by Steven Dunne
Brook pushed against the wall and braced himself. All he could do was look to the ceiling, try to block out what was happening. Then maybe he could protect his face, his eyes.
The first one was on him, then another and another. He screamed and kicked out wildly, but it was no use. They were on his trousers, ripping at the material. Then one was on his ankle, his sock. It must have smelt the fetid gust of heat wafting down Brook’s leg because it squirmed into thenarrow opening of his trouser leg and began hauling itself up towards his crotch, slicing through his flesh as it went.
Brook put his arms to his thigh to prevent access but realised that he was being driven nearer the ground so he stood up straight. If he went to ground he was done for.
But the rat was in his pants now-Brook could feel its snout nuzzling away at the gusset.
And then the pain. Pain like he’d never felt before. Searing, blinding. ‘Please get them off me, get them off me, get them off me.’
‘Get them off me!’ DS Brook woke with a start and took a deep breath. His face was drenched with sweat, his hands clammy. The drone of police chatter on the radio brought him back and he sat up to open the window and adjust the driver’s seat. The cold night air revived him. He drained his Styrofoam coffee, now cold, and began breathing normally again.
Soon he was flipping his notepad open and shut to stave off boredom. He knew all the tricks to enrich his life.
He glanced at the crossword on the passenger seat but decided against it. His brain was overheated enough. Instead he closed his eyes to ease the sting of too little sleep.
His shift had finished hours ago. He could have been at home now, with his family, arm round his wife, enjoying a spot of synchronised gaping at their brand new daughter, a small pink parcel of helplessness and need, the better part of him poured into that vulnerable vessel.
Brook thought of baby Theresa and smiled briefly. But then he saw the Maples girl. Her empty eye sockets glaredat him. Black holes that pulled in all Brook’s happy thoughts, all his hope for the future.
He remembered her face, a contortion of pain, that strange grin of pleasure that sudden death can bestow on lifeless features. But she wasn’t lifeless. There was movement…
Brook shuddered but kept his eyes shut tight. It was no use. He couldn’t separate them. He couldn’t think of little Theresa without the girl, Laura, intruding. Theresa, who came into the world as Laura was being butchered. They were the same in Brook’s mind. Indivisible. To Brook it was a rebirth, the girl had been reincarnated, savagely taken from the brutality of the world to start again as Brook’s daughter. But it was no second chance. Brook knew the world now. His daughter was doomed. Doomed to repeat the cycle of innocence corrupted. And it was all Brook’s fault. He’d brought another victim into this terrible world.
Brook wanted to open his eyes but the ache endured so he focused on the case. Forget little Theresa, think of The Reaper-Brook’s name for him. How to catch him? How to win?
The lure of detection calmed him, drew him away from those immobilising minefields of emotion and allowed him to go on.
The moisture too returned to soothe pupils that felt as if they’d had a vigorous rubdown with a harsh towel. A tapping on the window jolted him back.
‘It’s Sergeant Brook, isn’t it?’
The mocking tone irritated Brook. He wound down the window and contemplated Victor Sorenson’s expression of forced bonhomie. If anything his demeanour seemed even more triumphal than it was the last time they’d met.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Brook replied with just the right amount of feigned respect.
‘It’s an unpleasant evening. I thought you might like a drink. Unless, of course, you’re on a case.’
Brook looked back at his prey, sifting the pros and cons. His eyes were even more impenetrable at this late hour.
He had on the same clothes as their previous interview, or very like them, and clutched an umbrella in his bony hand to keep off the rain.
‘I’d be delighted,’ Brook beamed back, trying to ape the tone of phoney good manners. He stepped from the car and followed Sorenson’s meagre frame across the road and into the hall of his imposing home. The ivy dumped several large droplets of water down the back of Brook’s neck, causing a shiver as he crossed the threshold.
‘Don’t be afraid, Sergeant,’ grinned his host, catching the reflex. Brook smiled back and removed his raincoat, which Sorenson hung on a wrought-iron coat rack. He deposited the umbrella in the porch and closed the front door. All extraneous noise was now silenced and Brook could hear sombre melodic voices floating down from above.
