TimeRipper Read online

  For the last fifteen days, they had lived a free and unmolested life.

  ‘I’ve gathered you here today, as we now have to begin to integrate ourselves into this society. The start-up funding that we brought with us is almost depleted, most of it on lodgings and such. We must now insert ourselves as if we’re natives. Each of you have been given back stories, where you have come from, distant family etc, and I hope that you’ve memorised these tales. It’ll help you in getting jobs, making friends, and blending in.’

  ‘Has anyone noticed anything strange while we’ve been here?’ Mary Kelly asked.

  ‘Apart from the fact that we’re four hundred years out of time you mean?’ Catherine Eddowes asked. A petite woman in her mid-thirties, she and Kelly had been the pioneers of the quantum tagging.

  Everyone in the room laughed.

  Mary smiled. ‘No, I meant anything that may look out of the ordinary? Martha had to kill the man who witnessed her arrival. We need to be careful about killing people in this time, as we don’t want to fall foul of the paradoxical laws. I wondered if there was anything happening in relation to this. She says that she didn’t see any other witnesses.’

  ‘I noticed a lot of the people just seem to be hanging around, not really doing much,’ Mary Nichols spoke up. For some reason the women all called her Polly. ‘They just seem to, I don’t know, watch us. Mostly the men.’

  ‘They’ll be thinking we’re prostitutes,’ Mary replied. ‘There’s little employment for women in these times, and women on their own will almost always have to resort to selling themselves in some fashion. These men will be thinking that’s what we are. We should, in no way, discourage this. It’ll be a big part of our blending in.’

  ‘We can’t all stay in these lodgings together for much longer than we already have,’ Carrie Millwood added, taking the meeting back. ‘The landlord is already suspicious of ten women lodging together. He’s insinuating that he’s not running a brothel, and if he is, then he wants his cut.’ The girls laughed at this little joke, even if there was more than a little nervousness about it. ‘If Mary’s theory regarding the paradoxical laws are correct, and we have no reason to believe any different, then no one from this time can kill us, but that doesn’t mean that they cannot harm us. They can beat, rape, and dismember. I understand that I’m being a little theatrical, but I want to hit home that this is a dangerous time to be a woman. We need to keep on our toes.’

  ‘If no one here can kill us…’ A small voice arose from the back of the room, Rose Mylett stood forth. ‘If no one from this time can kill us, then how did Martha go about killing the man who witnessed her arrival? Is it one rule for us and another one for them?’

  Carrie didn’t have an answer for this. ‘I think we should get Liz to answer that one.’ She gestured towards Elizabeth Stride to stand and address the meeting.

  Liz was a tall woman, striking in appearance with her short cut blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She stood before the meeting with confidence. ‘Ladies,’ she addressed them. ‘All of this is theoretical. But we believe that nature could not allow us to pass backwards in time if we could do anything to alter the timeline. It’s that simple. We cannot kill our own great, great, great, grandmothers. It’s my theory that Martha was able to kill the witness because nature had already earmarked him to die. That neither he, nor any lineage that he may have produced, had any bearing on the future. So, it’s my understanding that if we keep our noses clean and we stay out of trouble for one year, then our colleagues, four hundred years in the future, will be able to get us back to where we belong.’

  A murmur of consolidation passed among the women. The meeting had calmed a lot of nerves.

  ‘So…’ Carrie brought the focus back to her again, ‘…to reiterate why we’re meeting here tonight. We have a long year ahead of us, but with a fantastic pay off at the end of it. You all know why we’re doing this, and we all know what we must do. Starting tomorrow, we become fine upstanding members of this community. The Quest shall be fruitful, and The Quest shall be successful.’

  There were cheers and claps as she stood down from her makeshift plinth.

  ~~~~

  The next day, the owner of the rented accommodation was watching as the ten women left their lodgings in Spitalfields Chambers, Whites Row, London, to look for work within the community. He had taken a special interest in these ladies, and to why there were ten of them living in the same room. At first, it titillated him to think of what they were up to in there, cooped up together for all hours of the day. It intrigued him so much that he took to spying on them for his own voyeuristic intentions.

  The night before he had listened in to their strange conversation. Para-what’s-ical laws? Four hundred years in the future? That all sounds queer to me, he thought watching them leave. It had confused, and worried, him all day, so he thought he’d let one of his drinking friends in on this little secret. Although he’d have to wait until he saw him again in the pub, enjoying one of those real ales he loved so much. He’d been missing for a few weeks, someone said they had seen him sleeping under a bench outside The Ten Bells pub, but he didn’t think that Inspector Frank Abberline, of Scotland Yard, would be doing that. He’d be back supping ales soon, and he’d tell his story to him then.

  Instead, John Downing went out that night and decided—mainly due to the strange nature of the conversation he’d overheard, and also due to the fact that the Millwood woman had paid him a few months rent in advance—that he was going to go out and get smashed. You never know, he thought, I just might get lucky with a woman, or ten! If his wife knew he was thinking something like that, she’d have made mincemeat out of him.

  So, it was in this frame of mind that John Downing found himself in the Princess Alice pub in Whitechapel. He was a man well known for his loose tongue, with a reputation of spinning a yarn or two. Most of the time, his drinking companions took what he was telling them with a large pinch of salt.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ he shouted at the top of his drunken voice to anyone who was listening, which was quite a few. ‘I’ve got my pick of ten of them, ten, I tell ya. All of them handsome women, and no mistake. I don’t much care for their talk about coming from the future, or about para-bloody-oxicals or wot-not.’ He paused then, thinking about what else he overheard. ‘Or that thing they said about killing a bloke. He was from our time, they said. He just happened to witness one of them arriving, they said. I’ll tell you, though, I’m going back to have my wicked way with at least two of them tonight. Yes, you heard me, at least, two of them,’ he bragged.

  A man was sitting in the corner of the room nursing a small tankard of ale, and occasionally blowing on the bruised and swollen knuckles of his hand. He listened, raptly, to every word John Downing was bragging. His brooding, dark face was known to the locals, although most people knew to leave him well alone. He was notorious for having a sharp tongue, and an even sharper temper.

  Something about what Downing was saying struck a chord with him, something that had been bothering him for the last two weeks. A man killed by a woman who had arrived from somewhere strange.

  Aaron Kosminski was going to have to have a talk with John Downing.

