The Reaper

‘It’s all part of the act,’ his dad said. ‘Bit of attention. Makes ’em feel loved.’ That’s why Jason’s teacher said what she did. Frustrated cow, she was. His dad supported him all the way. He knew about women. Got married at seventeen–though Jason was too young to remember the wedding. Rape Mrs Ottoman? A teacher! Er, likely? Sayin’ it was one thing. Doin’ it was another. All he’d done was feel her up a bit when he grabbed her, but she couldn’t prove nothin’.

Got him suspended from school just the same. A month. Some kind of record Mr Wrexham, the head teacher, said. Not that Jason cared. He loved all the fuss. School was for gays. As soon as he was old enough he’d get himself on the Social and win the lottery. That’d show those fucking teachers, telling him what to do. Jason Wallis looked after Number One. Nobody else mattered. It was the law of the jungle.

‘It’s a hard world out there,’ his dad had said. Not that he’d seen much of it. Bobby Wallis had lived in Derby all his life.

‘Have some fun; play around as long as you can. Don’t let some bitch trap you, son,’ he’d said.

‘Thanks a bundle,’ his mum had replied. ‘Stop filling that boy’s head with crap. It’ll have more in than yours at this rate.’

Funny. His dad had turned to him with that look. See what I mean, son. Keep clear. Sow a few wild oats. Not that I couldn’t walk away any time…

‘Jace!’ shouted Grets from the doorway of the chip shop. The only intact window in the Centre glowed warmly at Jason. Like a moth to flame he headed for the only bright light for miles since the pub had closed its doors and boarded its windows for the last time.

‘Yo!’ shouted Jason back at his friend who also wore the de rigueur baseball cap and Stone Island top, over low slung baggy jeans. These guys knew how to big themselves up.

‘How’s it hanging, man?’ said Jason, with a faint Brooklyn twang–Manchester was out–offering a clenched fist which Grets punched in greeting.

‘Safe, man.’ Grets held out his chips and Jason helped himself.

‘Thanks man. Starving, innit?’

‘Eh! It’s the superstar. How’s it hanging, bro?’ cried another of his crew, Stinger, emerging from the chip shop’s cocoon of light and steam. ‘You’re a Celebrity; get me out of ’ere.’

Jason would’ve tried to look modest if he’d ever had anything to be modest about. Instead he savoured the inner heat stoked by acclamation and basked in his notoriety. It was the only reason to venture out on a bitter December night. He was famous, on the Drayfin at least, and he had to milk the attention before the whole thing blew over.

There’d been something about his suspension in the local rag, but that was two weeks ago. It cracked on about what the world was coming to and why schools had stopped using the cane. Like any kid would stand for that. They got rights, you know.

There was also a snippet on East Midlands Today though Jason’s name hadn’t been mentioned. His dad was hoping they’d let it slip so he could sue the arse off ’em. His dad was dead proud of the family honour.

Then the clincher–his passport to a thousand back-slaps–a brief clip of him strutting out of school with his dad. Everyone local would know who he was.

‘How you coping, man? Bitches still lining up to daisy chain yo ass?’

‘Chill guys. It’s chilling a bit now,’ he said, making more of an effort to be self-effacing.

‘Dread. Wish I’d been there, man,’ grinned Stinger, shaking his head. ‘Tell us what Grottyman did again?’

Jason grinned, feigning a reluctance that lasted no more than a second. ‘She freaked man…’

‘Safe.’

‘…started crying. She’s fucked up, man. Like I’d risk my dick in that dirt track.’

‘Fucking aaay to that, man,’ laughed Grets and they tapped fists.

‘Got any smokes?’ asked Jason, fingering the tab end in his pocket.

‘Nope, we’re busted, man, but I know how we can get some. Banger promised me some gear and some folding in exchange for help with this gig.’

‘Safe,’ drawled Jason. ‘Lead the way, homey.’

The van drew to a halt outside the house and the man got out and stepped to the rear of the van. He wore black overalls and a black peaked cap.

A crack of light from the house fell on the van as a curtain was pulled aside and was gone. The man closed the back doors more carefully than seemed necessary then moved towards the house, well camouflaged against the blackness except for the white boxes in his hands. The door of the house opened.

‘Pizza Parlour?’

Chapter One (#u9fac6d3e-ef46-5785-ae5f-f3bdd4517686)

Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke with a shudder and gathered himself for a moment, eyes clamped shut, damp fists clenched, poised between realities, each one disagreeable. With a mind divided he could escape both, have a foot in neither, bliss, for that second, before he opened his eyes to take in the blankness of his conscious world.

He raised his head from his desk and looked around his spartan office. He scanned the floor and listened. Nothing. No scratching, no telltale scurrying.

He pulled himself upright and massaged his aching neck, then stood to do the same for his back. He checked his watch. Gone midnight. His shift had finished four hours ago. He could have been at home now. Home. He could never resist a smile at the word. What would he do there?

He picked up the phone and yawned, tapped a pencil on his notepad and began to doodle. He moved his head from side to side in a silent Eeny meeny miney mo then punched the keys.

‘Taj Mahal.’

‘I’d like to order a takeaway please.’

‘Hello Mr Brook. How are you tonight?’

‘Never better. I’d like Chicken Jalfrezi…’

‘…and pillau rice. Would you like any bread with that?’

‘Do I ever have bread?’

‘Never.’

‘Well then. How long?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ Brook replaced the receiver and left, closing the door of his office softly. He walked quickly and quietly towards the main entrance.

He was in luck. Sergeant Hendrickson had his back to the counter and Brook was able to slide across the door to Reception without being noticed. He was in the clear and about to stride away when Hendrickson’s voice held him.

‘Bastard! He wants stringing up.’

‘Too right,’ replied a voice. Brook recognised PC Robinson–Hendrickson’s straight man.

‘Well if we get whatever bastard’s done this, you’ll see me at the front of the queue when the knuckle sandwiches are being served up.’

‘Me too.’

Another voice, too indistinct to hear, said something by way of disagreement, judging by Hendrickson’s response.