Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Brook was puzzled. Surely someone as successful as Stefan Sorenson would know what kind of place Belle Vue was. Surely he’d have done his homework, found a place where his wife’s mental problems could have been properly addressed. It didn’t make sense, unless her problems were so bad they couldn’t be resolved. Could it be that Sonja Sorenson was being confined, hidden away for a reason? What had she done? Why was she such a threat that she needed to be removed from decent society, from her family?

Brook continued to skim until he came to Stefan Sorenson’s murder, what should have been a seismic event in Mrs Sorenson’s treatment.

The patient seems to be in shock. Minimal medication required, however. Shows no emotion at all. Her husband’s death leaves her numb. Questionable whether she understands the fact. Has become almost catatonic and refuses, or is unable, to speak. Patient’sbrother-in-law, Victor Sorenson, has requested that she no longer be medicated with a view to her release but we have advised strongly against this.

3/6/89. Prof Sorenson has continued to insist on no medication for his sister-in-law and has retained his own psychiatrist, Dr Lilley, who has endorsed his view. Dr Lilley has also agreed with his client that Mrs Sorenson should be on selective home release to which we strongly object. He believes that regular exposure to home life and her children will have a beneficial effect. We feel that the patient still represents a small, but active threat to her family and should be confined.

Unfortunately Mrs Sorenson is effectively a voluntary patient and our hands are tied.

We have put on record our objections.

CONFIDENTIAL! It is also our view that the reductions in charges, resulting from Mrs Sorenson becoming an intermittent resident, can only affect the quality of her care here.

And that was that. Over the next three years, Sonja Sorenson was effectively an outpatient, having decreasing contact with Belle Vue and virtually no clinical assessment. It was no surprise to Brook that Mrs Sorenson recovered without the expert care of its doctors, becoming no threat to society, herself or her children. All contact ceased in 1992. Brook nodded. 1992-The Reaper’s gap year. Maybe Sorenson was too preoccupied with Sonja’s recovery to scope out appropriate victims.

Brook drained his glass and refilled it, deep in thought. The place suddenly disgusted him and he resolved to leave the next day-New Year’s Day.

Then another thought struck him. This time last year Brook and Wendy Jones…it was their anniversary. One year ago.

If Brook closed his eyes he could almost smell the perfume of her hair as she chewed urgently at his chest. He could feel the smoothness of her pale skin and the violence of her passion, all her sinews girding themselves to the rhythms of his lust.

On an impulse he rang her. He regretted it at once. No reply. Even though it was a night when the whole world was out enjoying themselves, Brook burned inside. Where was she? Gone out to find some solace amongst the emptiness, with another, more eligible, man? Maybe. Who could blame her?

He drank some more and rang Amy.

‘Happy New Year, Amy.’ It was the best he could come up with.

‘Damen? I told you never to ring again. Ever.’

‘Just want to wish you a Happy New Year.’

‘What?’

‘I know you’re upset, darling…’

‘Don’t call me that. How dare you after what you’ve done?’

‘What have I done?’

‘You know damn well. Leave my family alone…’

‘Family?’

‘What?’

‘You said family’

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

‘Yes. Terri and me.’

‘So Tony came back.’ No answer-confirmation in itself. ‘He came back and you let him in. Tell me Amy. Did he come back with his tail between his legs or Terri’s?’

‘Leave us alone, you sick bastard.’

‘What’s happened to you?’

‘To me? That’s fucking rich.’

‘Your husband is having sex with our daughter.’

‘He said you’d say this. You’re sick, Damen. Do you know that? Do you know what he’s going through at work after what you did? Have you any idea? I had to go in and assure the partners at the firm that I have a mentally unstable ex-husband. And as for Tony, he can barely speak to us. His own family.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s at the end of his rope.’

‘Best place for him.’

‘I should have you arrested for what you’ve done to me and our daughter, you bastard. I hate you! It makes me sick to think I was ever married to you.’

There was a stunned silence at Brook’s end of the receiver. He suddenly felt physically ill. ‘My God! You’ve known all along. Haven’t you? Amy. Tell me you didn’t know. Did you think you’d never get another man…?’

There was a scream of pain from the other end of the line, then a click.

Brook replaced the receiver and sat motionless on the bed for several minutes. He poured himself another drink. He felt nothing beyond his usual vague confusion at the ways of the world-nothing. Life was like a gunshot wound but suddenly it had ceased to hurt. Perhaps now was the time to worry.

He jumped off the bed and packed for something to do. He couldn’t stay. The sooner he left this place the better he’d feel. Like Sonja. Better. He spied the empty champagne bottle lying on the floor and was tempted to order another. Strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ filtered up from below and he looked at his watch. Midnight.

Brook needed some air so he opened a window. The grounds below were large and inviting. He’d go for a walk. Or perhaps a drive. The roads would be empty. Now was a good time. He took his case to put in the car, all the better for a quick getaway in the morning.

Brook pulled his jacket tight against the cold as he stalked along the damp pavement of Electric Avenue. The detritus of the market was everywhere. Rotten fruit and vegetables had been squashed underfoot by the day’s pedestrian traffic and the ground was slimy and treacherous and, as he walked along the crescent-shaped street, Brook had to divide his attention between examining the shop fronts and picking his way along the pavement.

When he reached the junction with Brixton High Street, Brook turned back to walk on the other side of the avenue towards his car. He was deflated now. There was nothing to be seen and the adrenaline of the chase was spent. All he wanted to do now was sleep.

As he walked he heard a door bang around the bend ofthe avenue and slowed his step to listen for anyone approaching.

A few yards further on, he could see the end of the street. It was empty. Nothing stirred. The wind had dropped and the sky had cleared and the dim lights were now augmented by the moon’s pale light.

As Brook passed a doorway, something caught his eye and his heart began to pound. He bent to examine it. It was the large rectangular box containing the CD player he’d seen in Sorenson’s house. It was empty.

He spun to examine the doorway. He saw a crack of light from the other side and pushed the door. It swung away from him and Brook stepped over the threshold. He was at the foot of a small flight of stairs. No sound. No movement.

Brook’s face followed the stairs to the dim light at the top. He took as silent a pull of oxygen as he could manage and placed his foot on the first step.

Brook woke the next day to the sound of empty champagne bottles clinking together at his feet. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was nearly midday.

Brook lay for several minutes in the warm bed, luxuriating, looking at the ceiling. His head didn’t feel too bad. Then he remembered his call to Amy and pulled a pillow over his head.