Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘And have you?’

‘Not yet. But I think I can.’

‘But you have to resign.’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though that’s what some people want.’

‘Part of being happy involves not caring what other people want…’

‘Even if Harry Hendrickson and Greatorix think you’re a loser.’

‘They’d think that either way.’

She looked away. ‘I suppose,’ she muttered some while later. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, for not catching him…’

Brook halted her with a brush of his hand against her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Wendy. I don’t. The Reaper won’t be stopped. Not by me.’

Jones nodded and fondled his face in return. It had been a long time since she’d last touched him and Brook felt a thrill of electricity at the prospect of further contact. They didn’t talk after that but sat there drinking coffee and munching on their sandwiches, looking at the view, spring-cleaning their minds.

After nearly an hour of peace, they heard the panting of other ramblers so they packed their rucksacks and headed down towards the River Dove.

At ground level, they moved off at a steady pace along the path to the east of the river and followed its course up the steep, wooded gorge cut from the limestone rock over millions of years.

As they walked, from time to time, Brook would produce a small guide book and give a name to various natural features along the way-Lover’s Leap, The Twelve Apostles, Jacob’s Ladder, Tissington Spires-almost everything bigger than a boulder seemed to have a name.

After the hamlet of Milldale, the terrain eased and the river’s course became more sinuous. The path was no longer overhung by rock but wide and man-made. Occasionally it would take them away from the river as it cut across an alluvial plain.

On they walked, saying little, comfortable in each other’s silence. In Wolfscote Dale herons watched them briefly before taking to the skies, Jones unable to get her camera out in time.

When they passed into Beresford Dale the river became slow and wide for a time and they trudged wearily across the flat landscape until they rejoined the water at a small footbridge. They crossed the river and plodded on, damp and sweaty in the afternoon sun.

‘You look like Greatorix,’ laughed Jones as Brook mopped his brow.

Around the next bend the water swirled gently into a large, deep pool, shaded by trees and guarded by a huge boulder. Large trout glided gently in the depths.

There was a ‘NO SWIMMING’ sign on the boulder so Brook and Jones stripped down to their underwear and dived in.

As they lay, drying on the bank, they held hands while they sunbathed. Refreshed, they dressed and marched the last mile into Hartington with increased vigour.

After a late, leisurely lunch in the Devonshire Arms, their eyes began to droop.

‘It’s been a lovely day, Damen. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. Pity you have to work in the morning.’

‘I know.’

‘What time are you on?’

‘Early turn.’ Brook nodded. Jones smiled. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘It’s unlikely.’ Brook laughed at her stern face. ‘What are you thinking, Wendy?’

‘That we should get a room.’

Brook frowned and looked into the log fire. Finally, he said, ‘No. Let’s go.’ He rose and headed for the exit carrying his rucksack. Jones followed, trying not to appear insulted.

‘What’s the hurry?’ she shouted at his retreating back. She struggled to throw her rucksack over her shoulder and trotted after Brook, who turned a corner and started striking up a steep street, not bothering to look round.

‘Where are you going?’

Brook didn’t answer and didn’t slow down, so Jones ploughed on, trying to catch him, wondering what she’d done to cause offence. A minute later, Brook stopped and turned to face Jones still puffing along in his slipstream.

As she approached, he propped himself against an estate agent’s board and waited.

‘What the hell’s the matter?’ gasped Jones. She was ready to blow her top.

Brook could keep up the pretence no longer. He smiled at the aggression on her face.

‘Well?’

Instead of an answer, Brook leant over the old dry stone wall he’d been sitting on, and wrestled with the pole.

‘What are you doing?’

Brook finally extricated the pole from the ground and flung it into the tiny, lavender-scented front garden.

‘Damen!’ Jones looked at the pale limestone edifice of the house, expecting the front door to open and the owner to appear. ‘I’ll have to arrest you if the owner complains.’

‘Don’t worry, officer.’ Brook cracked into a wide grin. ‘I am the owner.’

‘You’re what?’ Jones laughed and pummelled Brook’s shoulders with her fists. ‘You shit. I thought I’d done something. When did you…?’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘You never said.’

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘It is that. When did you decide to do it?’

‘When someone very important to me asked me why I didn’t live properly.’

Jones looked at him and walked slowly into his arms, not moving her eyes from his. She put her hand behind his head and pulled him onto her mouth, kissing him long and hard. When she broke for air, she pulled his head onto her shoulder and whispered into his ear, ‘Take me inside.’

Two minutes later they were making love as though it were their last night on Earth. Every touch, every stroke, every thrust was urgent. They burrowed into each other, as if determined to emerge from the other side, and when it was over they held each other, molten in their physical union, for a long time.

When they de-coupled they lay on the bed talking and touching, feeling the breeze billowing through the curtains, cool their hot skin. They made love again, this time taking pleasure in the exploration of the other’s face and neck and torso.

Later they showered together, dressed and returned to the pub for urgent supplies of liquid and solid food, as Brook had not yet been able to transfer his copious supplies of party food from the fridge in his flat.

Brook slept better than he had for many years that night and, when he woke, spent many minutes gazing at Wendy’s sleeping frame.

Then he dressed and went down into the kitchen. He made coffee and sat on a bench outside the back door, on a small flagged patio which overlooked the rest of his steep, walled garden as it fell away from the house.

He drained his cup and went back inside for a refill and a cigarette. On his way back to the patio, he picked up his resignation letter for a final perusal.

There wasn’t much to check. Four lines got the job done. Three of them were used to thank McMaster for all her support and wishing her well for the future. He signed the letter and folded it into an envelope.

As he lit up, Jones stuck her head round the door. Her hair was tousled and she seemed groggy. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, pulling Brook’s towelling robe tighter.

Brook examined her. She was even more beautiful in the early morning light. ‘Gone seven.’

‘Is that all? I should have slept longer.’

‘You’ll miss this lovely morning. Why don’t you have a shower? I’ll go get something for breakfast.’

‘Sounds good.’

An hour later, full of hot buttered muffins, Brook ignited the Sprite, and he and Jones set off for Derby.

Brook looked around the Chief Super’s office as she read his letter of resignation. It seemed more spartan than usual. The spider plant had long since perished and several objects which usually adorned the desk had disappeared. He craned his neck over the desk and caught sight of a cardboard box full of the detritus of a career.

She looked up at him, nodding sadly. ‘So you’re giving in.’