To Kill Again: Episode One (6 page)

Blurred focus shifts slowly to clarity...

Laying on a single bed, a bearded Dyson, his hair much longer, rubs his eyes and looks about the room.

Peeling paint and paper. A fire crackles in a grate at the foot of the bed, giving the room its only light. Dirty muslin hangs in two windows. Between them, a small table holds his neatly folded clothes.

Dyson’s brows furrow; the obvious look of recognition battling with intense confusion.

DYSON
: (weakly) What is... I’ve seen this...

He tries to sit up for a better perspective, but yelps with pain. He pulls back a single blanket to find he’s naked, except for a neatly applied bandage around his gut.

He looks back, at a cheap print above the bed of a knight resplendent in armor.

DYSON
: I
know
this room! But that’s --

The door creaks opens. The fire weakly illuminates a woman. As she enters the flames redden on a beautiful face. She smiles down at Dyson, speaking in a soft Irish tone.

WOMAN
: And how’s my patient today?

She sits on the edge of the bed. Removes her bonnet. Deep auburn hair cascades down her shoulders.

DYSON
: (together) Where am –

WOMAN
: (together) Your dressing needs --

Beat. They laugh awkwardly. Exchange nervous glances.

DYSON
: Ladies first.

WOMAN
: Why, thank you. I’ll have to check your dressing again soon, Mr...

DYSON
: Dyson. John Dyson.

He holds out a weak hand. The woman takes it with a smile.

WOMAN
: Then I’m very pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Dyson. My name’s Mary. Mary Jane Kelly.

Dyson snatches back his hand. His instantly horrified face floods with sweat.

Jesus fucking Christ
!

Prostitute MARY JANE KELLY, the vivacious, 24 year-old final victim of Jack the Ripper, stares bewildered at him.

WOMAN/MARY
: Whatever is the matter, Mr. Dyson?

Dyson doesn’t answer. He can’t even bring himself to look at her. She stands, tossing her bonnet down on top of his clothes.

MARY
: I would have thought you’d be a little more grateful. I did save your life after all.

She looks down at him. Dyson doesn’t reciprocate.

MARY
: You’d been rolled. They took everything. Went through you like a dose I’d imagine. I could’ve left you to die.

DYSON
: Then you should’ve. You should’ve done that. Or taken me to the -- why didn’t you just take me to the hospital?

Scratching the irritating beard, he risks a peek at her.

She is absolutely beautiful. Too beautiful to lead the desperate life that she does, in such a wretched place.

MARY
: And let those drunken butchers loose on you? I think not. My father taught me some nursing when I was a wee girl.

And then the beard registers. Dyson sits bolt upright, ignoring the pain.

DYSON
: How long have... What’s the date?

MARY
: Pardon me?

DYSON
:
The date? How long have I been here? What’s the date?

MARY
: Why, it’s the 30th.

DYSON
: Of September?!

MARY
: The fever had you. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for nearly a month. Your wound became infected, I had --

Dyson jumps out of bed. His legs instantly buckle and he collapses to the floor.

MARY
: What on earth! Get back in --

DYSON
: I’ve missed two!

MARY
: Two what?

DYSON
: And the next two are... (under breath) ...
tonight
. The Double Event. I have to go.

He pulls himself back up, grabbing his clothes. Begins to dress.

DYSON
: What’s the time?

MARY
: Get back in bed. You’re too weak --

DYSON
: What is the time?!

Mary scowls at him. Stamps a foot.

MARY
: Why, you’re very rude, Mr. --

DYSON
:
Please
? Please can you just tell me the --

MARY
: Midnight! I passed by the Bells at midnight. It must be just after.

Dyson pulls on his shirt. It’s still stained with his faded blood.

MARY
: I tried to wash that off, but it --

DYSON
: Doesn’t matter. I’ve gotta go.

MARY
: You know you’ll probably die?

Dyson ignores her concerns. Buttons up his jacket to conceal the bloodstains. He begins to search the room for --

DYSON
: My boots? Where are my boots?

MARY
: You didn’t have any boots. They must have taken them.

DYSON
: What?!

He looks down at his woollen socks.

DYSON
: Oh, this just keeps getting better.

