Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Meat!

  Someone had sent her a bag of fresh meat. Did the creep work in a butcher’s shop?

  Typical!

  Why couldn’t it be jewellery or flowers?

  Putting the cool bag down next to her chair, she looked in the bottom of the box. The note had said something about photographs. There were three, and each one was wrapped in cling-film, presumably to make sure they didn’t get any meat juice on them. Grimacing, Terri reached inside and gingerly picked them up. She might as well have a look at them before throwing the whole lot in the bin. She sipped her coffee appreciatively as she raised the first Polaroid.

  Her eyes widened in horror. “Sweet Jesus!” she gasped, spilling her drink. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? She examined the next shot. It was as revolting as the first, unbelievably vile in fact, and they both appeared genuine, not faked.

  Surely not!

  Even if they were real, why would anyone send something like that to her? She wasn’t a crime reporter. She looked on the back of the photographs. Two of them had names written in red paint – at least she hoped it was paint.

  One said: Geraldine. The other read: Natasha. The third was of a house, which was boarded up and looked derelict.

  There was no way of telling if the grotesque figures featured in these pictures were authentic.

  Terri Miller almost jumped out of her skin as the telephone rang, shattering the silence of her flat. “Shit!” She raised a hand to her chest, experiencing palpitations.

  As she crossed the room, her mind full of morbid thoughts, she wondered who the hell could be calling her at this time of night. Perhaps it was Julie, just to say she had arrived home safely. Terri’s hands were shaking as she fumbled for the receiver; she couldn’t take her eyes off the grisly party bag just across the room.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you get my present?” The voice was a haunting whisper, devoid of feeling.

  A chill ran down Teri’s spine. “Who is this? I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “It’s the right number. We both know that, Teresa. As for who I am, I told you, you can call me Jack.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Jack.” As she spoke her eyes flew to the note she had just received.

  “You do now, Teresa.” The disembodied voice was too close for comfort, like he was calling from a mobile outside her front door.

  Oh my God! Terri couldn’t recall bolting the front door. Security had never been an issue before. Wait! She had kicked it shut because her hands were full, but she hadn’t checked to see that it had closed properly. What if she had left it ajar and he was already inside the apartment…?

  She leaned across her desk and tried to peer into the hallway, but the phone cord wouldn’t stretch that far. She craned her neck until the muscles ached, but she still couldn’t see.

  Outside, the storm was easing off a little. There were a full thirty seconds between lightning and thunder.

  She knew the sensible thing to do was hang up and call the police, but professional curiosity got the better of her. “What do you want?” Terri demanded, trying a little too hard to sound calm.

  “What does anybody want?” the sinister voice mocked. “I want what is rightfully mine, and you are going to help me get it,”

  Terri scoffed, but it was pure bravado. “How could I possibly help you?”

  “By doing your job. I’ve decided that you should have the privilege of telling my story.”

  “What makes you think I want to tell your story?”

  “Most reporters would cut off their arm to get an interview with the man who is going to purge Whitechapel. You should be flattered that I’ve chosen to give you the exclusive.”

  Terri shook her head. “Maybe I’m not as ambitious as you think,” she told him.

  “Look,” he snapped. “You can either report on my work or become my work. It doesn’t really matter to me. It’s your choice, your life.”

  Terri felt the hairs on her nape stand on end. “Why me?” she asked, trying to suppress a shudder. “There are hundreds of reporters out there, and a lot of them are far more established than I am.”

  “I like your work. You’re just starting out and you have something to prove. I can relate to that.”

  “What exactly do you expect me to do?” She asked, unable to prevent an edge of fear creeping into her voice.

  “Have you got a pen ready?”

  She looked around frantically, scrabbling through the papers strewn across her desk until she found one. “Y-Yes, go on.” Hands trembling, she wrote down the address he gave her, reading it back to confirm it. “What’s so important about this place?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you check it out yourself,” he taunted. “Remember this: you have nothing to fear from me if you do exactly as I say. I will be reading your column with interest, and we will speak again…soon.”

  The connection was severed.

  Terri held the phone to her ear for what seemed an age, listening to the dialling tone in disbelief. And then she remembered the door. “Shit!” she exclaimed, dropping the phone and sprinting back to the hallway.

  To her horror, the door was ajar.

  Terri slammed it shut and rammed both deadbolts into place, and then she looked through the security peephole at the top of the door. The wide-angle glass revealed that the corridor was clear. With a sigh of relief, she sagged back against the door, her legs turning to jelly now that she was safe. And then it occurred to her that the killer could already be inside her apartment, hiding in one of the rooms, waiting for her.

