The Map of Time

  The echo of footsteps interrupted his reverie. His heart began beating faster, and he ran to hide round the corner of one of the neighboring flats. 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, a 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 out for 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 fluttered like a leaf in a sudden gust of wind. That night, like so many others, Marie Kelly was staggering home from the Britannia, only 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 his beloved pause outside the door to her tiny room. He had to stop himself from running towards her. He felt his eyes grow moist with tears as he watched her straighten up in a drunken effort to regain her balance, adjust her hat, which was in danger of toppling off with the constant swaying of her body, and 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, and 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 realize 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 practiced, 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 his beloved’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 own 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 everything described in the article Andrew had been carrying around in his pocket for eight years, even though it had not yet been written, an article, which, because of his leapfrogging through time, seemed more like a prediction than a description of events. Except that unlike then, he was there ready to change it. Viewed in this light, what he was about to do felt like touching up an already completed painting, like adding a brushstroke to The Three Graces or The Girl with the Pearl Earrings.

  After gleefully establishing that his victim was alone, the Ripper cast a final glance around him. He seemed pleased, overjoyed even, at the entrenched calm of the place that would allow him to commit his crime in unexpected, pleasant seclusion. His attitude incensed Andrew, and he stepped brashly out of his hiding place without even considering the possibility of shooting him from there. Suddenly, the act of finishing the Ripper off from a distance thanks to the sanitized intervention of a weapon seemed too cold, impersonal, and dissatisfying. His intense rage required him to take the man’s life in a more intimate way—possibly by strangling him with his bare hands, smashing his skull with the butt of his pistol, or by any other means that would allow him to take more of a part in his demise, to feel his contemptible life gradually ebbing away at a rhythm he himself imposed. But as he strode resolutely towards the monster, Andrew realized that however keen he was to engage in hand-to-hand combat, his opponent’s colossal stature and his own inexperience of that kind of fighting made any strategy that did not involve the use of the weapon inadvisable.

  In front of the door to the little room, the Ripper watched him approach with calm curiosity, wondering perhaps where on earth this fellow had sprung from. Andrew stopped prudently about five yards away from him, like a child who fears being mauled by the lion if he gets too close to the cage. He was unable to make out the man’s face in the dark, but perhaps that was just as well. He raised the revolver, and, doing as Charles had suggested, aimed at the man’s chest. Had he fired straight away, in cold blood, giving no thought to what he was doing, as if it were just another step in the wild sequence of events he appeared to be caught up in, everything would have gone according to plan: his action would have been swift and precise, like a surgical intervention. But unfortunately, Andrew did stop to think about what he was doing; it suddenly dawned on him that he was about to shoot a man, not a deer, not a bottle, and the idea that killing someone was such an easy, impulsive act anyone was capable of seemed to overwhelm him. His finger froze in the trigger. The Ripper tilted his head to one side, half surprised, half mocking, and then Andrew watched as his hand clutching the revolver started to shake. This weakened his already feeble resolve, while the Ripper, emboldened by this brief hesitation, swiftly pulled a knife from inside his coat and hurled himself at Andrew in search of his jugular. Ironically, his frenzied charge was what released Andrew’s trigger finger. A sudden, quick, almost abrupt explosion pierced the silence of the night. The bullet hit the man right in the middle of the chest. Still aiming at him, Andrew watched him stagger backwards. He lowered the warm, smoking gun, no less astonished at having used it as he was to find himself still in one piece after fending off that surprise attack. This though was not strictly true, as he soon discovered from the sharp pain in his left shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the Ripper, who was swaying before him like a bear standing on its hind legs, he felt for the source of the pain, and discovered that the knife, although it had missed his main artery, had ripped through the shoulder of his jacket and sliced into his flesh. Despite the blood flowing merrily from the wound, it did not appear very deep. Meanwhile, the Ripper was taking his time to prove whether or not Andrew’s shot had been fatal.

  After bobbing around clumsily, he doubled over, letting go of the knife dripping with Andrew’s blood, which ricocheted over the cobblestones and disappeared into the shadows. Then, after giving a hoarse bellow, he bent down on one knee, as though to acknowledge in his murderer the traits of nobility, and continued to moan with a few reedier, more staccato versions of his original grunt. Finally, just when Andrew was beginning to tire of all this display of dying and was toying with the idea of kicking the man to the ground, he collapsed in a heap onto the cobblestones and lay there, stretched out at his feet.

  Andrew was about to kneel down and check the man’s pulse when Marie Kelly, no doubt alarmed by the skirmish, opened the door to her little room. Before she could recognize him, and, resisting the temptation to look at her after eight years of her being dead, Andrew turned on his heel. No longer worried about the corpse, he ran towards the exit as he heard her scream, “Murder, murder!” Only when he had reached the stone archway did he allow himself to look back over his shoulder. He saw his beloved kneeling down in a shimmering halo of light, gently closing the eyes of the man, who in a far-off time, in a world that had taken on the consistency of a dream, had mutilated her to the point where she was unrecognizable.

