Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  He’d hated the boring string of girls he’d dated before getting married, and had relished finding different ways to make them feel as uncomfortable and miserable as his mother had made him over the years. He had quickly learned how to play cruel mind games; he would start off by being charismatic, charming and attentive, and then suddenly switch to being rude. Then he would turn on the charm again, just to confuse them. He would make promises and deliberately fail to keep them, and he would arrange to meet at really awkward times and then turn up very late and make them rush. During dates he would treat his companion in a way that made her uncomfortable; if she was the type of girl who was independent and liked to split the bill, he would make a point of choosing her food for her and paying for everything. If she was an old-fashioned girl, who wanted to be wined and dined like a princess, he would only order for him and he would find a way to make her pay for the entire meal. When it came to sex, he would insist on having it when she wasn’t in the mood – or, even better, when she was on her period, if he thought that would make her particularly uncomfortable – but when she was in the mood, he would withhold it.

  He also hated the worthless whores who gave him sexual gratification without saddling him with emotional baggage. He didn’t have to make an effort to be nice to them; he didn’t have to look them in the eye and feign affection; he didn’t even have to waste his time with small talk or foreplay – it didn’t matter if they enjoyed the experience as long as he did. The downside to having paid sex was that it was purely a business transaction for the girls, and he didn’t have any of the emotional control over them that he had with his girlfriends.

  When he was going through a particularly bad patch in his marriage, and the stress of this resulted in him struggling to get or maintain an erection, some of the girls started making adverse comments about his lack of size, or his inability to perform. This made him realise that his addiction to sex was allowing the whores – who, in his mind were the lowest of the low – to gain ascendancy over him, but for some inexplicable reason this only made him want them even more.

  Yes, The Disciple hated all women, but there were three that he despised above all others: they were the Infector, the Blackmailer, and the Controller. These vile creatures, more than any other of their kind, had conspired to destroy his life – and they had very nearly succeeded.

  Now it was his turn. What comes around goes around, as the saying went.

  His first victim had, by necessity, been chosen at random; the next two, however, would be anything but. Their painful demise had been carefully planned, and he intended to enjoy every single delicious moment of it.

  The Disciple had been on the streets for less than ten minutes when he spotted the Infector. The timing was so perfect that it had to be an omen. Leaning against a wall, he watched as she led a trick into a narrow cul-de-sac at the back of Brick Lane. It was a repulsive little place about twenty-five yards long by five yards wide, and it led to the rear of a large Indian restaurant. She had been using this spot for a few weeks now, and it was a definite come down from the underground car park where she had always taken him.

  He hoped the hygiene levels inside the fancy fronted restaurant were better than those out back, where three huge bins overflowed with rotting food. The smell was putrid, even from a distance. Beneath the bins, rats fought amongst themselves for the most succulent morsels.

  The Infector ignored the rodents as she walked past the bins and entered a tiny recess a few feet south of the kitchen. The Disciple watched in fascination as his intended victim, partially illuminated by light from the open kitchen door, bent forward, her legs crudely spread. The punter wriggled into position behind her and they began rocking backwards and forwards.

  A few minutes later, they emerged from the alley and went their separate ways without as much as a goodbye. The Disciple waited until it was obvious that she was searching for new customers, and then he made his move.

  Natasha, the name that she was using these days, was an anaemic looking woman in her mid-forties, with nicotine stained buck teeth. Her strong, Liverpudlian accent had an irritating nasal twang to it, and the revolting way in which she constantly poked a large ball of gum around her mouth with her tongue bore a striking resemblance to a cow chewing cud. Even if he hadn’t already hated her for infecting him with the clap, this revolting trait would have been enough to make him want to kill her.

  Natasha wore bright red PVC boots, a black leather skirt, and a red satin blouse. Her complexion was blotchy. To top it all, her hair was dyed bright pink.

  She just had to die.

  Even though he had once been a regular, she showed no signs of recognising him. Perhaps it was the disguise he was wearing; perhaps it was just that all her punters looked the same to her. He engaged her in small talk for a few seconds before steering the conversation around to business. Getting her to reveal her star sign was ridiculously easy – she was a Leo – but persuading her to accompany him to his van proved much less so. Natasha claimed she didn’t want to vacate her spot in the alley in case someone else moved in while she was away. The reality was that she obviously felt safer there with a punter she didn’t know. Maybe her pimp was nearby, ready to rush to her aid if she cried out.

  The Disciple smiled disarmingly, confided in her that he was musophobic, and therefore terrified of rats, and offered to double her money if she humoured him. He could see the conflict in her eyes: natural caution versus greed.

  In the end, greed won.

