by Steven Dunne
‘The Reaper removes those who are doomed to perpetuate the abuses of their parents. But a baby is the only true innocent, a blank canvas if you will. The Wallis baby now has her chance, a glimpse of a useful life, where before there was only one road to travel.’
Brook was barely breathing. Sorenson, too, sank back into his chair, exhausted. The music had finished but Brook hadn’t noticed. He sat motionless, staring at Sorenson whose eyes had closed again. He looked at his glass. Empty. He wanted another belt of whisky but didn’t dare move in case the spell was broken. Sorenson was in his element now and Brook was loath to disturb the ether.
But DS Noble’s mobile phone hadn’t read the script and the tinniest rendition of Volare seeped out of Brook’s coat pocket. Sorenson opened his eyes immediately and Brook leapt from his chair to answer it.
He was a little unsteady on his feet at first, unaccustomed to so much alcohol so early in the day. He retrieved the phone and swayed gently towards the porthole window, opening it to a gust of chill air, which didn’t make him feel any better.
‘John?’
‘Sir. We’ve been looking for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘The thing is…are you alone?’
‘What is it, John?’ Brook rubbed his hand over his face.
‘Is anyone with you?’
‘Why? What is it?’ Then Brook realised. Noble was ringing about Charlie. ‘John. It’s okay. I know about Charlie. I was with him when he died.’
There was a short pause during which Brook could hear mumbling and other noises. Someone was speaking to him but Brook couldn’t take it in.
He felt dizzy and unable to focus. He dropped the phone to the floor, unable to grip it, and heard it break apart but couldn’t look down for fear of losing his balance or blacking out. Instead he turned to Sorenson who was suddenly at his shoulder. He took Brook’s elbow and helped him back to his seat.
Brook slumped down and Sorenson sat opposite him but in the same movement pulled his chair close to Brook’s so he could see his face. He stared into Brook’s eyes, changing the angle of his head to take in as much information as possible.
Brook tried to speak but his mouth felt numb and thick. As though a dentist…
‘Worve u dun?’
Sorenson smiled. ‘I’ve given you something to help you relax. You didn’t think you could get this close without a forfeit, did you? I can’t let you act on Charlie’s confession. There’s still so much to do.
‘Don’t struggle. It’ll do no good. This is for the best. Life’s of no use to you now. Charlie told me what your daughter and her stepfather have been up to. Your poor ex-wife-Amy. Think how she suffers. She knew-a mother always knows. But she couldn’t know, could she? She had to blind herself to it. The only way to get through. But you, Damen, you saw what was happening, yet you did nothing.’
Suddenly Sorenson was back in Brook’s face. ‘Don’t you see, Damen?’ said Sorenson, removing the gun from Brook’s pocket and placing it on his desk. ‘What an opportunity wasted. It was your duty as a father to act, to do something but you let him live and, instead of him suffering it’s you who are in pain. He’s fucking your daughter, Damen, and he’s not even her real father.’ Brook felt the words slapping his face and screwed his eyes shut. He opened them again and Sorenson had retreated from what little vision he had left. When he returned it was to the sound of The Ninth again. The Adagio began. Slow. Melodic. Mocking the frenzy that was to follow.
Brook tried to breathe, to focus. His hearing, all his senses were supercharged. His sight was blurred yet enhanced. He could see colours he’d never seen, colours he didn’t know existed, changing with every bleary blink, dancing around the winking lamps, like multi-coloured angels gathering against the dark. No light without darkness.
And the music was wonderful. It seemed to be swooping and diving around in his head, each note erupting from a thousand orchestras. The choir rose up as one voice, to lift themselves for Brook’s last hurrah.
Sorenson pulled his chair closer, so Brook could see his face framed against the gloom.
‘You’ve failed me, Damen. You’ve failed yourself. I had such high hopes.’ He reached into Brook’s pocket and pulled out Laura’s necklace and smiled at Brook. ‘Still no closure? Don’t worry. It’s near.’ Then he took out and tore open the plastic bag and removed an old razor, a cutthroat with a mother-of-pearl handle. Sorenson examined it, opening it and closing it. ‘Perfect. Thank you, Damen. I appreciate you bringing it. It was my father’s before he gave it to Steffi. It was a terrible wrench leaving it in Brixton, but I knew you’d look after it. Is there anything you want to say before the end?’
