Reaper

by Jon Grahame

  ‘So would I. But let’s just be prepared for the alternative.’

  Chapter 14

  THOUGH THE POSSIBLE THREAT FROM WHITBY seemed to be quickly forgotten by most of the settlement, it continued to play on Reaper’s mind. A week later, he decided to scout the town out. The manor house had brochures and maps from its days as a holiday destination. He studied the maps of the area and the photographs of the fishing town. He had never been there, so he listened to Jamie’s descriptions and also learned something of its history.

  This was where Captain Cook had served a naval apprenticeship with a local company that sailed coastal vessels. It was also where Bram Stoker had stayed whilst researching his novel, Dracula. Stoker had the vampire reaching England on a crewless ship driven into Whitby harbour by a storm. He based his drama on a real event: a vessel carrying occupied coffins had floundered off the coast in the late 1800s and the dreadful cargo was washed up on the beach. Reaper wondered if Muldane had added any more corpses lately.

  Whitby was a town split by the River Esk as it ran into the sea. It was built on both sides of the estuary on high cliffs, with the red-roofed houses tumbling down the steep hillsides to sea level. On the East Cliff was St Mary’s Church and graveyard, where Dracula was supposed to have taken refuge, and the ruins of the 7th century Whitby Abbey. A hundred and ninety-nine steep steps led down from the church to feed into narrow Church Street, the start of the ‘old town’ that clustered at the water’s edge.

  The West Cliff opposite had Victorian hotels and boarding houses and tight streets that led down to the main shopping area of Baxtergate, where franchise stores from national chains occupied old buildings.

  The two halves of the town were connected by a bridge across the Esk that divided the harbour into inner and outer basins. Reaper studied the map.

  ‘The old town can be sealed,’ he said. ‘A guard where the road from the bridge meets Church Street, and another at the top of the steps by the church.’

  Jamie agreed. ‘The streets are very narrow and the only other way in or out would be via the harbour wall itself.’

  The two concrete arms of the harbour stretched out into the North Sea, reaching towards each other to almost touch, like the fingers of a Michelangelo painting, but leaving a small gap for the safe passage of fishing vessels.

  Beyond the abbey on the east side was open country and farmland. The west side had been developed with suburban housing. That was the way he would approach.

  He went alone on a trail bike at two in the morning.

  One man would have a better chance to enter and leave the town unobserved, he told Sandra. He didn’t say that he didn’t want to take a woman with him because of the consequences if she was captured. Sandra and Ashley would be in charge in his absence. The night was overcast and he took the country roads across the North Yorkshire Moors rather than the coastal highway, which he suspected would be watched.

  He arrived on the modern outskirts of Whitby at three thirty with no lights on the bike.

  He was among roads of semi-detached housing, as bland and commonplace as anywhere else in the country. He cruised silently down the slope towards the town, hardly touching the engine. The bike’s momentum carried him and, when he needed power, he used it softly as he wended his way through back streets to avoid main roads. He left the bike in the drive of a house in Argyle Road, not far from the Royal Hotel. Just another abandoned vehicle that would provoke no interest.

  His route was fixed in his mind. He walked across a playing field, past more abandoned cars in a municipal car park, and found himself at a modern building that was the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

  He slipped into the town proper, past a big church, and down a road lined with impressive old houses that had been converted into private hotels. He was silent and careful, pausing frequently to listen from the shadows.

  Reaper had no idea where the man Muldane might create a headquarters for an army of occupation. If he had been in charge, he would have chosen an elevated position as protection against attack or intruders. But what had Muldane chosen? The streets remained silent, filled only with ghosts and abandoned cars. The road ended at a terrace of steep landscaped gardens.

  The harbour was below him and the moon obligingly came out and he could see the two arms of the harbour and, up on the far cliff opposite, the church and the ruins of the Abbey. No wonder Stoker had set his novel here; the vista was certainly Gothic – no doubt about that. Reaper saw lights across the water in the old town.

