The Ripper

Thursday June 14th, 2153

Sir Iain J Wrightson was walking away from Crystal Palace after just being knighted by King Symon II. He could’ve hopped onto his bike, but instead decided to walk home, to show off his new medal to anyone who happened to be walking as well. He’d meet his bike back at home.

Iain was the first person to be knighted for his line of work. He was going to be the first person ever to travel back in time. He knew what it meant, after many different predictions over the last couple of hundred years, Iain knew he would never be able to return to his time, traveling to a time that had already happened had been figured out, traveling to the future however, had not been cracked. He was a necessary sacrifice to make the world a better place. Although many theories had been predicted over what could happen, nobody truly knew, would altering the past alter the future, and if so, how would that reflect him, being back in the past? It was an infinite paradox, unless of course travelling back created a new timeline which meant the year and timeline he came from remained unaltered, and he would be setting the course of events for a whole new set of humans. It was mind-boggling, and Sir Iain tended not to dwell on it, he had a job to do, and he would do it. He was terrified, but he never let that show, his time in the military saw him through tough times, earning the ability to shrug off fear like it had no place in him to begin with.

What time to go back to, had been discussed by historians and scientists at length, and they had landed on going back to London in 1888, to prevent Jack the Ripper's murders. As one of the first and most prolific serial killers talked about, the murders he committed were almost a gateway to attract others, and as such, stopping him, could in theory prevent future serial killers like Ted Bundy in the 1970’s and Michelle Fitzgerald in the 2040’s. There was also a very strong case made to send him back to 1938, to prevent Adolf Hitler from starting WWII. This was eventually deemed too risky, although they could calculate where Hitler had been at most given times, it would still be a difficult task to send him back to assassinate the leader of the Nazi party, and if he failed, the fallout of that could be catastrophic.

So here Sir Iain was, flaunting his medal at anyone who cared to look, some looked mildly surprised, where others just completely ignored him. Not like Iain cared, he had just been knighted, and that was a rarity nowadays. Not just awarded to men and women who are good at sports like it used to be. That stopped in the late 21st century, and after then it was only awarded to people who performed extreme acts of bravery. The last person who had been publicly knighted was seven years ago, Pandora Love, a truly remarkable woman who worked as an assistant in an orphanage. The director had a mental breakdown and decided the best thing to do for herself was set the place on fire with herself and sixteen kids in it. The director wasn't aware that Love had shown up early for work and she ended up saving all sixteen kids and suffered 3rd degree burns on both arms and her neck as a result, she was unable to save the director.

Sir Iain's knighthood was the day before his jump, as it had been named, and now he was wishing it was the same day. He had nothing to do between getting home after walking back from Crystal Palace and his midday jump the following day. His apartment was almost cleared out, his personal belongings all donated, there wasn't any point in selling or keeping any, so all he had was the basics and then enough food for dinner and breakfast the next day.

Friday June 15th, 2153

Sir Iain was finally here, standing in front of what was essentially a human sized test tube. Standing 8 feet tall and 4 feet in diameter, the tube was slowly filling with a thick yellow gold plasma.

He had people around him, the scientists, engineers who created the masterpiece in front of his very eyes. They were talking, going through final advice, talking about potentials, what could happen and if he wanted to back out, now was his final chance to. Although he didn't hear any of that, his ears were aimed internally as he pondered what his life had become, thinking back to his childhood, his school years and his army days, figuring out where the turning point in his life had been which lead him to this moment, what decision had he made that became the railroad switch that brought him to this moment? And if he'd made a different decision then, where would he be now? His best guess was joining the army, but to him that was never in question, so does it go back even further, or even was this a decision made for him? Did he even get a choice in his own destiny?