Brook tried to fix his eyes on Sorenson’s face. It wasn’t easy. His head felt like it was on a stick. ‘Let…me…hear…you say it. Just once.’
‘Say what, Damen?’
Brook gulped with the effort of speech. His mouth was arid, his tongue cracked as he spoke. ‘Say the words…tell me you’re The Reaper.’
Sorenson permitted himself a little chuckle. ‘But I’m not The Reaper, Damen. You are.’ Brook squinted back at Sorenson. ‘You saw. You had the power. Remember how good it felt in Brixton. Remember how sweet it was to find Laura’s killer. Did you put the music back on? Did you cry afterwards? Tell me.’ Brook let his eyes fall to the floor.
Sorenson slapped him on the cheek. He grabbed his hair and lifted his head. ‘Look around. Don’t waste it. Look at the beauty. Feel the wonder. It doesn’t get better than this. Then you can let go. Cry now. It helped the others. Think of Amy and your daughter. Think of Laura. She’s waiting for you.’
Brook swallowed and for a second was able to keep his head still as he stared back at Sorenson’s wizened pate. His mind and vision cleared and Brook found some control over his speech had returned.
‘I’m not like you. I made a mistake.’
‘You are me, Damen. You’re ready. I came to Derby for you. Charlie did his best but you were always the one. Cry now, Damen. Like the others did. It’s good for you.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Brook began to giggle, ‘for me-Argentina.’ Sorenson looked on in disbelief. ‘D’you think…I care? I’m terminal. There’s nothing left…you can all…go fuck yourselves.’ Brook’s body shook with laughter.
Sorenson smiled. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Damen. Never! I’m proud to have known you.’
‘Magnificent peaks, Uncle Vic. Peaks and troughs.’ Brook’s vision cleared though his head continued to roll. Tears of laughter rolled down his face. He could see Sorenson smiling down at him. ‘Help me…help me soar…Mozart, Beethoven, Van Gogh.’ Sorenson nodded. ‘If you can’t…love beauty, you are dead,’ Brook gulped as the Finale picked up.
Sorenson sat down and opened the razor. ‘I’ve waited years for you. Now you’re ready.’ He looked down at the glint of the razor. ‘Tell me you want to live and I’ll spare you.’
Brook fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted every second to count. This was how it should be. What a feast. What a way to die. Overwhelming. Humbling. To be so blessed. Make it last. The choir rising and falling. Calling him. The clashing of cymbals, the urgency of the orchestra, the climax erupting in his head. Make it last.
He tried to breathe but could feel nothing from the neck down. It was how he imagined death coming. Shutting up shop, organ by organ. Finally the mind. He gave up on his eyes and closed them and through the starburst he watched the rats scuttling towards him, watched Laura’s leg fall open for him, watched Sorenson through the rain, watched Vicky brush her hair, watched Jason sleep in the hospital, watched Amy support her womb with an arm, watched Charlie beckon him into the flat above the launderette, watched Mac the doorman put down a saucer of milk for his kitten, watched Wendy Jones vomit behind a bush, watched Harry Hendrickson laughing and pointing at him, watched Terri gurgling in her cot.
‘Kill me.’
Chapter Thirty
Brook took a few moments to compose himself, still starin
g at the man to be sure. No movement. No more noise. Only the music. He was glad of it. The silence would have scorched his ears.
Calm now, Brook turned to the CD system. It was brand new. A half-smile drifted across his face. He set about concluding his business and turned to the wall to examine the word smeared in blood over the fireplace. His eye caught a glimpse of something else and his features darkened-a photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. He looked closer, staring hard for what seemed like hours. There was no mistake. His mouth fell open. He shrank back, his face frozen in wonder, his eyes unblinking, his mind in turmoil, trying to make sense.
Then he knew. It all fitted together and he nodded, his face set, eyes like slits to block out the visions. Of course. Now he understood. He’d got The Reaper’s message. A smile cracked his features. Another noise behind him. Brook took a deep breath as he turned to face his nemesis.