  ~~~~

  Kosminski waited until the bar was almost empty. He’d had to order another few drinks in order for the landlord not to throw him out, but eventually his patience paid off and he got what he wanted. ‘Well that’s me done. I’m off back to my harem,’ the fool boasted to the mostly empty pub. Kosminski doubted the man even knew what a harem was. ‘To take my pick of the ten,’ the drunkard continued.

  He watched as the man struggled to put his coat on without falling over. He’ll be lucky to make it home, never mind having his pick of ten women, he thought. Downing put his hat on and staggered to the door. Kosminski finished his drink and stood up from his table. He shrugged on his coat and busied himself in his pockets, watching as Downing staggered to the doors and out into the dark street beyond. He followed
him all the way home, keeping to the many shadows of the dimly lit streets. He didn’t want to be seen, at least not until he needed to be.

  John, it seemed, was very drunk, and Kosminski thought, a couple of times, that the man didn’t know his way home. It took him almost twenty minutes to get to an address that was no more than a five-minute stroll from where they’d been.

  Kosminski had an axe to grind; he had recently beaten his wife so bad that she had to be taken to hospital, when he found out that she had been having liaisons with an engineer who drank in The Ten Bells pub. He had gone there that night to confront him regarding these dalliances. He’d watched as the man had left the pub to have a smoke, and for some reason scribble some notes onto a pad of paper. He’d been ready to make his move then, when he witnessed the strange event of that night. The woman, or whatever it was, appearing from the purple glow. He watched as she’d killed his intended victim before disappearing, with his body, into the night.

  Since then, he had been plagued with bad dreams.

  There had been a recurring one where he watched while women were mutilated, ripped apart. A dark, mysterious figure was always lurking in the shadows. He’d seen each woman’s face, and knew that the woman, the one who had appeared from nowhere that night, had been one of them.

  He had obsessed over who, or what, it was that had appeared in the purple flashes, ever since. He had attempted to follow her that night, but if he was honest with himself, he’d been too scared, and had allowed himself to lose her in the dimly lit streets. Now, it appeared, he had another chance to find out where she was. All the talk he’d overheard about ‘four hundred years in the future’ had excited him. It was all beginning to make sense.

  ‘If you open your mind to new experiences, then even the most improbable situations can be explained.’ This was his own saying, he knew he was not ever going to win any awards for it, but he liked it.

  As he watched John Downing let himself into a dark house in Spitalfields, a strange feeling overwhelmed him. He was scared, that much he had already admitted, but he was excited too. He could also feel rage building up inside him. A rage that was fuelled by embarrassment that he could allow dreams, and dreams of women of all creatures, frighten him. He checked his jacket pockets and felt the reassuring weight of his razorblade nestled inside.

  He watched as a light in one of the rooms flickered to life, and waited until the noises, the bangs of John obviously falling over inside the house, receded, and all was quiet again.

  He then made his move.

  He crept his way to the house, wincing a little as the fingers of his injured hand wrapped around the handle of his blade. ‘Someone is going to pay for making me feel like this,’ he whispered. A drool of saliva dripped, unnoticed, from his mouth, dribbling over the front of his dark coat. The back door will be the best way in, he thought logically, before entering the dark alleyway that ran the length of the side of the house. There was a light on the first floor, and from the half open window he could hear talking.

  The voices were, unmistakably, female.

  He needed to get closer.

  There was a shaky metal staircase leading to a wooden door where the talking, and now laughing, was coming from. Slowly, careful to make as little noise as he could, he climbed up the ladder and peered through the dirty window. From his vantage point, he could see a gathering of women inside. Thankfully, due to the room being lit, he knew that none of them would be able to see him.

  Suddenly his breath caught in his chest.

  She was there! The woman who had appeared from nowhere and killed the man he was supposed to kill. The woman who had mocked him in his dreams, and the one he had marked for death.