“Sir Iain?” a hand gently grasping his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. Dr Doreen Ashwyn, standing almost a foot shorter and off to his right, was trying to get his attention. Iain swung his gaze towards her almost drunkenly and smiled,

“I'm ready.” he responded, assuming the reasoning for her unintentional disturbing of his internal monologue. For a moment she looked perplexed, almost like she was expecting to have to convince the man to go, then her eyes softened, a slight knowing smile played on her lips and she nodded and turned around, her traditional spotless flowing lab coat tracing her movements like a delayed shadow as she found her way to the holographic keyboard that controlled her almost single handedly designed time machine.

There had been no argument when Sir Iain had been invited to join the close knit committee. It was a not-so-secret committee that got designated the nickname “The Dubs” short for “the w's” or more accurately “the double-u's”, seen as they dealt with the who, what, where, when and why of the operation.

The Dubs had provided a waterproof bag that was filled with essentials he would need for the era, it included one set of clothes, a hunting knife to keep himself protected, a small amount of ammunition for said weapon, and a small fortune of cash. The rest of what he would need, he could procure while he was there. The knife had been debated, there was an argument to be made to not take one at all, and there was an argument to be made for him to take a Webley pistol, the debate had gone for a while. In the end it was decided that there was no point in sending Sir Iain back empty handed, if he were to come across someone with ill intent before he'd been able to obtain a weapon, the mission could be over before it started. But the Webley pistol had not yet been invented and was due just two years later, it had been agreed to be too high a risk, and a timely hunting knife would have to do, besides, Sir Iain was a master in hand to hand combat and should be able to defend himself should the occasion arise.

The outfit was a simple one, not one to draw attention, so nothing too fancy or too clean, and had been designed and created using a modern fabricator - a machine which, if having the correct materials placed in its pouch, could craft clothes of any design or era. Having done a lot of research, they landed on going for lower class dress; dark brown wool trousers, a near white collarless shirt with a dirty open waistcoat, a baker boy cap and some hard leather boots.

The tube had filled up to the line etched on at seven feet tall, enough for Sir Iain to be fully submerged, and yet the displacement created by him going in wouldn't spill the plasma over the side. Beside the tube stood a privacy screen, perplexing Sir Iain, as he was about to climb into the tube in full view of hundreds of physical people, not to mention the millions who would be watching this on their devices. What it did mean though, is that hopefully he would be able to slip his one token he wished to take back with him, but had been forbidden to, his brand new shiny medal, in which he clung to it like a limpet does a rock.

He allowed himself a short moment, a quick breath before stepping out from behind the privacy screen, and climbing the ladder with the bag slung over his shoulder.

“T-minus two minutes” an emotionless voice, it could have been generated for all he knew, or cared, this time before him was his last in this world he knew. This countdown he could hear over the sound of his thoughts could be the end, that's something he hadn't considered much, if this machine that Dr Ashwyn had designed failed he could quite easily not exist anymore. He forced himself not to believe that as he lowered himself into the thick goop.

“T-minus thirty seconds” the crowd watching had begun their slow reduction of noise as chattering faded to nothing like a DJ smoothly turning the volume knob on their mixer. Sir Iain for the first time looked around taking in his surroundings, drinking in the hum and warmth of the electric lights, seeing a hundred faces and seventeen cameras all focused on the machine he was now easily treading water in, all focused on him.

“T-minus ten, nine, eight…” This was it, on four he would dunk his head, and he would count the rest in his head, one last glance around him, mentally signing off and saying goodbye to 2153.

“five, four…” He submerged, and was surrounded instantly by complete and utter silence, he squeezed his eyes shut trying to keep the plasma from getting in.

Three, he was guessing the time he had left, he didn't know for sure it was almost as if time in this plasma wasn't completely linear, maybe he had already made the jump? Surely not, he didn't want to raise his head out just in case he then heard a ‘one’ and his body got sent back without his head.

Two, he thought, it might not even be there yet, he could still be on three, Sir Iain's mind was playing tricks on him, he couldn't tell if he was more nervous or excited for 1888, he genuinely had no idea what to expect.

One, his last second in 2153, his last second spent 265 years in the future, now his future he supposed, even though it was his past. A confusing, bewildering thought, and one not to dwell on too much as it could cause the brain to implode, or so he'd been told.