‘You killed her!’ Brook stared at the man on the sofa.
‘Wassup?’ groaned the man.
As Brook watched, he tried to lift his head and open his eyes but the effort was too much and his head fell back against the corpse of the woman.
Brook turned back to the chimney breast and picked the picture frame from the mantelpiece. He squinted at the image again but reflection from the lights hindered his inspection so he hurled the frame face down onto the floor and stooped to recover the photograph from the shattered glass.
Brook fixed his gaze on the picture of the man who sat incapacitated amongst the wreckage of his family not ten feet away. He grinned for the camera, proud of his naked torso, smooth and toned. There was no mistake. Brook saw the necklace clearly. Silver hearts. It once belonged to Laura Maples and now it strained against the man’s thick neck.
Brook let his hand fall to his side, his head dropped and he stood, dazed. He listened to the music-the only way to be sure time was passing. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine he was at a concert at the South Bank with Amy, looking forward to his half time gin and tonic and after perhaps a meal. Finally the music stopped and Brook opened his eyes, refreshed by the beauty in his mind. Then he saw the savagery around him.
As if by remote control he turned to the CD player and started the Mozart again. The Requiem. Then he pushed the photograph deep into his overcoat pocket. He returned to the man on the sofa and pulled down the neck of his T-shirt. The necklace glared back at him, each tiny heart a Cyclops from his dreams. Brook twisted his hand between the man’s neck and the delicate chain and pulled hard. It came away first time and Brook buried it in his pocket as well.
Then he buttoned his coat up to the neck and pulled the collar around his ears to be completely weather proof.
In the bathroom he soaked a towel in cold water and padded back towards the sofa. He slapped the towel onto the man’s face. He revived at once though he was still groggy.
‘Can you hear me?’ enquired Brook.
The man was trying to open his eyes and was blinking in a manner which suggested they’d never been opened before. ‘Wass happen?’ he muttered, his head still lolling from side to side. ‘Wer you?’
‘Who am I?’ asked Brook in genuine alarm. Good question. He didn’t know, couldn’t remember who he was. He tried to think, tried to piece together his past, his identity, but it wouldn’t reveal itself. He knew he wasn’t a newborn, he knew that much. But who was he and why was he here?
As he moved behind the sofa, he gave it serious thought. A moment later he smiled with sudden child-like pleasure. He’d remembered something, something about who he was. It sounded strange when he spoke. ‘I’m The Reaper,’ he said. ‘And this is for Laura.’ Brook plunged the blade of the razor into the soft tissue below the man’s left ear and dragged it as hard as he could across his throat.
Although the blade was sharp, Brook lost his grip before he could reach the windpipe but the blood still began to hiss from the artery. The handle was stuck deep in the man’s neck and Brook had to struggle to yank it out, his hand slipping on the now crimson stock several times.
At first the man didn’t react, such was his stupor, but after a few seconds the pain, and the sight of warm bloodsteaming down his chest alerted him to his fate and he began to struggle.
‘Easy,’ whispered Brook. ‘Easy.’ He had to hold the man’s forehead with his left arm to pacify the shuddering. He dropped the razor and put the wet towel across the man’s nose and mouth to stop any noise, pulling the man down against the sofa with his left arm to minimise the spasms. ‘Easy. Listen to the music. It’s Mozart. It’s greater than us. It was written for you. Don’t fight. It’s over. You’re better now. That’s it. That’s it.’
Brook held on for longer than he needed. If he was going to kill a part of himself tonight he had to be sure. There was no turning back.
Some time later Brook relaxed his grip. He blinked rapidly as though waking from a coma. He stood and looked at the razor on the floor as though he’d never seen it before. Then he gave a nod of recognition, picked it up and closed it into his pocket. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his blood-soaked overcoat, turned it inside out then rolled it up under his arm, like a child on the way to the swimming pool. Then he returned to the CD player and turned up the volume before walking down the stairs and stepping back out into the night, humming the Requiem all the way to his car.
Brook stirred and opened his eyes. His lids were too heavy and it was an effort to force them open. All was black and still. Nothing, no sense got through. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t part his welded lips. He tried to move but was paralysed.