He shuffles to the door. Doesn’t dare look back at Mary.

DYSON
: Thank you.

MARY
: Wait! Here...

Dyson turns to find her holding out a pair of scuffed black boots.

MARY
: They belonged to a... gentleman friend. Probably a bit tight for you, but... well, they’re all I’ve got.

Their eyes finally meet. She smiles at him, he at her, until Dyson snatches the boots. He forces them on and leaves the room without another word.

EXT. BERNER STREET, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT

Through thickening fog, we look down from the road sign on a wall. Dyson staggers into view. He looks around and secretes himself in a shadowy alcove.

Minutes drag. Dyson shakes with intense pain. He swipes another wave of sweat from his face, his breath coming in ragged spurts. He freezes. Listens...

A woman’s uneven footsteps begin to echo. Growing louder with each step.

Dyson holds his breath. This is it. History in the making.

Prostitute ELIZABETH STRIDE, 44, Jack the Ripper’s third victim, staggers from the fog. Obviously very drunk, the haggard, stick-thin woman clings to a wall for support.

Dyson winces. Feels his wound. His fingers covered with thick blood. He pushes back the pain.

Stride launches herself onward until she stops outside a set of open double gates. A sign on the wall reads ‘DUTFIELD’S YARD’. A black cat begins to prowl toward her.

STRIDE
: ‘ere, puss. ‘ere, puss.

The cat stops. Looks up at her. It begins to weave itself between her legs.

STRIDE
: My, what a lovely little thing you are.

The cat stops and hisses. Not at her, but in the direction of fresh footsteps. The heavy fall of a man this time.

Dyson watches from his vantage point as the cat dashes away in the opposite direction.

A large, muscular shape emerges from the fog.

Dressed similarly shabby to Dyson, and sporting a thick moustache, he makes his way toward Stride, never taking his hawk-like eyes from her.

She welcomes him with a smile as a clock somewhere strikes one o’clock: the time of her death. Stride says something unheard. The man doesn’t reply, coming to a stand inches from her.

DYSON
: (whispers) Who are you, Jack?

The man, THE RIPPER, moves behind Stride and begins to massage her bony shoulders. She smiles, whispering to him. He says something muffled in replay.

DYSON
: What are you saying?

Stride’s expression suddenly changes. She shakes her head.

STRIDE
: No!

She stumbles away, the Ripper catching her before she hits the ground. He begins to spit rapid, whispered words at her. Stride shakes her head again.

Then two things happen simultaneously:

- the Ripper’s face clouds with intense anger. His eyes seem to glow with rage. He throws Stride down on the cobbles.

- and out of the fog another man enters the scene. A Hungarian immigrant and probably the best witness the police ever had in 1888.

FLASHBACK - EXT. DORSET STREET - NIGHT

Dyson guides a group of obvious tourists on a Jack the Ripper walk. A mix of fat Americans, eager Japanese and rigid Germans hang on his every word as he stops dead in the centre of the deserted street.

DYSON
: Israel Schwartz!

END FLASHBACK

Timid as the proverbial mouse, ISRAEL SCHWARTZ crosses the street on seeing the developing row. He gives the Ripper a long, horrified look and hurries on.

DYSON
: (O.S.) He saw two men. One with Stride...

Something about that expression etched on Schwartz’s face makes Dyson narrow his eyes.

DYSON
: (O.S.) And another, hidden in the shadows. Watching him.

Schwartz sees Dyson and crosses back to the center of the street. Scuttles away.

FLASHBACK - EXT. DORSET STREET - NIGHT

Quick cut snippets of Dyson delivering portions of his spiel for his eager audience.

DYSON
: That second man would follow Schwartz. (cut) Schwartz would later tell the police he didn’t know the man that followed him. (cut) And that he didn’t know the man with Elizabeth Stride.

END FLASHBACK

Back on Dyson. He can’t shake Schwartz’s frozen expression. A cop his whole life, Dyson knows the look. The look of recognition.

DYSON
: You do know him!

The Ripper notices Schwartz. He watches him until the fog swallows him, then turns back to Stride. Cries out to her in what sounds to be heavy eastern European.

THE RIPPER
: Lizzie!

