Death of Jack

I came to kill an angel, thus hoping to prevent another murder. Leaning back against an elm, I buried my hands in the depths of my Ulster overcoat pockets and waited. Occasionally, I stamped my feet to counter the November London chill, shifting the rucksack carried on my shoulder.

Ladies of the night hustled in and out of the Two Bells pub, a popular destination for the judies as they plied their trade. Men of all stations ambled through the dark streets and thoroughfares. Those of a lower order seemed unconcerned about recognition, while the higher-class gentlemen moved with collars raised.

 A Bobby, strolling toward me, slapped his night stick in a beefy hand, a display of authority. With a watchful eye, he nodded.

I straightened and lifted a finger to my forehead. “A good evening to you, constable.” He moved away but would be back. The recent murders in the area made him wary.

Within several minutes, Jack appeared from the alley across the street. I knew not his name, but the tabloids called him, Jack the Ripper.

I recognized him easily, having seen his face in my mind’s eye, as he engaged in his beastly acts. At Dorset Street, he looked right and left; then he turned and strode with a jaunty step toward the river. He seemed a dapper little murderer with his Inverness coat, and a bowler pulled down over his brow to cover his upper face, collar up to shield the lower. He carried a cane which he swung carelessly.

I followed briskly on the opposing side of the street. My steps increased to gain a position ahead of him. When suitably advanced and seeing no others present, I crossed to station myself before him. After several paces, I turned to confront him.

He began to sidle over as if to avoid me, but I side-stepped to block him. His body stiffened in anger as he took affront at my opposition.

He sniffed, “Move aside man.”

I said, “I can see by your shirt you finished your night’s bloody work.”

He held out his hands in innocent protest. “Sir, I am a surgeon, what business do you have with me?”

“A strange surgery indeed, late at night, in the dregs of London. I don’t believe she had need for your services.”

“You must let me pass. My wife expects me home.”

I chided him, “Does your wife know who you are? Murderer of women?”

“That is not funny, sir.”

“Do you detect humor in my voice?”

His lips curled in a sneer. “Enough of this worthless talk. You waste my time.” As with others of his kind, he exuded arrogance.

With a droll look, I said, “You have truly little time left.”

“You dare to threaten me?”

“I come not to threaten you, sir. I come to kill you.”

A cast of fear or anticipation passed over his face, but I could not tell which. Clearly, he was a man used to having his wont, not having others challenge him.

“My man, you have made a grievous error.” He shrugged off his coat, placing it carefully on the ground. He withdrew a sword from his cane, revealing a long slender blade...much like an Épée, a wicked looking instrument. From his belt, he grasped a knife with his left hand.

My heart accelerated. In the past, I engaged other fallen angels, and each presented a risk although my presence bore witness that I never lost.

Jack sneered, “My blade is quick, and you will now forfeit your life.”

I removed my coat and rucksack. “How so?”

“My skills with a blade are renowned,” he continued. “Patients come from all over the world to benefit from my skill. You, my presumptuous friend, will see only a quick exit to the grave.”

“Brave words, indeed. You do not know of me.” I reached in my rucksack and the ancient Greek Harpe sword slapped into my hand with the same firmness as a surgeon receiving a scalpel. A gift from my sister.

As I withdrew it, he laughed. “What can that be, sir? Have you been frequenting museums?  I shall hang it upon my trophy wall before this night ends.”

“And what shall be my trophy, if I win?” I asked.

He lunged forward without notice or warning, thrusting, seeking to end the fight by catching me unawares. His blade impaled me below my right nipple, penetrating between the ribs, and emerging from the rear having missed bone. Releasing the sword, he backed up...a wicked triumphant grin on his face as he admired his victory.

He said, “My good man, you should have learned there are no rules in a fight.” He finished with a “heh heh” laugh.

His smile faded as I continued to stand, looking at him with eyes that showed sad disappointment and contempt for his boorish behavior. Long ago, I became aware men cannot be trusted when some advantage is at hand.

