Steven Dunne - The Reaper

One by one they returned to their business, no longer munching with their eyes darting at him, but ignoring him so completely that Brook decided it was time to take his chance.

He reversed through the doorway into the outer room, still not daring to turn the beam onto his exit. Nearly there now. He was being an idiot. Rats didn’t attack human beings unless they were stricken in some way, and then only in the most extreme circumstances. It would be like a shoal of mackerel having a go at a shark.

Finally Brook came to a halt. He couldn’t look any longer at the girl. The more he’d drawn away, the more he could see the bigger picture. This girl had died. Here in this hell. And what was left, what her parents would want, would need to take away for proper grieving, was being defiled by these monsters.

A panic washed over him and his breath seemed to be rushing from his body. He had to get out. He turned and fixed his torch on the entrance but as he did so he heard a terrible screeching from the direction of the girl. He wheeled round and caught the full horror of the rats tearing out of the torso towards him.

He dropped the torch, hoping that was all they wanted, and ran. He ran for all he was worth, no longer caring what he stepped in or kicked over. To be outside, in the clean night air, was all Brook wanted from life now.

Nearly there. He was quicker even than the filthy animals. But as he got to the entrance, to his horror he found his way barred. He’d gone the wrong way. Or something had fallen across the makeshift door and Brook was unable to shift it. He tried again but it wouldn’t budge. He was trapped.

Brook span round in terror to see the pack of slick-haired rodents teeming past the rocking beam of his torch towards him. Then he couldn’t see them, he could only hear the scratch of their claws on the concrete, tearing closer and closer. He tried to speak but could make no noise save for a gentle whimper of despair.

Brook pushed against the wall and braced himself. All he could do was look to the ceiling, try to block out what was happening. Then maybe he could protect his face, his eyes.

The first one was on him, then another and another. He screamed and kicked out wildly, but it was no use. They were on his trousers, ripping at the material. Then one was on his ankle, his sock. It must have smelt the fetid gust of heat wafting down Brook’s leg because it squirmed into thenarrow opening of his trouser leg and began hauling itself up towards his crotch, slicing through his flesh as it went.

Brook put his arms to his thigh to prevent access but realised that he was being driven nearer the ground so he stood up straight. If he went to ground he was done for.

But the rat was in his pants now-Brook could feel its snout nuzzling away at the gusset.

And then the pain. Pain like he’d never felt before. Searing, blinding. ‘Please get them off me, get them off me, get them off me.’

‘Get them off me!’ DS Brook woke with a start and took a deep breath. His face was drenched with sweat, his hands clammy. The drone of police chatter on the radio brought him back and he sat up to open the window and adjust the driver’s seat. The cold night air revived him. He drained his Styrofoam coffee, now cold, and began breathing normally again.

Soon he was flipping his notepad open and shut to stave off boredom. He knew all the tricks to enrich his life.

He glanced at the crossword on the passenger seat but decided against it. His brain was overheated enough. Instead he closed his eyes to ease the sting of too little sleep.

His shift had finished hours ago. He could have been at home now, with his family, arm round his wife, enjoying a spot of synchronised gaping at their brand new daughter, a small pink parcel of helplessness and need, the better part of him poured into that vulnerable vessel.

Brook thought of baby Theresa and smiled briefly. But then he saw the Maples girl. Her empty eye sockets glaredat him. Black holes that pulled in all Brook’s happy thoughts, all his hope for the future.

He remembered her face, a contortion of pain, that strange grin of pleasure that sudden death can bestow on lifeless features. But she wasn’t lifeless. There was movement…

Brook shuddered but kept his eyes shut tight. It was no use. He couldn’t separate them. He couldn’t think of little Theresa without the girl, Laura, intruding. Theresa, who came into the world as Laura was being butchered. They were the same in Brook’s mind. Indivisible. To Brook it was a rebirth, the girl had been reincarnated, savagely taken from the brutality of the world to start again as Brook’s daughter. But it was no second chance. Brook knew the world now. His daughter was doomed. Doomed to repeat the cycle of innocence corrupted. And it was all Brook’s fault. He’d brought another victim into this terrible world.

Brook wanted to open his eyes but the ache endured so he focused on the case. Forget little Theresa, think of The Reaper-Brook’s name for him. How to catch him? How to win?

The lure of detection calmed him, drew him away from those immobilising minefields of emotion and allowed him to go on.

The moisture too returned to soothe pupils that felt as if they’d had a vigorous rubdown with a harsh towel. A tapping on the window jolted him back.

‘It’s Sergeant Brook, isn’t it?’

The mocking tone irritated Brook. He wound down the window and contemplated Victor Sorenson’s expression of forced bonhomie. If anything his demeanour seemed even more triumphal than it was the last time they’d met.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Brook replied with just the right amount of feigned respect.

‘It’s an unpleasant evening. I thought you might like a drink. Unless, of course, you’re on a case.’

Brook looked back at his prey, sifting the pros and cons. His eyes were even more impenetrable at this late hour.

He had on the same clothes as their previous interview, or very like them, and clutched an umbrella in his bony hand to keep off the rain.

‘I’d be delighted,’ Brook beamed back, trying to ape the tone of phoney good manners. He stepped from the car and followed Sorenson’s meagre frame across the road and into the hall of his imposing home. The ivy dumped several large droplets of water down the back of Brook’s neck, causing a shiver as he crossed the threshold.

‘Don’t be afraid, Sergeant,’ grinned his host, catching the reflex. Brook smiled back and removed his raincoat, which Sorenson hung on a wrought-iron coat rack. He deposited the umbrella in the porch and closed the front door. All extraneous noise was now silenced and Brook could hear sombre melodic voices floating down from above.

‘Mozart’s Requiem. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard it.’

‘A fitting epitaph, wouldn’t you say? Please.’

Unlike their first meeting, lights burned brightly, so Brook stepped quickly ahead of Sorenson, meaning to take his time reaching the study. He needed to examine what he saw, try to get a better feel for his opponent. He got the impression Sorenson wanted the same thing. So Brook trudged carefully up the stairs, Sorenson fell in behind.

As they climbed, Brook tried to take everything in.He examined the decor of the hall as well as the pictures on the walls-muted colours, soft rich carpets, marble steps, old oak banisters, discreet lighting. Everything was supremely tasteful and orderly. The set designer had done a magnificent job.

One or two of the pictures seemed familiar and conformed to Brook’s evolving image of The Reaper and his obsessions.

‘Do you know this work?’ asked Sorenson, nodding at a large triptych framed in carved wood, at the top of the first flight.

‘The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch, isn’t it?’