  She knew the living room and kitchen were clear, but what about the bedrooms, bathrooms and utility room? All the internal doors were closed, but she couldn’t remember if they had been that way when she came in. Terri ran into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife she could find in the knife rack. Her heart was beating like a trip hammer as she frantically searched the other rooms, checking behind doors, pulling open cupboards, looking under beds. They were all clear. That only left the small utility room that housed her washing machine, spin dryer, and ironing equipment. Terri wiped her palm on her leg, then took hold of the brass door handle in her left hand and twisted it gently. Holding the knife out in front of her, she took a deep breath and pushed the door inwards as forcefully as she could.

  There was a loud bang as it connected with something inside, and then a figure lunged forward out of the darkness, knocking the knife from her grasp. Terri screamed as they went down together, limbs entangled. Screaming, she thrashed out trying to twist free of her attacker’s grasp and scrabble away. “No, please, don’t hurt me,” she sobbed, convinced she was going to end up like one of the unfortunates in the photographs. And then, as she broke free, she saw the knife on the floor in front of her, and hope mushroomed in her chest. If she could just reach that, then maybe she had a chance.

  She scrabbled forward on all fours, wrapped her fingers tightly around the handle of the huge carving knife and spun back to face her attacker. The ironing board lay half inside the utility room, half out in the hallway. The three-quarter length leather jacket that she had hung over it several days ago lay in between the ironing board and her legs, where she had kicked it moments earlier.

  Terri slowly stood up, exhausted by her exertions and breathing like she had just run a marathon. Returning to the spacious living room, Terri began pacing nervously up and down, hugging herself tightly as she tried to fight back the tears. She was shivering, despite the apartment’s expensive climate control system, which was pre-programmed to operate at body temperature all year round. Without warning, a wave of nausea hit hard. “Oh God,” she exclaimed. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she ran for the toilet. Surely this was some sort of twisted prank, she thought as she buried her head in the bowl; it was the sort of thing one of those male chauvinist bastards at the office would come up with.

  But if it wasn’t, then what a story!

  After gargling liberal amounts of
mouthwash to rid her mouth of the aftertaste of vomit, Terri rushed back to the lounge and retrieved her mobile phone from her handbag. Unlocking the phone, she hit the speed dial for Julie’s flat.

  A sleepy voice answered halfway through the eighth ring. “…Hello?”

  “Julie. It’s me, Terri. Get over here, right now, as fast as you can. It’s an emergency…”

  “Are you alright…?” Julie asked, her voice thick with concern.

  In her mind’s eye, the reporter pictured her friend sitting up in bed, her stomach turning over.

  “I’m fine – at least I think I am,” Teri said, running an unsteady hand through her hair. “Just get here quickly. You won’t believe the friggin’ story that’s just landed in my lap.”

  Hanging up, Terri stumbled over to the built-in wall bar beside the large patio doors. Her entire body was shaking. She glanced back at the cool bag, remembering with a shudder what it contained. Suppressing the urge to gag again, she put some ice in a glass and unscrewed a bottle of brandy. She knew she ought to phone the police but, if she did, they would stop her from going to the address ‘Jack’ had given her, and she had no intention of letting them do that. No, she would just have to think of a bloody good reason to delay the call for a couple of hours, and hope she didn’t get in trouble for doing so. She’d run it by her editor. He was pretty resourceful when it came to managing legality issues like that. She’d have to move like lightning before anyone else got a sniff of her story. But before she did anything else, she needed a drink. A bloody large one!

  ◆◆◆

  Replacing the telephone, The Disciple stepped out of the kiosk and into the rain, which had finally started to ease up. The thunder sounded distant now, somewhere off to the north. He studied the apartment block, deep in thought. For several seconds he remained that way, a statue carved from granite.

  Bumping into the reporter had really shaken him. He had assumed that everyone in the building would be fast asleep, so when the elevator doors slid open and he came face to face with the one person he wanted to avoid, the blood in his veins had frozen. Instead of doing the sensible thing and just walking calmly by, he had drastically overreacted and barged her out of the way. He regretted his action, but it was done now. At least he didn’t have to worry about being recognised. Not only were his features heavily disguised, he’d had his collar turned up and his hat pulled down.

  He dreaded to think what his reaction would have been if she’d stumbled across him while he was making the delivery a few moments earlier. Would he have tried to bluff his way past her? Would he have fled down the fire escape at the end of the landing? He fondled the hilt of the Finnish skinning knife concealed in the small of his back, knowing that in his jittery state there could only have been one outcome.

  He wondered what it would be like to kill someone as rich as Teresa Miller, to have her blood on his hands, literally. Perhaps one day he would indulge himself and find out.

  Now there was a thought…

  Walking the four blocks to the little cobbled road in which the tatty Sherpa was parked proved surprisingly pleasant. The fresh air helped clear his aching head, dispelling some of the fatigue that was threatening to engulf him.