  No, not a woman, he thought. A witch!

  Kosminski licked his lips. His newfound hatred of women since his wife’s infidelity filled him with homicidal rage. He enjoyed the pain that screamed from his fingers as he wrapped them tightly around the handle of the shaving instrument in his pocket. He attempted to extract the weapon, but it got stuck in the fabric of his overcoat. He tutted in frustration as he tugged, attempting to free it. Sweat was building on his brow as he looked into the room. They were all there, every woman he’d dreamed about for the last few nights, they were all sat in this room, mere feet away from him, and his blade.

  Am I the killer from my dream? he thought, dribbling again. Am I going to rip each of these women? His breathing became rapid, and he smiled at the delightful tingle that was tickling his crotch.

  ‘You there!’ The shout came from nowhere. Or maybe it was everywhere. ‘What are you doing up there, man? Get down at once.’

  It was strange to feel the the blood drain from his face, and he was disappointed as the tingle in his crotch disappeared.

  ‘You do know it’s wrong to spy on people in their own homes, don’t you?’ the disembodied voice shouted again.

  Kosminski scanned the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. He could just about make out the silhouette of someone approaching from the alleyway he’d used just moments ago. He could tell that the man was wearing a dark uniform. A policeman, he spat in his head. Panic rose in his stomach, as he looked for an escape route. He jumped down the other side of the staircase and ran along the other side of the alley in the opposite direction of the approaching lawman.

  ~~~~

  The policeman’s official report stated a man, sporting a thick moustache and a cape with a red trim, jumped with ‘supernatural agility’ to evade capture.

  23.

  Orbital Platform One. 2088

  TWO WEEKS HAD passed, and Earth had descended into chaos. Massive movements of migrants, survivors from the less habitable areas, had begun to move into the habitable areas. Borders between countries no longer existed. No one knew who, if anyone, was in charge. Large swathes of the populace were actively refusing help and guidance from the remnants of the EA. Others were embracing them as if they were the only ones who could help them to stave off further attacks from The Quest.

  The EA had been trying incessantly to contact The Quest. They still needed answers as to their reasons why they had done what they did, and why they wanted the world to start again. All efforts had failed. Every known member of the organisation had gone dark. The only reminder to the populace of their demands was a replay of their transmission on all communication channels, twice a day, every day.

  Youssef had resumed full control of the remaining EA personnel and was acting as commander in chief. He did this with the support of Kevin Farley and Dr Hausen. He busied himself putting forth plans to attempt unification of the remaining countries. It was consuming most of his time. Too much of my time, he thought.

  Kevin had been working with the scientific departments. He knew he was out of his depth, he was no scientist, but he was an excellent motivator, and was helping them devise an understanding as to how The Quest had disappeared into the past, and where they could have gone.

  Dr Hausen was spending most of his time on the planet, co-ordinating rescue aid missions with the migrant populace.

  The thought had occurred to Youssef that this might have been what The Quest wanted. To use divide and conquer tactics. But what they could not have taken into account was the organisational skills of him and his teams. Things were happening, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, they required very little of his time. This gave him space to devote himself to his family, and the scientific element that he was so good at.

  ‘Cut off the head and the body withers,’ was the only advice he could offer to the table, of the best scientists the EA had left to offer, in a meeting room on Orbital Platform One. ‘We need to focus all of our efforts towards blocking the return of the leaders from wherever, and whenever, they are,’ he offered. ‘So, we need ideas on how we can do this.’

  Everyone around the table was quiet.

  ‘What?’ he asked, sensing something was afoot with this normally unruly bunch.

  ‘Well,’ one of the s
cientists replied. ‘We think we might have an idea why they have gone back in time. Now, it’s only a theory, and it doesn’t get us much closer to where, or when, they are, but it seems like a start.’ The scientist was young, but already she was renowned within the EA for her wild theories, theories that were, usually, not far off the mark.

  ‘OK, Jacqueline, please give me your theory. At this moment, I’ll take anything I can get.’

  The young Hispanic woman stood up. She was in her early thirties but looked younger than her years. She fixed her uniform, pushed her long, dark hair behind her ear before clearing her throat. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She spoke with the confidence of someone who wasn’t as nervous as she looked. ‘Well, I haven’t had time to prepare a full presentation, and I haven’t done a full research document to allow you to see my work yet, but here goes.’

  Youssef was impressed with her assurance.

  ‘We, that is my team and I, were thinking about the theory behind the Higgs Storm, the element that we know was responsible for the recent atrocities. We were thinking about how long they must have been storing the Storm to be able to render forty percent of the Earth’s surface uninhabitable. We did a few small experiments of our own, after blowing the dust off the time travel research.’

  This caught his attention straight away.

  ‘We thought of measuring the amount of Higgs Storm that was produced when sending an apple back fifteen minutes, then an hour, then a day, then a month. We found that the bi-product increased the further back in time it went.’

  Youssef was silent as he listened to what Jacqueline had to say.

  ‘We sent a marrow back ten minutes, then an hour and then a day. We had marrows lying around all over the place. Anyway, we found that the larger the mass, and the further back it went, the more Storm was produced.’