Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘The International.’

‘That’s right. On a scouting mission,’ Sorenson added with a wink. ‘They were having a dinner, a Christmas treat. For the old folks,’ he added in a cockney accent. ‘Funny how, when you become old and senile, people automatically assume you’re harmless…’

‘And she wasn’t?’

‘Oh she’d become harmless, I dare say. But in her youth she carried a terrible anger. She couldn’t have children, you see. An ironic circumstance for someone who’s a midwife, don’t you think? All those happy couples, all those babies. And sometimes, poor Annie’s rage at the injustice of it all got the better of her. Sometimes the babies were weak and the slightest setback could take them away from their parents. It wasn’t hard to cover her tracks.

‘Eventually the anger subsides. Too late though for a dozen newborns and their broken parents. Of all the people who’ve come to my notice, she had the most blood on her hands. But worse, it was innocent blood. Killing a baby is unforgivable.’

‘But The Reaper kills children. What’s the difference?’

‘The Reaper removes those who are doomed to perpetuate the abuses of their parents. But a baby is the only true innocent, a blank canvas if you will. The Wallis baby now has her chance, a glimpse of a useful life, where before there was only one road to travel.’

Brook was barely breathing. Sorenson, too, sank back into his chair, exhausted. The music had finished but Brook hadn’t noticed. He sat motionless, staring at Sorenson whose eyes had closed again. He looked at his glass. Empty. He wanted another belt of whisky but didn’t dare move in case the spell was broken. Sorenson was in his element now and Brook was loath to disturb the ether.

But DS Noble’s mobile phone hadn’t read the script and the tinniest rendition of Volare seeped out of Brook’s coat pocket. Sorenson opened his eyes immediately and Brook leapt from his chair to answer it.

He was a little unsteady on his feet at first, unaccustomed to so much alcohol so early in the day. He retrieved the phone and swayed gently towards the porthole window, opening it to a gust of chill air, which didn’t make him feel any better.

‘John?’

‘Sir. We’ve been looking for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘The thing is…are you alone?’

‘What is it, John?’ Brook rubbed his hand over his face.

‘Is anyone with you?’

‘Why? What is it?’ Then Brook realised. Noble was ringing about Charlie. ‘John. It’s okay. I know about Charlie. I was with him when he died.’

There was a short pause during which Brook could hear mumbling and other noises. Someone was speaking to him but Brook couldn’t take it in.

He felt dizzy and unable to focus. He dropped the phone to the floor, unable to grip it, and heard it break apart but couldn’t look down for fear of losing his balance or blacking out. Instead he turned to Sorenson who was suddenly at his shoulder. He took Brook’s elbow and helped him back to his seat.

Brook slumped down and Sorenson sat opposite him but in the same movement pulled his chair close to Brook’s so he could see his face. He stared into Brook’s eyes, changing the angle of his head to take in as much information as possible.

Brook tried to speak but his mouth felt numb and thick. As though a dentist…

‘Worve u dun?’

Sorenson smiled. ‘I’ve given you something to help you relax. You didn’t think you could get this close without a forfeit, did you? I can’t let you act on Charlie’s confession. There’s still so much to do.

‘Don’t struggle. It’ll do no good. This is for the best. Life’s of no use to you now. Charlie told me what your daughter and her stepfather have been up to. Your poor ex-wife-Amy. Think how she suffers. She knew-a mother always knows. But she couldn’t know, could she? She had to blind herself to it. The only way to get through. But you, Damen, you saw what was happening, yet you did nothing.’

Suddenly Sorenson was back in Brook’s face. ‘Don’t you see, Damen?’ said Sorenson, removing the gun from Brook’s pocket and placing it on his desk. ‘What an opportunity wasted. It was your duty as a father to act, to do something but you let him live and, instead of him suffering it’s you who are in pain. He’s fucking your daughter, Damen, and he’s not even her real father.’ Brook felt the words slapping his face and screwed his eyes shut. He opened them again and Sorenson had retreated from what little vision he had left. When he returned it was to the sound of The Ninth again. The Adagio began. Slow. Melodic. Mocking the frenzy that was to follow.

Brook tried to breathe, to focus. His hearing, all his senses were supercharged. His sight was blurred yet enhanced. He could see colours he’d never seen, colours he didn’t know existed, changing with every bleary blink, dancing around the winking lamps, like multi-coloured angels gathering against the dark. No light without darkness.

And the music was wonderful. It seemed to be swooping and diving around in his head, each note erupting from a thousand orchestras. The choir rose up as one voice, to lift themselves for Brook’s last hurrah.

Sorenson pulled his chair closer, so Brook could see his face framed against the gloom.

‘You’ve failed me, Damen. You’ve failed yourself. I had such high hopes.’ He reached into Brook’s pocket and pulled out Laura’s necklace and smiled at Brook. ‘Still no closure? Don’t worry. It’s near.’ Then he took out and tore open the plastic bag and removed an old razor, a cutthroat with a mother-of-pearl handle. Sorenson examined it, opening it and closing it. ‘Perfect. Thank you, Damen. I appreciate you bringing it. It was my father’s before he gave it to Steffi. It was a terrible wrench leaving it in Brixton, but I knew you’d look after it. Is there anything you want to say before the end?’

Brook tried to fix his eyes on Sorenson’s face. It wasn’t easy. His head felt like it was on a stick. ‘Let…me…hear…you say it. Just once.’

‘Say what, Damen?’

Brook gulped with the effort of speech. His mouth was arid, his tongue cracked as he spoke. ‘Say the words…tell me you’re The Reaper.’

Sorenson permitted himself a little chuckle. ‘But I’m not The Reaper, Damen. You are.’ Brook squinted back at Sorenson. ‘You saw. You had the power. Remember how good it felt in Brixton. Remember how sweet it was to find Laura’s killer. Did you put the music back on? Did you cry afterwards? Tell me.’ Brook let his eyes fall to the floor.

Sorenson slapped him on the cheek. He grabbed his hair and lifted his head. ‘Look around. Don’t waste it. Look at the beauty. Feel the wonder. It doesn’t get better than this. Then you can let go. Cry now. It helped the others. Think of Amy and your daughter. Think of Laura. She’s waiting for you.’

Brook swallowed and for a second was able to keep his head still as he stared back at Sorenson’s wizened pate. His mind and vision cleared and Brook found some control over his speech had returned.

‘I’m not like you. I made a mistake.’

‘You are me, Damen. You’re ready. I came to Derby for you. Charlie did his best but you were always the one. Cry now, Damen. Like the others did. It’s good for you.’

‘Don’t cry,’ Brook began to giggle, ‘for me-Argentina.’ Sorenson looked on in disbelief. ‘D’you think…I care? I’m terminal. There’s nothing left…you can all…go fuck yourselves.’ Brook’s body shook with laughter.

Sorenson smiled. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Damen. Never! I’m proud to have known you.’

‘Magnificent peaks, Uncle Vic. Peaks and troughs.’ Brook’s vision cleared though his head continued to roll. Tears of laughter rolled down his face. He could see Sorenson smiling down at him. ‘Help me…help me soar…Mozart, Beethoven, Van Gogh.’ Sorenson nodded. ‘If you can’t…love beauty, you are dead,’ Brook gulped as the Finale picked up.