He felt it, all of a sudden, a rush, like a gust of wind but not quite. The plasma around him had gone, or at least he couldn't feel it anymore. His breath still held, he opened his eyes to try to take in what was around him, but couldn't, his brain, too young, too unadapted, too… Human, couldn't comprehend visually what was happening around him as shapes, blurs, beings whizzed past him at tremendous speeds, not one thing could he gain focus on, and yet he could sense there was a focus on him.

Monday 27th August, 1888

The bank of the river Thames was quiet at midnight, just the gentle sloshing sound of the river's tide rising up the dark sand and then retreating. If anyone were to be paying attention to this particular spot on this cold early morning they might notice a naked man with a bag slung over his shoulder appear and fall to the ground looking dazed and confused, in the uncertain light however, he could have easily been there all night. They could have also noticed a small very slight gust of wind, as an entity broke through a barrier that shouldn't have been there, to appear in a time they had no right being in.

Fortunately for Iain, there was no one watching as he materialised and the shock his body had just gone through forced him to his knees and then to fall sideways. His eyes were fogged and he felt disorientated to the highest degree, dizzy beyond what he had ever felt before, to the point where if anyone were to come across him lying there he wouldn’t have known.

It was some minutes, Iain had no idea how many, before he regained some resemblance of normality, and he was able to rise to a seated position and gather back the dropped bag beside him. Reaching in, he found what he was looking for, and got dressed on the beach, he also retrieved his medal, he held it in his right palm, staring at it, forcing himself to slow his breathing and using that to centre his focus. It worked and as his mind cleared itself of the grogginess, it started to fill itself with the plan they had made for Iain to begin his journey through the late 19th century.

He first needed to find a place to stay, a base of operation almost, either a hotel, or more likely an inn. One had been picked out as his most likely, and was deliberately close to his entry point by the riverside. But there was no way of them knowing whether there were rooms available over 250 years into the past, so he had many options. His primary option was The Bell Pub, an establishment within Whitechapel, and was roughly a fifteen minute walk away from where he had been deposited on the northbank of the river. They decided it was best to find an inn that was associated with the Ripper, but none that had a murder directly linked to it.

Thursday 30th August, 1888

The following few days went by fairly quickly for Iain. He settled into his new time comfortably, and despite the differences between the two times he felt fairly at ease. The Bell Pub was a good home for Iain, the landlord Arthur Cooper - Art for short - was a friendly man, loud and didn't take any shit from his patrons, but friendly nonetheless.

Art was just about the only friend Iain had made so far, if he could call him that. There was a part of him that only thought Art was being nice to him because he was a paying customer, for all three meals and a room as well. But for the most part they did genuinely seem to get on with one another.

Tonight was the first night Iain had something productive to do, it was the night he was to stop and kill Jack the Ripper. Again, there had been speculation over what to do, whether it was best to arrest, beat up, or kill the man responsible for the canonical five. Ultimately the only way to comprehensively complete the task of not having these horrific crimes committed was to end the life of the one who committed them. A tad ruthless? Maybe. But it had been voted as the best option almost unanimously, and quite honestly, after spending hours upon hours reading up over the reports and learning every detail there was to know about all five murders, Iain was happy to take this man out of the history books, forever.

Stew of an undetermined meat sat in front of Iain, no longer steaming, and essentially untouched. The chunks bobbed lazily as Iain mulled over his plan for this evening, the minute hand on his pocket watch constantly moving, turning round an endless circle, showing him more than just the numbers on the face.

It was just past nine in the evening, so he still had hours to kill before making his way to a place called the Frying Pan Public House, which was no longer a building in 2153, but part of a large green park, aiming to make central London more of an environmentally friendly place, there was however a plaque in the large park showing the exact place of the pub,

The last place Mary Ann Nichols had been seen alive in public.

