The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(151)

These are the facts, and if you study them carefully, certain things become clearer. For example, did it not strike you as odd that Marcus chose such an indiscreet way of contacting you: reports in the press and alerting every policeman in the city by brutally murdering three innocent people, who, by the way I doubt very much were going to die anyway in a few days” time. But what you think now is irrelevant, actually: you should have thought of it then, and you did not. You cannot imagine how much it pains me to tell you this, Bertie, but you are not as intelligent as you think you are.

Where was I? Oh yes. You will listen to Marcus’s explanation, eyes fixed on his henchman’s weapon pointing at you as your heart begins to beat faster and faster, the sweat starts to pour down your back, and you even begin to feel overcome with a strange dizziness. I imagine if you had been shot as promptly as James and Stoker were, nothing would have happened. But Marcus’s lengthy explanation had enabled you to “prepare yourself” so to speak, and when he had finished his little talk, and his henchman took a step forward and aimed at your chest, all of your built-up tension exploded, and a flood of light enveloped the world.

For a split second, you became weightless, released from your own body that felt more than ever like an unnecessary shell, a focus for pain and futile distractions, and you had the impression of being a creature of the air. But a moment later the weight of your body returned, like an anchor securing you to the world, and although you were relieved to feel solid again, it also left you with a vague sense of nostalgia for the fleeting experience of being out of your body. You found yourself once more trapped inside the organic casing that contained you while blinkering your vision of the universe.

A sudden surge of vomit filled your throat, and you released it with violent retching. When your stomach stopped heaving, you dared look up, unsure if Marcus’s henchman had already fired or was relishing drawing out the moment.

But there was no weapon aimed at you. In fact, there was no one around you, no trace of Marcus, or his henchmen, or Stoker, or James. You were alone in the darkened hallway, for even the candelabra had disappeared. It was as if you had dreamed the whole thing. But how could such a thing have happened? I’ll tell you, Bertie: simply because you were no longer you. You had become me.

So now, if you have no objection, I shall carry on narrating events in the first person. To begin with, I did not understand what had happened. I waited for a few moments in the by now pitch-black hallway, trembling with fear and alert to the slightest sound, but all around me was silence. The house was apparently empty. Presently, as nothing happened, I ventured out into the street, which was equally deserted. I was utterly confused, although one thing was clear: the sensations I had experienced were too real to have been a dream.

What had happened to me? Then I had an intuition. With trepidation, I plucked a discarded newspaper out of a refuse bin and after verifying the date with amazement, realized my suspicions were true: the unpleasant effects I had felt were none other than those of spontaneous time travel.

Incredible though it may seem, I had traveled eight years back in time to November 7, 1888! I stood in the middle of the square for a few moments, stunned, trying to take in what had happened, but I did not have much time, for it suddenly remembered why that date seemed so familiar: it was the day Jack the Ripper had murdered young Harrington’s beloved in Whitechapel and was subsequently captured by the Vigilance Committee who had gone to Miller’s court after being alerted by a time traveler who … was it me? I wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be every indication it was. Who else could have known what was going to happen that night? I glanced at my watch.

In less than half, an hour the Ripper would commit his crime. I had to hurry. I ran in search of a cab, and when at last I found one I told the driver to take me to Whitechapel as fast as he could. As we crossed London towards the East End, I could not help wondering whether it was me who had changed history, who had made the whole universe abandon the path it was on, and take this unexpected detour represented by the blue string, moving further and further away from the white cord, as Marcus had explained to us; and if so, had I done so by my own free will or simply because it was preordained, because it was something I had already done? As you will imagine, I arrived in Whitechapel in a state of extreme agitation, and once there I did not know what to do: naturally, I had no intention of going to Dorset Street alone to confront the bloodthirsty monster; my altruism had its limits. I burst into a busy tavern crying out that I had seen Jack the Ripper at the Miller’s Court flats. It was the first thing that came into my head, but I suspect whatever I had done would have been the right thing to do. This was confirmed to me when a stocky fellow with a shock of blond hair named George Lusk sprang out from among the throng of customers gathered round me, and, twisting my arm behind my back and pressing my face against the bar, said he would go and take a look, but that if I was lying I would live to regret it. After this display of strength, he released me, gathered his men together, and headed towards Dorset Street in no particular haste. I went as far as the door, rubbing my arm and cursing the brute who was about to take all the credit. Then amongst the crowd out in the street, I glimpsed young Harrington. Pale as a ghost, he was stumbling through the crowd, a dazed expression on his face, burbling incoherently and every now and then shaking his head. I understood that he must have just discovered the disemboweled corpse of his beloved. He was the image of despair. I wanted to comfort him; I even took a few steps towards him, but I stopped when I realized I had no memory of having performed this kindly gesture in the past, and so I confined myself to watching him until he disappeared down the end of the street. My hands were tied: I had to follow the script, any improvisation on my part could have had an incalculable effect on the fabric of time.