‘Mozart’s Requiem. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard it.’
‘A fitting epitaph, wouldn’t you say? Please.’
Unlike their first meeting, lights burned brightly, so Brook stepped quickly ahead of Sorenson, meaning to take his time reaching the study. He needed to examine what he saw, try to get a better feel for his opponent. He got the impression Sorenson wanted the same thing. So Brook trudged carefully up the stairs, Sorenson fell in behind.
As they climbed, Brook tried to take everything in.He examined the decor of the hall as well as the pictures on the walls-muted colours, soft rich carpets, marble steps, old oak banisters, discreet lighting. Everything was supremely tasteful and orderly. The set designer had done a magnificent job.
One or two of the pictures seemed familiar and conformed to Brook’s evolving image of The Reaper and his obsessions.
‘Do you know this work?’ asked Sorenson, nodding at a large triptych framed in carved wood, at the top of the first flight.
‘The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch, isn’t it?’
‘Quite right, Sergeant.’
‘Don’t ask me how I know that,’ Brook added with a self-effacing expression.
‘Being a policeman, I suppose you’re bound to know it.’
‘Am I?’
‘Of course. Apart from lending his name to a selection of superior power tools, Bosch was obsessed by man’s inclination to sin, in spite of his fear of God’s punishment. And sin is your raison d’etre, is it not?’
He was being teased. But Brook was that rare breed, a copper who’d taken the time to think about his role. ‘Not at all. My concern is the law.’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘A huge one as I’m sure you know. I lock people up when they break the law. That’s my job. I don’t arrest a man for coveting his neighbour’s wife, or for being slothful, or proud, or vain.’ Brook gave his host a piercing look, which Sorenson greeted with an appreciative nod.
‘A good answer, Sergeant, though not quite correct. You lock people away after they’ve broken the law.’
Brook entered Sorenson’s study and sat down in the high-backed leather chair indicated to him. The embers of a coal fire glowered in the grate and Brook stretched his legs to allow small blue flames to nibble at his damp feet. ‘Don’t you ever question what use you are if you can only act in retrospect?’ Sorenson asked from the drinks cabinet, his back to Brook.
‘That’s a perennial frustration of police work, agreed. I suppose the best I can hope to achieve is the protection of the innocent from those who would steal from them or do them harm.’
‘But that can’t happen unless a crime has already been committed.’
‘True. But part of protecting the innocent is also seeing that they can’t be punished for something they haven’t done.’
‘A philosophy the guilty use to their advantage.’
‘Maybe. Nevertheless, arresting a killer, after the fact, can and does prevent further crimes.’
Sorenson turned and handed Brook a heavy glass containing a generous measure of the same whisky he’d had on his first visit. The name escaped Brook and he couldn’t make out the label. He took a sip and recalled the delicious smoke of his first tasting. For a second he speculated whether it might be poisoned and noted, with an amused twitch of the lip, his indifference to
the prospect.
Sorenson sank into an identical chair opposite Brook and beamed at him. ‘Doubtless, that will be a great comfort to Mr Elphick and family.’
Brook’s answering smile was thin. He was in the home of a child killer, after all. ‘Unfortunately our after sales service seems to be more in-demand these days.’ Sorenson chuckled at this. ‘We can only hope to learn from what we see and be ready next time.’ The significance in Brook’s voice was not too clumsy.
‘You think there’ll be a next time? For this killer you seek? For this Reaper?’ Sorenson’s eyes answered his own half-hearted question. ‘I mean, it’s been a year now.’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘And where do you think this killer might strike?’
‘Somewhere local. He’s not a young man.’
Sorenson chuckled again. ‘Isn’t he?’
Brook’s attempt to ruffle his opponent’s ego didn’t appear to have hit home. Perhaps Sorenson’s vanity applied only to his work.
There was a marked silence after that slingshot though it didn’t seem to be the result of any souring of the mood. Perhaps it was tactical, so Brook waited for his opponent to open the next door on their tussle.
When Sorenson did speak he had some difficulty phrasing what to say.