Dyson returns to the Ripper and Stride... but slowly turns to where Schwartz vanished. His brows furrow as he tries to fathom out what the hell’s happening, babbling quietly to himself.

DYSON
: Schwartz tells the police he doesn’t know Jack... but he does. He does. He knows him.
I know that
. So why... why lie to the police? (beat) If you tell them you know him... and they arrest him... then there is no mystery. There is no Jack the Ripper!

He drags blistering sweat from tortured features.

DYSON
: But you don’t tell the... Why don’t you tell the police? If you did tell them... what happens to me? What happens to me here?

He turns even paler at consequences he can’t even begin to comprehend. He gives the Ripper and Stride one last look before slipping away unnoticed after Schwartz.

On her knees, facing into the street, Stride screams. The Ripper positions himself behind her and pulls a long, sharp knife from within his jacket.

Dyson hears another weak scream as he charges drunkenly after Schwartz.

Elizabeth Stride is dead.

EXT. ELLEN STREET, WHITECHAPEL - MOMENTS LATER

Schwartz stops to catch his breath.

Suddenly, Dyson charges into him, knocking him flying into the wall of a tiny cottage and grabbing his collars. He’s drenched in blood, delirious and fighting hard to stay conscious.

DYSON
: Listen-listen to me!

The little man cowers away. Plainly terrified.

SCHWARTZ
: I know nothing! Please no kill me!

DYSON
: You know him, don’t you? I know that look!
You know him
. Who-who is he?

Feeling his legs buckling, Dyson tightens his grip on Schwartz, more for support than to threaten.

SCHWARTZ
: I no know his name, but I know where he lives. I see him.

DYSON
: Where?

SCHWARTZ
: Cannon Place, number nine. A lodging house. I stay there until several weeks past.

Holding back the pain, Dyson leans against the wall, taking one hand off Schwartz’s collars.

SCHWARTZ
: Are you a policeman, sir?

Dyson manages a painful nod.

SCHWARTZ
: You are ill. You are dying.

Exploding in a coughing fit of laughter, Dyson releases Schwartz. Slips down the wall.

Schwartz watches him nervously, in two minds whether to stay or flee.

DYSON
: Listen to... listen to me. A detective will... come-come and speak to you. Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline. Remember his name! He’s in charge of the... the investigation. Never tell him you met me.

SCHWARTZ
: But why?

DYSON
: Tell him you saw the man and woman arguing... and then you... you saw me... and-and... I followed you... but I lost you. You understand?

Schwartz clearly doesn’t. He shakes his head.

SCHWARTZ
: Why I lie to another policeman?

DYSON
: I don’t... I don’t know. Because I think I might be trapped here if you don’t.

SCHWARTZ
: Here? You do not make sense --

Dyson lashes out. Grabs his jacket and pulls him down. Inches from his face.

DYSON
: You do what I say! Because if you don’t,
Israel Schwartz
, I’ll... I will find you and...
I will kill you
!

Schwartz gasps and staggers back.

SCHWARTZ
: How you know my name?!

DYSON
: I know more than that. I know where you live, where you work. I know
everything
about you. So, you tell... you tell Abberline... I followed you... but... but lost you.
Do you understand
?

SCHWARTZ
: Yes-yes! You follow me, but you lose me. Yes, I understand. Please don’t --

DYSON
: Good! Now... get out of here!

Schwartz watches him for a beat as he begins to mumble incoherently to himself.

DYSON
: I can’t... I don’t need to go to... the... the next murder. Catherine Eddowes. I know where... where you are, Jack.

Schwartz has seen enough. He takes off, running for his life.

Dyson clenches the reopened knife wound, his hands awash with blood. He begins to laugh, perspiration pouring from his bleached face.

He rolls onto his back. Looks up at the stars; bright and unpolluted by modern city lighting.

Breath struggling, Dyson begins to slur weakly to an imaginary Ripper.

DYSON
: I... I made you what you are, Jack. I did. If-if Schwartz had told Abberline everything... they would’ve got you.
You... would’ve... hung
. I made you a legend... by... by stopping Schwartz. (beat) But now... now I know where you are. I’ll get you, you piece of shit. Take you home.