Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  “My name is Jack. Jack the New Ripper. Whoever I was before that is of no consequence,” the killer told him stiffly. The voice was taut, and it sounded very different to the one Jack had heard during their previous encounters, but he knew voice patterns were liable to undergo dramatic change under conditions of extreme stress.

  “It’s over,” Jack said softly. “Give me the knife and let’s put an end to this.”

  The killer’s face was unreadable, his eyes two dead pools, cold and unblinking. He studied Jack intently, his gaze hypnotic in its intensity.

  Neither man moved; the warehouse was silent apart from the coarse sound of their heavy breathing. Eventually, the killer looked down, unable to meet Tyler’s steady gaze any longer.

  Pritchard licked his lips nervously. “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re quite right.” His shoulders seemed to sag as he reached behind, slowly pulling the knife from its sheath in the small of his back. “As you say, let’s put an end to this, once and for all.” Without looking up, he slowly extended his hand, holding the Bowie knife out for Tyler to take. Jack began to reach for it, his hand moving closer and closer to the blade.

  At that moment the killer looked up and their eyes met again. What was it that Jack saw flicker in them? Certainly not defeat. He hesitated, millimetres away from the killer’s knife hand.

  “What’s the matter, Tyler? Don’t you want to take my knife?” Pritchard asked, a little too meekly.

  “Why don’t you put it down on the floor, just to be on the safe side?” Tyler said, withdrawing his hand and taking a step backward.

  The killer frowned, pondering this. “What’s the matter, Jack, don’t you trust me?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Just humour me,” Tyler said, flatly.

  “Sure,” Pritchard said, and then gave a defeated shrug. He began to bend down, pointing the knife towards the floor. “Whatever you say, Jack.” In one swift movement, he lunged forward, thrusting the knife at Tyler’s chest with the speed of a striking cobra. As Tyler sidestepped the killer’s advance, the tip of the blade effortlessly sliced through his jacket lapel. The killer changed direction in one fluid move, going from a jab to a backhand slice without breaking his step. Jack ducked under the blow and tried to shuffle backwards, but he snagged his foot on the mesh floor of the catwalk and stumbled backwards, landing heavily on his rump.

  The killer reversed his grip, holding the flat of the blade against his forearm in the concealed position. “You didn’t really think you could win, did you?” he mocked as he came forward, raising the knife for a downward thrust. Now that Tyler knew his identity, Pritchard couldn’t allow him to leave the building alive. He didn’t buy the bullshit about them already knowing he was the Ripper for one moment; that was just Tyler playing mind games to unsettle him.

  “Fuck you,” Jack replied. He kicked out at the knife hand as it came down, deflecting the blow from its intended target. He hooked one foot around the killer’s left ankle and kicked out at the killer’s left knee with the heel of his other foot, knocking him over with a ju-jitsu move he hadn’t practised for years.

  Jack rolled over on his back in a reverse somersault, coming up to his feet less graciously then he would have liked. The killer was already halfway up, holding the knife out in front of him to deter Tyler from counter-attacking.

  “Very good,” he wheezed. “But it won’t save you for long.”

  There was little room for manoeuvre on the catwalk, and it vibrated and shuddered with their every move. Jack couldn’t help but wonder if it was up to this sort of thing. He had visions of it collapsing under their weight.

  The killer was advancing again, slicing left and right in a vicious figure of eight. He certainly knew how to use that damn knife, Jack noted, wishing he had something to fight back with – preferably a Glock 17 pistol. There was nothing like an ounce of lead, strategically placed between the eyes, to slow down a crazed knifeman. He was being forced backwards, towards the stairs, and he had to find a way to turn the tables before it was too late.

  The killer lunged forward again, but this time Jack was ready for him. He stepped inside the blow and pivoted. As the knife shot past his face, he grabbed hold of the killer’s wrist, trying to shake the knife loose. Unfazed, the killer tried to turn the knife inwards, towards Tyler’s stomach. Jack hung on tightly. In this position they cannoned off the railings, bouncing from side to side as though they were in a pinball machine. As each one struggled to gain the upper hand, the two men swayed dangerously over the side, both trying to pin their opponent down.

  Pritchard managed to pull his knife arm free of Tyler’s grip. Twisting around, so that he was now on top, he stabbed downwards with all his might. Tyler somehow blocked the blow, halting it inches away from his face. For several seconds they remained locked in that position before gravity began to take its toll and the knife began to creep downwards, edging ever closer to Tyler’s face. Then, just when all seemed lost, Tyler twisted the killer around, using his own momentum against him. The killer’s body slammed into the metal railing, stunning him. Making the most of the sudden advantage, Jack banged the knife hand hard against the solid metal railing, once, twice, three times, until it sprang from the killer’s hand, falling thirty feet to the ground below.

  It landed with a dull thud.

  Tyler drew his right fist back to deliver a haymaker of a punch. Without the knife, Pritchard was no match for him.

