by Simon Parker
The red face beamed and laughed its cordial laugh yet again.
“Patience Jack, patience. It won’t come instantly, but it will come, that I promise you. Now, listen, I will help you write your masterpiece. I’ll be there every step of the way with you and rain success and riches on you beyond anything you could possibly imagine.” The eyeless sockets of the face held Jack’s gaze so intently, all resistance was gone. “Touch your finger to the mouse pad and we can begin.”
Jack reached forward, not thinking to query why he was doing it. He felt a sharp prick and raised his hand to look. A tiny drop of blood had risen to the surface of his finger tip. Surprise registered on his features, but alarm seemed a distant memory to him. He was too absorbed to find it a concern. Without instruction, he touched the finger to the mouse pad again. The blood drop vanished. The face and the black screen were replaced by the blank page of his open Word file.
“Let’s begin,” the voice said.
For hours, Jack sat frantically typing, listening to the guidance of that voice. He realised just a few paragraphs in that he was writing a biography. Some of the facts were familiar to him, but some of what he wrote was new, breath-taking information. Most of the information could be researched on the internet, but none had been linked before. There were some stunning insights from the red face, and the results were nothing short of astounding.
This book was indeed going to be his masterpiece. It wasn’t the fiction he had written before. This biographical expose was pure horror, fear personified, but true in every sickening detail. The public would eat it up. Jack grinned as he pounded relentlessly on his keyboard day after day, fantasizing about the global fame that would undoubtedly come when RIPPER CHRONICLES, the untold story hit the shelves.
The days turned into weeks. Jack typed, proofread and edited his own work. He was afraid to let anyone see the astounding revelations for fear of someone leaking the information and beating him to the punch. His toil had taken its toll though. He had dark shadows under his eyes and almost a full beard now. He barely ate, rarely washed, and drank only coffee and energy drinks. His body shed twenty pounds and his shabby, dirty clothes hung off his wiry frame. But he was finally doing what he had dreamed of, writing the most incredible book to hit the shelves in years. There was no doubt in his mind that his masterpiece would top all the charts and break records.
After months of self-imposed solitary confinement, his first draft was ready. There had been long hours sat talking to the face on the screen, scribbling the notes and shocking revelations narrated to him. Hours more checking the sources, hunting down and confirming some astounding new links in the most researched murder cases of all time. There had been people who had dedicated their whole life to it; Ripperologists they called themselves. Jack chuckled to himself as he thought of their mixed emotions when they read his book, divulging information that they had not been capable of finding. They would hate him for outshining every one of them, but they would devour the information none the less. The whole world would.
“You have done an amazing job, Jack,” the red face chuckled. “You will shock the world with what I have told you, and I will be so proud when you get the fame and the fortune you deserve.”
Jack smiled. He still had no idea how the red face had showed up on his screen, but he had a fair idea who it was and why he had seemed so familiar. He didn’t care. As long as he got what he wanted. That was inevitable once RIPPER CHRONICLES was published. All it would cost him, he’d been assured time and again, was a small favour. Jack didn’t know what, he didn’t know when, but neither bothered him. He hadn’t sold his soul. How difficult could a small favour be?
Late on Friday night he rang his publisher.
“Peter,” he said, his voice almost jaunty.
“Jack? What the hell are you doing ringing me at this time of night?”
Jack laughed it off. “Great to speak to you too, Peter.” Not a hint of sarcasm touched his voice. It really was great to speak to Peter. “Listen,” he continued, “I have the most amazing manuscript that will ever come across your desk and I want to show it to you tomorrow. Can you be in the office at 6am?”
“Six? Are you shitting me, Jack? Look, I stuck my neck out for you with those short stories. I got you in a couple of anthologies, just doing a favour for a friend, and I got you an advance for some crackpot idea for a book you hadn’t even started!” Peter took a breath, but his rant wasn’t over. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for three months now and nothing. You don’t answer calls, don’t reply to texts or emails. I even posted a fucking snail mail letter to you. My boss is chewing my arse off about you delivering and you suddenly decide to ring me at fucking stupid o’clock and tell me you want me to meet you in … what the fuck time is it anyway? ... in five bloody hours?”