Not entirely true, often when many years pass, history gets skewed and information gets misremembered, this was one of those times. Through a lot of digging and research that Iain had to do, he had found out that Mary had been sighted by and conversed with both the deputy lodging house keeper when she couldn't afford a bed, and a friend of hers named Emily Holland after she had been ordered to leave the premises to which Mary left with the intention of finding money to pay for her bed, presumably through prostitution. After that, the next time she was seen was when her body was found just over an hour later.

Iain was replaying the facts, figures, names and timings in his head, reminding himself where and when he needed to be. He knew he was roughly a fifteen minute walk from the Frying Pan Public House, so for now he just had to sit, eat his dinner and wait until he needed to leave.

Morning, Friday 31st August, 1888

It was early in the morning or a late night depending on how you looked at it, roughly half past midnight, Iain had been in the Frying Pan Public House for 2 hours, to avoid suspicion he had joined in with the locals and had a few drinks, there was a local ale on tap that he had become fond of over the past few days, but he knew he had to keep his head clear, tonight was the night it would happen, today was the day Sir Iain J Wrightson changed history.

He had noticed Mary Ann Nichols when she entered the establishment, and he had kept track of her since, not that it was difficult as she was not just the loudest person in the pub, but Iain thought she must have been the loudest person he had ever encountered. Not necessarily in a bad way, she seemed to be well liked, and most of her loudness was jovial laughter or starting a group sing along. By the time half past midnight rolled around, Mary was heavily intoxicated and it was time for her to leave the pub. Iain followed as subtly and nonchalantly as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself, not that it mattered too much, as long as Iain completed the job he was sent back to do, he would never have to be seen in or around this area again. In fact he had a plan to retire into the country and live a hopefully long and healthy life.

He followed her, keeping close enough to not lose her, but not so close that she noticed, although in these quiet streets it would be obvious to anyone who looked their way that he was tailing her. She reached her proposed destination of the lodging house, without referring to his pocket watch or notes, Iain knew it was roughly 1:20am. Mary would only be in there for a short period of time and then…

“I'll soon get my doss money. See what a jolly bonnet I've got now.” Iain heard her say from halfway down the road, after hearing the voice, he then saw the lady backing out of the lodging house doffing her cap in mock sincerity as she exited the building, staggering still from the alcohol.

Despite the late hour, Iain was wide awake, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He had the knife he brought back from 2153 strapped to his belt, and as a precaution he had bought himself a smaller second knife which he had strapped to his calf. It was a cold night, but the few pints he'd had at the Frying Pan had provided him with a nice warm layer to protect him from the elements.

The time was nigh, it had reached a point in time where it could happen at any moment now, 3am was just around the corner and any recorded sightings had happened already, so in theory the next sighting of her would be her last. Iain watched on as Mary found a street corner to stand on and hopefully make some money for a bed this evening.

The minutes dragged on, Mary found no one to bed with, and fell into a slumber on the roadside, fuelled by the alcohol.

Still, the minutes passed, Iain had been so intent on keeping the closest of eyes on Mary and her surroundings, he hadn't checked his pocket watch for some time, but he knew it was any moment. With a fear of missing something he risked a check of his pocket watch, leaning out of the way of the lamplight, he noted the time, 3:42. It should happen now, in fact, it should have already happened, her body was meant to be discovered at 3:40, and not here. Something was wrong, or not necessarily wrong, but different.

Mary was alive.

Absurdly drunk and unconscious, but alive.

Iain waited, if he left now and the murder happened just a few minutes after the records say then he would be proved a fool, and he would have to stick around and wait for the second recorded murder and stop that. Not only that, there was a risk that history would play out exactly the same due to the gruesome nature of the murder, it could still spark the same future interest in killers.

As it happened, no one even vaguely suspicious came by for the next two hours while Mary slept soundly. Had Iain's presence here already changed the course of history? Had the ripple of time caused by him popping into existence just over 3 days ago already changed events so much that his interference wasn't needed? Or was it something more, something deeper, something that even Iain himself couldn't understand?

