Reaper

by Jon Grahame

  The rain had stopped and the air was fresh after the cloying interior of the hotel. It took only a few minutes to reach South Parade. He crossed a road where nonexistent traffic was still being controlled by lights and smiled mirthlessly to himself when he realised that he’d still looked both ways. The town felt dead, abandoned by life and hope, and the muted sounds from the bistro bar were an intrusion on the wake.

  He took the guns from their holsters. For a while he listened, back against the dark wall, next to the light that spilled from the bar. A chair scraped . . .someone laughed . . . another voice sang along to the music . . . feet shuffled to the beat. He took a glance inside but no one was looking his way. He assessed the situation.

  The middle-aged man in the suit was sitting in a booth on his own, a grin upon his face as he watched the obese youth move his considerable bulk in time to the music. Fatman was swathed in gold chains, rings and bracelets. The girl was dancing with him but in a desultory fashion. She did not move away when he ran his hands over her body, but neither did she appear to be enjoying the experience. The middle-aged man’s eyes were fixed on the girl, who was dressed in a parody of sexual sophistication. High heels and a short black silk dress beneath which, Reaper could see, the men had made her wear stockings. Living the fantasy and who cared who suffered?

  The girl was young but he was not good at judging the ages of the young. They all looked pretty much the same and he hadn’t looked too closely in the last few years. This girl was probably the first he had taken an interest in since Emily. She was about five four – even in the heels, short brown hair, slim with nice features. An ordinary girl whose value as a commodity had increased simply by surviving.

  Now he was this close, he realised that the younger man was not as young as he had first thought. Probably in his thirties. A hard muscled body and a hard face.

  The shotgun lay on the table in front of him and he was drinking from a pint glass. He was the one who was laughing as he made crude comments about the fat youth and the girl. The girl’s face was impassive beneath extreme Panda-like make-up – their idea again? – that had streaked with tears. Her mind had gone somewhere else. But how long would it be allowed to stay there?

  Reaper quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

  He kept his hands at his sides. The hard man stopped smiling and put a hand on the shotgun. Reaper stared at him and said, ‘Don’t.’

  The hand remained on the stock but did not move.

  The middle-aged man looked frightened. The obese youth was flustered; he turned and backed towards the bar. His small eyes darted all over the place: looking for orders from his leader, looking for salvation, looking for escape. His shotgun lay on the bar.

  The girl was confused and stopped dancing several beats after her partner. She looked at Reaper but had trouble assessing the changing circumstances. Maybe she thought he was a new addition to the group.

  Someone else she would have to service.

  Reaper spoke to her.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Her gaze went from him to the hard man, looking for guidance.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Reaper continued, in a soft voice. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. What’s your name?’

  Now she looked back at him.

  ‘Sandra,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want to be with these men, Sandra?’

  More confusion. She looked round, uncertain.

  ‘She’s ours!’ the hard man said. ‘Fuck off and find your own!’

  Reaper raised his right hand and shot the hard man in the chest. His body jumped in his seat and he slumped back against the red leather, his eyes wide in shock.

  The obese youth turned and ran for a rear door.

  Reaper pointed the gun in his left hand past Sandra and shot him in the back. The middle-aged man was terrified. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please!’ He wet himself where he sat. Reaper shot him in the chest, too.

  ‘They won’t hurt you again, Sandra,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘No one will hurt you. I promise.’

  Sandra had put her hands protectively to her chest, her eyes were as wide as the hard man’s, though she was alive. Reaper stepped slowly to her and, gently and tentatively, put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘How old are you, Sandra?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘My daughter would have been eighteen. You’re safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Believe me.

  You’re safe.’

  The girl was too scared and too shocked to feel safe.

  The obese youth on the floor behind her was still moving and making strangled breathing sounds. Reaper turned and put a bullet in the back of his head. Now Fatman finally stopped moving.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave this place.’

  He led her across the square to the Albert Hotel and up to the first floor suite. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside. He switched on the light and said, ‘What you need is a nice cup of tea.’ He switched on the room’s electric kettle to boil the water. She remained standing in the middle of the room, frightened, wondering what might be expected of her. The black silk dress had been expensive but looked wrong on her. Too small, showing too much. The men had not allowed her to wear a bra and he doubted she was wearing underwear. Just the stockings and a garter belt. He was angry enough to want to go back and shoot them again.

  If he had left them alive, they would have become a danger. If he had killed only the leader, the other two would still have been guilty, and were weak enough to follow the next bully to come along or rape the next unprotected woman they found. A week before, they might have been ostensibly normal citizens. Since then, they had transgressed and their deaths had been necessary. Their deaths had been . . . righteous. Reaper was a man like any man. He had sexual urges, but he also had a moral code. Even more relevant, he had a dead daughter.

  ‘Maybe you would like a bath?’ he said.

  The girl glanced at him and looked away. A bath might be welcome but it meant removing her clothes.

