Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Back in the van, he studied his environment carefully. The cobbled square was relatively small, approximately seventy feet by eighty. Mitre Street was directly in front of him, at the top of the square. The left side of the square was taken up by the gates to Sir John Cass’s Foundation Primary School. There was a line of office blocks behind him and another along the right side of the square. A narrow pedestrian alleyway called Mitre Passage was located at the bottom right of the square, and St. James Passage, a wider pedestrian alley, was located at the bottom left of the square, immediately behind the Sherpa.

  “This is where I drop you off,” he told the unconscious woman lying bound and gagged in the back of his van. “But before I go, we’re going to have a little fun.” He thought for a moment and then grinned. “Well, when I say ‘we’, I actually mean ‘me’.”

  He had decided long ago that the three women who had ruined his life would be left in historically relevant locations; it seemed a fitting homage to the man who had successfully completed the same series of rituals one hundred and eleven years earlier.

  He had left the Infector in Hanbury Street because that was where Jack the Ripper had killed Anne Chapman, and he would leave the Blackmailer in Mitre Square because that was the deposition site for Catherine Eddows, another of the original Ripper’s five canonical killings.

  He stared with reverence at a spot on the floor just beyond the walled flowerbed in the southeast corner of the square, which had a solitary park bench in front of it.

  Squinting through the rain covered windscreen, The Disciple carefully scanned the offices off to his right, allowing his eyes to linger on the building in the southwest corner of the square, at the junction with Mitre Street. To his relief and delight, there were no signs of movement anywhere.

  Pulling his coat tight around him, he ventured out into the rain a second time to check out the buildings behind the van, and the two alleys; first Mitre Passage and then St. James Passage. The buildings were in total darkness and both alleys were deserted. He paused before getting back in the van, in order to study the night sky above. The downpour was torrential, and it showed no sign of letting up. The rain was his friend; it was another omen that this was all meant to be.

  Satisfied it was safe to continue, he ducked into the rear compartment and pulled the dividing curtain closed. After removing his coat, The Disciple donned a pair of surgical gloves in readiness for the impending operation. When that was done, he surveyed the woman lying hogtied before him with clinical objectivity.

  The Blackmailer would have to die in the van, which meant that slitting her throat was out of the question; an arterial bleed would be far too messy, even with all the plastic sheeting.

  Strangulation seemed the logical alternative.

  The Disciple sat astride Rye and wrapped his fingers around her neck, carefully probing until he found her windpipe. “You thought you could get away with blackmailing me, you filthy scheming harlot,” he hissed, spraying her face with spittle. “You were wrong, and now you’re going to pay the price. Like Shylock, I want my pound of flesh.” Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers and then began to squeeze with all his might. Almost instantly, he felt her body start to shudder and wriggle beneath him as her air supply was cut off.

  She seemed to take forever to die, but eventually, the convulsions diminished into minor twitches, and then Rye’s body went totally limp. After checking for a pulse, The Disciple slumped down next to her, staring at his shaking hands and gasping for breath. He hadn’t realised that strangulation was such hard work. In future, he decided, he would stick to using his trusty knife.

  After a few seconds rest, he stood up on wobbly legs and switched on the van’s internal light. The Blackmailer lay on the plastic-coated floor, staring up at him accusingly from sightless eyes. “Back in a moment,” he told her, turning the light off again. The Disciple stuck his head through the cabin divider and spent a few seconds scanning the streets again. When he was satisfied that it was safe for him to continue, he ducked back inside and reached for his bag of goodies. “Now, where was I?” he asked Rye’s corpse. Reaching for his bag, he quickly set about arranging his surgical instruments in readiness for the nephrectomy, and then slipped on a plastic surgical apron, which was already heavily bloodstained from the earlier procedures he’d carried out at Hanbury Street.

  Strangely, now that she was dead, he felt no desire to insert his Bowie into her vagina, the way he had with his previous two victims. That would be perverse, like necrophilia, and he wasn’t into that.

  As he’d done for each of his previous victims, The Disciple carefully recited the satanic scripture before extracting the relevant organ. This was the third time in as many days, and he was reaching the point where he could remember the words without referring to the parchment.

  He sensed the menacing presence of the deity he was summoning growing stronger with each word uttered, and his chest began to swell with joy as the spiritual empowerment guaranteed by the sacrifice began to take effect. He made the sign of the horned hand, which represents Baphomet: The Goat of Mendes, to pledge his allegiance to Lucifer, extending the two outer fingers of his left hand to represent the horns, and folding the inner two fingers over the thumb to represent the goat’s head and beard.

  When the chanting concluded, the Disciple began the medical procedure by making a wide incision below Rye’s rib cage and cutting through several layers of fat and muscle in order to expose the kidney. There was no attempt at finesse; he needed to get in and get out, as fast as he could. Then he severed the connections to the blood vessels, adrenal gland, and ureter. Reaching inside, he removed the dripping organ in one piece. In a living patient, such a procedure could take up to three hours; he had done it in a matter of minutes. The second kidney took even less time to extract.