The morning sun brought with it the tweeting of birds, the knocker uppers were walking about the city rapping seemingly random people's windows, awakening them for their days of work, and the bustle of people started to grow ever more prominent. Iain still waited, adrenaline was low now, but still fuelling his energy, still ready for any eventuality. He had wondered if he had the wrong day, but his accounts of the night were fully accurate almost to the minute so he dismissed that notion. The only plausible explanation was his first thought he'd had, his being here in 1888 had already changed the course of history.

A friend of Mary's arrived, a woman, the same woman that passed her in the street in the early hours, the same woman that should have been the last person to see her alive, Emily Holland. She awoke Mary, and half dragged her off the street and away, Iain, still expecting something to happen, and with just the slightest hint of suspicion, followed.

There was nothing to be suspicious about, Emily had bought her friend a bed in which she placed Mary in and left her. Iain had nothing left to do, in this eventuality he had no plan, on one hand his job was done, Jack the Ripper didn't commit his first (recorded) murder, therefore changing the course of history. On the other hand, Iain hadn't done anything, he hadn't stopped the killer, what if his being here had only slightly altered events so that the murder happened the following night, did he now need to follow and keep track of Mary? Or would it now happen to a completely different girl? Or had it happened tonight, just to somebody else?

Afternoon, Friday 31st August, 1888

Iain had returned to The Bell Pub, the familiarity of it making it feel like home, at least the closest to home he could get. He caught a few hours sleep before riding for a late breakfast and checking the newspapers for anything that might have happened in the early hours that Iain could have missed. But there was nothing, he couldn't shake the real sense of unease flowing through him, there was something in him that told him it was all wrong. His being here shouldn't have created a ripple big enough to stop that in just a few short days, so what was he missing?

He couldn't settle, he paced his room, he kept picking up the paper and rereading the same articles looking for things he missed. Eventually he left, for some reason taking the paper with him. He didn't forget to strap the two knives to himself, concealing the belt strap with a long coat.

Aimlessly Iain walked, his legs took him to the bakery first and when his brain caught up to where he was he had no intention of being there. His legs took him off again while his brain worked overtime trying to figure out what was wrong and why this feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't going away. It didn't feel right, something was off, what was it? He replayed the events of the night again, like he had a thousand times already, had he missed anything? No, he was certain, he hadn't missed anything, things just didn't go the way they were supposed to go.

His brain fog cleared for a moment allowing him to take in his surroundings, recognising he was close to the Frying Pan.

What was that?

He paused. His eyes darted upwards, something had drawn his gaze, a flicker of movement. Was it one of the windows? A curtain being pulled perhaps? Or someone lurking on a rooftop who ducked back behind cover before Iain's gaze rested upon them? It could have just as easily been a bird flying past, but something told him it wasn't.

A second thing caught his eye, again on the edge of his vision, he looked right, scanning, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

He was feeling unwell, a headache that had been trying to break through since he woke up now flared into a vicious migraine, the light from the sun attacked his eyes like he was being stabbed, the sounds around him exploded in his ears like a bomb had gone off right next to him. For a small moment his vision cleared and he saw a sky turned dark full of a swarm of fluttering rodent sized bugs, they flooded towards him like a tidal wave crashing down onto a crab and his whole world got turned upside down, the floor came rushing up to meet him and punched him square in the face knocking him unconscious.

Eyes opened, were they his? He wasn't sure. A vast expanse of grey was before him, he shifted to look around but his body didn't feel right, was he standing? He felt upright, but he couldn't feel the pressure of gravity, nor could he feel the force of his feet against the ground. A dream then, or a nightmare? Perhaps a vision? This all felt too real and yet not real enough.

“Sir Iain Jack Wrightson, born 1st of January 2100 at midnight.” Said a huge booming voice surrounding Iain, it came from everywhere and nowhere, he didn't know where to look to address the voice. It wasn't a question, but a statement, whoever it was already knew exactly who Iain was.

“Yes.” Iain responded, unable to say anymore.