‘Do you ever dream, Sergeant?’
‘Dream?’ Brook shifted in his seat. This was a road down which he didn’t wish to turn. It was an odd question and one that provoked another. How could this man home in so accurately on Brook’s weak spots? It was unnerving. He became uneasy but tried not to show it. There was something about Sorenson that disturbed. It should’ve been his crimes but wasn’t-Brook had been unaffected by his handiwork. It was his mind, his thoughts, his questions, hisprobing. And what he said to Brook without speaking made even the silence between them seem like an interrogation. Sorenson was a man who could say more with his eyes than his mouth and when he did, when he looked at him with that mocking stare and amused superiority, Brook imagined himself being stripped bare and paraded for amusement, like some conquered chieftain through the avenues of Ancient Rome.
Those black eyes. They saw all. They had a power that enabled Sorenson to see through people. Through skin and bone and cartilage, right through to the essence of being. Several times Brook had experienced the feeling that events in his past, his feelings and even his soul were available to Sorenson for examination. Everything that made Brook tick, and more importantly, threatened to stop him ticking, was as accessible to Sorenson as a daily paper.
Again those eyes were doing their work. Boring into him. As they penetrated, Brook felt his whole life being downloaded, taken from him and placed on file in the brain of his opponent. If knowledge were power, Brook was at Sorensons mercy.
But how would he use the information, the psychological insight? Would he use it? Did he just want to know Brook or was there another motive? What did Sorenson want from him apart from stimulating conversation? An audience for his vanity? Someone to manipulate? Certainly Brook had no fear that Sorenson meant him harm.
But what did he want? And how did he know about what came to Brook in dreams? If he did know. Perhaps he was guessing. Perhaps Sorenson had merely stumbled onto the thing that was eating away at Brook’s mind, taking hisrest, threatening his sanity. Did he ever dream? Christ! Brook hadn’t stopped dreaming since finding the Maples girl.
‘I see that you do.’
Brook mulled it over, not knowing how to continue. ‘In my profession you see things…’
‘Of course.’ Sorenson made no attempt to prompt Brook further. He merely nodded sadly and gazed into the fire. Brook was wrong-footed by this sudden glimpse behind the curtain, a glimpse of affection for humanity, a glimpse of regret for Brook’s pain. He suddenly found himself willing to tell all but unable to articulate it. The moment passed but Sorenson wouldn’t be denied.
‘Tell me.’
Brook looked into the fire and remembered. It hadn’t been that long since they’d found her. Six months. Less maybe.
Brook hesitated then set off. Perhaps he could offload his burden onto someone who deserved it. ‘There was a girl. Laura Maples. She died a few months ago.’
‘Ah yes. Not far from here. I read about it. Ravenscourt Park. Who was she?’
‘Who was she?’ Brook was unprepared for the simplicity of the question. He spoke as though he hadn’t been thinking about it constantly. ‘She was nobody. A routine murder victim. Another street girl meets a sticky end.’
‘But she was more than that.’
‘She was a…No. To her parents perhaps.’ Brook stared blindly at the bright eyes and toothy grin of the schoolgirl smiling up at him from the fax tray-everything shiny and young. Her hair, her skin, her silver necklace with little hearts on it, strategically placed over her shirt and school tie to flag up her gentle rebellion.
‘She was seventeen when she arrived in London, and quite pretty in a fresh-faced kind of way. She’d left her comfortable, stifling existence in the country and headed for the golden paving stones of London. No reason. No family strife, no abusive father, no lack of love or prospects. It was just that, for some, that’s not enough. For some’-Brook managed not to add ‘of us’. Sorenson had enough psychological crowbars-‘the sheen of optimism, the embrace of life departs early.’
‘So she headed for a better life.’ Sorenson’s smile didn’t offend.
‘No. Just a shorter one. You know the story from here. She’s homeless, her money runs out, she ends up on the streets. She’s young and healthy, she can make good money. Only the street isn’t a shopping mall for the exchange of goods and services. It’s a jungle. She stands out a mile. It’s her first time.’
