to dazzle us with the summer games, now those Brits have crossed the pond to enter the only competition that counts!–The A Word with You Press writing contest: You Didn’t Write That.
Jack Horne, one of Derek Thompson’s brethren, has re-discovered us, and has something for us…a message
by Jack Horne
Maggie read the chalked message again, ‘The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.’ She turned back to her sniggering husband. ‘You didn’t write that…I know you didn’t, Jack.’
‘But why? If they find out it was you, they’ll think you’re connected in some way with these murders.’ Her scalp prickling, Maggie suddenly felt nauseous; there was something about the way he stared into her eyes. She looked away, unable to bear the cold gleam of his dark eyes any longer. She looked around at her surroundings. Was he seriously telling her that he was the one who butchered women in these squalid backstreets? Her eye fell on a piece of torn and bloody apron.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I wiped my hands and’ – he opened his threadbare jacket and flashed a long-bladed weapon – ‘knife on that.’
Maggie gasped. ‘No, you’re not Jack the Ripp…’ She heard heavy footsteps and spun round. She could just make out the shape of an approaching policeman.
‘I had you going there, didn’t I?’ Jack laughed. ‘We’ll tell this bobby we didn’t see or hear anything and then let’s have breakfast. I got a nice kidney for us today.’