RATSKI: One more thing. Don’t kill him, Detective. He’s no use to us dead.
DYSON: Don’t kill him? I don’t kill people, Ratski. I leave that to you.
He yanks his arm free and heads into the claws.
INT. CONTROL ROOM, WAREHOUSE - MOMENTS LATER
Watching Dyson standing between the claws, Ratski turns to the Technicians and nods.
RATSKI: You have the go, gentlemen.
The Technicians set to work, tapping away at high-tech keyboards, each topped by several screens displaying a variety of information: data scrolls, claw integrity, current and travel times and dates, etc.
TECHNICIAN: Claw integrity, 100 percent and holding.
TECHNICIAN #2: Core temperature is stable.
TECHNICIAN #3: (together) Online in five... four... three... two... one.
TECHNICIAN #4: (together) Syncing power grab. Three... two... one.
EXT. AERIAL VIEW OF EAST LONDON - CONTINUOUS
We see lights suddenly blink and extinguish on every building in the Whitechapel area.
CLOSER:
- Whitechapel Police Station. Plunged into darkness.
- the Royal London Hospital. Silhouetted against the night sky.
- Whitechapel Underground Station. Trains come to a grinding halt.
- a major road junction. A sudden absence of traffic lights causes vehicles to screech and collide.
INT. WAREHOUSE, COLBART STREET - CONTINUOUS
Dyson’s whole body begins to shake as a hum of pure electricity begins to grow. All four claws start to glow. An automated COUNTDOWN rings out from a speaker somewhere.
COUNTDOWN: Ten... nine... eight...
INT. CONTROL ROOM, WAREHOUSE - CONTINUOUS
Arms folded, Ratski watches the scene intently.
TECHNICIAN: Claw temperatures within parameters.
COUNTDOWN: Six... five...
TECHNICIAN #4: Powerflow at 100 percent.
TECHNICIAN #5: All systems holding.
TECHNICIAN #6: No return reached. All systems are good.
Ratski shoots Dyson a tight nod.
RATSKI: (under breath) Good luck.
COUNTDOWN: Three... two... one.
INT. WAREHOUSE, COLBART STREET - CONTINUOUS
The whole building shakes. The claws glow bright white as Dyson convulses at their center.
Suddenly, one claw arcs a bolt of white lightning to the next... that shoots one round to the next... which arcs back to the first again.
The circle complete, the claws blast their energy into the center, fully enveloping Dyson.
DYSON: (O.S.) SSSSHHH --
Everything stops abruptly. The cacophony of pure energy whines away. The claws cool down, hissing as steam rises from them.
Dyson is gone!
EXT. AERIAL VIEW OF EAST LONDON - CONTINUOUS
The lights come back on. We begin to spin, heading downward. As we do, the East End goes back in time...
Skyscrapers are deconstructed, modern housing replaced by the pre-war buildings that originally stood, and roads narrow; cobbles replacing tarmac. All at an accelerated rate.
We swoop past Tower Bridge as it’s dismantled until only its towers stand in the Thames.
Farther and farther down we go until we see the warehouse, entering through a small hole in the roof.
INT. WAREHOUSE, COLBART STREET - NIGHT
Empty, illuminated only by moonlight. A few rats dart here and there, searching for food. Suddenly, they stop and sniff the air, scuttling away as fast as they can.
A blinding light blooms in the center of the warehouse, depositing Dyson unceremoniously in a heap.
DYSON: -- IIITTT!
Wide eyes afraid, gulping down huge chunks of air, he lays there for a moment. Ratski’s voice reminds him:
RATSKI: (O.S.)Mark an X or something on the floor. You’ll suffer some disorientation when you get there, the chalk is just for you to remember where exactly you arrived.
Dyson pulls himself up onto his knees, dragging the chalk from his pocket and marking a shaky X on the floor.
He climbs to his feet. Stumbles toward the door, dragging the bag after him. But --
DYSON: It’s locked!
He struggles over to the big double doors. Finds them locked too.
DYSON: All this way and I’m locked in.
He wobbles over to the nearest window, unlatches it and heaves. The window rattles up.
Poking his head tentatively through, Dyson takes a deep breath, instantly gagging at the stench of Victorian London and banging his head on the window.
DYSON: Jesus Christ!
He pushes away the nausea. Climbs through the opening.
EXT. COLBART STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS
CLOSE UP: as monumental as Armstrong’s moon landing, Dyson’s booted feet touch down on Victorian cobbles.
Dyson slides down the window gently. Takes his first steps in a new world. He stops, listening to the distant sound of drunken laughter and barking dogs, as a cautious smile blooms.
DYSON: Bloody thing worked. I’m here!
EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
Through throngs of destitute, desperate people, Dyson wanders the streets. Sickened by what he sees.
- children play in the gutter.
- their parents sleeping on the sidewalk.
- an old woman picks over the remains of a dead cat, laughing hysterically.
- a naked MAN rocks on his haunches, asking anyone that will listen:
MAN: Have you seen my mother?
Dyson watches him pitifully. He looks up at the rundown facade of ‘The Ten Bells’ public house, just as a drunk comes flying out of the doors. Crashes into a heap.
Dyson shakes his head and pulls out a cheap pocket watch. Checks the time.
Across the street, a heavily set UNDESIRABLE kicks a shoeless OLD MAN asleep on the sidewalk. Gestures to Dyson.
UNDESIRABLE: On your plates, Bert. Dinner.
EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET (FARTHER), WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
Dodging a line of Hansom cabs, Dyson dashes across the cobbles. He looks up at a shabby three-storey building. A sign in one dirty window reads ‘LODGING’.
Dyson reaches out to knock, but a voice disturbs him from behind.