  He sat her on the sofa and made the tea. He loaded it with sugar that he found in sachets on the night stand.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  The girl took the mug.

  ‘I’ll see if the hot water works.’

  To access the bathroom, he went through the bedroom. If the girl wanted to run, now was the time.

  He ran the hot tap and, wonder of wonders, it came out hot. He let it run for a bath and took a large white towelling robe back into the living room. She was still there, sipping the tea.

  ‘You can put this on,’ he said. ‘And you can sleep in the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m the man who is going to look after you.’

  ‘Why?’

  He smiled. ‘Because you need looking after.’ He handed her the robe. ‘Now, are you hungry?’

  Again, she looked puzzled. This was not a conversation she had expected.

  ‘How about a steak sandwich? Or bacon? Sausage?’

  He smiled and for the first time, the mask behind which she had retreated, cracked.

  ‘Steak would be good. They didn’t do food.’

  ‘Steak sandwich it is. And tomorrow, we’ll go shopping.’

  This time she smiled in response. A small smile, but a start.

  Chapter 3

  SANDRA WAS MORE TRUSTING WITH THE DAWN. Maybe it was because he had not attempted to molest her during the night. After her rescue and her bath, she had worn the towelling robe while he ate a steak sandwich in toast and drank more sweet tea. With the makeup washed away she had looked even younger.

  She relaxed a little, but had still been guarded, her eyes always wary for any untoward movement. He made none, nor did he ask what the men had done.

  He didn’t need to; it was obvious.

  Under gentle questioning, she said her name was Sandra Newton. She had lived on the outskirts of the city with her mot
her and had been a sales assistant in Top Shop. Her mother had died at home early in the pandemic, when undertakers were still working, and her body had been taken to a chapel of rest. The funeral had never been held, because the illness that had swept the land, had grown exponentially. Or, as Sandra put it, ‘like Topsy’. Within a week, society broke down and shuffled to a close. In the latter days, those who ventured out stared at other people with fear and suspicion. She stayed at home until the food ran out and met the three men when she came into town. Not surprisingly, with all that had happened she was still in shock. Reaper guessed that those who had survived the sudden death of their loved ones, even if they had managed to avoid further trouble, would be in shock for a long time to come.

  There had been a downpour during the night that he thought might have put out a few fires. The morning was dry but cloudy. While she was still asleep, he used a bathroom further along the corridor to shower and shave. He toasted bread on the stove’s grill and fried bacon, and the aroma that woke her made the day seem almost normal. She opened the bedroom door and looked into the sitting room. For a long moment she stared at him, re-evaluated where she was and said, ‘That smells good.’ It was as if she had made a decision.

  They ate in silence and, afterwards, he said, ‘You need to go shopping for some new clothes,’ and she smiled again at the concept of going shopping.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said.

  ‘Reaper.’ The singularity of the name somehow consigned his former existence to the past.

  ‘Reaper,’ she said, as if testing it.

  ‘Sandra,’ he said. ‘Nice name.’

  ‘My mum was a Clint Eastwood fan,’ she said, but the reference passed him by. She looked up at him suddenly, her wide eyes catching and holding his. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘First, you’ll get some clothes. Then we’ll find others and start over.’

  ‘Start over?’

  He nodded.

  ‘There’s a place I know that would be good for a settlement.’

  She stared at him and said again, ‘Start over?’

  ‘People will start over. Groups will get together, up and down the country. Some will have the best of intentions, others will want power, some will be like the men you met.’

  She shuddered.

  He smiled at her gently. ‘We’ll see who we find.

  Maybe no one will want to start over. Maybe they’ll just want to drink Sainsbury’s dry.’

  ‘We always shopped at Tesco,’ she said, and smiled at the small joke.

  He smiled back. A small joke was a good beginning.

  Reaper packed the rucksack and put it on his back.

  He gave Sandra his long caped raincoat to cover her relative nakedness until she was able to choose new clothes. He noticed the way she looked at the weapons he carried.

  ‘They’re necessary,’ he said. ‘For us to have a chance, these are necessary. There always were bad people in the world and now they will be worse. Now there are no rules and men can be beasts. We both know that.’

  He tapped the carbine. ‘Believe me, they’re necessary.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said.

  They walked to the city’s main shopping centre, Sandra uncomfortable on the high heels she had been made to wear. On the High Street, they entered Monsoon and she flipped through the racked dresses and skirts but shook her head.

  ‘I need something like what you’re wearing,’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘Maybe later you can choose something nice.’

  They stopped again at Marks and Spencer and she looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Underwear?’ he said, and she blushed.

  They went in. Reaper grabbed packs of underpants and put them in the rucksack and then waited with eyes discreetly averted while she filled a plastic shopping bag and went into a fitting room to put on bra and pants. He was alert during the walk to the camping and outdoor store, but they saw no one.

