KILLING TIME by James C. Bernthal

“Same time tomorrow, Tash?”

Natasha stroked her new elegant cigarette case with her inelegant fingers. She shook her head. “No can do, darlin’. I’m booked up ‘til next weeks.”

This was a blatant lie and her client knew that. Lewis Davis had originally looked up escorts in the Yellow Pages, thinking that would be just what he’d get. It had go a bit out of hand, one thing had led to another and...

...And Lewis had proposed to the prostitute. She’d giggled, then laughed like a hyena. Like the animal she had proven herself to be. Sex never mean anything to this woman - if she could be classified as human - like it did to Lewis Davis. He had just wanted a bit of sympathy after his mother’s death, and she had hurt him.

So he was going to hurt her. To make her pay.

God knows, he’d payed her a small fortune every day for two and a half months. She’d given up trying to look like she was enjoying it. Lewis swung back to reality, realising that he was just staring at his “paid partner”.

“Alright, Tash. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Fine.” Natasha’s smile was dazzling, if not shamelessly revealing of a nicotine addiction. The conspicuous absense of meaning behind her facial expression illustrated with clarity her frustration with middle-aged me. “I’ll let myself out.” She let herself out, before Lewis could protest, with murmered thanks for the cigarette case that had once belonged to the latter’s mother.

After hearing the door click shut, Lewis flicked on the T.V.

Teletubbies. God, had they been at it all night? It must be at least six. Rather than trying to catch up on some of the sleep he had been missing, he indulged in his favourite pastime; planning his elaborate revenge. Down to every intricate detail.

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. She had stolen his virginity, after forty-five years, so he would steal something of hers. Her pride? Her wellbeing? Her soul? All three.

It was such a simple invention. Amazingly, a large part of it was made up of hydrocarbons, Oxo cubes and dead rats. The rest was a secret. If anyone less moral than Lewis had invented the time machine, they would have used it for their own selfish gains. They would have gone back to Roman times and stolen a load of coins or gold items, now priceless. They would, at least, have gone forward ten years, robbed a bank and run back to the present with millions. But Lewis wasn’t like that. He had invented this time machine for the sole purpose of showing people how they should live.

Yes, a simple but ingenious invention, that had taken fifteen years to perfect. But, by God, it was worth it. All it needed was a finger. Then it would ask for digits. Lewis would type in “+” or “-”, meaning A.D. or B.C., followed by four digits, like 1253. Whoever stood on the platform would be transported to a key point in that year (1253 or whatever) in the finger owner’s life at the time.

It all boiled down to reincarnation and Lewis’ belief. Is belief was well-founded. He hand been an emperor in the twelth century, Sir Walter Raleigh in the sixteenth... it could go on, but he only had so many fingers. The point was that they were all victorious heroes, just as Lewis was now.

As for Natasha Parchester, the “Quality Consort”, well... Once a prostitute, always a prostitute.

One hundred and twenty years back... that would be about two lives... It was 1888, wasn’t it? The time that Lewis could put Natasha face to face with the greatest justice-server of all time. Jack the Ripper.

Getting to an appropriate point in the year, he reasoned, shouldn’t be difficult. Then, finding Whitechapel should prove child’s play.

Natasha’s deterrence was both a God-send and a warning. The former, in that it gave Lewis at least a couple more days to perfect the settings, and the latter, in that is warned him that she was tiring of him. He’d have to act fast.

Still, he could act tomorrow. Now, a well-deserved rest was in order.

***

Lewis had judged that one week would be an adequate relapse. He could not wait seven days, so settled for four.

He was about to pick up his mobile phone when it rang. This surprised Lewis, who had bought and reserved that ‘phone for Natasha.

“Hello?”

“Lewis, darlin’.” It was her. Her tone clearly indicated that she would not be calling if there were better ways of securing fanancial stability. “Fancy seeing me again?”

“I fancy everything with you in it,” Lewis replied weakly. It was just as well his grimace did not travel by mobile.

“Great. How does a grand for the whole night strike you?”

