The boy was unable to speak. His face crumpled and he broke into a flood of tears and as he began to free himself, Brook pulled on his leather gloves and gathered the rest of his things into the bag including the whisky bottle. After rinsing the whisky glass, he folded the severed rope under his arm.
‘You’ve got seven days to give yourself up. I’ll leave the picture to remind you,’ said Brook, moving to the door.
Jason stopped rubbing his wrists and turned his tear-streaked face to Brook. ‘Remind me of what?’ His eyes were fearful again.
‘That The Reaper’s watching.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Brook stood as upright as he could manage given the weight of his rucksack and the steepness of the slope. In a few metres he’d be at the top, but the fire in his lungs and calves demanded immediate rest.
He turned to look back down the sharp incline of Thorpe Cloud and watched Wendy panting after him some thirty metres below.
‘Hurry up. It’ll be dark in eight hours,’ he shouted.
An indecipherable grunt emanated from below accompanied by a vigorous V-sign to guarantee clarity. Brook grinned and struck out for the summit.
Once there he flung the rucksack to the ground and, when his lungs had recovered, did a full turn to take in the sun-dappled panorama-the sleepy houses of Ilam, dozing in spring warmth to the north-west, Bunster Hill to the north and the deep scar of Dovedale, gouged out by the river, further east.
By the time Jones joined him ten minutes later, he had the flask and the sandwiches ready and was comparing the map to the view of their route along the River Dove to Milldale and Hartington beyond.
Jones flung herself onto the ground next to Brook and sucked in air until her breathing slowed. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ she gasped.
‘Have some coffee.’
Wendy took the plastic cup, drained it, then laid her head next to Brook’s and closed her eyes to the morning sun. ‘It’s beautiful up here.’
Brook sat up and looked down into her face. ‘Yes.’
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ She opened her eyes briefly to check his face then closed them again.
Brook paused, sweeping his gaze around the horizon. ‘I’m resigning…’
She sat up now and searched his expression. ‘You’re giving in?’
‘No, Wendy. I’m getting out while there’s still a chance for me. Carrying on is what Charlie did so he wouldn’t have to live with himself, wouldn’t have to face up to a life without hope.’ He looked back at her. ‘I’ve found something to live for. And a way to live with myself.’
‘Is this anything to do with Sorenson?’
‘Yes. He had plans for me.’
‘What plans?’
‘A way for me to cope with despair.’ Brook gave a half-laugh and looked into the distance. ‘But he needed me in the Force. He didn’t envisage my finding happiness and making peace with the world.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not yet. But I think I can.’
‘But you have to resign.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though that’s what some people want.’
‘Part of being happy involves not caring what other people want…’
‘Even if Harry Hendrickson and Greatorix think you’re a loser.’
‘They’d think that either way.’
She looked away. ‘I suppose,’ she muttered some while later. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, for not catching him…’
Brook halted her with a brush of his hand against her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Wendy. I don’t. The Reaper won’t be stopped. Not by me.’
Jones nodded and fondled his face in return. It had been a long time since she’d last touched him and Brook felt a thrill of electricity at the prospect of further contact. They didn’t talk after that but sat there drinking coffee and munching on their sandwiches, looking at the view, spring-cleaning their minds.
After nearly an hour of peace, they heard the panting of other ramblers so they packed their rucksacks and headed down towards the River Dove.
At ground level, they moved off at a steady pace along the path to the east of the river and followed its course up the steep, wooded gorge cut from the limestone rock over millions of years.
As they walked, from time to time, Brook would produce a small guide book and give a name to various natural features along the way-Lover’s Leap, The Twelve Apostles, Jacob’s Ladder, Tissington Spires-almost everything bigger than a boulder seemed to have a name.
After the hamlet of Milldale, the terrain eased and the river’s course became more sinuous. The path was no longer overhung by rock but wide and man-made. Occasionally it would take them away from the river as it cut across an alluvial plain.
On they walked, saying little, comfortable in each other’s silence. In Wolfscote Dale herons watched them briefly before taking to the skies, Jones unable to get her camera out in time.
When they passed into Beresford Dale the river became slow and wide for a time and they trudged wearily across the flat landscape until they rejoined the water at a small footbridge. They crossed the river and plodded on, damp and sweaty in the afternoon sun.
‘You look like Greatorix,’ laughed Jones as Brook mopped his brow.
Around the next bend the water swirled gently into a large, deep pool, shaded by trees and guarded by a huge boulder. Large trout glided gently in the depths.
There was a ‘NO SWIMMING’ sign on the boulder so Brook and Jones stripped down to their underwear and dived in.
As they lay, drying on the bank, they held hands while they sunbathed. Refreshed, they dressed and marched the last mile into Hartington with increased vigour.
After a late, leisurely lunch in the Devonshire Arms, their eyes began to droop.
‘It’s been a lovely day, Damen. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Pity you have to work in the morning.’
‘I know.’
‘What time are you on?’
‘Early turn.’ Brook nodded. Jones smiled. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘It’s unlikely.’ Brook laughed at her stern face. ‘What are you thinking, Wendy?’
‘That we should get a room.’
Brook frowned and looked into the log fire. Finally, he said, ‘No. Let’s go.’ He rose and headed for the exit carrying his rucksack. Jones followed, trying not to appear insulted.
‘What’s the hurry?’ she shouted at his retreating back. She struggled to throw her rucksack over her shoulder and trotted after Brook, who turned a corner and started striking up a steep street, not bothering to look round.
‘Where are you going?’
Brook didn’t answer and didn’t slow down, so Jones ploughed on, trying to catch him, wondering what she’d done to cause offence. A minute later, Brook stopped and turned to face Jones still puffing along in his slipstream.
As she approached, he propped himself against an estate agent’s board and waited.
‘What the hell’s the matter?’ gasped Jones. She was ready to blow her top.