Brook stared into the fire, unable to blink. His eyes began to complain once more. ‘She’s picked up by a punter who goes back with her to her squat in Ravenscourt Park. She’s got an old mattress and a small camping stove and a few candles…’
Brook took a sip of his drink. ‘We can’t tell if he ever intended to pay but once they’re inside it becomes clear he doesn’t have to. He’s in a derelict house with a naive girl. It has a piece of urine-soaked hardboard for a door. There’s nobody to stop him. Nobody.
‘And what can she do? This pretty, nervous girl with little idea of the rules. So he decides. Why pay when it’s more fun to take?’
‘He rapes her.’
‘Why not? He’s a strong man. She’s a powerless girl. It’s an old formula. But it doesn’t stop there. Maybe she’s crying, she gets upset and provokes him in some way, he’s hurt her, violated her, torn off the necklace she’s been wearing for years, a keepsake of his conquest. It cuts into her neck and she starts to scream.
‘Or maybe, finally having such power over someone, even this gauche, stupid girl a long way from home, awakens something in him.
‘He’s never had power before, he’s nothing, no-one respects him, no-one is in awe of him, no-one is aware he even exists. But this girl knows. She sees his power, fears it and he revels in it. He sees her fear and feels his power over her and it feels good. He wants more. He has the power. He feels it welling up inside him, the ultimate power over life and death. Suddenly he’s a god. He is God. He can choose. He has the power to transform her into something else: a lifeless monument to his power.’
Brook halted on that crescendo and took a moment before going on. ‘And so, that night, her insignificant life ends. There’s an old beer bottle on the floor. He breaks it and uses it. Gently does it. Don’t rush it. Feel the fear, her fear, feeding into him, leaving her weak, making him strong…’
Brook screwed his eyelids shut again, having forgotten to blink for a while-that, and the fire, has desiccated his eyes. If he keeps them closed perhaps he can imagine himself in the light and the warmth of an empty place-empty of all but Amy and little Theresa. And the girl Laura-shiny, full of life and hope.
‘And you haven’t caught him?’
‘No. And we won’t.’
&
nbsp; ‘How long was she there before you found her?’
Brook looked at his host. Bulls eye again.
‘At least a month, maybe six weeks. We found her in summer. The smell…’ Brook couldn’t hold Sorenson’s gaze. His mouth tightened around the rest of the story. Sorenson’s eyes probed, waiting. Waiting until Brook became uncomfortable, not long. He felt obligated to finish but couldn’t get past, ‘There were rats…I…’
‘I see.’ Sorenson nodded in contemplation but little evident sympathy. ‘And was your horror confined to your visceral disgust at what the rats had done to her soft young flesh?’
Brook blinked as though smelling salts had been administered. ‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, but for whom?’ Brook looked into the fire, seeking solace. Sorenson continued to bore into him. ‘Regrettable though the death of Laura Maples may be, the horror that you feel is not for her ordeal but the physical desecration inflicted post mortem. Am I right?’
‘Perhaps.’ Brook continued to gaze at the fire, aware of the mistake he’d made. Sorenson couldn’t be affected by anything Brook, or anyone else, had seen.
‘Surely the greatest pain or humiliation or mental torture has to be dispensed while still alive, while able to feel, to sense. The dead don’t suffer, my friend.’
Brook raised his eyes to engage Sorenson’s, fighting the triumphant smile beginning to crease his lips. Suddenly he was close. ‘Or cry.’
Sorenson smiled back, unperturbed at the excitement in Brook’s eyes. He looked away and nodded, then back at Brook. ‘Did you cry for Laura?’
Brook stared back. ‘I will.’
Sorenson emitted a sharp laugh. Brook saw that his host was pleased with the reply. ‘And did you cry for Sammy Elphick?’
A pause. ‘No.’
‘Because there were no rats?’
‘Because he was nothing. A blight on the planet.’
‘But did that mean he deserved to die?’
‘No. But it means he won’t be missed.’
‘And the child, Sergeant?’
‘Who?’
‘Sammy Elphick’s son.’
‘What about him?’