Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Sorenson sat down and opened the razor. ‘I’ve waited years for you. Now you’re ready.’ He looked down at the glint of the razor. ‘Tell me you want to live and I’ll spare you.’

Brook fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted every second to count. This was how it should be. What a feast. What a way to die. Overwhelming. Humbling. To be so blessed. Make it last. The choir rising and falling. Calling him. The clashing of cymbals, the urgency of the orchestra, the climax erupting in his head. Make it last.

He tried to breathe but could feel nothing from the neck down. It was how he imagined death coming. Shutting up shop, organ by organ. Finally the mind. He gave up on his eyes and closed them and through the starburst he watched the rats scuttling towards him, watched Laura’s leg fall open for him, watched Sorenson through the rain, watched Vicky brush her hair, watched Jason sleep in the hospital, watched Amy support her womb with an arm, watched Charlie beckon him into the flat above the launderette, watched Mac the doorman put down a saucer of milk for his kitten, watched Wendy Jones vomit behind a bush, watched Harry Hendrickson laughing and pointing at him, watched Terri gurgling in her cot.

‘Kill me.’

Brook took a few moments to compose himself, still staring at the man to be sure. No movement. No more noise. Only the music. He was glad of it. The silence would have scorched his ears.

Calm now, Brook turned to the CD system. It was brand new. A half-smile drifted across his face. He set about concluding his business and turned to the wall to examine the word smeared in blood over the fireplace. His eye caught a glimpse of something else and his features darkened-a photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. He looked closer, staring hard for what seemed like hours. There was no mistake. His mouth fell open. He shrank back, his face frozen in wonder, his eyes unblinking, his mind in turmoil, trying to make sense.

Then he knew. It all fitted together and he nodded, his face set, eyes like slits to block out the visions. Of course. Now he understood. He’d got The Reaper’s message. A smile cracked his features. Another noise behind him. Brook took a deep breath as he turned to face his nemesis.

‘You killed her!’ Brook stared at the man on the sofa.

‘Wassup?’ groaned the man.

As Brook watched, he tried to lift his head and open his eyes but the effort was too much and his head fell back against the corpse of the woman.

Brook turned back to the chimney breast and picked the picture frame from the mantelpiece. He squinted at the image again but reflection from the lights hindered his inspection so he hurled the frame face down onto the floor and stooped to recover the photograph from the shattered glass.

Brook fixed his gaze on the picture of the man who sat incapacitated amongst the wreckage of his family not ten feet away. He grinned for the camera, proud of his naked torso, smooth and toned. There was no mistake. Brook saw the necklace clearly. Silver hearts. It once belonged to Laura Maples and now it strained against the man’s thick neck.

Brook let his hand fall to his side, his head dropped and he stood, dazed. He listened to the music-the only way to be sure time was passing. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine he was at a concert at the South Bank with Amy, looking forward to his half time gin and tonic and after perhaps a meal. Finally the music stopped and Brook opened his eyes, refreshed by the beauty in his mind. Then he saw the savagery around him.

As if by remote control he turned to the CD player and started the Mozart again. The Requiem. Then he pushed the photograph deep into his overcoat pocket. He returned to the man on the sofa and pulled down the neck of his T-shirt. The necklace glared back at him, each tiny heart a Cyclops from his dreams. Brook twisted his hand between the man’s neck and the delicate chain and pulled hard. It came away first time and Brook buried it in his pocket as well.

Then he buttoned his coat up to the neck and pulled the collar around his ears to be completely weather proof.

In the bathroom he soaked a towel in cold water and padded back towards the sofa. He slapped the towel onto the man’s face. He revived at once though he was still groggy.

‘Can you hear me?’ enquired Brook.

The man was trying to open his eyes and was blinking in a manner which suggested they’d never been opened before. ‘Wass happen?’ he muttered, his head still lolling from side to side. ‘Wer you?’

‘Who am I?’ asked Brook in genuine alarm. Good question. He didn’t know, couldn’t remember who he was. He tried to think, tried to piece together his past, his identity, but it wouldn’t reveal itself. He knew he wasn’t a newborn, he knew that much. But who was he and why was he here?

As he moved behind the sofa, he gave it serious thought. A moment later he smiled with sudden child-like pleasure. He’d remembered something, something about who he was. It sounded strange when he spoke. ‘I’m The Reaper,’ he said. ‘And this is for Laura.’ Brook plunged the blade of the razor into the soft tissue below the man’s left ear and dragged it as hard as he could across his throat.

Although the blade was sharp, Brook lost his grip before he could reach the windpipe but the blood still began to hiss from the artery. The handle was stuck deep in the man’s neck and Brook had to struggle to yank it out, his hand slipping on the now crimson stock several times.

At first the man didn’t react, such was his stupor, but after a few seconds the pain, and the sight of warm bloodsteaming down his chest alerted him to his fate and he began to struggle.

‘Easy,’ whispered Brook. ‘Easy.’ He had to hold the man’s forehead with his left arm to pacify the shuddering. He dropped the razor and put the wet towel across the man’s nose and mouth to stop any noise, pulling the man down against the sofa with his left arm to minimise the spasms. ‘Easy. Listen to the music. It’s Mozart. It’s greater than us. It was written for you. Don’t fight. It’s over. You’re better now. That’s it. That’s it.’

Brook held on for longer than he needed. If he was going to kill a part of himself tonight he had to be sure. There was no turning back.

Some time later Brook relaxed his grip. He blinked rapidly as though waking from a coma. He stood and looked at the razor on the floor as though he’d never seen it before. Then he gave a nod of recognition, picked it up and closed it into his pocket. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his blood-soaked overcoat, turned it inside out then rolled it up under his arm, like a child on the way to the swimming pool. Then he returned to the CD player and turned up the volume before walking down the stairs and stepping back out into the night, humming the Requiem all the way to his car.

Brook stirred and opened his eyes. His lids were too heavy and it was an effort to force them open. All was black and still. Nothing, no sense got through. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t part his welded lips. He tried to move but was paralysed.

Knowledge surfaced. So this was Death. Falling through space. Blackness. No sights, no sounds. No tunnels. No hopes. No bright lights. No dead relations to show him the ropes.

Then it dawned. He was on his way to Hell. There’d be no flames. No barbecued flesh. The Devil knew. Man was a gregarious animal. Perpetual loneliness was the refined torture. On your own to the end of time.

Well, the Devil was a wimp. Solitude was bliss. God was spot on. He knew how to inflict pain. Hell was other people. The Devil should have done his research. Then he’d know about the rats. Could give Brook a hard time. But maybe it wasn’t set yet. Perhaps there’d be an interview…