Free The Map of Time by Félix J. Palma

emitting enraged grunts, strode unsteadily across the room, almost harpooning the carpet with his cane, and without warning, struck him hard across the face. Andrew staggered backwards, stunned by the blow. When he finally understood what had happened, he rubbed his stinging cheek, trying to put on the same smile of defiance. For a few moments that seemed like an eternity to those present, father and son stared at each other in the middle of the room, until William Harrington said: “As of tonight I have only one son.” Andrew tried not to show any emotion.
    “As you wish,” he replied coldly. Then, addressing the guests, he made as if to bow. “Gentleman, my apologies, I must leave this place forever.” With as much dignity as he could muster, Andrew turned on his heel and left the room. The cold night air had a calming effect on him. In the end, he said to himself trying not to trip as he descended the steps, apart from the unexpected audience and the angry slap, nothing that had happened came as any surprise. His disgraced father had just disinherited him, and in front of half of London’s wealthiest businessmen, giving them a firsthand display of his famous temper, unleashed in this instance against his own offspring without the slightest compunction. Now Andrew had nothing, except his love for Marie Kelly. If before the disastrous encounter he had entertained the slightest hope that his father, moved by his story, might give in, and even let him bring his beloved to the house in order to remove her as far as possible from the monster stalking Whitechapel, it was clear now they must live by their own means. He climbed into the carriage and ordered Harold to return to Miller’s Court. The coachman, who had been pacing round the carriage in circles, waiting for the denouement of the drama, clambered back onto the driver’s seat and urged the horses on, trying to imagine what had taken place inside the house—and, to his credit, based on the clues he had been perceptive enough to pick up, we must say that his reconstruction of the scene was remarkably accurate.
    When the carriage stopped in the usual place, Andrew got out and hurried towards Dorset Street, anxious to embrace Marie Kelly and tell her how much he loved her. He had sacrificed everything for her. Still, he had no regrets, only a vague uncertainty regarding the future. But they would manage. He was sure he could rely on Charles. His cousin would lend him enough money to rent a house in Vauxhall or Warwick Street, at least until they were able to find a decent job that would allow them to fend for themselves. Marie Kelly could find work at a dressmakers’, but he, what skills did he possess? It made no difference, he was young, able-bodied, and willing, he would find something.
    The main thing was he had stood up to his father; what happened next was neither here nor there. Marie Kelly had pleaded with him, silently, to take her away from Whitechapel, and that was what he intended to do, with or without anyone else’s help. They would leave that place, that accursed neighborhood, that outpost of hell.
    Andrew glanced at his watch as he paused beneath the stone archway into Miller’s Court. It was five o’clock in the morning. Marie Kelly would probably have already returned to the room, probably as drunk as he. Andrew visualized them communicating through a haze of alcohol in gestures and grunts like Darwin’s primates. With boyish excitement, he walked into the yard where the flats stood. The door to number 13 was closed. He banged on it a few times but got no reply. She must be asleep, but that would not be a problem. Careful not to cut himself on the shards of glass sticking out of the window frame, Andrew reached through the hole and flicked open the catch on the door, as he had seen Marie Kelly do after she had lost her key.
    “Marie, it’s me,” he said, opening the door. “Andrew.” Allow me at this point to break off the story in order