Free To Kill Again: Episode One by Darren Howell

FADE IN:
    EXT. BUCK’S ROW, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
    We open on a narrow, deserted street. Gas lamps dance shadows here and there. Small cottages line one side of the street, a Victorian schoolhouse dominating the other.
    SCREEN TITLE: BUCK’S ROW, WHITECHAPEL, LONDON, 1888
    A drunken prostitute staggers into view.
    Meet MARY ANN NICHOLS, 43. Heavily overweight and about to enter the history books for all the wrong reasons. Dressed in typical working girl garb, she lurches along the cobbles, slaughtering the ditty of the day.
    NICHOLS : (sings) I’m a young girl... and have just come over. Over from the country where they do things --
    She attempts to dance. Trips. Ends up face down in a puddle. Nichols claws the cobbles with two shaky hands and pulls herself up. Catching her reflection, she sighs mournfully.
    Desperate features stare back from the water.
    NICHOLS : Look at you, poor old cow.
    She grabs onto the brickwork of the school. Glancing up at its facade, she slurs spitefully in full-on Cockney:
    NICHOLS : I never got any bleedin’ education!
    She huffs. Clambers up. Leans against a big set of wooden gates.
    NICHOLS : Come on, girl.
    She straightens her black bonnet. Shuffles forward until something makes her stop. Nichols turns slowly as a non-defined shadow climbs over her.
    We do not, nor will we, see who’s casting it .
    Nichols’ face breaks into a welcoming smile.
    NICHOLS : ‘ello, love. You wanna sing with me?
    The shadow doesn’t reply.
    NICHOLS : Come on there, don’t be shy. Dance with me then?
    She hoists up her skirt and begins to stomp her feet to some ad hoc, inebriated dance steps.
    NICHOLS : Tra-la-la-la... la.
    She soon stops when the shadow doesn’t reciprocate, shuddering as whoever this is slips behind her. A plume of breath billows against her face and neck.
    NICHOLS : My, you’re a strange one and --
    CLOSE UP: a knife flashes in the dull light -- that’s all we see. The glistening blade that tears out Nichols’ throat. Her neck explodes red, eyes rolling over in her head, as the blade thrashes again.
    Nichols tries to scream, but only blood spurts from her mouth. She slips down to the cobbles. Her feet jerk in the throes of death as...
    The shadow sweeps over her body.
    EXT. BUCK’S ROW, WHITECHAPEL - LATER
    A Victorian POLICEMAN stares down at us. Unsympathetic. Just another --
    POLICEMAN: Bloody drunk! Come on, missus. On your feet, if you please.
    He taps his boot against a woman’s stockings. No response. The Policeman moves his gas hand lamp up the woman’s body, illuminating her in a dull glow. Skirt. Petticoat. Nothing untoward...
    CLOSE UP: the lamp brightens on Nichols’ face. Purple tongue protruding between bloody lips, glazed eyes staring up at the heavens.
    The Policeman kneels down next to her, pulls down the neck of her petticoat. She’s drenched in blood.
    POLICEMAN : Bugger me!
    He tumbles back on his ass. Claws at his police whistle and blows hard. PEEP! PEEEEP!
    POLICEMAN : MURDER! MURDER! COME QUICKLY!
    And then we pull back and watch as things begin to happen at a super, accelerated rate:
    - more horrified policemen arrive.
    - curious residents, policemen holding them at bay.
    - another policeman. Pulling a handcart.
    - policemen pick up Nichols’ body. Forensics non-existent in 1888, they just throw it onto the cart and wheel it away.
    - policemen leave the scene except for one. He pours a bucket of water over the blood and sweeps it away.
    - all is quiet, like the murder never even happened.
    We pull back along the road... Farther... It starts to rain... Farther... Gas lamps morph into modern electric lighting... Skyscrapers sprouting like weeds beyond the rooftops... Farther until we enter an --
    UNMARKED POLICE CAR
    Yes, a modern motor vehicle.
    Two detectives survey the empty street through a rain-lashed windshield.
    SCREEN TITLE: 130 YEARS LATER... 2018
    At the wheel, Detective Inspector JOHN DYSON, 36. Handsome, roguish rule-breaker, compensating boyish