To Kill Again: Episode One
Page 5
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.
A wave of remorse washes over his pained features.
DYSON: After... after you’ve killed Mary.
INT. EISENHOWER SUITE, DORCHESTER HOTEL - NIGHT
The President sits on the edge of the sofa, oxygen mask held in place. He watches the clock on the wall with impatient eyes, turning
the cell phone over and over in his hand until he can’t take it any longer.
The President livens up the cell phone and dials.
INT. CONTROL ROOM, WAREHOUSE - CONTINUOUS
Under Ratski’s watchful gaze, Technicians perform a variety of equipment checks.
Ratski’s cell phone begins to ring, playing the instantly recognizable chorus from Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’. It’s a strange choice of ringtone for such a ball breaker.
Ratski looks at the display. Almost rolls his eyes.
RATSKI: (into phone) Mr. President. (beat) No, nothing yet. He’s been gone less than 30 minutes. (beat) Sir... sir, you need to try and remain calm.
He glances over the quizzical faces of the Technicians. Exits down the steps of the Control Room into the --
WAREHOUSE
Alone, Ratski returns to the call.
RATSKI: (into phone) Do I think Dyson can pull it off?
His jaw tightens as he elicits a slight gulp. It’s a look that tells us there’s far more at stake here than just a simple test of their time machine.
RATSKI: (into phone) Let’s hope so, Mr. President.
He pulls the medication bottle from his pocket. Shakes out a pill. Examines it with a shiver of dread before swallowing it down.
RATSKI: Let’s hope so.
FADE OUT.