  “No!” Simon Pritchard screamed, wide-eyed. In a sudden frenzy, he grabbed hold of Tyler’s jacket and threw himself backward, taking them both over the edge of the railing and out into space.

  CHAPTER 41

  Kelly opened her eyes to find a giant figure bending over her. As an out of focus hand reached for her face, panic mushroomed inside her chest; she didn’t want to die. “No!” she screamed, raising her arms to fend off the monster. The last thing she remembered, before losing consciousness, was the killer leaning over her with that horrible knife in his hand.

  “It’s alright, love. It’s me, Tony Dillon,” a familiar voice soothed.

  “Tony Dillon?” she repeated automatically, only half understanding.

  “That’s right, Kelly, it’s just Dillon.” He waited until the fear drained from her face and her hands lowered of their own accord before reaching forward again to help her. This time she didn’t resist.

  Kelly’s head was throbbing, her skin was covered in sweat, and any movement made her feel violently sick. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her breathing until the nausea receded. Her mind was slowly coming back online, and it was telling her that she had a mild concussion.

  “You’re safe now, Kelly. Everything’s gonna be okay,” she heard Dillon say.

  She opened her eyes and nodded sluggishly, and immediately regretted doing so as it made her feel queasy again.

  Dillon made her as comfortable as he could before moving on to the distraught woman in the back of the van. “It’s alright, love, I’m a police officer. Can you tell me your name?” He was trying to work the knots that were binding her knees free as he spoke.

  “Sarah,” she told him between sobs. “My husband…”

  “Don’t worry, my love. We’ll let him know you’re okay as soon as we can,” Dillon promised, only to be taken aback by the look of abject horror that appeared on her face.

  “No,” she cried, shaking her head violently. “You don’t understand. My husband did this to me. He’s…he’s the Ripper.”

  “You’re Simon Pritchard’s wife?” he asked, stunned.

  Sarah stared at Dillon in utter disbelief, which quickly morphed into anger. “If you already know he’s the Ripper,” she demanded, “why the hell isn’t he already in custody?”

  “Calm down, love,” he told her. “We only found out a couple of hours ago, and we’ve been searching high and low for him ever since.”

  That seemed to mollify her a little. “I see,” she said, relaxing slightly.

  “I know yo
u’ve just been put through hell,” Dillon said, trying to comfort her, “and I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel, but I give you my word that you’re safe now.”

  “Where…where is he? Where is Simon?” she asked, scanning the surrounding area nervously, as if afraid her husband might pounce on her at any second.

  “That’s a good question, love,” he replied, looking over his shoulder towards the bank of fog that concealed the old warehouse.

  Dillon dug out his phone and tried to summon help, but he couldn’t get a signal down here. It occurred to him that if he could get Kelly and Mrs Pritchard back to the road, he would at least be free to come back and assist Jack. He had a horrible feeling that his friend was in need of help.

  “Kelly, I’ve got to get back to the main road so I can get a signal to call for help, but I can’t leave you two here alone. If I carry this lady can you walk?”

  “I think so, boss,” she said, holding her hand out. Dillon took it and gently pulled her to her feet. She wobbled badly, and he held onto her in case she fell back down.

  “I’m okay, really I am,” Kelly lied. She felt rather giddy and very sick, but she knew Dillon wouldn’t leave unless she was capable of going with him. “Where’s Jack?” she asked, suddenly aware that he was missing.

  “He went after the killer. To tell you the truth, he’s been gone a few minutes and I’m getting a little worried about him,” Dillon admitted.

  Kelly’s eyes widened, her injuries instantly forgotten. “Tony, you’ve got to go after him. Don’t worry about us. I’m fine now. I can get her back to my car without your help,” she said.

  Dillon shook his head. “We go down to the car together, sweetheart. Then I’ll come back on my own. Jack wouldn’t want it any other way.” She opened her mouth to protest but he raised a finger to his lips, silencing her. “Let’s not waste time arguing, Kelly,” he said firmly. “I’ll get the woman.”

  ◆◆◆

  As he tumbled over the edge, Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of a rope dangling in front of him. It was looped through a corroded metal pulley, which was suspended from a rotting joist just above the gantry. The rope seemed to stretch all the way down to the floor, thirty odd feet below.

  Ignoring the killer, who still clung to him as they fell, he reached for it, knowing it was his only chance of survival. The fingers of his right hand brushed against the badly frayed rope, but his left hand missed completely, grasping only empty air. They plummeted downward, spinning violently in mid-air. Jack clawed at the rope again, first with his right hand, then with his left. On his third attempt, miraculously, he caught it.

  With gritted teeth, Jack hung on for dear life. The descent was broken, suddenly and painfully, in a bone-jarring jolt that nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets. The rope cut deep into his hands; a pain almost beyond tolerance.

  Jack hung there, listening to the old rope creak; he knew he couldn’t hold on for much longer, not with the added weight of the killer to contend with.

