To Kill Again: Episode One (5 page)

He holds out a piece of chalk for Dyson.

RATSKI
: 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. And you are clear on the return time?

Dyson takes the chalk and slips it into his pocket.

DYSON
: Midday, November 9th. I think even a stupid cop can remember that.

RATSKI
: Let’s hope so.

He turns toward the big rig’s trailer. Dyson remains rooted to the spot, a sudden thought chilling him.

DYSON
: What if... what if something did go wrong? I mean, let’s just say I was late?

Ratski turns back. Smile ready in place.

RATSKI
: Do we leave you there to die?

Dyson resists the urge to nod.

RATSKI
: Not even the United States Government is quite that callous. You’d create a lot of problems back here, but there’s a small tracking device in the heel of one of your boots. No one would ever find it because no one in 1888 would ever know to look for it. Obviously we can’t track you from here, but we can send someone to find you. In short, no, we wouldn’t abandon you. (beat) Are you ready?

DYSON
: (nods) Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s do it.

He moves toward the claws. Ratski grabs his arm, leaning in and lowering his voice.

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.

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