  The horse was standing where he had left it. Out of breath from running, Andrew mounted and rode off as fast as he could.

  Despite his agitation, he managed to find his way out of the maze of alleyways and onto the main road that would take him back to Woking. It was only when he had left London that he began to calm down, to acknowledge what he had done. He had killed a man, but at least he had done so in self-defense. And besides, it had not been any man. He had killed Jack the Ripper, saved Marie Kelly, changed events that had already taken place. He urged the horse on violently, anxious to travel back to his own time and discover the results of his
action. If things had gone well, then Marie would not only be alive but would probably be his wife. Would they have had a child, possibly two or three? He drove the horse to the limit, as though afraid this idyllic present would dissolve like a mirage if he took too long to reach it.

  Woking was still bathed in the same serene calm that had so roused his suspicions a few hours earlier. Now, though, he was grateful for that tranquillity which would allow him to end his mission without further incident. He leapt off the horse and opened the gate, but something made him stop dead in his tracks: a figure was waiting for him beside the door to the house.

  Andrew immediately remembered what had happened to Wells’s friend, and realized this must be some sort of guardian of time with orders to kill him for having meddled with the past. Trying hard not to give way to panic, he pulled the gun from his pocket as fast as he could and aimed it at the man’s chest, just as his cousin had suggested he do with the Ripper. The intruder dived to one side and rolled across the lawn until he was swallowed up by darkness. Andrew tried to follow the man’s catlike movements with his revolver, not knowing what else to do, until he saw him nimbly scale the fence and leap into the road.

  Only when he heard the tap of his feet running away did he lower his weapon, calming himself by taking slow deep breaths.

  Could that man have killed Wells’s friend? He did not know, but now that he had escaped, it did not matter very much. Andrew gave him no more thought and began climbing back up the creeper. This he was obliged to do using only one arm, as his wounded left shoulder had started to throb painfully at the slightest effort. Even so, he managed to reach the attic, where the time machine stood waiting for him. Exhausted and a little faint owing to the loss of blood, he collapsed onto the seat, set the return date on the contraption’s control panel, and after bidding 1888 farewell with a longing gaze, pulled on the glass lever without delay.

  This time he felt no fear at all when the flashing lights engulfed him, only the pleasant sensation of going home.

  16

  Once the sparks had stopped flying, leaving wisps of smoke swirling in the air like feathers after a pillow fight, Andrew was surprise to see Charles, Wells, and his wife huddled by the door exactly as he had left them. He attempted a triumphant smile but only managed a weak grimace due to his light-headedness and his increasingly painful wound. As he prepared to climb down from the machine, the others were able to glimpse with horror his blood-soaked sleeve.

  “Good God, Andrew!” shouted his cousin, leaping towards him. “What happened to you?” “It’s nothing, Charles,” replied Andrew, leaning on him to steady himself. “Only a scratch.” Wells took his other arm, and between them, the two men helped him down the attic stairs. Andrew tried to walk on his own, but seeing that they ignored his efforts, meekly allowed himself to be guided into a small sitting room, just as at that moment he would have let himself be carried off by a horde of demons to the depths of hell itself. There was nothing else he could do: the buildup of nervous tension, the loss of blood, and the arduous ride had completely drained all his energy. They sat him down gently on the armchair nearest the hearth, where a roaring fire was blazing. After examining his wound with what looked to Andrew like an annoyed twist of the mouth, Wells ordered his wife to fetch bandages and everything else necessary to stem the bleeding. He all but told her to hurry up before the gushing flow permanently ruined the carpet. Almost at once the fire’s healing warmth calmed his shivering, but it also threatened to send him to sleep. Luckily, it occurred to Charles to give him a glass of brandy, which he even helped raise to his lips. The alcohol took the edge off his giddiness and the crushing fatigue he felt. Jane soon returned and began seeing to his wound with the neat competence of a war nurse. She cut away his jacket sleeve with a pair of scissors, then applied a series of stinging potions and dressings to the knife wound. To finish off she bandaged it tightly, before stepping back to contemplate her handiwork. It was only when the most pressing issue had been resolved that the motley rescue team gathered eagerly around the chair where Andrew lay in a state of semicollapse. They waited for him to recount what had happened. As though he had dreamt it, Andrew remembered the Ripper lying on the ground, and Marie closing his eyes. That could only mean he had succeeded.

  “I did it,” he announced, trying to sound enthusiastic despite his fatigue. “I killed Jack the Ripper.” His words triggered an outburst of joy, which Andrew observed with amused surprise. After pelting him with pats on his back, they flung their arms around one another, crying out their praise and abandoning themselves to wild excitement more suited to New Year celebrations or pagan rituals. Realizing how unrestrained their reaction was, the three of them calmed down and gazed at him again with a mixture of tenderness and curiosity.

