“You’re a lucky man, Tyler. It makes you a worthy adversary,” the killer shouted. He was up on the catwalk, thirty feet above, leaning over it, arms folded casually.
“Make the most of your last moments of freedom, you madman. When I catch you, they’ll throw away the key,” Jack shouted up to him. He was livid with anger but he couldn’t afford to lose his cool now. He had to outwit the loathsome creature staring down at him by using his brain. He couldn’t allow his emotions to get in the way of that.
The killer waved a dismissive hand theatrically, a gesture Jack found annoyingly flamboyant under the circumstances. “Don’t make me laugh, Tyler. You couldn’t catch a cold. I’ve lived right under your nose for the last week and a bit and you haven’t even noticed.”
“Oh, and what makes you so sure of that? If you’re so clever, that woman in your van would be dead by now, and you wouldn’t be running scared.” Jack had to distract him while he stalled for time. Help had to be on the way by now, surely.
“You dare to mock me? ME!” The killer screamed. Tyler realised he’d touched a soft spot. He needed to exploit it for all it was worth. He thought for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “What’s the matter? A bit touchy about your many shortfalls, are you?” Jack sneered. He began to edge to his left, towards the staircase. He hoped that it led up to the walkway above; it was a chance he would have to take. The killer moved with him, too angry to notice that he was being played.
“No one mocks me, Tyler. Do you hear me? No one! Once I’ve killed five whores, the rituals will be complete. I was going to stop there, but not anymore. Oh no, I’ll kill seven, just to rub your nose in it. You’ll be the one who has to explain why you couldn’t catch the legendary Jack the Ripper. You’ll be hated, and shunned as a failure by the pathetic sheep you so foolishly serve.” His voice rose to a demented crescendo as he screamed the words down at Jack. His eyes bulged madly in their sockets; spittle flew out from his mouth, plastering his cheeks.
Tyler took advantage of the killer’s outburst to take several more steps towards the staircase.
“What ritual?” Jack asked, contemptuously. “What a load of bollocks you talk. You’re just a –” he tried to recall what the psychologist had said, and turn it into an insult, “– a pathetic little nobody with an over-inflated opinion of himself. The only way you can get back at a world that treats you for what you are is to kill people weaker than yourself?”
“NO!” the killer screamed in angry denial. The sound was frighteningly inhuman.
“What’s the matter, mate, can’t you find a girlfriend?” Jack said, viciously. “I bet you can’t even get it ‘up’, can you? Can’t perform like a real man, huh? Do they all laugh at you, call you names?”
The killer’s face darkened with every word that Jack uttered. “NOOOO!” he screamed, pounding the railing with his fists. His face contorted into a snarl of unbridled malevolence, and he looked around for something else to throw at Tyler. He spied another crate a few feet away, and ran to it, his feet clanging on the metal walkway.
“I’ll show you, Tyler,” he screamed defiantly, sounding like a soul in torture. Lifting the crate above his head, he hurled it down at Tyler, hoping to kill or maim him with it – but Tyler was no longer there.
As soon as the killer turned his back, Jack had made for the staircase, taking the winding stairs three at a time. Up and up he ran, searching for a gap that led out onto the walkway.
“Tyler, you son of a whore, where are you?” The killer’s voice filtered down to him. As he turned a bend, Jack spotted the opening, a pool of grey in the blackness of the enclosed staircase.
“Tyler?” The killer’s voice again, even more manic than before.
Jack sprang onto the catwalk to find the killer just ahead, leaning over the railing and peering down into the gloom. “I’m right here,” Jack said, breathlessly. He began to walk forward slowly, determinedly. “It’s over,” he said. “There’s nowhere left to run.”
The killer stood up slowly. He turned to face Tyler, a cruel smile slowly spreading across his face. “What makes you think I want to run?” he asked, and Jack was struck by the unnatural calmness in his voice.
For the first time since the chase had begun, Tyler glimpsed the killer up close. The lighting was poor, but the man’s features were immediately recognisable to him. “We’ve been looking for you all evening, Dr Pritchard,” he said, enjoying the look of unease that appeared on the killer’s face. “Are you surprised that we’d already worked out you were committing the Whitechapel murders, Pritchard? Did you think you were going to get away with it?”
Pritchard looked flustered. Clearly, he had thought he was going to get away with it, Jack realised.
“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.