  Once the organs were safely stored, he turned his attention to her breasts, carrying out a total mastectomy on both. After all, such needless mutilation was what distinguished the Ripper’s work from that of any other killer; it would be expected, and he didn’t want to disappoint. Acting on impulse, he decided to add a few flourishes to his work that were relevant to the reason she had been chosen. What did they say? Hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. The Blackmailer would still be alive if she had abided by that simple mantra; instead, when he had approached her for some discreet assistance in tracing the Infector, who had seemingly dropped off of the face of the earth after giving him a dose of the clap, she had decided to try her hand at blackmailing him, threatening to reveal all to his wife unless he agreed to her extortionate demands.

  Respecting client confidentiality obviously wasn’t a priority for her, and it gave him immense satisfaction to know that she had paid the ultimate price for abusing the trust he had placed in her.

  When he was finished, he carried her mutilated corpse through the rain and dropped it unceremoniously on the flowerbed. “At least, as compost, you might actually serve a purpose,” he said spitefully. The Disciple lingered over the body, debating whether to slit her throat. There hardly seemed any point now that she was dead, but on the other hand, he liked to be consistent where he could. In the end, he knelt down beside her head, drew the Finnish skinning knife from its scabbard, and set to work. “Goodbye, and good riddance,” he whispered, turning the nearly severed head to rest on her left shoulder.

  Climbing back in the van, he quickly removed the blood-drenched nitrile gloves and apron, and checked his appearance. Satisfied, he started the engine and drove off calmly. As Mitre Square receded in his wing mirror, he wondered how long it would be before the Blackmailer was found.

  The Disciple drove along Commercial Road for a while and then cut through the back doubles towards the Highway. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he steered the van into an unlit car park at the back of one of the predominantly Bangladeshi estates in Shadwell. It was one of several suitable locations he had identified during the preceding weeks. He pulled up opposite a couple of burnt o
ut wrecks and killed the engine. The Disciple climbed into the rear and sat down in the darkness with his back against the cabin divider. He was physically and emotionally spent, and he was struggling to think clearly. Each trembling limb seemed to weigh a ton. He closed his eyes and sat still for a few moments, using the deep breathing techniques he’d learned to clear his mind.

  Before commencing the second part of the ritual – the consummation of the organ – he splashed some water over his face and then drank the rest greedily; tossing the bottle aside after it had been drained. He was careful to take his time reading the parchment, ensuring that every word of the incantation was recited word perfect. Then, and only then, he ate from the still warm kidney. When the rite was finally over, he staggered back into the cab, wiped his bloodstained mouth on his sleeve and turned the key in the ignition. It was almost time to rest, but first, he had an important delivery to make.

  CHAPTER 19

  The young reporter was laughing merrily. The source of her amusement was a sleazy snippet of gossip her colleague, Julie Payne, had just shared with her during the ride from their Fleet Street office to her luxury apartment at Canary Wharf. It concerned a mutual acquaintance at a rival newspaper, a man who went to great pains to portray himself as a womanising playboy; a man who had recently been caught doing something promiscuous in one of the print room toilets.

  With another man!

  The raunchy tale appealed to her gutter level sense of humour.

  The pair had left the Daily Echo offices forty-five minutes earlier, having spent a gruelling day putting the final touches to a political story they had been working on over the last three weeks. They had met the deadline for tomorrow’s edition by the skin of their teeth.

  The story had started with an anonymous tip-off that implied a high-profile politician had accepted a lucrative bung to award a government contract when there had been better value bids from elsewhere. Through an unofficial contact at BT, the reporter, Terri Miller, easily identified the caller, who had been silly enough to use a mobile phone registered in her own name. Miller started scrutinising every aspect of Elizabeth Wilson’s life under a microscope, and quickly discovered that she was the former secretary to a recently appointed Junior Minister who was considered something of a flyer by the party hierarchy.

  Miller lost no time in confronting Wilson, who tearfully confessed to calling the Echo in a moment of jealous rage, hoping to damage her ex-lover’s reputation by breaking a story he had tried so hard to keep buried. It was yet to be determined just how much truth there was in Wilson’s claims, but with the woman now willing to put her name to the accusation it was printable.

  The article would deeply embarrass the government when it was published tomorrow. The Prime Minister would have no option but launch an immediate inquiry; guilty or not, the Party would drop the Junior Minister like the hot potato he had become.

  They made a brief stop at an all-night bagel shop, and Miller braved a short dash through the heavy rain to buy freshly baked doughnuts.

  A few minutes later, Julie drew up as close to the plate glass doors of the private apartment building as the topography would allow. The reporter waved goodbye to her friend, thanking her for the lift. Then, holding the collar of her Burberry up to protect her from the worst of the rain, she sprinted a few yards across the tarmac, splashing through puddles the size of small lakes and cursing as cold water flooded into shoes that were designed for summer use only.