Knowledge surfaced. So this was Death. Falling through space. Blackness. No sights, no sounds. No tunnels. No hopes. No bright lights. No dead relations to show him the ropes.
Then it dawned. He was on his way to Hell. There’d be no flames. No barbecued flesh. The Devil knew. Man was a gregarious animal. Perpetual loneliness was the refined torture. On your own to the end of time.
Well, the Devil was a wimp. Solitude was bliss. God was spot on. He knew how to inflict pain. Hell was other people. The Devil should have done his research. Then he’d know about the rats. Could give Brook a hard time. But maybe it wasn’t set yet. Perhaps there’d be an interview…
Brook came round with a start. There was light now. Blurred, but definite. He tried to focus but it was too hard. He couldn’t distinguish shapes but there were colours, indistinct, shimmering, but definite colours. And he could hear. A dull rushing. Constant. Punctuated by sharp notes. Traffic. Traffic and the sound of horns.
He shifted his position, aware now of his limbs. He could move his hands from under his legs. He was in a chair. The one in Sorenson’s study. He was alive. Sorenson had miscalculated. No. That didn’t sound right. Must be a mistake.
Brook tried to stand but a black hole engulfed his head and he slumped back into the pit.
‘Inspector! Inspector Brook!’ A voice he knew. ‘He’s alive!’ It was Wendy. She’d come for him.
Brook awoke to her face. He could see it clearly but the rest was a haze. She smiled at him. An angel. Perhaps he was dead. But then where was Charlie? Wouldn’t he be on hand for the welcome drink?
As if in reply Wendy said, ‘Sir, can you hear me? You’re alive. Do you understand me?’
Brook lifted his weary eyes. He puzzled over the information as though it meant nothing then blinked his eyes at her. He gulped and tried to speak. Wendy Jones craned to listen. Brook could smell her perfume. ‘Sor…’
He passed out again.
Moments later Brook felt a jolt. He was lying down. There were people around him, carrying him. They had knocked into Sorenson’s desk. He opened his eyes. Sorenson sat at the desk. He was white. His desktop was red. Brook saw a clenched fist smudged with blood. Laura’s necklace was wrapped around the marble knuckles. Brook closed his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-one
He knew at once he was in a hospital. The smell told him: the pungent aroma of heavy duty cleaning fluids couldn’t quite overpowe
r the aroma of sweet dried blood and stale body wastes that permeated these places. And the low hum of misery was unmistakable. Hushed despair. As if to speak at greater volume might remind a delinquent God to attend to His roster of death.
Brook blinked and looked around and, trying to sit up, winced at the pain in his stomach. He rubbed it through the heavy cotton of his NHS pyjamas. It felt as though he’d been kicked by a mule.
He sat back and stared upwards. The ceiling was high and he had an impression of space on the other side of the screen that ran alongside his bed. He guessed he was in a large ward rather than a private room.
Beside the bed on a hard-backed wooden chair sat a large leather bag. Brook tried to reach it but was hampered by a sharp nip in his left arm. He was hooked up to a drip and had given it a nasty yank so, with his right arm, he pushed himself and his pillows right back so he could sit up properly. He rubbed the tape on his left arm then reached over again but the bag was still out of reach.
He gave up and turned his attention to a selection of Get Well cards arranged on his bedside cabinet. Four of them. He couldn’t make out any of the inscriptions except one. The smallest card, complete with 49p price sticker and black thumbprint on the back, was the work of Greatorix. Brook couldn’t decipher any of the handwriting but recognised the large childlike B for Bob and the even larger G and X. The rest was just wavy lines.
Brook remembered something. It came to him now. He hadn’t been hallucinating. Sorenson was dead and his career was over…
Wendy Jones walked into view carrying a cup of coffee. She looked wonderful in figure-hugging white polo and tight jeans and the look of delight and affection in her expression gladdened Brook’s heart.
‘You’re back, sir,’ she exclaimed and hastily put down her coffee to grab his hand. ‘How are you feeling?’ She withdrew it after giving Brook’s hand a squeeze but there seemed to be none of the awkwardness that had characterised their encounters since their trip to London. Instead her eyes shone brightly, burning into him, eager to talk.
