Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Jones pushed open the door to their room with a bag then dropped both to the floor with a chink of glass on glass. She winced but Brook didn’t move. He lay prone on the bed, fully clothed except for his shoes, snoring gently.

Jones decided not to disturb him. She ate her sandwich in the chair by the window and watched. Occasionally she crept to the toilet or made a cup of tea. Brook’s cup sat waiting-rum and sugar-waiting for him to stir. On she waited, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, wanting to climb on the bed next to him, but resisting.

He needed her and she needed to be needed so she sat on, keeping her motionless vigil, satisfying herself with the lightest stroke of his forehead, a taunt to the urgent physicality of their previous night in bed together.

And so the evening passed into night and night into early morning and still he slept. It was the sleep of the dead. His life, everything he’d worked for was gone, spoiled forever, and there was nothing left for Brook to do but concede and start from scratch, from the womb. Clear of all thoughts, all worries, all preconceptions and all conventions. Now he could sleep. Now he was nothing. Nobody. No job, no career, no family, no future and, for once, no past. None of it mattered any more. To worry about any of it, never mind try to influence it, was futile. He had landed on the longest snake in the game and it had crushed and swallowed him. He’d been so close but now he was back at the start. If he wanted to go again he had to throw a six. If he wanted to go again…

South. Always south. Brook checked his watch. He’d been driving around for over an hour since he lost Sorenson. Why had he let that happen? There had to be a reason. After all Brook had been through, to be discarded like this.

Disconsolate, he pulled up to the red light on the South Circular, at the crossroads of Brixton Hill. An hour ago he would have run the lights but now the urgency was gone. It was late. Near midnight. The tension of the chase had evaporated, the search fizzled out. Even the rain was stopping.

Brook had lost the game. He’d lost to Sorenson. He’d lost to The Reaper.

The lights turned and Brook drove on. He hung a left towards the city, intending to take a long loop through Brixton, back up to Clapham and home. It was over. Time to let go.

Home. Then a thought-an icy hand of dread squeezed his heart. What if he’d been tricked? Sorenson had lost him and then doubled back towards Amy and baby Theresa. They were alone. Helpless.

Brook blinked to gather his thoughts and get his bearings. Which way? He’d just missed the turn-off by Brixton Town Hall. Now he’d have to turn up by the Academy and gun it down there.

Brook changed down and floored the accelerator. As he did so, something caught his eye and he jumped onto his brakes and slithered to a halt. On the opposite side of Brixton High Road, Brook stared dumbstruck at a street sign. He gazed at it. Electric Avenue.

‘There could even be an electric storm. Very rare. Yes, sparks are going to fly.’

Brook stared on, his mind churning. A cabbie pulled past, glaring and gesticulating.

Finally Brook pulled into the outside lane and swung right, up towards Brixton Market, now deserted except for discarded fruit and vegetable boxes. He parked underneath the arches opposite the eastern end of Electric Avenue.

Brook’s family were forgotten. The hunt was back on. He leapt from the car and padded down the street.

Jones woke from her third uncomfortable night in the armchair to the sound of the gulls feeding on dawn crabs. It took her a moment to realise where she was, before the pain in her back reminded her. She’d spent the whole weekend in vigil, watching Brook sleep, feeding him rum when he roused briefly, sneaking out for half an hour of exercise in the evening or a bite of toast in the morning. Now it was Christmas Eve and, like it or not, she’d have to try and find a doctor. This couldn’t go on. She couldn’t endure another night in that chair.

She looked at her watch. Gone eight. She shifted her position but it didn’t help. She sat forward and pulled the curtain aside and a finger of grey light crept into the room. Then she saw the crumpled bed. Brook wasn’t on it. She sat up, wincing at the pain in her lower back, and stood to stretch her legs. Where was he?

The noise of the shower offered first comfort, then anxiety.

She lifted a hand to tap on the bathroom door then stopped. There was an unusual noise coming from the bathroom. It was so commonplace, yet so unexpected, that Jones could only stand and listen, a baffled expression creasing her face.

No. There was no mistake. Someone, presumably Detective Inspector Damen Brook, was whistling. In fact, more than that, he was breaking into song as well.

Jones was worried. She raised her hand again but, as she did, the water stopped. A second later the door opened and Brook stood before her, one towel round his waist and another being rubbed vigorously through his thinning hair.

‘Morning, Wendy. Shower’s free.’ He beamed at her.

‘Thanks.’ She continued to examine Brook for signs that all was not well. ‘Are you alright, sir?’

‘Never better, Wendy. Never better.’

‘Good. It’s just that for the last few days…’

‘I know. I’m the weak silent type.’ He smiled as he came over to hold her shoulders then stooped to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I can’t thank you enough. In fact, I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me. Now hurry and get cleaned up. I’m starving.’

Brook buttered his fifth piece of toast and devoured it with the same gusto as he had the others. He poured himself another tea and sat back to enjoy the view out of the window and lick the butter from his fingers. The food on the table had been annihilated. Two full English breakfasts, both eaten by Brook, had followed two mini-packs of cereal and several unsanctioned refills of economy orange juice.

Brook purred as he picked at his teeth.

‘You eat like a condemned man.’

Brook smiled. ‘On the contrary, I’ve been reprieved.’

Jones drained her tea and excused herself for a few minutes. When she returned to the dining room and sat down, Brook followed her progress, not hiding his attraction. She smiled back at him, still puzzling over the enigmatic grin, now a permanent fixture on his face.

‘Let me guess. Charlie?’

‘Still the great detective.’

‘It wasn’t difficult. Navy rum with sugar. Doctor Rowlands’ Miracle Cure All. I suppose he said I don’t drink enough.’

‘He says you’re in denial.’

‘He may be right. But if so I recommend it.’

‘The Chief Super rang him. If we don’t get in touch, we’re off the case. That was two days ago.’

‘I’m off the case. I won’t let her tar you with the same brush.’ Jones pulled a face. ‘What? I can handle McMaster. Trust me, Wendy.’

‘So you’re going to speak to her?’

‘Eventually, but not on the phone. I’ve got an errand to run in town then we can head back to Derby.’ Without irony he added, ‘Home.’

Brook turned to give Jones a final reassuring wave then pushed his way into the smoked glass of the revolving door.

On the fourth floor he was ushered into a swish outer office and asked to wait. Leather sofas, soft lighting, tinted windows, tasteful, understated Christmas decorations. PR was clearly a good business to be in.

A colour co-ordinated brunette strode confidently towards him, default smile in place. Her hair was flawless, her teeth blue-white and her make-up without blemish.

‘I’m Mr Harvey-Ellis’ secretary. Can I help you?’

‘Yes I’d like to see him.’