Free The Map of Time by Félix J. Palma Page B

betraying the murderer’s grisly calm. Even the heat he now noticed suffusing the room, suggested the ghoul had taken the time to light himself a nice fire in order to work in more comfort. Andrew closed his eyes: he had seen enough. He did not want to know anything more. Besides showing him how cruel and indifferent man could be towards his fellow human beings, the atrocities he could commit given enough opportunity, imagination, and a sharp knife, the murderer had provided him with a shocking and brutal lesson in anatomy. For the very first time Andrew realized that life, real life, had no connection with the way people spent their days, whose lips they kissed, what medals were pinned on them, or the shoes they mended. Life, real life, went on soundlessly inside our bodies, flowed like an underwater stream, occurred like a silent miracle of which only surgeons and pathologists were aware, and perhaps ruthless killer, too. For they alone knew that ultimately there was no difference between Queen Victoria and the most wretched beggar in London: both were complex machines made up of bone, organs, and tissue, whose fuel was the breath of God.
    This is a detailed analysis of what Andrew experienced during those fleeting moments when he stood before Marie Kelly’s dead body, although this description makes it seem as if he were gazing at her for hours, which is what it felt like to him. Eventually a feeling of guilt began to emerge through the haze of pain and disgust overwhelming Andrew, for he immediately held himself responsible for her death. It had been in his power to save her, but he had arrived too late. This was the price of his cowardice.
    He let out a cry of rage and impotence as he imagined his beloved being subjected to this vicious butchery. Suddenly, it dawned on him that unless he wanted to be linked to the murder he must get out before someone saw him. It was even possible the murderer was still lurking outside, admiring his macabre handiwork from some dark corner, and would have no compunction about adding another corpse to his collection. He gave Marie Kelly a farewell glance, unable to bring himself to touch her, and with a supreme effort of will forced himself to withdraw from the little room, leaving her there.
    As though in a trance, he closed the door behind him, leaving everything as he had found it. He walked towards the exit to the flats, but was seized by a feeling of intense nausea and only just made it to the stone archway. There, half-kneeling, he vomited, retching violently. After he had brought up everything, which was little more than the alcohol he had drunk that night, he leaned back against the wall, his body limp, cold, and weak.
    From where he was, he could see the little room number 13, the paradise where he had been so happy, now hiding his beloved’s dismembered corpse from the night. He tried taking a few steps and, confident his dizzy spell had eased sufficiently for him to walk without collapsing, he staggered out into Dorset Street.
    Too distressed to get his bearings, he began wandering aimlessly, letting out cries and sobs. He did not even attempt to find the carriage: now that he knew he was no longer welcome in his family home there was nowhere for him to tell Harold to go. He trudged along street after street, guided only by the forward movement of his feet. When he calculated he was no longer in Whitechapel, he looked for a lonely alley and collapsed, exhausted and trembling, in the midst of a pile of discarded boxes. There, curled up in a fetal position, he waited for night to pass. As I predicted above, when the shock began to subside, his pain increased. His sorrow intensified until it became physical torment.
    Suddenly, being in his body was agonizing, as if he had turned into one of those sarcophagi lined with bristling nails. He wanted to flee himself, unshackle himself from the excruciating substance he was made of, but he was trapped inside that martyred