There was a pause and Jack could just picture Peter shaking his shaggy mane of a head, the way he always did when he was about to give in and knew it.
“I tell you what, Jack, this better be a shit-hot completed manuscript or your head and my balls will be toasted and served on a silver platter at the next board meeting! I love you, man, but you’re pushing the friend thing to the fucking limit.” His heavy breathing came through the wire clearly.
“Finished?” Jack felt a chuckle trying to work its way out and restrained it. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, I really do,” he lied, “but I’ve had my head buried in research for this manuscript and just could not be disturbed. Don’t worry, this will knock the socks off those fat morons at the next board meeting and make you and me a shitload of money into the bargain.”
“I’m listening,” Peter said, his voice calmer now. Exactly thirteen minutes later, Jack hung up the phone and smiled to himself. He had his meeting, even though he had had to concede to making it at half past seven, ‘in the name of all things decent on a Saturday morning.’
Peter, his good friend Peter, would be stunned when he saw the work and would do all he possibly could to make this thing hit the ground running. Of that, Jack was certain. The book would sell itself and, according to his red-faced friend, astounding success would follow. Jack’s instincts told him that was right.
The meeting with Peter the next morning went exactly as Jack had thought it would, as the red face had told him it would. Peter had drawn up a contract right there and then, and Jack knew the advance they had discussed had been the largest Peter had ever offered to any author. Jack had been promised it would be in his bank within the next two days and was to be more than he’d had ever earned in all his years of writing.
“And that’s just the beginning, my friend,” the red face said when Jack gave him the news. “So much is coming to you. Riches beyond your imagination, fame, celebrity, everything you dreamed of, everything you asked me for and more.”
Jack’s smile barely contained the laugh he felt bursting in his chest. “Thank you so much, Red. You’ve done me proud.”
Red’s (Jack had begun to think of him that way) expression barely altered, but the sentiment in his next words made the smile freeze on Jack’s face as his emotions crystalized and crackled like time-lapsed frost.
“It’s not your thanks I want, Jack. You promised your service, and your service you shall give.” Then the voice took on a lighter note. “In the meantime, I will leave you to enjoy your time in the limelight. You no longer need my help. You will not see me again until I require you to fulfil your part of our deal.”
A small judder thrilled through Jack’s body. He felt a cold razor draw across his heart. Then the screen faded and Red was gone. Jack felt a rush of triumph wash through him. He was under no illusion as to whom he had dealt with, but his pride came from the fact that he had made the deal and come out with all rights to his mortal soul intact. It was only a small job that he had to do. No eternal damnation or sulphur enemas for him!
The next six months were a whirlwind. Jack’s book shot straight to number one on every chart it was eligible for. He received
rave reviews from even the harshest critics. The way it had been written, it was almost as if it were straight from the pages of the Ripper’s own journal. The work was truly a masterpiece, a flawless timeline of events.
Jack attended countless interviews on radio and spoke on television shows with immense worldwide audiences. His bank account swelled to obscene proportions as the royalties and appearance fees rolled in. His face was on the cover of every magazine and newspaper, and there were very few souls left on the planet who didn’t know who Jack was. He was even approached by a major movie corporation wanting to turn his book into a massive-budget box office smash.
His dream was more than fulfilled. The rich and famous clamoured to meet him, just to be in the presence of his greatness. Financially, well, he had more money than he could ever hope to spend. This was a thought that comforted Jack more than any other as he drove his brand new, custom-sprayed Aston Martin DB9 home to his recently acquired two-acre wooded estate in Norfolk. It boasted twelve bedrooms, five bathrooms and a dining room big enough to hold a masked ball for over two hundred people. Which was exactly what Jack intended to do this weekend to celebrate his fame, glory and success.
