Mister Ripper
Why Jack the Ripper worked alone ...
“You know you’re guilty!” said Sergeant Niggelsworth in his quiet, icy voice.” You were at the scene of the crime, have no witnesses to verify why you were there …”
“But I do,” stammered James, gently massaging his left wrist and his right thigh – both damaged as he was accosted. A point between his shoulder blades hurt like the blazes and he was sure a police truncheon had caused that. However, he’d only regained consciousness on the way to the station.
“No you damned well don’t!” Fire had replaced Niggelsworth’s ice.
“Sergeant,” said Constable Irksome. “I saw him and he was just …”
“You little twerp, Irksome!” shouted Niggelsworth, turning on his smaller, timid subordinate. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut?”
“But I saw him helping the young lady out of the pub. I …”
“You damned well didn’t and that will be struck from the record of this interview.”
“It can’t be, sergeant, it’s all on video,” said Irksome, pointing to a camera lens in the ceiling.
“Oh, damned technology,” said Niggelsworth, now speaking quieter. Then, in a whisper, he said to Irksome, “You’re bloody for it when we get out of here. You’re a dead …”
“Should I tell my uncle?” asked Irksome, looking as innocent as a Yorkshire pudding.
“Your uncle?”
“Senior Sergeant Overawe.”
“What? He’s your uncle?”
“Yes, sergeant. Shall I release the prisoner?” Niggelsworth unclipped the jangle of keys from his belt and handed them to Irksome without a word. The sergeant stared at a spot behind James, as if mesmerised. James turned and saw only a green, concrete wall.
“You can go now,” said Irksome. “Mister Ripper, did you hear me? You can go.”
“Oh, right.” Realising he was free, he leapt up, banged his thigh on the steel table, grimaced and dashed to the door, his injuries apparently forgotten. He scrabbled with the door handle.
“Just lift the handle, James. Or is it Jack?” asked Irksome, smiling and then quieter, “And I’ll see you in Priory Lane tonight.”
“The hell you will!” snarled James, breathing hard to control his temper. “You lot … you’re all the same. I’m working solo from now on!” He threw the lever up, yanked the steel door open and it slammed against the wall. He stomped out with the force of a bull ready to charge. “And don’t you dare follow me, any of you,” he yelled as he slammed the outside door, rattling the glass in the wooden frame.
And Mister Ripper was never found again.[1]
[1] The Carindale Writers Group exercise was to turn this telling phrase – James stormed out of the room – into a showing story, in approximately 300 words.