Mr. Jack

“Mr. Jack” said the brass nameplate on the door. Not “Jack the Giant Killer.” Or even “Jack the Terrible.” Or even just plain “Jack”.
I looked up at the house. It was beautiful. Like something out of a magazine cover. A magazine called “Modern Architecture and Comfort” or something even more boring. Because the house didn’t breathe. It was plastic. Like the nameplate.
All built out of some poor giant’s millions that he’d counted over his dinner table. Towering columns of toppling gold. Gold. Gold. Gold.
I rang the doorbell. It was just a plain old doorbell. Not very plain. Probably the most expensive money can buy. But not shaped like a decapitated giant head or a single bloody thumb or even a butcher’s knife, as you would have expected.
An electronic voice called out from somewhere overhead: “Welcome. State your name and your reasons for visit. The door will be opening shortly.”
And this was supposed to be not only a house, but also a home.
“An old friend planning a surprise.” I said and the machine kept shut. A moment later, the door was opened by a smart little man in white who looked over me in a superior kind of way which I didn’t quite like and led me into the house.
The staircase shone. The ceiling shone. The floor shone. The carpet shone. The walls shone. The doors shone. The windows shone. Even the bald patch on the butler’s head shone as immaculately as Jack’s old hand axe… before each kill. He led me into a huge airy room and made me sit on a giant sofa as red as Bolster’s blood. A huge painting hung on the opposite wall. The cliffs of Cornwall.
I was gazing whimsically at the painting when a tiny cough made me spin around. It was a little girl with Jack’s green eyes. About four years old and tall for her age. A determined little chin and a funny little nose.
I smiled. “Hallo. We haven’t met before. I’m an uncle. Your father’s friend.”
The girl grinned suddenly, a wide smile wrinkling up her face and touching the green of her eyes with a bright twinkle. “No you’re not. You’re Peter Pen Person.”
I stared at her for a bit and then broke into a laugh. “Not quite. Peter Pan I’ve met. He looks nothing like me. We both specialize in broadsword and have killed a pirate or two in our day. But apart from that, we’re chalk and cheese, really.”
She shrugged. “You don’t understand.” Then she gave another quick grin and shouted: “Catch me if you can!” and slipped away.
I chased her around the sofa and across the width of the room around the doorway – and bumped into softness.
“Taylor. Good to see you after all these years.”
I stood back and surveyed my old friend and barely stopped myself from screaming, “Good God, man, what have you done to yourself??”
It was Jack. But he was old. And he was stooping. And he was FAT. Not fat. Obese. Jack the Giant Killer – the tall broad man shouldering his mighty axe – was Jack the Giant Killer no more. The nameplate was right. Jack was dead. And this was Mr. Jack.
“I’ve changed a lot, haven’t I?” He smiled. “And look at you. You’re still the same. Still wearing that stupid belt, I see. I wonder that still fits you. Last I heard from you was when you sent a letter saying you’d changed your name. From ‘i’ to ‘y’. We’re all of us having to keep up with the times, haven’t we?”
I looked around at the electric fittings and the central air-conditioning slits. “Yes, we have.”
“So what’s the news, Taylor? Cormoran still grumbling ‘neath his grave?”
“As usual.”
“And seven’s still your lucky number?”
“Seven in one.”
The girl had been peeping in around the doorframe, trying to catch my eye. Jack turned and caught sight of her and smiled, calling her in with a wave of his arm.
“Met my little girl, Taylor?”
“Fairy Princess of the Green Isle. Yes.”
The child tossed her brown curls back and laughed. “Uncle Peter played catch with me.”
Jack frowned. “Uncle Taylor, darling.”
“That’s a joke between us, Jack. You won’t understand.” I didn’t understand either, but that didn’t matter. I winked at her.
Jack patted her on the head and sent her upstairs. “So what are you really here for?”
I lay back on the sofa and crossed my legs. “Work.”
“What kind?”
“The big kind. This one’s got five entire villages under his thumb.”
“Taylor – ”
“I know what you’re going to say, Jack. You’re too old. But don’t you see, you’re the only one. I can’t do it alone – ”
“Taylor – ”
“Remember the Creature of the Thyrian Isle? The first time we worked together. We’d both be under some old grey nameless tombstone if we hadn’t.”
“The point is, man, I can’t do it any more. I’ve lost the touch. I’ve got a family now.” He gestured vaguely around the living room, the posh sofa set and the shimmer of the marble floor.
I sighed. “Very well then, Jack. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”
Jack didn’t see me to the door. He sat back on his sofa, a dreamy lazy complacent smile on his lips. As the door closed behind me I caught a brief glimpse of a pair of green eyes behind the shrubbery. They followed me up the drive and out into the street. Maybe I’d get that partner in crime of mine yet. It was just a matter of waiting another few years. And what’s another few years to your average immortal?