  He let himself into a tall hotel with views over the harbour. He went upstairs, using his torch carefully.

  Some of the rooms would contain bodies but he hoped they would be confined to owner and staff and by now the advanced process of decay had started to take the edge from the sickly sweet smell of death. Surely holidaymakers would have gone home, if they had come at all, considering the panic that had swept the country when the pandemic happened.

  The room he chose was empty. A good view. He opened the window to let the fresh night air sweep away the mustiness, and moved an easy chair to the window. He had brought a pack with coffee, bottled water and sandwiches. He had a base. He stared at the old town through binoculars. The glow of a fire seemed to be coming from the market place. A torch was lit high on the hill, he guessed it was at the top of the 199 steps that led down from the church. He needed a closer look.

  Reaper left his carbine in the room. He went out of the hotel and slipped back into the night. He snuck down grassy embankments, along alleys, ginnels and lanes, until he reached the waterfront. No one was about; no patrols were on the streets.

  He came out on the harbour near The Pier Inn. No guards, no signs that anyone was inside. He went carefully along the Pier Road towards the old town. The clouds were breaking up and he could see movement at the bridge – one shape, maybe two; the flash of an electric torch, the glow of a cigarette. But the buildings seemed to be abandoned. He went back inland through an alley, climbed a hill and reached shops on a higher level. He went back down another steep winding lane past a church and was at the end of Baxtergate, the shopping street that led to the harbour bridge.

  A few yards away it joined with Bagdale, one of the main roads into town, but he could see no guards there, either. Muldane was either slapdash or very confident. Reaper went up Baxtergate, pausing every few yards, listening to the night sounds but hearing nothing unusual. He went through another ginnel that gave him a view of the inner harbour, the railway station and a roundabout where two main roads met. All remained silent and he wondered if he dared move his base closer.

  Reaper familiarised himself with this side of the town and went back to the hotel on the West Cliff.

  He retrieved his pack and carbine and returned to the shadows of Baxtergate. He was aware there was a guard nearby, on or near the bridge. The closest building was a bank. Any looter worth the name would opt for an off-licence rather than a bank with a sealed safe full of redundant money, so he guessed it should be empty. The door was open, the wood splintered around the lock. Maybe looters had tried it anyway.

  Inside was silent and dark. There were no tell-tale smells of habitation, no snores. He waited until his eyes adjusted. The banking interior was normal but doors had been broken open. He went through into offices and explored until he found a staircase. He climbed, aware that any creaks he made could be fatal.

  He went up to the top floor and found an office that overlooked the harbour. This couldn’t be better.

  Venetian blinds hung at the windows and he eased one strip of plastic apart to provide him with a view.

  A car blocked the bridge and a man sat inside it. He could see the glow of his cigarette.

  He checked for an escape route in case he was discovered. A fire escape was accessible through a window at the side of the building. That would have to do. He eased the window open a few inches, unpacked his bag and put his food and drink on the desk. He moved a swivel chair to the window and
had a cup of coffee.

  Reaper dozed off but was awakened before dawn by the sound of feet marching across the bridge. Two unarmed men and an unarmed woman followed by three men with guns. The guard in the car got out and stretched.

  ‘About bloody time,’ he said.

  One of the armed men stopped by the car, opened the door and recoiled in pretend horror.

  ‘You could have left the windows open. It smells like a shithouse.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ replied the guard, now relieved of his duty. He walked off across the bridge towards the old town.

  The rest of the group turned right onto the harbour side. He heard doors opening and closing. They had entered a building.

  A little later, as it got light, using his binoculars, he watched another group cross a wooden jetty on the far side of the harbour. Three unarmed men and two armed. The two armed men were dressed in black; sweaters and trousers. He realised the other armed guards had also been dressed in black. All five climbed down into a fishing boat. The engine started, they cast off and it set off onto the calm sea.