That night, just two days before his masquerade, Jack sat alone in his library, sipping a fifty-year-old single malt. He glanced around at the tangible evidence of his success and renown, the shelves lined with first editions of all his favourite works, an original Picasso at one end of the library, and original Da Vinci sketches on the wall near a huge mirror. He breathed in the subtle smells and tastes that only came with items like these. Feeling smug, he reached behind the leather Chesterfield and grabbed his laptop from the enormous oak desk. He wanted to take another look at his bank account. Six months ago, his balance had been mere pence. Now there were eight figures filling the bottom of his balance statement, and that number was creeping rapidly toward the nine-figure landmark.
As Jack sat admiring his liquid assets on the screen, a shadow crossed his vision and the whole room darkened. A small frown creased his brow until a familiar red face began to appear. His frown turned to a welcoming smile.
“Red! How’re you doing, my friend?” Jack’s smile hung in the air, unreciprocated.
“Jack.” The red face nodded once, evidently the closest Jack was going to get to a greeting. “Your service is required. I will come and collect you when I am ready.”
Jack’s smile darkened, matching the now dead screen. He had hoped it would be years before this day came, but he shrugged, resolving to get whatever service Red required of him over with as quickly as possible and return to his life of luxury. He shuddered as he speculated on what rancid task awaited him, but the deal was done. He owed Red big and his debt would be paid back in full, hopefully in the next twenty-four hours. Within forty-eight, he’d consign it to his past to be forgotten.
He sipped his whiskey to steady his nerves and quell the tumbling feeling in his stomach. He knew he must get a grip on his anxiety. He tried another sip, but it burned like battery acid and he decided to try and get some sleep while he could.
Twenty-four hours passed. In less than that, his guests would arrive for the masked ball. His staff were busy with the preparations. They kept coming to him to ask for his approval about stupid things they should have been able to handle. He had holed up in his bedroom with his laptop, begging Red to appear and get this over with, but he might as well have begged the rain to fall. Thoroughly pissed off, he sent the staff away with a short, sharp answer. It didn’t take long until word had spread that they should leave him alone, much to Jack’s relief. He mumbled another request for Red to hurry up with exactly the same results.
Two hours later, his stylist, Clare, arrived with his costume for the ball. She knocked gently and entered without waiting for a reply. Jack glanced up from the screen, making eye contact with her for a second before looking away.
“Jesus Jack, you look like shit!” Claire exclaimed. “Are you okay?” What’s wrong? I thought you were looking forward to the ball. Are you not well?”
Jack napped his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, composing himself. “No, I’m not unwell. I just… had some bad news at a bad time. I’ll be fine.”
Clare raised an eyebrow, as if she didn’t quite believe him but didn’t want to push the issue. Jack managed to crack a semi-believable smile that seemed to convince her that he was ready to begin the preparations. She returned the smile, and Jack said a mental ‘thank you’ for her gullibility.
“Good, right, let’s get cracking, Jack. You pop off and have a shave and I’ll sort your costume, okay? We’ve got a lot to do before your guests arrive.”
Jack shrugged and sloped off without another word, promising himself he would snap out of it. He’d deal with big red’s request later.
When Jack emerged from the shower, he looked and felt a lot better. Clare was waiting for him, brushing imaginary lint from his spotless costume. “Ta dah!” she said, standing aside his costume. A smile grew on Jack’s face.
“That’s fucking awesome,” he chortled. “You got it bang on. I’ll be the spit of my namesake.”
“You’ll be looking good, Jack. You polish up well.” She chuckled, looking him up and down. Jack wasn’t modest and he didn’t think Clare was shy, but a blush bloomed on her cheeks as he dropped his towel and padded silently to the chest of drawers that held his underwear. Once clad in silk boxers and socks, he turned to face her again and quickly donned the costume before the huge mirror.
“Classic Ripper,” he said, unashamedly pleased with the look. Clare stood at his shoulder, now brushing the imaginary lint from his back. She passed him the top hat and he put it on. Perfect fit.