Natasha had never charged that much before, but Lewis had more money than sense, and she could milk every penny out of him. Besides, Natasha was a Quality Consort.

“That sounds fine, Tash.”

“Perfect. I’ll come round at eight.”

Lewis coughed. “Make it six.”

The prostitute bit her tongue to stop herself from asking why. After all, this was big money. Next time, she’d demand a hundred thousand pounds and within two weeks at that rate, she’d be a millionaire.

A millionaire.

“I’ll be there, Lewis.”

***

Natasha was true to her word. She arrived on the doorstep with just enough clothes on to warrant a pocket that held a very large purse. If he wrote a cheque, she wouldn’t need it, but he usually paid in cash.

Lewis was putting into motion the last minute tweaks to the heavenly highlight of his inventor’s life when the doorbell rang.

He opened the front door. “Come in, Tash. I’ve got something special for you.”

Natasha’s eyes conveyed with unadulterated vigour what she was thinking. Oh, God, what is it this time?

“You’ll like it,” Lewis assured her. He led her into his bedroom, where - unknown to his guest - stood the time machine.

Despite it being early evening, the lady of the night felt quite comfortable in her only steady client’s bedroom. She slipped off her flimsy coat and slid seductively into Lewis’ bed.

“That’ll do, I suppose,” said the man oddly. “Hold out your hand.”

“Left or right?”

“Either will do.”

Natasha knew better than to leave some fetishes unsatisfied. She saw Lewis approach her, but did not see the oversized carving knife he clutched, much as a small child clutches a toy. Her index finger did not come off with one swift blow, as Lewis’ fingers had. She was mad of stronger stuff. It took three hacks and a lot of blood and screaming.

“Shut up, you bitch.”

Seeing Natasha as white as a sheet had comedy value in itself. The journey would be priceless.

“Once a prostitute, always a prostitute,” Lewis repeated, steadily and patiently, as he placed the severed finger in the machine, appreciating that all his talents were paying off and his dreams were being realised. He hauled his shrieking Quality Escort onto the platform and tapped in four digits: 1888.

“Do you know what happened to cheap whores in 1888?” he asked as bright colours whooshed past.

Strangely, Natasha felt the growing sensation of pain fade away. Her finger grew back. Her skin skin lost its aging and she felt her thick layer of make-up remove itself. Sensational.

Lewis repeated himself. “Do you know what happened to prostitutes in 1888?”

Natasha shook her head.

Three words:

“Jack the Ripper.” Three words, but such an impact.

Natasha shuddered, and spoke in a voice that was not her own.

“Gawd,” she said with a cockney accent, tinged with Irish. “Just my luck that I’ll run into him.”

Lewis had hardly been surprised t o see her gain half a foot in height, grow flowing red hair and appear suddenly very attractive, in a worn-out sort of way. What did surprise him was something that must have resulted from the last minute tweaks, and that was that he was changing too. His hands gained the two fingers he had lost. His skin darkened and he felt a limp in his own stride, as the pair stepped off the platform and into the obscure surroundings.

It was a small, dingy room. It felt cheap and uncomfortable, but it was home. A smashed window-pane let the chilly November breeze sweep through the room. It did not chill Lewis or Natasha.

Lewis pointed at the window. “That’s how I got in,” he said, not knowing why. His voice was foreign, Cosmopolitan, with nobility ringing through every word. Quite suddenly, almost surprising himself, Lewis (or whoever he was) reached into the depths of the black bag he carried and extraced the knife.

But it wasn’t the carving knife. It was a scalpol.

Natasha saw this rich man’s eyes glow red like marbles. She flung herself to the bed in the corner of the room, hoping the rags she used as a blanket would somehow prevent the inevitable blows.

“Lewis...?”

“Call me Jack.”

One swipe, clean across the neck, and it opened up like a split hosepipe, gushing the glorious red fluid that was glorious, glorious blood.

Lewis inhaled the pungent aroma with satisfaction.

“Filthy whore,” he muttered to the shaking figure of a woman, still gushing blood. “Time to finish you off, Irish bitch.”

