by Steven Dunne
The Reaper
( D. I. Damen Brook - 1 )
Steven Dunne
Steven Dunne
The Reaper
Prologue
The cat froze, suppressing its instinct to run, and peered into the swirling gloom towards the noise. To break cover, even in this fog, could be its undoing. That’s what its own prey did. That’s when it had them. The animal stared, unblinking, head locked in the direction of the approaching footfall.
From the gasps of fog a figure emerged as though exhaled from the bowels of the earth. The boy was tall and though his clothes were baggy, he was identifiably lean as the cold breeze folded his roomy, low-slung trousers around his legs. He scuffed his Nikes along the rutted pavement, as though wiping something from them, before stopping to sniff the air. The peak of his grimy baseball cap came up as he looked around, sensing the animal nearby.
For a second he stopped hunching himself against the cold and looked towards the cat. He saw its eyes and stood perfectly still.
Softly the rumble in the boy’s throat grew until his armoury was fully loaded and he let fly. An arc of spittle landed near the cat’s front paws, splashing its legs. The cat tensed then leapt to the side, wide-eyed.
To banish any chance of feline forgiveness, the boy darted towards the animal and aimed a kick at its retreating rear.
‘Here puss puss,’ coaxed the boy bending down to click his fingers, scouring the dark ground for missiles. Surprisingly there were none. The boy had alighted upon the only spot on Derby’s Drayfin Estate that wasn’t crumbling.
‘Shit.’ The boy continued to grope but with dwindling enthusiasm. He cursed the absence of street lighting, forgetting it had been he and his crew who’d spent a diligent evening the month before breaking as many as they could find still working. The only illumination now shone from limp Christmas lights winking out from the odd door and window. No-one on the estate put on much of a show at this time of year. It didn’t do to advertise.
The boy stood up without ammunition and shrugged his shoulders. The cat had already taken the hint. No point trying to catch the little sod anyway-he’d run out of lighter fuel. Plus it was no fun torching the little bastards without your crew there to see it.
He peered down at his pale hand clutching an old tab end from the ground. Too big to throw, so he buried it deep in the pocket of his Stone Island jacket for future consumption.
After a noisy piss into a puddle-pissing quietly didn’t unsettle nervous residents-he adjusted his baseball cap and hunched himself into the position offering greatest protection against the biting wind. By happy coincidence, it was also the posture designed to radiate maximum menace, the posture of choice for that invisible brotherhood of disaffected youth around the world. Wicked.
Jason Donovan Wallis wiped his moistening pink nose on his sleeve and stared up at the gun-metal sky through the billows of fog. Nothing but grey. Shame. He liked a clear sky. Enjoyed seeing all those stars and planets and meteors and stuff. Not that he was so gay that he wanted to learn anything about the universe. Fuck that. But one day he hoped to meet an alien and be abducted, taken somewhere with a spaceship full of supermodels to colonise a new world. Then he would return in triumph, a split-second after being taken in earth time. He’d be a hero, the most famous man on the planet. Gash would be queuing round the block to screw him then. Safe.
The man placed the boxes onto a blanket then covered them over to keep the food warm. He closed the back doors of the van and returned to the driver’s seat, darting a glance from side to side. The fog rolling down from the Peaks was perfect. No-one was braving the cold on such a filthy night. The streets were already empty. He had them to himself.
He looked at his watch and smiled. The time was near.
He switched on the CD player and closed his eyes to let the soft music flow over him for a moment, then pulled the leather gloves from his hands and placed them on the dashboard. He had on a pair of surgical rubbers already and his hands were clammy so he extracted a container from a hold-all, tapped a little powder on each wrist and shook it down under the surface onto his palms.
Having returned the powder to the hold-all, he placed the bag into the back of the van and picked up the small leather case from the floor and gently drummed his fingers on it, nodding. He looked at his watch again. The time was right. His final contribution was about to begin.
He picked up the brand new mobile the second it began to ring. He thumbed the answer button, lifted the phone to his ear and listened for a second. Then he ended the call, removed the battery and SIM card and placed the pieces in the leather bag for future disposal. He reached for the ignition, turned on the engine and lights and drove away. The time was now.
Jason examined the murky sky. No aliens tonight. Still, no moon meant a good night for teafin’ though there weren’t nothing worth stealing on the Drayfin no more.
He resumed his trudge to The Centre, a moribund sixties complex of boarded shop windows and grim food stores, housed in a cold grey slab of a building, surrounded by dark and windy walkways: the brainchild of an architect who doubtless lived in an ivy-covered cottage in the Peaks.
He peered into the gloom as he walked. What the fuck to do tonight? There were only so many things he could break to sustain his interest and the council had given up replacing the glass in the bus shelters.
Drugs were great but once the free samples from Banger had been toked, it was hard finding the cash to buy. Booze was easy to get but with no money, he’d been forced to apply for a Saturday job, washing cars at the Jap garage. Already the taste of a life turning sour.