  Sandra picked out navy-blue combat trousers and a T-shirt, like his, donned thick socks and Doc Martens and put her spare underwear in a rucksack along with a sweater and extra T-shirts. He added similar knives to the ones he carried, plus a torch and a pair of binoculars. She chose a caped coat like his, but shorter, and finished off her outfit with a navy-blue baseball cap.

  She looked at herself in a full-length mirror and then at Reaper.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  The clothes had given her confidence.

  ‘I think we look like a team,’ he said, and she laughed.

  ‘Now where?’

  ‘The police station.’

  They entered the station through the yard and he took her to the armoury.

  ‘Are you a policeman?’ she said.

  ‘Of a kind.’

  Her eyes were wide as he fitted her with a Kevlar vest. She didn’t complain about its weight or bulk but simply nodded when he asked if it felt okay.

  ‘Have you ever fired a gun?’ he asked.

  ‘No-o,’ she said, in a tone that implied ‘don’t be ridiculous’.

  ‘I think you should learn.’

  They exchanged a serious stare and she nodded.

  ‘I’d like to.’

  He fitted a belt and holster around her waist and took her into the police yard. He let her handle the Glock unloaded to get used to its feel and weight.

  ‘If you draw the weapon but don’t have an immediate target, hold it in the ready stance. Upright, like this, in both hands.’ He demonstrated and handed the gun to her and she followed his example. ‘That way you won’t shoot me and you can point when a target makes itself known.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now the shooting stance. The target is on the other side of the yard. The white door? Stand like this.’ She tried to follow his example. ‘Feet apart, about the same width as your shoulders. You’re right leg slightly behind the left, like a boxer.’ He put his hand on her leg to move it into position. She did not flinch. ‘Hold the grip firm and high and extend your right arm at shoulder height. That’s it. Face forward. Now support your right hand with your left. The gun may kick and the double grip will hold it steady. That’s it.’ He walked around her and moved a leg fractionally, then her arm. ‘If it doesn’t feel right, it won’t work. Does it feel right?’

  ‘It feels strange.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Of course it does. Right, now let’s try it loaded.’ He took the gun from her and showed her how to load the magazine. ‘It holds seventeen nine-millimetre cartridges. You put it in like this.’ He took it out again. ‘Now you do it.’ She did it at the second attempt, then repeated the exercise. ‘Always treat a gun as if it is loaded,’ he said, ‘and never point it at anything you are not prepared to shoot. Now, it’s loaded but it isn’t cocked. You need to rack the slide like this, to put a bullet in the chamber. Now it’s ready for firing. Adopt the ready stance.’

  Sandra did so.

  ‘Now the shooting stance.’

  She adopted the stance and Reaper stood behind her, aware of how small she was, and corrected her position once more.

  ‘Look down the sight. Point, hold it firm.’ The gun wavered a little. ‘Now pull the trigger.’

  She fired and the gun lifted a little, but not as much as he had expected, and a chunk flew off the white door. Sandra began to turn towards him with a smile on her face and the gun moving in his direction. He put out a hand to stop its traverse.

  ‘Never forget what you are holding. Never point it at anyone by mistake. Always assume it is loaded.’ She raised it to the ready and he pointed her back the correct way. ‘Again.’

  She fired again and again and hit the door five times.

  He stood close behind her and could sense the excitement quivering within her.

  ‘Again.’

  She fired another five spaced shots, each time hitting the door. It was not a difficult target, but her success would give her confidence. She paused and looked at him over her shoulder.


  ‘Now just blast away and empty the magazine,’ he said.

  Sandra did so, dropping more into the stance, feeling and being invigorated by the power, and hitting the door every time. Finally the trigger clicked on empty and she began to turn towards him but, as he stretched out an arm to stop the traverse of the gun, she corrected it herself and took out the empty magazine.

  ‘How did it feel?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Always remember it kills. Always remember the safety rules.’ He smiled at the former sales assistant from Top Shop who was learning a new skill that might help her survive. ‘Good shooting.’

  They went through it again for an hour, until the safety aspects sank in, until she could draw the gun confidently and without fumbling, could load a magazine with cartridges, could load the pistol with a magazine. He explained how the gun could not be de-cocked.

  Each shot automatically put another bullet in the chamber. To de-cock it entailed removing the magazine and racking the slide to remove the last bullet.

  This was something she would do every day, prior to cleaning the weapon.

  Finally, he let her fire again and watched her exhilaration. It was shortly after midday and he had just given a young girl lessons in how to kill. A month before, it would have been inconceivable. A month before, she may well have been totally disinterested to the point of ridiculing anyone who might have suggested it. Now she accepted it, embraced it. He thought that, after what she had already endured, she might already be willing and able to kill to avoid such pain and degradation occurring again.

  ‘Hungry?’ he said.

  ‘Famished.’

  They went into the police canteen, both of them now armed with Glocks, and he cooked sausages and oven chips. After they had eaten, they drank coffee.