The Reaper

placing it back in his bony talon.

‘And then I was ready. Wednesday nights the girl had ante-natal classes and Roddy always walked her to the bus stop. That was the kind of guy he was. He had his own van you know, but he let his eight-month pregnant girlfriend get the fucking bus in winter.

‘So that was my chance to do him, without killing the girl. And the child.’ He paused. ‘I took my bag of fresh clothes and my sawn-off and I let myself in. Nobody saw me. Nobody took any interest in anything but their own business.’ Rowlands began to cough and took another draught of whisky to recover his breath. Brook tucked the blanket tightly around his legs for something to do. He knew the rest but resolved to hear the confession. It was better for Charlie to get it off his chest. There’d still be plenty left in there to kill him.

‘When he came back I sat him down-it wasn’t difficult, he was a snivelling coward. I showed him a picture of Elizabeth.’ Rowlands emitted a strangled laugh. ‘You’ll never guess.’

Brook’s face broke into a sad smile. ‘He didn’t know who she was.’

‘Not a fucking clue. Had me stumped for a while, I can tell you. But then I showed him the ring. The twenty pound ring. And I had him. He remembered the ring. He couldn’t hide that.

‘That’s when he got scared. He realised. And I was right. He begged me. Begged me, Damen. Prayed to me like I was God. You should have seen his face. I’ve never seen anything like it, the look I saw in his eyes that night. That piece of shit begging me, crying for his worthless life. I couldn’t believe it could be so precious to somebody like him.’ Rowlands shook his head in wonder. ‘So precious. After Lizzie died I could have sucked on my gun a dozen times a day and smiled doing it. I don’t need to tell you. But Telfer. He wanted to live so much. It threw me.

‘And I knew then I couldn’t do it. And suddenly he knew it. So he started talking. Talking me down. Trying to get to know me. Make me believe him that he’d finished with all the drugs and the fencing and the nicking. Then he made a fatal mistake. He swore it to me on the life of his unborn child.’ Charlie looked at the floor and tried to get his breath back. He took another pull on the whisky.

‘And then?’ asked Brook after a short silence.

‘Then I blew his head apart.’

Brook nodded. ‘And wrote on the walls?’

‘I don’t remember doing it but I did.’

‘Then his girlfriend came back.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you strangled her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did she come back?’

‘She was having…pains.’

Brook ground out his cigarette in an ashtray took the bottle from Rowlands and poured a capful of whisky and drank it down. He looked at Rowlands. It wasn’t a look of judgement. Rowlands stared back, waiting.

‘Go on.’

‘Go on where, laddie?’

‘What happened then?’

‘I changed clothes and I left.’ There was silence. Brook sensed there was something more. He waited for Rowlands to continue. When he did there were tears in his eyes. ‘There are some things you should never see, Brooky I see that little face as much as Lizzie’s now…’

‘Whose face?’

Rowlands head fell to the side, his eyes shut. Brook half stood and listened for the rasp of shallow breathing. He sat down again when he heard it. There was time yet.

Brook took another swig of whisky. He grimaced at its harshness and spun the cap back on the bottle. He went to the kitchen to make coffee.

When he sat back down, Rowlands was conscious again. He’d lit another cigarette. His eyes, bleary from booze and smoke, were trained on the floor.

For an hour they sat like that, saying nothing, Rowlands taking the occasional chug from his bottle. From time to time he would close his eyes and doze fitfully, his head lolling from side to side like a puppet, devoid of the strength to control its movement.

Brook didn’t know what to do next so he resolved just to be there. If Charlie Rowlands was to die tonight, he would be there for him, as a friend, to bring comfort, to help him on his final journey to his Lizzie. He couldn’t pressure him, couldn’t judge him.

And Brook knew whatever Rowlands told him tonight was not for public consumption. No matter his promise to McMaster to bring her The Reaper, if it meant besmirching his old boss, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Yes, he’d killed two people, three if you counted the unborn child, but it was a long time ago. Roddy Telfer and his common law wife hadn’t been missed. The child was the real tragedy. The same as the Wrigley girl. And Kylie Wallis. And maybe, given what happened to them, Charlie Rowlands had saved the child from a life of misery and abuse. Saved the child. Saved.

Brook realised he was cold and went into the kitchen. He paced up and down to get warm before picking up the sheaf of papers from the kitchen table.

The first few pages were handwritten and faded. Brook leafed through until he came to a newer section that had been word-processed. At the back was a wad of clippings from the Derby Evening Telegraph. His eye was taken by the headline, ‘Derby Schoolboy Accused of Attacking Teacher.’ Most of the clippings were about Jason’s brush with infamy though he wasn’t named for obvious reasons. There was no mention of Annie Sewell.

Brook lit another cigarette and turned back to the printed pages. He sat down and began to read.

To Damen, my friend

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Victor Sorenson since 1993, until that day last year when he walked up to my bed in the cancer ward. I don’t know how he knew I was there, said he’d come for tests himself and had seen me sitting outside Radiology. I’m not sure I believe him. Nobody, you included, Brooky, had a sniff of my illness.

I should have known he wanted something. The next day he walks in with a bottle of my favourite rum and starts talking about the old days. Like we were old friends who’d worked together for years orsomething, not murderers who’ve killed kiddies before their lives had even begun. I’m assuming a lot to say he’s a killer. He never admitted he was The Reaper to either of us, but what he don’t know about his MO isn’t worth knowing.

Anyway, he says he’s got another proposition for me and tells me about this old girl he’s met, Annie Sewell, and what she’s done. Ask him what she did, he’ll tell you. I don’t know how he knows but he does. He’s got the hospital records and you can see how she did it, and how it was missed. It’s all circumstantial but we both know him too well to doubt it. And I guess he’s right. She deserves to die alright. But I reckon she deserves to live more. Live with what she’s done. Suffer like I’ve suffered since Leeds. And since Lizzie.

And he’s telling me all this, like I’m interested, and saying I don’t have to do anything other than point her out to some scumbag who’s going to take care of her. And I’m looking at him, wondering who the fuck does he think he is, telling me all this shit. Like I’m going to help him kill the old bird.

So I tell him. I don’t care one way or the other about this Annie Sewell. As far as I’m concerned, topping her is letting her off easy and he can do what he likes but there’s no way, nothing he can say or do to make me help him.

And he looks at me with those fucking black eyes and he thinks what he’s going to say next. And I’m waiting for the threats, the blackmail, how he’s going to turn me in over Roddy Telfer if I don’t play ball.But he says nothing. He seems to know I’m too far gone to care about my reputation. Just sits there smiling Then he nods and says it’s okay and that he knew it would be too much to ask, even if it helps you, Brooky.

So I asked him what this had to do with you and he starts on about The Reaper, like it’s another person. About Brixton, how Wrigley and his family died for you, because Floyd Wrigley killed that girl you found. Laura something. And he says that’s why you packed in looking for The Reaper, because you knew Wrigley deserved to die.

Well, I don’t buy any of that shit either but on he goes. And now he’s talking about Amy and