  “Damn this weather,” the reporter grumbled to herself as she reached the shelter of the overhead canopy.

  Julie watched from the warmth of her car as Teresa Miller, illuminated by a flash of lightning, fumbled with her keys at the entrance. Like the friend she was, Julie waited until Terri was safely inside the foyer before driving off.

  The reporter lived on the top floor of the twenty-story building. Her two-bedroom, two-bathroom flat, which overlooked the river, was a present from her industrialist father.

  Brushing water from her hair, Terri crossed the lavish marble floor to a bank of elevators. She removed her coat and shook it out while she waited for the next elevator to arrive. Her stockinged feet squelched inside her shoes every time she shifted her weight.

  She studied herself in the mirrored interior during the short ride up. Terri was thirty years old, a pretty brunette with large brown eyes. She felt that the main flaw in her appearance was a stubby little nose, which she’d always disliked, but which the men in her life seemed to find cute. Not that there were many of them at the moment. She just didn’t have the time or the energy!

  Turning side on, she decided that her figure was acceptable. She wished that her bust was a bit bigger, but at least she had nice legs and a flat tummy, the result of swimming to county standard during her youth. She tensed her cheeks and prodded her rump, then gave a satisfied smile at the lack of wobble.

  Terri moved closer to the mirror, examining her red-rimmed eyes critically. Her face was zombie pale, but given the ridiculous number of hours she was putting in at the moment that was hardly surprising. Seventy-hour weeks had become a regular occurrence for her, but that was the only way to get ahead in the dog eat dog business she had chosen as a profession.

  Terri came from a privileged background, but she was determined to succeed on her own merit, and not just coast through life because of her parent’s wealth. The flat was her one concession to that rule, and it was the only indulgence she permitted herself.

  The elevator door opened with a melodic ‘ping’, and she stepped out, turning left towards her apartment. The hall lights flickered briefly as a loud clap of thunder signalled that the storm was intensifying.

  Terri’s concentration was focused on selecting the right key for her apartment, so she didn’t see the man coming the other way, running for the lift. They collided forcefully, and the impact spun her sideways, knocking her keys from her hand. She was too startled to say anything as the man ducked into the closing lift without looking back. “I’m fine, thank you,” she shouted angrily as the doors closed and the elevator began its descent.

  She’d only caught a glimpse of him; he’d worn a long trench coat with the collar turned up, concealing the lower half of his face, and a fedora style hat that was pulled down to eye level, Humphrey Bogart style.

  Who was that rude pig? His absolute lack of manners was astounding. He might have been in a rush but he could still have shouted an apology.

  She picked up her keys and began rubbing her bruised shoulder. Perhaps he was staying with one of the neighbours. She would make a few discreet enquiries later, when people who lived regular lives were up and about.

  As Terri walked along the hall, her body aching for rest, and her shoulder just aching, she noticed something on the floor outside her apartment. It was a large hat box tied with string. There was a letter pinned to the top. “Now what on earth can you be?” she asked the parcel as she bent to retrieve it. She held it up for examination, studying it under the hall light. There was no writing on it.

  Strange.

  She shook it carefully, to see if it rattled.

  Nothing.

  She read the name on the envelope: Teresa Miller. It was definitely meant for her, no mistake about that. Balancing her bag of doughnuts on top of the hat box, Terri opened the door awkwardly and stepped inside. She pushed the door closed with the back of her heel and kicked off her wet shoes.

  She headed straight for the kitchen and prepared a strong cup of coffee to wash the jam doughnuts down with. While the percolator warmed up, she drew the kitchen and living room blinds. Sheet lightning illuminated the night sky above her apartment, followed almost instantly by an almighty crash of thunder that caused the double-glazed patio to rattle. She realised that the centre of the storm must be directly overhead and hoped it would pass quickly; she hated weather like this.

  Once the coffee was made, she returned to the living room and sat down, putting the mysterious box on the coffee table next to her armchair.r />
  Opening the envelope, she read the enclosed note:

  My dearest Teresa,

  I hope you find my little present interesting.

  There are some pretty pictures too. I’ll be in touch soon.

  Enjoy.

  P.S. I know you must be wondering who I am. Well, my true identity must remain a mystery, but for ease of reference I’ve chosen the name, Jack. That’s how I want to be referred to from now on.

  Frowning, she read the weird note again. What was this? Was someone with a perverse sense of humour trying to freak her out as a post-Halloween wind-up, or had a mentally defective oddball taken to stalking her? And how had he got into the building without a passkey?

  She should probably call the cops. But first, she wanted to see what he’d sent her.

  Was it chocolates?

  Clothing?

  What?

  Suppressing a yawn, Terri put the letter down and started fiddling with the knot in the string that was wrapped around the mysterious item. She removed the lid and looked inside. It contained a blue cool bag, the sort of thing people used to keep their lunch fresh in hot weather. She unzipped it, peered inside cautiously, and immediately turned her nose up. “What the hell?”