  It was another hour before people started moving and he caught the aroma of baking bread. That must have been the early morning party he had watched crossing the bridge on their way to work. Now that the sun was up, he could see more clearly. There was a second guard on the far side of the bridge at the end of Church Street. They had blocked off the old town and he surmised that this would be where the so-called drones and volunteers were being kept.

  Six armed men left Church Street. They split into two parties and climbed into two Transit vans. Both drove across the bridge, waiting while the guard moved the car blocking it, and headed out of town. Reaper ate a sandwich, had a cup of coffee, and kept watching.

  About nine, the bakers reappeared carrying black plastic bin bags that he presumed were full of bread. The woman was missing. Still working? But with no guard in the bakery. He watched them cross the bridge.

  Reaper picked up the carbine and left the bank. He was pretty sure this side of town was unoccupied but he still took care, slipping through the back streets to the rear of the buildings that fronted the harbour. He let his nose guide him like a Bisto kid. He followed the aroma of baking. He climbed a wall into a yard.

  The back door was open; after all, baking is a hot business. He stepped into a preparation room and came to face to face with the missing woman. She was small and rotund and in her middle years. She had been rolling pastry but now stopped and looked at him with surprise. Perhaps she thought he was just another guard. Then she realised he wasn’t and she dropped the rolling pin, glanced behind him to see if he was alone and then at the door that led to the front of the shop.

  He raised one hand to calm her.

  ‘I’m not with them,’ he said.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘All I want is information.’

  She had already started shaking her head before he made the request. ‘If they see you, they’ll kill me as well. Please go. Leave me alone.’ The woman was terrified.

  ‘No one will see me. No one will know I’ve been.

  I want to help you. Not now, in the future. Is Muldane in charge?’

  Her gaze kept going back to the door that led to the shop but she nodded.

  ‘How many men does he have?’

  She shrugged. ‘They’re the New Order. He said so.

  Please leave. They don’t need an excuse.’

  Reaper nodded to reassure her. ‘I’ll go. But I’ll be back.’

  As he backed towards the door, she picked up a small cob of fresh bread and threw it to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He smiled and nodded and kissed the bread in acknowledgement and left. He retraced his steps to the top floor room in the bank. The bread was warm and tasted delicious. The woman’s gift was in lieu of words she hadn’t been able to utter because of her fear that the guard would return and discover her visitor. Such fear. What had she experienced already under Muldane’s New Order? And who the hell was Muldane? Apart from a bloke who enjoyed making up names to explain his actions. New Order, drones, volunteers. Was he mad, dangerous, or both?

  The fishing boat returned and was unloaded by three more citizen drones. Up on the hill by the church, half a dozen more carried down sacks and baskets, presumably of vegetables or meat. He guessed they were tending the fields beyond the abbey. The two men guarding them, again dressed in black, waited at the top of the steps and chatted with the man posted there, until their charges returned. They led them off again, probably to a waiting van or truck.

  Muldane had a small productive empire. The town had shops and supermarkets, fish from the sea and excellent farming country nearby. Maybe he wouldn’t be interested in other, more democratic communities and wouldn’t be a threat for a long while. Maybe Reaper didn’t have to get involved. Except that Reaper felt guilty leaving such a man in control and polluting other people’s lives. And he would have to do something eventually, because eventually Muldane would decide to expand his empire. It was ever thus, even with civilisation surviving by its fingertips.

  Some time later, a small van drove across the bridge from the old town and stopped outside the bakery.

  Soon after, it returned the way it had come, presumably loaded with the cakes the baker had been making.

  She followed, on foot. Late afternoon, the two Transits returned and he watched male drones carry boxes from them into the old town. An ordinary day seemed to be drawing to a conclusion, when people started walking onto the east harbour wall.

  The civilian drones, men and women, were being herded along by armed men. Children were among them, small children. And then came a group comprised only of women and he felt an emptiness in his stomach as he realised these must be what had been described as ‘Muldane’s volunteers’. These were the younger and more attractive women, some hardly into adolescence.