  Andrew grinned back at them, slightly embarrassed, and when it seemed no one had anything else to say, he looked around him for any telltale signs that his brushstroke had altered the present.

  His gaze fell on the cigar box lying on the table, which he remembered contained the cutting. Their eyes followed his.

  “So,” said Wells, reading his thoughts. “You threw a pebble into a still pond and now you are itching to see the ripples it made. Let’s not put it off any longer. It’s time to see whether you really have changed the past.” Adopting the role of master of ceremonies once more, Wells walked over to the table, solemnly picked up the box, and presented it to Andrew with the lid open, like one of the Three Wise Men offering his gift of incense. Andrew took the cutting, trying to stop his hand from shaking too much, and felt his heart miss several beats as he began to unfold it. No sooner had he done so than he found himself contemplating the exact same headline as he had been reading for years. Scanning the article, he realized the contents were also unchanged: as if nothing had happened, the news item related the brutal murder of Marie Kelly at the hands of Jack the Ripper, and his subsequent capture by the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. Andrew looked at Wells, bewildered. How could this be? “But I killed him,” he protested, feebly, “this can’t be right …” Wells examined the cutting, thoughtfully. Everyone in the room gazed at him, waiting for his verdict. After a few moments absorbed in the cutting, he gave a murmur of comprehension. He straightened up, and without looking at anyone, began pacing silently around the room. Owing to its narrow dimensions, he had to be content to circle the table a few times, hands thrust in his pockets, nodding from time to time as if to reassure the others that his grasp of the matter was growing. Finally, he paused before Andrew and smiled at him dolefully.

  “You saved the girl, Mr. Harrington,” he observed with quiet conviction, “there is no doubt in my mind about that.” “But, in that case … ,” stammered Andrew, “why is she still dead?” “Because she must continue being dead in order for you to travel back in time to save her,” the author declared, as though stating the obvious.

  Andrew blinked, unable to fathom what Wells was trying to say.

  “Think about it: if she had still been alive, would you have come to my house? Don’t you see that by killing her murderer and preventing her from being ripped to shreds you have eliminated your reasons for traveling back in time? And if there’s no journey, there’s no change. As you can see, the two events are inseparable,” explained Wells, brandishing the cutting, which with its original heading corroborated his theory.

  Andrew nodded slowly, glancing at the others, who looked as bewildered as he.

  “It isn’t all that complicated,” scoffed Wells, amused at his audience’s bewilderment. “I’ll explain it in a different way. Imagine what must have happened after Andrew traveled back to this spot in the time machine: his other self must have arrived at Marie Kelly’s room, but instead of finding his beloved with her entrails exposed to the elements, he found her alive, kneeling by the body of the man whom police would soon identify as Jack the Ripper.

  An unforeseen avenger had stepped out of nowhere and murdered the Ripper before he could add Marie Kelly to his list
of victims.

  And thanks to this stranger, Andrew will be able to live with her happily ever after, although the irony is that he will never know he has you, I mean himself, to thank for it,” the author concluded, gazing at him excitedly, with the eagerness of a child expecting to see a tree spring up moments after he has planted a seed. Noticing that Andrew continued to look at him nonplussed, he added: “It is as though your action has caused a split in time, created a sort of alternative universe, a parallel world, if you like. And in that world Marie Kelly is alive and happy with your other self. Unfortunately, you are in the wrong universe.” Andrew watched as Charles nodded, increasingly persuaded by Wells’s explanation, then turned to look at him, hoping to find his cousin equally convinced. But Andrew needed a few more moments to mull over the writer’s words. He lowered his head, trying to ignore the others” enquiring looks in order to consider the matter calmly. Given that nothing in his reality seemed to have changed, his journey in the time machine could not only be considered useless, but it was debatable whether it had even taken place. Yet he knew it had been real. He could not forget the image of Marie, and the gun going off, and the jolt it had sent up his arm, and above all the wound to his shoulder— that nasty gash he had brought back with him, like an irrefutable mark that prevented everything that had happened from being merely a dream. Yes, those events had really occurred, and the fact that he could not see their effects did not mean there weren’t any, as Wells had quickly realized. Just as a tree’s roots grow around a rock, so the consequences of his action, which could not simply vanish into thin air, had created another reality, a parallel world in which he and Marie Kelly were living happily together, a world that would not have existed if he had not traveled back in time. This meant he had saved his beloved, even though he was not able to enjoy her. All he had was the comforting satisfaction of knowing that he had prevented her death, that he had done everything in his power to make amends. At least his other self would enjoy her, he thought, with a degree of resignation.