A couple of clean cuts, and the Irish bitch lay motionless. But it wasn’t enough. This would be his last job for a while, and it had to be his most magnificent yet.

Before he could start work properly, Lewis would have to get rid of that face. He simply could not work with a perfect porcelain face staring back at him. For some reason, the pretty features of this scum made him feel guilty. He hacked off the nose, then the ears. He’d always wanted to do that. A few cuts across the cheeks, just for the hell of it.

The heart. God, yes! The heart! Burn the heart; burn the soul; condemn that whore to the fiery depths of Hell. Lewis made a messy puncture in the girl’s chest, after stripping her of her chemise.

No. The heart - the very soul of the woman - could come last. Lewis studied his bloodied hands before using them to plunge a second knife haphazardly into his victim’s limbs. It was too messy now to see what was going on. He delved into the corpse and grabbed at random organs. At last, he felt the heart. He tore it out and stared, fascinated. A sound behind him made him drop the precious item.

A bird had flown into the window. It was morning, already. There was no time. He shoved the heart into the folds of his black cloak and pciked up the knife a second time. He leant over what was left of the corpse and carved two letters on the wall: EM, his future initials.

What did he mean by that? No time.

There was a tap at the door and a voice outside. “Rent time!”

Quickly, Lewis jumped into his crowning achievement of an invention, waved goodbye to the glory of the gory scene and chopped off one of his own fingers. He fed it into the machine and tapped in “1889”, just out of curiosity.

Lewis was wearing different clothes, and the immaculate surroundings of his palace provided a lavish contrast to the dingy room in Whitechapel. He still wasn’t Lewis. He was EM. Well, very nearly EM. His father was nearly dead.

Someone approached. A servant. He spoke in a foreign language, but it was easy to comprehend, and Lewis found himself fluent in the tongue.

“Your Royal Highness,” the impecabbly dressed servant uttered, as if in song. “I regret to inform you that your father has... ahem... passed on.”

Lewis smiled to himself, as the courtier extended his hands, which clutched a golden crown, and swept on:

“You are his sucessor. In one week, sir, you will be officially declared, Your Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Meringe.”

It was time to go back. Much to his minion’s confusion, the Emperor of Meringe (as he finally was) stepped onto the platform and used sheer Meringian strength to pull off a finger and drop it into the machine. That wouldn't be good for his impending arthritis. He pressed the right buttions and flew back to 2005.

***

Lewis Davis was back in his bedroom

He’d been at least two Emperors. That made him feel good. So did the knowledge that the world was rid of the promicuous Natasha Parchester and her precarious prostitution.

Reflecting, Lewis realised that he knew the answer to a question that had plagued dedicated historians all their lives. He knew who Jack the Ripper was.

Why not have a bit of fun with his superior knowledge? There was a Ripper discusssion evening in London coming up. Why not go there?

He did.

***

It was a stuffy hotel room, with even more stuffy company to be kept. Lewis would have felt quite out of place without his moustache.

“Well, well, well, fellow Ripperologists,” said the oldest and most pompous of the lot, gruffly. “We’ve had the champagne. What shall we discuss?”

Somebody suggested the “Ghost Photo”.

“What’s the ‘Ghost Photo’?” asked Lewis.

“It’s a photograph, Mr. Davis, of 13 Millers Court, the home of Mary Jane Kelly, whom, as you know, was Jack the Ripper’s generally acknowledged last victim. Some highly imaginative historians say that they can make out the faint smudged outline of the ghost of Mary Jane.”

The photograph had been passed around with minimal interest aroused. Now Lewis held it.

“I don’t personally think there’s anything in it,” the old man went on, but his words swept over Lewis.

“Who did you say the subject was?” he asked absently.

“No one.” The old man sighed and lit a cigar. “Just the faint ghost of Mary Jane Kelly. If you believe in such supersticious crap.”

But it wasn’t faint to Lewis. The figure got stronger and stronger to him alone. It was Natasha in a scullery maid’s clothes, her eyes penetrating into Lewis’ very soul. He felt his heart melt.

She was laughing.

THE END

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