  Once inside the van, The Disciple attacked her with awesome savagery, beating her unconscious with a large crowbar, while cursing her for giving him the venereal disease that had ruined his life.

  It was a simple matter for him to secure her after the beating. He cuffed her hands behind her back, being careful to wrap some thick material around her wrists first to avoid leaving any tell-tale marks. Then he ripped a length of material from her blood-soaked blouse and, after removing the unpleasant wad of chewing gum with two gloved fingers, stuffed it deep into her battered mouth, effectively gagging her. They didn’t have far to go, and he wasn’t overly concerned about the possibility of her asphyxiating.

  The Disciple congratulated himself as he drove off. Once again, he had blended into his surroundings with consummate skill, like the true chameleon he was. He had snatched a jaded, streetwise prostitute from one of the busiest red-light districts in London without leaving any clues. He could go anywhere and do anything. There was no escaping his wrath.

  His arrogance about such matters was understandable. When interviewed in the days that followed, neither the many restaurant workers nor the pimp, sitting in his car twenty yards from the alley, could shed any light on Natasha’s sudden disappearance that night.

  The only witnesses were the rats, but they weren’t talking.

  He took her to the derelict buildings at the far end of Hanbury Street, a site he had first identified weeks ago. He had visited it again last night, to make sure it was still fit for purpose.

  He moved silently through a narrow passageway between the two derelict houses and slipped into the small yard at the rear of the one on the right. He hastily forced the door with a jemmy he’d brought from the van. The wood was old and it required little effort. He repeated the process on the front door, this time working from the inside out.

  The killer quickly carried the unmoving form of his latest victim, now wrapped in a dustsheet, into the dark hall. In the gloom, he could only just about make out the layout. The stairs were on his left, two closed doors led to rooms on his right, and the hallway led straight back through to the kitchen, which in turn led out onto a small yard at the rear.

  Dropping her unceremoniously, the killer made a final journey to the van to retrieve his bag. He would need to work quickly with this one, which was a great pity. He really wanted to take his time and savour his experience with Natasha to the same extent that he had with Tracey Phillips.

  Breathing heavily, and covered in sweat,
he checked his watch; the luminous dial showed him that it was now nine-thirty. Everything had gone perfectly, and he was slightly ahead of schedule, but he couldn’t relax; it would only take one complication to completely derail his plans.

  Moving quickly, the killer methodically laid the contents of his rucksack out before him to ensure easy access to his tools. With great reverence, he unwrapped the lambskin parchment, positioning it so that he could read its contents without losing control of the sacrificial whore.

  When he was satisfied that everything was positioned exactly to his liking, he unscrewed a small jar of powerful smelling salts. He held them under the woman’s nose, moving them slowly back and forth.

  Initially, nothing happened, but after a few seconds, she began to respond. The first twitch of her head was almost imperceptible, but the movement gradually increased as she tried to resist inhaling the powerful fumes.

  Natasha was suffering from a depressed skull fracture, but as the salts were thrust into her face again, she moaned softly, and half opened glazed eyes.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said. She turned her head towards the sound and tried to focus on the speaker. Despite her best efforts to stay awake, she began to slip into a coma.

  “Wake up you filthy diseased whore, I want you with me for the ceremony,” the killer said, impatiently. The voice confused Natasha as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She didn’t remember going to a ceremony.

  He shook her shoulders roughly. “Wake up, I said.”

  Her eyes blinked open and, this time, slowly focused. She experienced surprisingly little pain as she lay there trying to digest what was happening to her.

  “Not long now,” he whispered gently. He felt intensely aroused, and could hardly breathe as he reached behind him for the knife.

  She began moaning softly in the darkness, a pitiful noise signifying her distress. It was important that she remain awake for this, to share the experience with him. He needed her to understand what was happening. Leaning close to her, his face only inches away from hers, The Disciple drove the Bowie knife deep into her genitalia. “This is for leaving me riddled with venereal disease,” he snarled, closing his eyes in relish as she shuddered.

  Placing a gloved hand over her gagged mouth to muffle the screams, he moved the blade deeper into her, probing and twisting, exploring with it. It was his penis and he was fucking her, thrusting deeper and harder until he reached the point of no return.

  She was still alive, but only just. He wanted to postpone the final moment, prolong the experience for as long as possible.

  This was all so intense. His nervous system felt electrified. Time itself seemed to slow down as every sense he possessed became unbelievably enhanced.

  His hearing had somehow become painfully acute, to the extent that he could discern the distinctive rustle of all the different fabrics as their clothing touched. He could isolate the sound of her dying heart, still beating defiantly inside her chest but growing weaker as the life force ebbed out of her. He listened attentively to the glorious sound of her soft flesh tearing as he slowly moved the knife inside her. He paused momentarily, lifting his head to sniff the air like a wild animal. He could smell everything.