There was always sex to take his mind off things, but that was nothing special. Sure he’d bust his cherry last year, at the age of fourteen, but somehow the way it was offered by the slappers at school put him off. He wanted more than to plant it up the downy fuzz box of those slappers followed by all that crap about him being their boyfriend. Even before he’d washed his dick. Fuck that!
Plus they enjoyed it too much for Jason’s liking. Slags! He liked it better when they didn’t want to, even though they really did. They all did. Like in those videos his dad let him watch. They were the best. So was his dad. All his mates said. Their dads got narked about them being out all hours. Not his dad. Jason was dead lucky. He’d hate a dad who did his head in.
Mum could be a drag though. That was women for you. ‘Only good for one thing,’ his dad would say.
‘That’s one more than you then,’ his mum would shout back. There’d be a slanging match after that. Weird. Sometimes his mum seemed tougher than his dad, though Jason knew that couldn’t be right.
The man drove the unfamiliar van slowly along the unfamiliar roads. It didn’t matter. There were no other road users to complain. The only sign of life he’d seen was a foraging cat.
He glanced at the A-Z and peered at the nearest street sign through the waves of fog. He nodded, took a deep breath and turned left. He could sense he was near.
Jason pulled his mobile from his pocket on the first ring. He stared at the display and pulled a face. ‘What?’
‘It’s me. Your mother.’
‘I told you to text me if you need me, woman. I could have been wi’ my mates.’
‘Piss off yer little shit or you won’t have a phone.’
‘Er, likely? What do you want?’
‘We’ve ordered those pizzas we won.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yeah, yer coming back?’
Jason hesitated. It was cold plus he was hungry. ‘Save me some,’ he ordered, before ending the call without waiting for a response.
He walked on, pulling his jacket tighter. He thought again about the film his dad had shown him last week and felt the stirr
ing of a stiffy to warm him. The slag in that film hadn’t seemed keen at first. She’d soon warmed up, mind, after the first two or three geezers had popped her.
Fuckin’ aaay! The best sex he’d ever had was the blow from that girl at the posh school. Fatboy and Grets had picked her up and led her off the footpath by the lane. It was wicked. She hadn’t wanted to either, not at first, but it was clear by the end she was into it. There were a few tears but you expect that.
‘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
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.
‘No good at all. But it’ll make me feel a fuck of a lot better.’
Brook stood poised, grimacing, urging himself to make his escape. But he couldn’t let it go. He was a DI. He had rank. He took a deep breath and stepped back in front of the counter. ‘Sergeant.’ All heads turned. ‘I could easily be a member of the public standing here listening to that language,’ he said, with an effort to sound forceful. ‘Or worse the Chief Super…’ He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw WPC Wendy Jones was the third person in the conversation. Their eyes locked briefly before each looked away.
Brook pursed his lips and let the sentence hang, hoping it would appear a natural break. He shouldn’t have said anything. He knew it. He could have been away. His resolve was melting so he pretended to examine the desultory Christmas streamer
s darted around the ceiling before returning his eyes to Hendrickson.
‘Still here? Sir.’ Sergeant Harry Hendrickson wore the mocking smile he reserved for his dealings with Brook. The pause he took before acknowledging Brook’s seniority was a new technique for him though Brook knew it well enough. It was one he’d used himself when dealing with any Joe or Josephine Public who stimulated his contempt. That was in the days when he could still be stimulated.
‘And people wonder why you didn’t make detective,’ smiled Brook, with a bravado he didn’t feel. Hendrickson’s grin vanished and Brook heard sharp breaths being sucked in. He took one himself and decided he had to play on for all it was worth. ‘Well?’
‘Well what? Sir?’ replied Hendrickson.
‘Foul language and threats of violence. Explain yourself.’ Brook knew he sounded lame. Hendrickson sensed it. He found his mocking smile again and stared back at Brook with unconcealed hatred.
PC Robinson decided to step in. ‘There’s been a murder, sir. Some old dear. Strangled and beaten to death.’
‘I see…’ began Brook.
‘And some of us with mothers get very hot under the collar,’ spat Hendrickson, ‘when we see what some scumbags will do for a few quid. Sir!’
There was a crackling silence that prompted even WPC Jones to look up for Brook’s reaction. When it came, it surprised even Hendrickson. Brook smiled a sad little smile and nodded. ‘Who took the call?’
‘DI Greatorix was on duty, sir,’ said Robinson.
‘Right.’ Brook turned from Hendrickson’s triumphant grin and his eyes sought the floor. A second later he spun back to face Hendrickson, trying to get control of his voice. ‘Some of us who had mothers also got hot under the collar, sergeant, until we realised those feelings made us worse policemen who couldn’t do their job properly. I may not find your language offensive in itself but it’s a symptom of a mind that’s not under control.’ Brook paused before adding softly, ‘And control is what they pay us for.’