I pointed a finger at him, and with my right lung compromised by the wound, wheezed, “You may be a surgeon, sir, but you are no gentleman.”

He replied smugly, “And you sir, are dead.”

I looked down to see a red patch growing around the blade. After the initial shock, I experienced almost no pain. I waited to see what he would do next.

At last, realizing something was amiss and I wasn’t showing signs of falling, he reached out and grasped the handle of his cane-sword. He tugged tentatively at first, but it slowly slid free of my fleshy grip. When he had fully withdrawn the blade, blood spurted but it stopped straight off. Because I still wore my shirt, he couldn’t see the wound close and heal but he took several steps back with a puzzled look.

I said, “Sir, you tried and failed to kill me. Now comes my turn.”

Dropping both his sword and knife, he raised his hands. “Sir, we are well matched, and I see no further profit in fighting with you. I suggest we part now with new respect.”

“Would it could be so, but your slaughter of five women argues against any leniency on my part.”

“But sir, you cannot know the outcome.”

His behavior suggested he had a backup strategy. I divined his plan and nonchalantly swished my sword to the side as if to loosen my arm and wrist.  “The outcome is known, doctor. It simply has not yet occurred.”

“I am a surgeon, sir, not a physician.”

“My apologies.”

He grasped his shirt front with both hands and ripped it open to reveal a hairless chest. Pulling and tearing, he tossed remnants to the ground. He shook himself, shimmered, and snapped into his full demon-angel presence. As men, they may be tall or little, large or thin. Not so, the demons. Instead of a dapper prick, he became an ugly bastard with a misshapen skull, bowler hat perched precariously on top.

He had oversized teeth with a nose that sank into his face and threateningly large, greenish wings with the remains of his shirt hanging like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

His ridiculous appearance made me laugh briefly until his leathery appendages flexed, and he stepped forward to grapple me. I expected this. The demons grasp and hold tight with hands and arms, then drain the life away with the wings. Sometimes they rip out the victim’s throat with the animal-like fangs. Demons fight with a high degree of confidence. Who wouldn’t, with crushing wings, incredible strength, and fang-like teeth? Formidable weapons.

With a resolve not to allow him purchase, I fended him off initially with my sword, nipping at his hands and wings. Then with a quickness that came from years of experience, I ducked and pivoted behind him. With a slash, my blade removed his head which I caught in my off hand.

In the art of hand-to-hand fighting, I had no equal. At least, I had yet to meet a demon who could best me. I dropped my sword into the rucksack whence it disappeared.

He stood there for a couple of moments, wings flapping and still trying to clutch, before falling forward on his...well, he didn’t have a face anymore. As I watched, he returned to his human body. Without life, they cannot hold their demon appearance.

A police whistle shrieked. At the end of the street, a member of the constabulary stared my way. The Bobby with the beefy hands. My choice of an isolated location clearly lacked the quality of discretion.

“Ere you. Stop! You there. Stop.”  The whistle sounded again. Distant warnings answered. The Bobbies would chase.

I stuffed the demon head in my rucksack and ran. Like a fox with hounds on his trail, I ran up and down streets seeking a hidey-hole, all the while those blasted whistles echoed among the buildings. I reached a dark alley with low fences on one side. I jumped and landed on my tail in mud. The smell told me that animals had lived here, and the soft ground under me held more than earth. The stink followed me into a shed where I stayed most of the night.

I encountered police before. They were a problem. I had resolved to show more caution in how I took on the demons. In this case, I lacked the time to properly prepare due the frequency of his killing and my need to prevent further murders.

In the morning, I made my way to the river where I bathed. The ice-cold water penalized me sufficiently for my lack of caution and resultant police chase. I could not fully eliminate the odor of animal excreta on my pants. That undoubtedly explains why other passengers on the packet to France kept their distance.

My return to the château was otherwise uneventful. My house staff did make me undress in the stable and burned my clothing. I retained my rucksack which contained only the necessities; the demon head taken from my bag by some unseen hand.