Chapter 27

AN ITCH TO SCRATCH

“I speak to the evil in men’s minds,” said Jack. “I spoke to yours, Spencer. I reached out to you. See what you did?”

Spencer surveyed the bloody carnage. Mutilated bodies everywhere. The Sharpleys and Lethal Ellis dismembered. Jay-T brained. He said, “I never did nothing to them.”

“You battered your friend with a brick. And you stabbed that fella in the gut.”

Spencer’s head ached. He felt dizzy. When he had come round after fainting, Jack was in his face. It scared him even more. He’d scrabbled away, right into Michael Sharpley’s remains. Now he was covered in gore.

“You have a lodging house?” said Jack.

“A lodging what?”

“A place to stay. A doss-house.”

“It is a doss-house.”

“Take me there.”

“Are . . . are you staying at mine?”

“I am sheltering there, Spencer. I have work to do. One more must be ripped. The walls around this place, they cage me. I must be free of them. One more must be ripped. London will be mine.”

“You’re off your head.”

“So would you be, trapped where I’ve been trapped for more than a hundred and twenty years. I had one hell of an itch, Spencer. And now”—he gestured to the bodies—”I’ve scratched it.”

Spencer looked at Michael Sharpley, whose body had been opened up like a box. He bit his lip. He thought of something.

“Can I keep the PS3 now?” he asked.

Jack smiled. Yellow teeth showed. He said, “You help me put my art on display, and you can keep anything you find forever more.”

“On display? What’re you talking about?”