  He completed the return journey from the quayside to his secret sanctuary at a leisurely pace, enjoying the peace and tranquility of an early morning drive through empty roads. Within a few short hours, he reflected, they would be jammed solid as the rush hour commuters caused their usual chaos, clogging up the arteries of the Capital as they did every day.

  He was confident that the reporter would feel compelled to follow the bait he had so tantalisingly dangled before her pretty nose. She wouldn’t be able to help herself; it was in the blood.

  Blood!

  He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how happy the spilling of her blood would make him feel. She might put on a sophisticated act, behaving like a cosmopolitan lady of charm, but he wasn’t fooled.

  She was a whore.

  They were all whores at heart. Every last one of them! Just because she didn’t stand on street corners advertising the fact didn’t stop her from being a slut. They all sold themselves if the price was right. “Sluts,” he muttered, feeling a spark of anger ignite inside his chest. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm himself down. The desire to kill again was bubbling just beneath the surface, and he knew he needed to rein in the bloodlust before it spiralled out of control. If he started killing randomly, he would make mistakes and they would catch him.

  He had killed three women in as many days, and the mental and physical strain of performing such an incredible feat had left him totally shattered. His mind was fuzzy, but it would be much clearer once he had rested properly, and it would need to be for what lay ahead.

  His mind drifted back to Teresa Miller, and the shocked indignation on the pompous cow’s face as they collided. The urge to punish her was strong in him. Perhaps, after the reporter had served her purpose….

  But there was plenty of time to plan for that, if he decided it was what he really wanted.

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday 3rd November 1999

  It was coming up to seven-thirty a.m. when The Disciple finally left his lock-up. The back of the van was still heavily bloodstained from the surgical intervention he’d carried out on Rye, and it would need to be thoroughly cleansed, but he could attend to that later. He needed to eat and recharge his internal batteries first, before he was totally burned out.

  He had carefully stored his newest ‘souvenirs’ in safe places. The degradable items had gone in the long, chest shaped freezer that rested inconspicuously against the back wall of the lock-up. He had purchased it several weeks ago from a second-hand shop in Barking. Although it had seen much better days, it was more than adequate for his needs.

  The Infector and Blackmailer’s underwear were deposited inside a duffle bag that rested on the work surface between the large mirror and his disguise props. It already contained the knickers he had kept as a trophy after slaying Tracey Phillips.

  He placed the blood-soaked clothing, the surgical apron, and the rubber gloves he had worn earlier in the evening in a black, plastic bin liner. This, in turn, was deposited in a large metal dustbin for future disposal by burning. Watching CSI programmes on TV had taught him a lot about forensics. The only safe way to dispose of any clothing that had come into contact with your victim was to burn it, and burn it well.

  Without the makeup, his appearance was entirely different. There was no way that anyone who might’ve seen him a few hours earlier would recognise him now, not even the poor wretches whose battered corpses he’d hacked and torn at in such uncontrolled frenzy.

  As he walked the short distance to Bethnal Green tube he noticed a lone black woman waiting at a bus shelter some fifty yards ahead. As the gap between them closed he saw that she was late middle-aged and plump, with a plain, homely face; he could easily picture her bouncing her many grandchildren up and down on her knee, laughing, telling jokes and reading them Roald Dahl stories. He wondered where she was going, but then he spotted the dark blue cloth of a nurse’s uniform protruding from the bottom of her tan duffle coat, which was done up to combat the early morning chill. Black tights and rubber-soled shoes completed the outfit. Ah, so that was it, she was waiting for a bus to take her to the Royal London.

  Their eyes met as he drew level and she nodded a polite good morning. The Disciple smiled a weary acknowledgment as he visualised himself slitting her throat. He knew how good it would make him feel to watch her blood spurt high in the air, gushing out of a neatly severed artery.

  He quickly dispelled the dangerously compelling desires these thoughts conjured up.

  Discipline had to be maintained at all times or his cover would be blown. It was just like being an undercover spy in communist Russia. He would have made a good spy, he thought, trying not to glance back at the woman.

  A strong breeze was already clearing the gre
y clouds from the sky and the coming day promised to be a vast improvement on the preceding one.

  He looked up as a police car whizzed past at high speed. The siren soon faded, but the killer continued to watch until the blue lights became a small glow in the distance. He wondered where they were going. Was their call connected to his work? They were certainly heading in the right direction.

  He stopped to buy a morning paper from the stall outside the tube station. The wizened old proprietor was a real East End ‘geezer’, full of Cockney rhyming slang and dropped aitches.

  Folding the Red Top under his arm, The Disciple walked the short distance to his favourite café. He ordered coffee and a fry up, and then took a seat by the window, where he could watch the world go by as he ate. Flicking through the newspaper while he waited for his food to arrive, the killer immediately spotted the name on the paper’s lead story: Teresa Miller.