Anno Dracula 1899 and Other Stories by Kim Newman

Author:Kim Newman
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2017-01-24T08:00:00+00:00

RED JACKS WILD

A PRELIMINARY WORD. This story was commissioned by Marvin Kaye at Weird Tales for a prospective series which would pair reprints of classic stories first published in the magazine with newly written sequels. ‘Red Jacks Wild’ is a follow-up to Robert Bloch’s ‘Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper’ – though, for some bizarre reason, it ended up in another magazine with no mention of Bloch or its status as a sequel. I first read Bloch’s 1943 story in a paperback collection, The House of the Hatchet, in the early 1970s and it made a lasting impression on me; it’s frequently anthologised and adapted (for radio several times and for TV as an episode of Thriller directed by Ray Milland in 1961). You should, of course, read ‘Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper’ before ‘Red Jacks Wild’.

I’m John Carmody but… yes, you can call me Jack.

As it happens, I didn’t come up with the ‘trade name’. Those letters weren’t from me. I daresay a reporter needed to fill column inches. With no fresh kills, interest dies down. I’d have obliged the gentlemen of the press, but the ritual precludes indiscriminate slaughter. So, an unknown hack dashed off red-ink scrawls signed ‘yours truly, Jack the Ripper’. The catchy tag got the story back on the front page.

I’m an American, though I studied surgery – and other, more arcane disciplines – in London. I am a qualified medical doctor, devout in my religion and a licensed psychoanalyst. Stretching on the couch in my office on West 74th Street and telling me your dreams sets you back seventy-five dollars an hour. Plus tax, old man…

The consulting work I do for the FBI and the NYPD is pro bono. It helps me keep abreast of developments in my field. Also, listening to manic ad execs and depressive wives gets boring. Criminal analysis is a mental tonic. Seeking out like minds keeps mine sharp.

In 1951, I celebrated my 100th birthday yet I look no older than I did in 1888. The secret of my success is… well, killing disposable people.

Suffice to say, I’ve kept my bargain with Hecate. A ritual, repeated every third fall. Six offerings. Six bodies, arranged just so… to propitiate the Goddess of the Moon.

No, it doesn’t get easier…

When I sacrificed on the altars of Whitechapel, the brightest sparks in criminology thought a crook was identifiable by the bumps on his head. No one knew about fingerprints. A policeman couldn’t ask impertinent questions of a social superior. It was a miracle if any half-intelligent wrong ’un got caught.

In ’51, the ritual was dicier. If the FBI hadn’t called me in to work up a dossier – they call them profiles, now – I might not have completed.

It helps to select your disposables carefully. Certain victims command fewer police resources than, say, archdukes or bankers’ wives. As the world knows, I began on whores. Still a good wheeze. I fall back on street sluts whenever nothing else comes to mind. In New Orleans in 1909, I took coloured children.

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