“You look every bit the classic Ripper,” Clare said. “Wait, there’s more.” She pulled something from behind her back and handed it to him. “The crowning glory.”
Jack felt the blood drain from his face.
“Jack?” The concern in Clare’s voice drew his wide eyes to hers. “What is it? Don’t you like it?” Jack took a moment before he could find his voice again.
“Er… yeh, its great… just shocked me, that’s all.”
Jack saw Clare’s frown deepen before he looked back at the mask she held. He felt like a child who’s just poked his first dead body with a stick and it had grinned at him.
“Jack?” Clare asked again. He snapped out of his petrified reverie.
“Huh?”
“Why so shocked? Is it not all you’d hoped for?” Clare’s smile warmed him and made him feel a little foolish for his overreaction.
“No, no, it’s great. Perfect. It’s just… I saw this face in… er, in a dream, that’s all. Kind of freaked me for a second.” He took the red mask from her, smiling and shaking his head slightly. “Wow,” he said.
“So you like it all, yeah?” she asked. Jack held the mask in both hands, studying it.
“Yes,” he whispered. “It’s all amazing.” After a moment, he chuckled. “Guess there’s no such thing as coincidence, hey?”
A tiny frown flashed across her face again at the comment, but Jack looked at himself in the mirror again, the colour now back in his complexion. He raised the red mask up until he could look through the eye holes. It made his own face look like the face he knew so well from the screen of his laptop.
Jack chuckled, and then his chuckle matured into a full-blown belly laugh. Clare laughed along with him, but he stopped so abruptly that her laughter outlasted his.
“Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for? It’s showtime!”
“Party time, Jack. Shall we?” Clare raised her arm, waiting to escort him.
The room fell silent as Jack made his grand entrance. When he neared the bottom of the stairs, someone started clapping. The applause rapidly turned into raucous acknowledgment, which washed over him like a refreshing wave. He revelled in it, raising his arms in a cruciform, allowing the adoration to soak into his pores. As the applause subsided, he raised his arms higher to stem
it completely.
“Let the revelry commence,” he said and swept into the room to circulate with the rich and famous gathered in his home.
Jack floated around the room, shaking hands, kissing cheeks and high-fiving. He enjoyed the praise of his guests, the sycophantic raving barely masking the vitriolic, jealous contempt. Jack sighed with relief as he reached the end of his circuit. The party was in full swing now.
He slipped out of the back of the room unnoticed, going into his library and closing the door behind him. He poured himself a large measure of his fifty-year-old single malt, raising the glass to his reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Thank you, Red. I couldn’t have done it without you. Whatever it is that you want me to do, it will be worth it to spend the rest of my life like this.”
Jack raised his mask to take a sip of the fiery amber liquid, his eyes widening as his reflection did not. It still stood, mask in place, holding the glass and staring at him with a disturbing fire in its eyes. The figure in the mirror said nothing but beckoned. Jack’s heart pounded, drumming in his chest and echoing in his ears. His breath quickened as the room around him became icy cold and began to fade away until all he could see was the red-faced figure summoning him. He braced himself and stepped forward, wincing his eyes shut at the expectation of crashing mirror glass or pain or cold or something. He felt nothing. When he opened his eyes again, the familiar red face smiled crookedly at him.
“Welcome Jack. Good to see you again.” Red’s voice was a deep bubbling cauldron of sound in the blackest pitch Jack had ever known. There was no light source anywhere, yet Jack could see Big Red clearly. Strangely, to Jack it seemed the opposite were true, as if Red was actually emanating the darkness.
“Time to go to work, Jack.” A huge taloned hand patted Jack’s shoulder, more a warning than a supportive gesture. Failing Red would not be an auspicious choice! Jack tried to swallow, but his saliva refused to play along. Red stood to one side, hand raised in an ‘after you’ gesture. Jack was afraid. He couldn’t see where he was supposed to go, but he was petrified of disobeying Red. He stepped forward, wincing again as he did so.