  Suddenly, the rope slipped through his fingers and they dropped another couple of feet before he recovered his grip. Tyler looked down gingerly, calculating his chances of surviving a fall from this height intact. His feet were swinging twenty feet above the floor, and it seemed a very long way down.

  To make matters worse, immediately below them were several plastic dustbins, a stack of empty crates and a loose pile of bricks. The bins were filled to the brim with rubbish, long since discarded. What really worried Jack was the small cluster of wooden timbers and the rusted metal pipes that protruded from the clutter below, sticking up like spikes on an iron railing.

  Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. In a place the size of a football pitch, why did there have to be a huge pile of trash, much of it sharp, all of it dangerous, in that particular spot?

  If he landed on it, sod's law dictated he’d either be impaled or break both ankles – knowing his luck, probably both. He could feel his grip loosening, and he doubted he’d be able to hold on for very much longer.

  “Grab the rope,” he called down, trying to suppress his panic.

  “No,” Pritchard called back defiantly; his arms remained tightly wrapped around Tyler’s chest in a perverse embrace. He began twisting and wriggling, like a worm on a hook, trying to pull his legs up in order to wrap them around Tyler’s waist.

  “Let go or we’ll both fall,” Jack shouted.

  “Noooo!” Pritchard screamed, squeezing even tighter.

  What was the matter with the man? Did he want to die? Jack could hardly breathe. His ribs felt as though they would snap if the pressure wasn’t eased. He had to get rid of the extra weight, and fast – or they would both fall to their doom.

  Jack brought his knee up hard into Pritchard’s testicles, stunning him. The killer convulsed and let out a cry of pain. Jack kneed him again, harder, but the blow only connected with Pritchard’s inner thigh. He pulled his knee back for a third blow.

  “No, please,” Pritchard pleaded in a hoarse voice.

  Tyler felt a small twinge of satisfaction.

  This is for what you did to my Kelly, you bastard.

  As he lashed out, again and again, the rope swayed back and forth, gaining momentum. The supporting joist started shaking violently as its restraining bolts gave way. Brick dust began to rain down on them.

  “Let…go…you…swine,” Tyler grunted between blows. Pritchard slid further down Jack’s body, and then onto his legs, at which point Tyler managed to knee him straight in the face. The blow jarred the killer’s head backwards and he slid all the way down to Tyler’s feet.

  “NOOOOO!” he pleaded, bug-eyed. A trickle of blood had leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  “I hope you…break…every bone…in your fucking body,” Jack said, finally kicking him away. He watched as the killer fell to the floor and landed in a crumpled heap on top of the dustbins. Pritchard sprawled forward and a small cloud of dust billowed around him like a miniature burst of nuclear fall-out, obscuring his body from view. Jack closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths before lowering himself painfully down to ground level.

  As Tyler’s feet touched the floor there was an ominous crack above him and the rope went slack in his hands. He looked up to see the pulley plummeting down towards him, dragging a huge timber joist behind it.

  “Shit!” he said, instinctively diving to his left and curling into a foetal position. The metal landed on the exact spot he’d occupied a second before with a loud metallic clang. The joist made a much deeper noise, partially disintegrating as it hit. Dust and fragments of splintered wood rained down upon him.

  When it stopped, Jack stood up, coughing. Without thinking, he started brushing at his clothes, which were white with dust. The pain in his hands was immediate and severe. Looking down he saw they had both sustained nasty friction burns. Gingerly flexing his hands, he walked over to the pile of debris the killer had landed on to see…

  Nothing!

  What the hell…?

  The killer had gone. But how could that be? He had landed badly, and from that height…

  Wait a minute; if I was twenty feet up and he was hanging from my feet then he was probably only about thirteen feet from the ground…

  A fall from thirteen feet onto a bunch of dustbins was still risky, but it was far less likely to cause serious damage than a fall from twenty plus feet, unless you landed directly on your head, which the killer obviously hadn’t, or got yourself impaled, as the killer should have done but, again, clearly hadn’t. Even so, there was no way he should’ve been in a fit state to get up and run away. Jack shook his head in frustration. Now if that had been me instead of him…

  He looked around frantically. The killer had to be nearby. Pace, time and distance dictated he couldn’t have gone any further than –

  BANG!

  A pair of swing doors in the opposite corner of the massive storage area slammed shut, producing an echo that resonated throughout the empty buildin
g. Jack immediately broke into a run, jumping over several of the dustbins and their recently spilled contents. He nimbly dodged bricks, loose floorboards and broken crates alike, his burning hands temporarily forgotten.

  It took him six seconds to reach the thick, rubber swing doors. Without breaking his stride, he kicked them wide open and carried on through, throwing caution to the wind. Had he been going slower, he might have noticed the grime covered sign on the door that indicated he was heading towards a chemical storage area containing highly flammable materials.

  Tyler found himself in a long downward sloping tunnel, which he figured ran all the way down to the river’s edge. A long way ahead, a weak beam of light reflected off the walls, bobbing up and down as the killer ran.

  The son of a bitch had a torch!