OLD MAN: Might I be so bold as to enquire the time?
Dyson turns to the Old Man. He cracks a toothless smile, toying humbly with the cap between his hands.
DYSON: Yeah...
He pulls the watch from his jacket pocket.
DYSON: It’s nearly nine.
OLD MAN: Nice watch you have there, sir.
Dyson eyes him suspiciously.
DYSON: Is it? Look, I’ll save you the trouble, Grandad. I know how this works. There’s no way you’re taking this watch from me.
UNDESIRABLE: (O.S.) That go for me too, guv’nor?
Dyson spins. The Undesirable towers above him. He grabs Dyson’s shoulder and thrusts a blade right into his gut before he can react. Dyson drops to his knees.
The Undesirable cackles like a madman. Grabs the watch. He pushes Dyson down into a heap. Then they really set to work on him.
The Old Man tugs the carpet bag from Dyson’s pathetic grasp as the Undesirable swipes his cap and rifles through his pockets.
UNDESIRABLE: C’mon! Scarper before the law shows up!
They tear off, but the Old Man stops. Glances down at his filthy bare feet. He looks back, eyes twinkling.
The Old Man rushes back. Unties the laces of Dyson’s boots. Dyson looks at him with begging eyes, muttering silently. But the words come from Ratski.
RATSKI: (O.S.) ...there’s a small tracking device in the heel of one of your boots.
DYSON: (weakly) Please...
The Old Man pushes Dyson’s head back to the sidewalk...
OLD MAN: See you in hell, chum.
...and scuttles off.
&
nbsp; Dyson pleads for help with trembling, outstretched arms. But people just pass the everyday criminal occurrence without even a second glance.
INT. EISENHOWER SUITE, DORCHESTER HOTEL - NIGHT
Ratski lied. The President is still in the UK.
And he looks considerably frailer than when we last saw him. He sits huddled on the sofa, as alone and lost as Dyson is 130 years away, the oxygen mask permanently affixed to his face.
Suddenly, he explodes in a convulsive coughing fit and slips off the sofa onto the floor. Struggling to breathe, his eyes flutter shut...
INT. DETECTIVE’S OFFICE, POLICE STATION - CONTINUOUS
The eyes that open are Sarah’s.
She sits hunched over her desk. Exhausted, alone in the darkened office. Lightning flashes at the windows. She stares at a computer monitor, not quite believing what she sees.
SARAH: This is serious shit.
Sarah jumps out of her skin as Detective Constable DEBBIE SHAW, 20’s, grabs her from behind.
DEBBIE: What is?
She’s a joker. Pretty, a little overweight, but with balls bigger than any male counterpart.
SARAH: Jesus bloody Christ, Debbie! You trying to give me a heart attack?
DEBBIE: I have the stealth of a panther, the cunning of a fox --
SARAH: And the brain of a donkey.
Debbie grins. Drops into the seat opposite Sarah.
DEBBIE: What’s up?
SARAH: (unsure) Nothing.
Debbie turns Sarah’s desk lamp into her face.
DEBBIE: Ve hav vays of making you talk!
Sarah smiles lethargically. Looks puzzled.
SARAH: Okay. Something’s going on here.
She waves several sheets of paper at her.
SARAH: This is the ballistics report on the shell case from the Dennis and Richards’ shooting last night.
DEBBIE: Yeah.
SARAH: So all bullet cases can be traced by their head stamp, right?
DEBBIE: I did read ‘Ballistics for Dummies’.
SARAH: Sorry...
She leans across the desk to Debbie, speaking in hushed tones.
SARAH: So, John gets that suit turn up today, the rumor being the guy was a Yank. They disappear off together for a couple of hours, then he develops a sudden reluctance to investigate the shooting.
DEBBIE: He did?
SARAH: Yeah. I mean, that’s strange enough. That’s not John. Soooo, I did some digging.
DEBBIE: Like the nosy cow you are.
SARAH: I’m a woman, it’s our God-given right to be nosy. Anyway, the Yank signed in as a Special Agent Michael Ackerman. FBI. Based at the embassy here in London.
She clicks at a mouse on the desk.
SARAH: This is him entering the station.
Debbie looks over at the screen to where several black and white stills show Ratski approaching the station’s front desk.
DEBBIE: Yeah, I saw him.
SARAH: But...
She types away at the computer keyboard.
The screen pops up with an internet browser, which quickly changes to the FBI website.
Sarah makes several clicks with the mouse and the screen changes to reveal ‘WELCOME TO THE FBI LONDON FIELD OFFICE’.
SARAH: When you do this...
A couple more clicks and the screen changes again. A banner reads ‘MEET OUR AGENTS’. Sarah clicks one last time and the screen changes...
SARAH: You get this.
...to reveal a smiling, middle-aged black man. The name below says --
DEBBIE: Special Agent Michael Ackerman?
SARAH: (nods) Michael Ackerman. Born and raised in Houston, Texas. Joined the FBI in ‘95, blah, blah, blah... Somebody didn’t research their bullshit too carefully because --
DEBBIE: (sings) The real Ackerman is a lot blacker, man.
She chuckles at her quip. Adopts a more serious look.
SARAH: Oh, it gets weirder.
She waves the ballistics report again.
SARAH: According to the head stamp of the case we picked up, that shell was part of a massive consignment shipped a couple of years ago. And who d’you think bought them?
Debbie shakes her head and leans closer still.
DEBBIE: Go on.
SARAH: The United States Defense Department.
DEBBIE: Jesus. That’s heavy shit. So what you gonna do?
Sarah stares at Michael Ackerman for a beat.
SARAH: I really don’t know.
INT. SMALL ROOM, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
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.
To Kill Again: Episode One Page 4
