apparent normality, his wildly racing heart began to slow down. He was relieved not to feel dizzy or sick. Even his panic had begun to subside once he realised he had not been burned to a crisp by the lightning, which had left a smell of singed butterflies in the air. His only discomfort was that his whole body felt tense as a result of his anxiety, but in the end he was even glad of that. This was no picnic he was going on. He was about to change the past, to alter events that had already taken place. He, Andrew Harrington, was going to shake up time. Was it not better to be on the alert, to be on his guard?
When the effects of the flash had finally died away and he was able to see properly, he plucked up the courage to step down off the machine, as quietly as possible. The solidity of the floor surprised him, as if he had been expecting the past to be made of mist or fog or some other equally ethereal or malleable substance, simply because the time that corresponded to it had already been used up.
However, as he discovered when he placed his foot tentatively on the ground, that reality was as solid and real as the one he had left. But was he in 1888? He glanced suspiciously around the attic, still plunged into darkness, even savouring a few mouthfuls of air, looking for some detail to prove he was in the past, that he had indeed travelled in time. He discovered it when he peered out of the window: the road looked the same as he remembered it, but there was no sign of the cab that had brought them, and in the garden he saw a horse that had not been there before. Was a simple nag tied to a fence enough to distinguish one year from another? As evidence it seemed rather flimsy and unromantic.
Disappointed, he carefully surveyed the peaceful backdrop of the night sky studded with stars, like rice grains randomly scattered. He saw nothing strange there either. After a few moments of fruitless search, he told himself there was no reason why he should notice any significant differences since he had only travelled back eight years.
Then he shook his head. He could not waste time collecting evidence like an entomologist. He had a mission to fulfil, in which time was very much of the essence. He opened the window and, after testing the creeper’s resistance, followed Wells’s instructions and began to climb down it as quietly as possible so as not to alert the occupants of the house. This proved easy, and once he reached the ground, he crept towards the horse, which had been watching him impassively, and stroked its mane. The horse had no saddle, but Andrew found one hanging on the fence. He could not believe his luck. He put it on the horse’s back and secured the girth, avoiding any sudden gestures that might make the animal nervous, keeping an eye on the darkened house. Then he took the reins, and coaxed it out into the road with affectionate whispers. He was amazed at his own calm. He mounted, glanced back one last time to ensure that everything was still as disappointingly quiet, then set off towards London.
Only when he was on his way, a fast-moving splodge in the darkness, did it dawn on Andrew that soon he was going to see Marie Kelly. He felt a pang, and became tense again. Yes, incredible though it might seem to him, in the year he was in now, at this time in the morning, she was still alive: she had not been murdered. She would probably be in the Britannia at that very moment, drinking to forget her spineless lover before stumbling home into the arms of death.
But then he remembered he was not allowed to see her, not allowed to embrace her, to nestle his head on her shoulder and breathe in her longed-for odour. No, Wells had forbidden it, because that simple gesture could alter the fabric of time, bring about the end of the world. He must limit himself to killing the Ripper and returning the way he had come, as the author had ordered. His action must be swift and precise, like a surgical intervention whose consequences would only be visible when the patient came to – that was to say, once he had travelled back to his own time.
Whitechapel was immersed in a deathly silence. He was surprised at the absence of the usual hurly-burly, until he remembered that during those weeks Whitechapel was a feared neighbourhood in whose alleyways the monster known as Jack the Ripper roamed, doling out death with his knife. He slowed his mount as he entered Dorset Street, aware that, in the intense silence, its hoofs on the cobblestones must produce a din like that of a smithy in his forge.
He dismounted a few yards from the entrance to Miller’s Court, and tethered the animal to an iron railing, away from any streetlamps so that it was less likely to be noticed. Then, after making sure the street was empty, he darted through the stone archway leading to the flats. The tenants were all asleep, so he had no light to guide him through the pitch darkness, but Andrew could have found his way blindfold. The further he ventured into that powerfully familiar place, the more overwhelmed he was by a sadness that culminated when he reached Marie Kelly’s room, which was also in darkness.
Nostalgia gave way to profound shock when he remembered that while he was standing before the modest abode that had been both heaven and hell to him his father was slapping his face in the Harrington mansion. That night, thanks to a miracle of science, there were two Andrews in the world. He wondered whether his other self might be aware of his existence, too, in the form of goose pimples or a sharp pain in his stomach, as he had heard sometimes happened with twins.
The echo of footsteps interrupted his reverie. His heart beat faster and he ran to hide round the corner of one of the neighbouring dwellings. He had thought of hiding there from the very beginning because, besides seeming to be the safest place, it was scarcely a dozen yards from Marie’s door, the perfect distance to be able to see clearly enough to shoot the Ripper, in case he was too afraid to get any closer to him.
Once safely out of sight, back against the wall, Andrew drew the pistol out of his pocket, listening to the footsteps as they drew nearer. The steps that had alerted him had an uncontrolled, irregular quality, typical of a drunk or wounded person. He instantly understood that they could only be those of his beloved, and his heart now fluttered like a leaf in a sudden gust of wind. That night, as on so many others, Marie Kelly was staggering home from the Britannia, but this time his other self was not there to undress her, put her to bed, tuck in her alcoholic dreams.
He poked his head slowly round the corner. His eyes were accustomed enough to the dark for him to be able to make out the reeling figure of Marie pausing outside the door to her tiny room. He had to stop himself running towards her. He felt his eyes moisten as he watched her straighten in a drunken effort to regain her balance, adjust her hat, which was in danger of toppling off with the swaying of her body. She thrust her arm through the hole in the window, forcing the lock for what seemed like an eternity, until finally she managed to open the door. Then she disappeared inside the room, slamming the door behind her. A moment later the faint glow from a lamp cleared part of the swirling gloom in front of her door.
Andrew leaned back against the wall. He had scarcely dried his tears when the sound of more footsteps startled him. Someone else was coming through the entrance into the yard. It took him a few moments to realise this must be the Ripper. His heart froze as he heard the man’s boots crossing the cobblestones with cold deliberation. These were the movements of a practised, ruthless predator, who knew there was no escape for his quarry.
Andrew poked his head out again and, with a shudder of terror, saw a huge man calmly approaching Marie’s room, surveying the place with a penetrating gaze. He felt strangely queasy: he had already read in the newspapers what was happening now before his eyes. It was like watching a play he knew by heart, and all that remained was for him to judge the quality of the performance. The man paused in front of the door, peering surreptitiously through the hole in the window, as though he intended to reproduce faithfully every detail of the article Andrew had carried in his pocket for eight years – even though it had not yet been written. Now, because of his leapfrogging through
