The Reaper

Then another thought struck him. This time last year Brook and Wendy Jones…it was their anniversary. One year ago.

If Brook closed his eyes he could almost smell the perfume of her hair as she chewed urgently at his chest. He could feel the smoothness of her pale skin and the violence of her passion, all her sinews girding themselves to the rhythms of his lust.

On an impulse he rang her. He regretted it at once. No reply. Even though it was a night when the whole world was out enjoying themselves, Brook burned inside. Where was she? Gone out to find some solace amongst the emptiness, with another, more eligible, man? Maybe. Who could blame her?

He drank some more and rang Amy.

‘Happy New Year, Amy.’ It was the best he could come up with.

‘Damen? I told you never to ring again. Ever.’

‘Just want to wish you a Happy New Year.’

‘What?’

‘I know you’re upset, darling…’

‘Don’t call me that. How dare you after what you’ve done?’

‘What have I done?’

‘You know damn well. Leave my family alone…’

‘Family?’

‘What?’

‘You said family’

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

‘Yes. Terri and me.’

‘So Tony came back.’ No answer-confirmation in itself. ‘He came back and you let him in. Tell me Amy. Did he come back with his tail between his legs or Terri’s?’

‘Leave us alone, you sick bastard.’

‘What’s happened to you?’

‘To me? That’s fucking rich.’

‘Your husband is having sex with our daughter.’

‘He said you’d say this. You’re sick, Damen. Do you know that? Do you know what he’s going through at work after what you did? Have you any idea? I had to go in and assure the partners at the firm that I have a mentally unstable ex-husband. And as for Tony, he can barely speak to us. His own family.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s at the end of his rope.’

‘Best place for him.’

‘I should have you arrested for what you’ve done to me and our daughter, you bastard. I hate you! It makes me sick to think I was ever married to you.’

There was a stunned silence at Brook’s end of the receiver. He suddenly felt physically ill. ‘My God! You’ve known all along. Haven’t you? Amy. Tell me you didn’t know. Did you think you’d never get another man…?’

There was a scream of pain from the other end of the line, then a click.

Brook replaced the receiver and sat motionless on the bed for several minutes. He poured himself another drink. He felt nothing beyond his usual vague confusion at the ways of the world-nothing. Life was like a gunshot wound but suddenly it had ceased to hurt. Perhaps now was the time to worry.

He jumped off the bed and packed for something to do. He couldn’t stay. The sooner he left this place the better he’d feel. Like Sonja. Better. He spied the empty champagne bottle lying on the floor and was tempted to order another. Strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ filtered up from below and he looked at his watch. Midnight.

Brook needed some air so he opened a window. The grounds below were large and inviting. He’d go for a walk. Or perhaps a drive. The roads would be empty. Now was a good time. He took his case to put in the car, all the better for a quick getaway in the morning.

Brook pulled his jacket tight against the cold as he stalked along the damp pavement of Electric Avenue. The detritus of the market was everywhere. Rotten fruit and vegetables had been squashed underfoot by the day’s pedestrian traffic and the ground was slimy and treacherous and, as he walked along the crescent-shaped street, Brook had to divide his attention between examining the shop fronts and picking his way along the pavement.

When he reached the junction with Brixton High Street, Brook turned back to walk on the other side of the avenue towards his car. He was deflated now. There was nothing to be seen and the adrenaline of the chase was spent. All he wanted to do now was sleep.

As he walked he heard a door bang around the bend ofthe avenue and slowed his step to listen for anyone approaching.

A few yards further on, he could see the end of the street. It was empty. Nothing stirred. The wind had dropped and the sky had cleared and the dim lights were now augmented by the moon’s pale light.

As Brook passed a doorway, something caught his eye and his heart began to pound. He bent to examine it. It was the large rectangular box containing the CD player he’d seen in Sorenson’s house. It was empty.

He spun to examine the doorway. He saw a crack of light from the other side and pushed the door. It swung away from him and Brook stepped over the threshold. He was at the foot of a small flight of stairs. No sound. No movement.

Brook’s face followed the stairs to the dim light at the top. He took as silent a pull of oxygen as he could manage and placed his foot on the first step.

Brook woke the next day to the sound of empty champagne bottles clinking together at his feet. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was nearly midday.

Brook lay for several minutes in the warm bed, luxuriating, looking at the ceiling. His head didn’t feel too bad. Then he remembered his call to Amy and pulled a pillow over his head.

He picked up the phone. ‘Room service.’ Brook ungummed his lips and did a good impression of someone speaking normally. ‘This is Room two fifteen. I’d like a full English breakfast please, with a pot of coffee and two jugs of orange juice and any other healthy liquid you can think of.’

‘I’m afraid we’ve stopped serving breakfast, sir. I can do you lunch.’

‘Stopped? When?’

‘Nine thirty, sir.’

Brook laughed. ‘On New Year’s morning. Did anyone struggle down before then?’

‘One or two, sir.’

‘Well at a grand a night old, son, you’d better make that three or I’ll be down to damage some eardrums. Got that?’

There was a brief muffled aside. ‘Certainly, sir. Right away.’

Brook gathered his clothes and began to dress.

After a hearty breakfast and copious re-hydration, Brook felt much better. He paid his bill, resisting the temptation to have a swipe at the establishment, then located his car and set off south into the heart of London. It was a grey day, not too cold, so he opened the sunroof to blow away the alcoholic haze.

Despite the dull ache in his head he felt better physically than he had in years but he worried now, after that day on the pier with Terri, whether his mind was gone. He’d changed that day, for the better, he felt. But now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know if he had the mental strength to cope any more. Going back. It had been a long time. The past seemed a long way away. Amy. London. The Reaper.

He’d left it all behind to find some peace and now he’d squirreled away a thimble full, he doubted the wisdom of coming back to face Sorenson. Today was the day. Charlie Rowlands had arranged it. But what good would it do? Let The Reaper play his games. Let him destroy who he wished. Most of them deserved it. What did it matter? Even Kylie Wallis. Stick thin, skin of alabaster. She was better off now. Well out of it. The sexual abuse. The pain. The hopelessness. No life sentence for her, no clinging to the weekly mirage of the six-numbered parole.