  Everything!

  He could differentiate between the thick layer of dust on the banister and an old newspaper across the hall. He could smell the fur of the rodents inhabiting the old house, and the pungent aroma of their droppings on nearby floorboards. He clearly recognised the rich coppery smell of fresh blood, a distinctive odour that triggered vivid recollections of his final moments with Tracey Phillips. The killer would not have been surprised to learn that scent tends to foster memory more readily than any other sense. Fragrances he had never noticed before were suddenly accessible to him. It was incredible, beyond his wildest dreams. It was as though he could now smell with his whole body and not just his nose, as though the various odours in the dank building were being suffused into his skin.

  As the last embers of her life were extinguished, one question burned brightly in her mind. She struggled to ask it but her body wouldn’t respond. Her tongue felt thick, as if it had swollen to fill her entire mouth. The Disciple saw the unasked question in her eyes as they tried to focus on him one final time. He smiled cruelly. “You want to know why I chose you, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.” His voice was barely audible above her death rattle.

  Another blade, a Finnish skinning knife, appeared in his left hand. Placing his right hand on the centre of her clammy forehead he rested the knife against the side of her neck.

  “I’d gladly tell you,” he said, conversationally, as the knife began to slice downwards with tremendous force.

  “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Jack was sitting at the bar feeling mightily annoyed when Dillon finally showed his face.

  He slid onto the next bar stool and signalled for the bartender. “Sorry, Jack,” he said sheepishly.

  “What took you so long? I thought you’d gone home until I remembered that it was me who’d driven us here.” Jack looked at his watch. He had been sitting there, alone, for twenty-five minutes.

  “Do you want another drink?” Dillon offered.

  “I’ve already had two,” Jack said, angrily. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Dillon tried again to catch the bartender’s eye. “I got talking, lost track of the time.” He shrugged and spread his arms disarmingly. “You know how it is.”

  “No, not really,” Jack said, huffily folding his arms across his chest and fixing Dillon with a cold stare. He was extremely unhappy that he’d been kept waiting, and he could just imagine the ear bashing he’d be getting right now if their positions had been reversed.

  “Never mind, mate, I’m here now.”

  “You’re unbelievable!” Tyler said, knocking back the last of his orange juice. He stood up to leave. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “No, wait! Sit down, relax, and have another drink. It’s my round.” Dillon signalled the bartender again, successfully this time.

  “Be with you in a minute, sir,” the man called from the other end of the bar.

  “What are you up to?” Jack asked suspiciously, but he sat back down nonetheless.

  Dillon decided to be frank. “Look, I got talking to a girl called Karen. She’s a real babe, and she’s agreed to have a drink with me tonight.”

  “I see. Well, in that case, I don’t want to play gooseberry so I’ll leave you to it.” Jack made to stand up again, but Dillon waved him back down.

  “No, don’t go. I need you to keep her mate occupied for me.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Her mate?” That didn’t sound good.

  “Yeah, she’s with her BFF, a girl called Fiona. I told Karen she could join us, so I need you to keep her company while I chat up Karen.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for this, Dill,” Tyler said. And he wasn’t; he was tired and grumpy, and his mind was preoccupied with the case.

  “Don’t be silly, it’ll do you good to have a little female company.”

  “No offence, but any woman you try to set me up with must have something wrong with her, otherwise you’d be sniffing around her yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this Fiona bird is probably a real pig or a certified bunny boiler or, knowing you, both.”

  “She’s lovely, Jack, honest.”

  “She was probably dropped on her head as a baby.”

  Dillon shook his head vigorously. “No. She’s a …”

  Tyler interrupted him, his tone cynical. “I can guess: A disfigured mutant with three eyes, grown in a test tube by a mad scientist doing experiments with radioactive plasma. I bet she glows in the dark!” He grimaced at the thought.

  “No, no, no! Will you trust me? I wouldn’t do that to you,” Dillon protested.

  “Oh, come on, Dill!” Jack exclaimed loudly. “Of course you would.”

 
; The bartender shot them a look of disapproval.

  “Look behind you,” Dillon whispered without moving his lips. He glanced over Jack’s shoulder, pointing with his eyes. Following Dillon’s gaze, Tyler glanced behind to see two girls, a blond and a brunette, approaching. He felt his jaw drop. If the theme from Charlie’s Angels had suddenly started belting out of the bar’s speakers, he would not have been surprised.

  Dillon quickly moved forward to greet them. Smiling warmly, he ushered them onto seats at a nearby table with a flamboyant wave of his hand. “I’m so glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to my close friend and colleague, Jack Tyler. Jack, this is Karen and her friend, Fiona.”