Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Jason looked Brook up and down, a superior scowl on his face. The door opened and Brook stepped inside. Jason nodded him towards the kitchen.

‘Was that your aunt I saw leaving?’

‘Yeah, she’s on nights.’

‘You’re not going out?’

‘I’m babysitting which is gay.’ He looked peeved, weighed down by the excessive responsibility.

Brook shook the rain from his coat but kept it on. He put the bag on the table, unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a bottle of whisky.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jason.

‘Peace offering.’

Jason’s face cracked into a slow smile of triumph. His aunt and that solicitor were right. They were holding all the aces. This was gonna be wicked. Watching this pig grovel. Like he was going to pass up a shot at compensation for a bottle of whisky after the way he’d suffered. Still. Keep it coming. It wouldn’t hurt to string him along. ‘Cheers,’ he said, trying not to gloat.

Jason pulled a single glass from the drainer and plonked it on the kitchen table. Brook spun the top from the bottle and poured Jason a generous measure.

Jason picked up the glass and hesitated, savouring his moment of victory. Wait till his crew heard about this. Maybe they had the pig on bribery, as well as supplying booze to an under-18. The bastard was finished.

Jason drank his whisky straight down and pursed his lips against the fire. ‘Where’s my money?’

Brook turned to the bag and pulled out an envelope. Jason snatched it from him with a grin and began to count it. Brook replenished Jason’s glass like an attentive barman. Jason put the envelope on the table and smiled. Fucking result.

‘What do you think of the whisky?’

‘It’s shit,’ he replied with relish. ‘But as long as it gets the job done, who gives a fuck?’

Brook smiled. ‘No-one does.’

Jason emptied his glass again and filled it himself.

‘Steady on. Don’t forget you’re babysitting,’ said Brook, without conviction.

Jason leered in his direction then bent down to a cupboard and took out a bottle of cola. He topped up his whisky to the brim and this time took just a sip. ‘I can handle it. I’ve been drinking since I was eleven.’

Brook allowed himself a thin smile as the boy sniffed his pride at such an achievement. He really was a special young man.

He eyed the money and grinned at Brook, ‘Thanks for the dosh. Was there ’owt else?’ He took another draught of his whisky and cola.

Brook smiled and pulled up a chair. ‘You need to sign for it.’ Brook placed a piece of A4 and a pen on the kitchen table. Jason sat down and squinted at the paper. He picked up the pen. He turned to Brook. ‘Where do I sign?’

‘At the bottom.’

Jason looked again. ‘This paper’s blank. I’m not signing it. You could put anything on it.’

Brook moved his face close to Jason’s and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’m not going to write anything. You’re going to give me a list of names, the friends who killed Annie Sewell with you. Then you’re going to sign it.’

It took a moment for Jason to register what Brook had said. He thought for a second then laughed. ‘You never give up, do you? Get the fuck out of here. I can have your fucking job, coming round here and interviewing me without an adult. You’re abusing my rights, pig. Plus I’m under age and you’ve made me drink whisky…’

Jason decided to stand to show Brook the full force of his indignation but stumbled and fell back in the chair. He giggled and tried again but was still unable to get to his feet. The humour faded from Jason’s expression. He was puzzled. He couldn’t feel his legs. He tried again but gave up. Instead he stared off into the distance, alternately opening and screwing up his eyes to gauge the level of his intoxication.

Brook stood and sauntered around the kitchen, hands behind his back, not looking at Jason. Jason just watched him, head swaying slightly.

Brook stopped to admire a large framed picture of a lighthouse being ravaged by the sea. He then lifted the frame from its nail and placed it on the floor.

‘Fuck you doing?’ snarled Jason. ‘I’ve told you. Get out, yer twat. You’re trespassing. I can have you done…’ Jason began to sway in his chair now. He looked at the glass on the table and squinted at Brook, then at his hands. He flexed his eyelids and mouth like a fish. Again he tried to stand, placing his hands on his chair’s wooden arms to lever himself, but this time he couldn’t even lift his body. Still he tried, face straining, sweating with the effort, but it was no use. He looked in Brook’s general direction but couldn’t focus so he just stared, muttering as best he could. ‘Get’n me drunk. Bastard!’

Brook said nothing but continued to move around the kitchen. He moved to his sports bag and took out a portable CD player. He plugged it in, put on a disc and finally turned to contemplate his immobile host. He was out cold.

Jason felt the shock of the icy water on his face and jerked his head back. He batted his eyelids and sucked in oxygen. He opened his eyes to look at Brook, who sat to one side of him. Brook was looking at something on the wall, then back at him.

He could hear music. Classical shit. As if to answer, Brook smiled across at him. He seemed sad. ‘You can hear?’ Jason nodded. As he did so he felt the rope lapped around his forearms and waist.

‘This is Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony. One of the pinnacles of human achievement.’ Brook listened, his eyes far away. Jason watched him. He could see clearly now, though every image was edged with bright colours. He could make out something on the far wall where his aunt’s favourite lighthouse picture used to be. There was a man dressed in black, with grey hair, standing on a rock, looking out over a raging sea or maybe he was on top of a mountain looking down.

‘You can see?’

Jason gulped. ‘Yes.’ His voice was tiny, far away and his throat hurt from the effort of squeezing out even that whisper.

‘That is a poster of The Wanderer over the Sea of Clouds by Caspar David Friedrich. It caught my eye the other day.’ Brook smiled his appreciation at Jason. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’

Jason made to speak but had to abandon the attempt. He looked at the picture and back at Brook. Not having the physical control to shrug, he did nothing.

Brook studied Jason while removing his leather gloves. ‘You’re taking this better than I expected, son.’

Jason was unsure what he meant. Brook stood up. He looked different. Jason could see his coat was off and he wore some kind of black overalls. Then he saw the latex gloves underneath Brook’s leather gloves and his brain began to register. His eyes widened.

‘I envy you, Jason. The last image you’ll see on Earth is that painting. The last sound you’ll hear is Tchaikovsky. This will be your finest hour. And you’ll have what you’ve always wanted-a place in history.’

Jason was panting now and tried to stand again but he couldn’t move. Instead he looked down at the table and tried to speak. ‘You’re police.’ His speech was a little stronger but still no more than a croak. ‘Please! Don’t.’

‘Don’t? Is that what Annie said to you? Don’t kill me. It hurts. Take my purse but don’t hurt me any more.’

Jason’s eyes widened. He looked away.

‘How do I know you killed Annie Sewell? Don’t waste time on that now.’

‘I never killed her. I never killed no-one.’

‘Did you laugh when you made her snort cocaine?’

‘Not me.’ Jason found his eyes stinging from the sweat and the tears. No blood yet.

Brook stepped up close and showed Jason the brand new cut-throat, before putting it on the table in front of him. Jason’s eyes began to close so Brook gently slapped his face to concentrate his mind. ‘You’re not fit for this world, Jason but, hopefully, if you can die right, you might be fit for the next one.’