dagger routine. Brad here’s a good man, but he does like his dramatics.

  Ratski smiles dutifully as the President adopts a more serious stance.

  PRESIDENT: Although what I’m about to tell you is strictly above what either of our two countries would deem top secret -- and it’s certainly not covered by our special relationship. That would become somewhat strained if your government found out about any of this at the present time. So I’m afraid we won’t be able to proceed without your full and guaranteed discretion.

  Dyson nods along slowly. Unsure as to where the hell this is all heading.

  PRESIDENT: Good. Now none of this is going to be easy to accept, John. But as with all good stories we’ll start at the beginning. (beat) I’m afraid you died last night.

  Dyson can’t answer that. How do you answer such a question, from such a person?

  PRESIDENT: The details please, Brad.

  Ratski steps forward. Opens a leather bound file.

  RATSKI: At approximately 23:52, the two men whose deaths you are currently investigating, killed you and a Detective Sergeant Sarah Clarke. Blew you both up in your car.

  Dyson chokes. Ejects from his seat.

  DYSON: That’s not what happened!

  PRESIDENT: Sit down, John.

  DYSON: No! What is this?

  RATSKI: Sit down, Detective.

  DYSON: (laughs) You’re not the real President and this is all one of those... TV hidden camera shows.

  He look around the room for said hidden cameras. Points at Ratski.

  DYSON: What’s this guy, the presenter?

  A moment. Stoic looks from the President and Ratski. It’s no TV hidden camera show.

  RATSKI: Shall I continue?

  DYSON: Forget it! I’ve heard enough of your bullshit.

  Ratski sighs. Fumbles with a remote control. Instantly, a large flat screen TV set on one wall glows to life.

  Not that Dyson notices as he stares at the President. Unafraid of his status.

  DYSON: Nice to meet you. Whoever the fuck you... really --

  Now he sees the image that settles on the screen. Color CCTV footage of a lone car parked up at the kerb, stamped in one bottom corner with ‘DURWARD STREET’.

  Dyson’s eyes narrow as he watches the image.

  DYSON: That’s...

  RATSKI: Your car.

  ON SCREEN: the image flashes. Something strikes the car silently. Blows it to pieces, whiting out the image until it freezes.

  RATSKI: We hacked your station’s surveillance system. Before I went back. Not many people get to witness their own deaths, Detective.

  DYSON: What do you mean, back? You could’ve CGI’ed that. What is this?!

  PRESIDENT: John! I’ll hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that as President of the United States I have slightly more pressing matters to attend to than playing practical jokes on British law enforcement officers. Sit down. Please?

  Dyson slips back down to the sofa. Ratski lets a clap of thunder roll away before continuing.

  RATSKI: Luckily for you, Detective, we’ve had people watching you for several weeks now, in case an incident like this arose.

  DYSON: Why?

  Ratski ignores the question and carries on.

  RATSKI: The machine’s been here in the UK for several days now, after arriving in Portsmouth aboard the USS Obama.

  DYSON: Machine?

  RATSKI: This morning at... (checks file) ...06:00 hours, all pre-travel checks were completed. And at 07:16, I went back.

  DYSON: What are you talking about, Ratski?

  The President leans forward.

  PRESIDENT: Okay, this is it... (awkward breath) I sent Brad back in time to save your life.

  Dyson snaps his head round to Ratski, who pulls open his jacket to reveal an automatic concealed within a shoulder holster.

  RATSKI: Lucky me.

  Open-mouthed, Dyson watches the President as he stands and goes to the window, looking down on Park Lane.

  PRESIDENT: We’ve made some remarkable advances in quantum physics. I don’t pretend to understand it, I just sign the checks. But, as unbelievable as it sounds, United States scientists have developed a working time machine.

  DYSON: You gotta be --

  PRESIDENT: Kidding you? No, John, I’m not. 500 years ago man thought it was impossible to walk on the moon, to fly even. You would have been burned at the stake for even suggesting such a notion. But technology moves in monumental strides.

  He turns back to Dyson. Pulls an embarrassed face.

  PRESIDENT: Turns out this machine’s something of a white elephant. Apparently we can’t go forward. In time. It’s all completely over my head, but they tell me you can’t go into the future because it hasn’t happened yet. Does that make sense? (off Dyson’s blank stare) Terrorism, war, crime... mankind doesn’t change. It never learns. The only thing greater than our need to advance is our desire to destroy. Something has to be done. And if we can’t use the future to our advantage, then we must utilise the past.

  Dyson looks up and meets his gaze.

  DYSON: You’re talking about... You’re talking about timecops.

  PRESIDENT: Crime is our predominant concern at the moment, but long-term the possibilities are endless. These are glorious days. There’s nothing more exciting than watching your child take their first steps. There’s an awful lot of ground to cover first. For now what we propose is a test, a dry run if you like. And that’s where you come in.

  Ratski glares enviously at Dyson as the penny drops. He double takes, struggling to breath. Rises shakily to his feet.

  DYSON: It’s the Ripper, isn’t it? You... you wanna send me back to find out who Ja
ck the Ripper was?

  PRESIDENT: We want you to go back and arrest Jack the Ripper. Bring him back for trial.

  DYSON: Bring him back?

  PRESIDENT: (laughs) I think maybe you need that drink now.

  He goes to a drinks cabinet and pours two generous measures of scotch. Hands one to Dyson.

  PRESIDENT: I want people to know we have this technology. I want them to know what we can do. Therefore, Jack goes on trial, with full media coverage. I’m sending a message to the world, John. That no act of mass murder, genocide or terrorism will be without repercussion and punishment. We can -- we will find you. Wherever you may lurk.

  He glances over at Ratski, a nervous glance of something hidden passing between them.

  The detective doesn’t detect it. He gulps some scotch. Hand trembling.

  DYSON: And that’s why you saved... But why? Why me? And why the Ripper? There must be hundreds of more important... If you have this power, this machine, why not stop 9/11? JFK from getting blown away? Jesus, you could stop the Second World War from ever happening.

  Ratski shoots the President another glimpse and steps up.

  RATSKI: By killing Adolf Hitler and sending the world hurtling on a completely unknown path? Think about it, Dyson. Think about it. Stop those 19 individuals from boarding the planes on that September morning, arrest them right there on the spot, and what we know now, what we accept as history, is gone forever.

  DYSON: And the Ripper’s different?

  RATSKI: We believe Jack the Ripper is far enough from our current position on the timeline to cause any unnecessary ripples.

  DYSON: You believe? You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? Meddling in the past without a thought for the present --

  PRESIDENT: I can assure you, John, that is not --

  DYSON: No! No, you can count me out.

  RATSKI: You would be dead were it not for our meddling, Detective. Let’s try to remember that.

  Dyson does. He listens to the rain hammer the windows, his body slackening and pouring back onto the sofa.

  DYSON: Why me?

  PRESIDENT: When you have a crime you call the police. It’s that simple. This is a crime. Still unsolved. The Ripper murders of 1888 are your passion. There’s no one else more qualified on the subject within a police department anywhere in the world. And I don’t say that lightly. It took more than three months to find the right candidate.

  He laughs loudly, then coughs hard a couple of times. Hard enough for Ratski to shoot him a concerned look.