Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Brook’s palms were sweating despite the cold. ‘Have you…? How does he love you?’ he said softly.

Terri looked at the deck of the pier again. She couldn’t find the words, perhaps realising there weren’t any. She looked every inch the schoolgirl now, despite her height, despite the make-up. She might have been in the Head’s office, being told off for throwing water in the labs. At last she mumbled her excuse but instead of blaming another pupil and saying ‘It won’t happen again, miss,’ Brook heard, ‘He loves me like a man should love a woman.’

Brook looked away, a strange wheezing noise emanating from him. It was his breath leaving his body as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He could see the brown water seething between the boards. It made him feel dizzy. ‘But you’re not a fucking woman,’ he spat at her.

Terri flinched at the obscenity and then her eyes glazed over into that shocking, hard-faced certainty patented by all-knowing teenagers who think it conveys experience but instead betrays only insecurity and selfishness. ‘I’m both of those things,’ she informed him, coldly.

Brook’s heart fell into the icy sea. Before the last syllable was out, he’d gripped her by the shoulders, and was shaking her violently. He closed his eyes and the moisture in them was forced onto his cheeks. Heads began to turn but Brook was oblivious.

‘Dad, you’re hurting me,’ Terri wailed, trying to prise off his whitening knuckles and wheeling around like a wrestler trying to break a hold. She looked around at the desultory passers-by who were assessing the free entertainment. A stall keeper took a step towards the dance. ‘It’s okay, he’s my dad,’ she panted. The man hesitated, deciding to wait for developments.

‘Dad!’ Terri shouted, shaking him in return. ‘People are watching.’

But Brook shook her and shook her. The man who ran the sharp shooting stall took a further step but Brook was unaware of everything, save the rushing in his ears. He was mumbling incoherently, spinning her round. He could see and hear nothing. He was unconscious, drowning. His life zipped across his mind and was gone and Brook hoped that would be the end of it.

But suddenly there was calm-an impression of stillness. Brook could feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Nothing else. He was in orbit, flying towards great heat. His body was weightless and his head felt like it was on a stick. He was very tired and his head slumped to his chest. He became aware of his legs. They felt heavy and unwilling to hold him upright. With an effort of supreme will he opened an eye to see the water swirling below his disobedient feet. Then the noise of the waves rushed in and he was able to locate Terri’s face. She looked at him. She was sad. Her eyes pleaded with Brook. Her mouth was moving but Brook couldn’t hear. She seemed to be crying, pulling at him.

A numbing cold grabbed Brook a second later and other senses came rushing in. He heard, ‘Your mother. Your mother,’ and realised he was speaking.

Terri still struggled against his grip. ‘Dad! Let go!’ Brook tried to let her go, to unfasten his fingers but couldn’t work out how to do it. Then a soft mouth from behind touched his right ear and then a voice.

‘Inspector Brook! Stop it. Let go.’

All was noise and bustle now. Brook heard the panting and snorting of those struggling around him. Wendy Jones had an arm squeezed into his neck, choking him. Don’t stop, Wendy. You don’t mind if I call you Wendy?

‘Sir. We’ve got to leave now,’ she insisted.

Brook looked to the heavens and saw the grey sky above. He relaxed his muscles to signal his defeat and slumped into Jones’s arms. She loosened her grip, just holding his shoulders to keep him upright.

‘He wants locking up, he does,’ observed the sharpshooter.

‘He’s a fucking lunatic!’ ventured an amateur psychiatrist, toffee apple in hand.

Finally Terri broke free and stomped away to the rail, sobbing. Brook turned his eyes to look at his hands still held in front of him like a novice bullfighter. He let them fall to his side as his knees gave way and collapsed to the floor. Jones lifted him up by the armpits and put her arm round him.

‘Come on, sir. Let’s go.’ She held his limp frame and walked him through the throng.

‘You should call the police, luv. Streets ain’t safe with nutters like ’im roaming around.’

‘I am the police,’ she spat back, ‘and if you want a night in the cells, just stay there shooting your mouth off.’

The potential have-a-go-heroes were aggrieved but wandered away, that’s-the-thanks-you-get expressions glued to their faces.

‘Sir?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Wendy Jones.’

‘I’ve told you. Call me Charlie. Everything alright?’

‘No sir. It’s DI Brook. I think he’s had some kind of breakdown.’

There was a pause though not a long one . ‘Right.’

‘We got down to Brighton, no problem. Then we picked his daughter up after school. From what I could gather she’s having a relationship with a man. I think it might be her stepfather.’

‘Oh God. Not little Terri. How is he?’

‘I’m not sure. He seems physically and mentally exhausted. I can’t get him to talk. I can’t even get him to look at me. He just stares into space.’

‘I know the symptoms. Where is he?’

‘Lying down. I booked us into a B amp; B. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘It’s like he’s in a trance. Should I get a doctor?’

‘No. He wouldn’t do anything. You did the right thing. He just needs complete quiet. Try and get him to sleep, that’s the main thing. Hot sweet tea and sugared rum. That’s the stuff. He’s in shock.’

‘You say this has happened before.’

‘It was a few years ago now.’

‘Was that down to The Reaper?’

‘Amongst other things. You see, luv, Damen’s got this brain-haven’t we all? But his…it never stops unless he switches it off. But he has to take the trouble to do it. Most of the time he can but this case, it’s got him thinking again and he’s clever, he can’t accept he hasn’t caught The Reaper. I’m not explaining this very well. Suffice to say the last time it took away his marriage, his home and part of his sanity.’

‘He told me about Sorenson. About his relationship with him.’

‘Did he? He hasn’t told anyone else, luv. I think he really trusts you, Wendy.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Look after him. Stay with him and keep feeding him hot, sweet tea and sugared rum. He’ll be okay. If he drankmore he might not be in this state now. By the way, Wendy, your boss tracked you down to here. She’s hopping mad you haven’t kept her up to speed. I said you were working hard which took the wind out of her knickers for a while.’

‘You didn’t have to…’

‘I know. I did it for Damen’s sake. She also said if she didn’t hear from him tomorrow, he’d be reprimanded.’

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Damen wouldn’t. Look luv, forget all that ’til tomorrow. Just stay with him tonight. Ring me tomorrow morning, will you?’

‘I will, Charlie, and thanks.’ Jones replaced the receiver.

Half an hour later she returned to the Seaview carrying two Sainsbury’s bags. She retrieved her key from the tight-lipped landlady who made a point of glaring at Jones’ shopping. What an insult. To buy one’s own provisions, when even now a dozen contented residents were sitting down to a hearty meal of vitamin-free slop, was truly a slap in the face for Mrs Purley. Mr and Mrs Jones indeed-a likely story.