“You were born right at the turn of the century, and what you won't know is that you were the first child born in the 22nd century. A blessing, as all life is, but for you unfortunately it is a curse. My kind all know your name and story, the tragic tale of Sir Iain J Wrightson, it is the first of many time travel attempts by humans to change history, and in all cases as you are soon to find out, it will always unfortunately fail.

History must go one way, there are no branches, there are no parallel or alternate timelines. We live on a straight line of time that cannot and must not be altered. You were destined to make the greatest mistake a human can make, from the day you were born.”

Iain's mind was reeling, whoever, whatever this was, the voice talking to him was making no sense, yet perfect sense at the same time. The vast grey he was looking at was morphing, becoming shapes around him. He could see rubble, rubbish, broken glass and wood, he couldn't see a single building, or anything intact. Everything, everywhere was broken into millions of pieces.

“What is this place?” Iain asked quietly. His voice sounded wrong, distorted almost. The surrounding voice continued, and all Iain could do was listen, he knew even if he tried to cover his ears it wouldn't stop the voice.

“This?” The voice said incredulously as Iain looked around slowly, nodding in response, “this is London my friend, just a few months ahead of how you know it, imagine what it would be in a few years, or a few hundred years. Time is sacred, and fragile, when it gets messed with, it completely shatters. Unfortunately our kind are not able to intervene, we can only guide once the mistakes have been made. Humans will forever try to change history to make a better future when in reality they need to change the present.”

Iain was starting to understand, the past he'd come back to change, could not change. His last couple of years preparing for this journey had been wasted, the dream of 2153 was doomed to fail, and Iain was to stay here in this time. The rubble around him was starting to blur and blend back together into one continuous grey colour, he couldn't stay here much longer.

“We do not have much time left here,” the voice said as if it was reading Iain's mind, “we have kept you too long already, but you know what you need to do.” Iain suddenly saw a vision, a vision of what he must do and he was disgusted, horrified, even terrified by it. The shapes had completely lost all sense of being, he couldn't pick anything out now, he could just see grey. All of a sudden he started to rise, he was floating above his own body. He could see his body gradually getting smaller, it was a strange feeling floating away from his own body, he could still hear the voice just quieter now as he started to lose consciousness. “Do what you have to do, for the sake of humanity.”

Morning, Friday 31st August, 1888

Mary Ann Nichols had been stumbling around for hours, she decided to stop stumbling around on a street corner she had been successful on before.

She vaguely remembered brushing past Emily not so long ago as she walked away from the lodging house. Looking around she saw no one, but still decided here was as good a place as any.

She saw someone, a man, a little bit older, she liked them older. She smiled, waved and cooed at him.

He wandered over, slowly, lazily, as if he didn't want to be there, but he knew what she was, and she knew he wanted her.

His smile was sad, and genuine. He didn't look drunk, nor did he look lustful. His lips moved but no sound came out.

“Say… ssay that again ssiirr.” She slurred, as she swayed on her feet, giving him her best smile to try to hide the drunkenness.

“I'm sorry.” He said, barely a whisper. And Mary Ann Nichols didn't have time to scream as she saw the knife in his hand plunging down towards her.

Friday June 15th, 2153

The crowd was silent, as if the room were filled with ghosts, then all of a sudden they exploded with clapping and laughter, cheering and whooping as they saw the empty tube in front of them that temporarily housed Sir Iain J Wrightson suddenly completely empty.

Dr Ashwyn stared almost unbelievingly at the empty tube in front of her, the crowd behind her barraging her ears with applause. It felt like she could feel the whole country behind her, lifting her up. She turned to take it all in, soaking the applause in like a sponge with water. She let the ovation die down before making a small speech that was listened to by millions of people across the world. Another round of applause as she left the room to handshakes and nods of accomplishment from all who have worked closely with her.

Tuesday, January 1st, 2154

“Prime Minister, It is safe to assume that our plan has failed. We have had no indication that Sir Iain was able to change the past, or in fact any indication that he even made it back to 1888. The only assumption we can make from this is that something went horribly wrong.”