  His eyes dampened as he stared through the binoculars. While the drones wore nondescript clothing, the girls and women wore dresses and tight jeans and high heels and make up. Muldane had created a brothel for his men.

  Down the steps came another ten ‘civilians’, eight men and two women, presumably from the outlying farms they were helping to run. With them were six armed guards. Reaper reckoned there were close to fifty adult civilians in total at the harbour plus eight young children, another twenty women who would be classed as ‘volunteers’, and at least twenty-eight armed men keeping them in order. Add the guards at the bridge, the end of Church Street and one still at the top of the 199 steps, plus maybe others in posts on the main roads leading to the town, and that was an army approaching forty.

  The prisoners were gathered on the facing harbour wall. Some of the women and girls of the volunteers moved among the others to find companions, friends.

  When they did, some held each other and cried. Some of the women didn’t move at all, didn’t seek anyone.

  They remained alone in the midst of the crowd. Over them all, hung an air of defeat, of subjugation.

  An open-topped Land Rover came from the old town and crossed the bridge, followed by a BMW four-by-four. The guard at the bridge stood at an approximation of attention as they went by. A man in an army uniform sat in the passenger seat of the Land Rover. It could only be Muldane. Reaper fixed him in the binoculars. A portly man, aged about forty, with a trimmed moustache. His uniform had a crown on the epaulette, signifying a Major in the British Army.

  He did not appear a figure to inspire terror. Reaper switched his gaze to the driver, who looked like either a career thug or a career soldier. A powerful man dressed in black. Muscles bulging though his T-shirt.

  Across his chest hung a bandoleer.

  The Land Rover and the BMW turned right along Pier Road. Reaper sensed something out of the ordinary was about to happen. From his location, he lost sight of the two vehicles on Pier Road, which curved inland beyond the buildings in his sightline. They came into v
iew again where the road curved back. They stopped at the west harbour wall.

  Muldane got out of the Land Rover. He stretched and strutted a few paces with a swagger stick tucked beneath his arm. He wore a service revolver in a holster on his belt. His driver remained a close companion.

  A fearsome and powerful figure with a shaven head, carried a sub-machine gun in addition to his holstered sidearm. Four more black-clad men, got out of the BMW, each had the same muscular build and professional bearing and all wore holstered pistols. They pulled a fifth passenger from the BMW – a male civilian who had his hands either tied or cuffed behind his back.

  The party marched onto the concrete wall, Muldane in front, as if about to inspect troops, his sergeant at his side. He stopped and the four men in black knocked their prisoner to his knees. Muldane and his party faced the captives clustered across the narrow stretch of water on the other side of the harbour. The man in the major’s uniform was making a speech, but Reaper was too far away to hear what was said.

  The day was hot, the sun silvered the calm sea, and the horizon smudged into a pale blue sky. Gulls wheeled and swooped for a closer look. On a day like this in late June, the town would normally have been full of people; shoppers in Baxtergate, tourists climbing the 199 steps to visit the legends and the history outlined in ruins on the cliff top. Others would be crowding the cobbles and quaint shops of Church Street and the old town or visiting the Dracula museum. But that was then and this was now.

  Two of the guards dragged the man forward until he knelt on the harbour side. Muldane took the revolver from his holster and shot him in the back of the head.

  The body tumbled into the sea. The gulls screamed and arced away from the gunshot.

  Muldane turned on his heel and his party marched back to their vehicles. Across the water, the captives had watched the proceedings almost without reaction.

  Only one or two had seemed shocked. The show over, they were being marched back to where they had come from. Reaper didn’t know what offence the dead man had committed, but he guessed it hadn’t been criminal. ‘Muldane’s Army’ were the criminals: thieves, murderers and rapists. Maybe the dead man had shown dissent, complained about brutality, or attempted to escape. No wonder the baker had been terrified. When the rule of law was no more, any madman could impose tyranny on a whim.