by Steven Dunne
Sorenson held his gaze for a long time. Brook didn’t look away. The old man nodded at him, forcing his cracked features into a pained smile-Charlie’s smile-communicating warmth and impending death.
‘There you are, Vicky. What are you doing under there?’
‘You’re everything I could have wished for, Damen. Everything.’
‘It’s okay, Daddy. My teeth are nice. See.’
‘You can’t protect him any more, Professor.’
‘I’m protecting her.’
‘But I know what he did.’
‘Then it needs no further discussion.’
‘Open wide. That’s good. Oh dear. I think you need some of Daddy’s special toothpaste. Keep still. You’ll wake your mother.’
‘My teeth are okay, Daddy. They’re new ones. Please Daddy! I don’t like it.’
‘It won’t take long. Open wider. Only the best for Daddy’s Special Girl.’
Sorenson’s faraway look as he stared into space reminded him of Charlie at the end. Charlie on the way to his Lizzie. The pair did have a lot in common. Brook too. They had Vicky, Lizzie, Laura. And now Terri. Fathers and daughters and the unspoken sexual bond that tugged at both. Daddy’s umbilical. Even death couldn’t sever such a tie. Especially death. Death strengthened it, magnified it. Only life could break the bond-when a blossoming young woman tired of vicarious sex with her father in the beds of men who weren’t him, yet were so like him. But sometimes Daddy insisted on first refusal. If she only wanted to sully herself, he figured he’d earned it. A reward for everything he’d done for her. And all the things he didn’t do because he was civilised.
‘Only the best. That’s it. That’s it, Vicky. It’ll come. Good girl. Good girl, good girl, good girl, good girl…Now swallow and rinse, Vicky, swallow and rinse.’
‘How long had it been going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Sorenson. ‘He died before…’
The music stopped which broke their concentration. There was silence for a while as each considered their next utterance. Especially Brook. This wasn’t working out as planned. The spectre of death should have been a spur to confession but instead Sorenson had never been so reluctant to talk. The subject matter was delicate and perhaps too close to home. He decided to change tack.
‘So, in a way, Sammy Elphick deserved a medal…’
‘A medal?’ Now Sorenson became animated. He pushed back his blanket and hauled himself to his feet. For a second Brook wondered if he was about to be attacked and fingered the gun in his pocket. Instead Sorenson moved over to the cabinet-Brook was surprised how steady he was-and pulled out a pair of leaded tumblers. He didn’t ask Brook if he wanted a drink but came back with two generous measures all the same. Brook took his glass. ‘A medal for what? Bringing that brat into the world.’
‘Come on, Professor. Sammy Elphick was a petty criminal, and maybe his kid wouldn’t have amounted to much but neither deserved what you did to them…’
‘Didn’t they?’ Sorenson smiled at Brook’s anger. Control had changed hands with frightening rapidity and Brook was annoyed for letting it slip.
‘No they didn’t. I knew Sammy. He was small time. He wasn’t violent. Killing your brother was accidental, I’m sure. He was backed into a corner and probably struck out…’ Sorenson’s smile widened. Brook was on the verge of pulling out the gun just to wipe the expression off his face and had to control himself with a few deep breaths and a large slug of whisky.
When he spoke again his voice was deliberate, restrained. He’d waited too long to spoil it now. ‘What Sammy did to your brother saved Vicky. No matter how much you loved Stefan you must see that.’
Now Sorenson laughed but it wasn’t an articulation of pleasure. ‘Loved? Stefan?’ Suddenly his gaze was far away. He spoke almost to himself and Brook had to strain to hear. ‘I hated him. From the moment he was born I hated him. Stefan was a monster. And you’re right. He deserved to die.’
Brook held the drink from his lips, his face impassive but his mind in turmoil. All his carefully constructed assumptions lay in tatters before him. Then he knew. ‘You killed him.’
‘Of course.’
‘And Vicky?’
‘After what he did to her, she hated him then. She hates him still. Everyone hated him.’
‘And Sonja?’
‘Especially Sonja.’
‘She knew about Vicky.’
‘Of course she knew, Damen. How can a mother not know these things?’ He shot Brook a penetrating glance and he looked away, remembering Amy and Terri. ‘That’s why Stefan put her in an institution.’
Sorenson took a drink and considered how to begin. ‘When we were born, Steffi and I, in Stockholm, our paths were mapped out as soon we left our mother’s womb. Steffi was first. The elder. The heir. Thirteen minutes. I took that as an omen. And so it proved for our mother. At the end of the thirteen minutes, she died. I left her body at the same time as her final breath.
‘If you hadn’t been there,’ Steffi told me when we were old enough to understand these things, ‘our mother wouldn’t have died. You killed her.’ Sorenson shook his head. ‘What sort of mind can conjure up that much cruelty? Steffi must have thought I was a complete fool. I knew I hadn’t killed her. He had.’
‘What are you talking about? You were babies.’
‘Identical twins, Damen. There’s a difference. You see even in the womb I could feel him, his presence, his evil, attacking me, suppressing me. I was supposed to be first, you see.’
‘What?’
‘I was supposed to be born first.’ He smiled and looked at Brook. ‘I know what you’re thinking and I know how it sounds. You can’t understand.’ Sorenson’s expression darkened. ‘Before we were born I could feel him. At first, just the occasional kick or fist, nothing important, but gradually, as we grew, I could feel him manoeuvring himself, pushing me behind him, thrusting himself to the fore. Even then he had to be first. He wouldn’t accept second place even if it meant doing down his own brother. And so he was first and Mother died of complications.
‘First in all things. Bigger than me, stronger, faster, healthier. I was the sickly one, prone to colds and headaches, minor things. I was smaller, thinner, not as confident, and Steffi lost no opportunity to keep me that way. Generally I was less than him and our father, who was a good man, strict but loving, he tried his best to hide his preference for Steffi, but being such a weakling, I was cursed with great sensitivity and not just in my health. I knew. I could read it in everything Father did, everything he said.
‘It didn’t matter too much when we were young. Boys will be boys. They can be very cruel, worse than girls sometimes. But they grow out of it. Steffi didn’t. And, as we grew up together, things became worse. This knowledge lay between us, what had happened to our mother. I knew what he’d done to hurt her and he knew I knew and never stopped punishing me for it. I hated him for that. But that would have been all right if he hadn’t made Father hate me with his tricks and insinuations and lies. Father always took his side. He couldn’t see what Steffi was.’
Sorenson took a sip of whisky. ‘When our twenty-first birthday arrived our lives changed forever. Until that point, I was able to keep a rough parity with my brother. We both went to university to study Chemical Science. My father wanted us to take an interest in the business. And so, to please him, I got a first class degree. But Steffi? Steffi could only scrape a pass, and even then I’d had to give him my notes. It was more important for Steffi to get drunk and sleep with as many women as he could, which was a lot. He could be very charming when he wanted something from you.
‘After university we were supposed to work at the plant and learn the ropes from the bottom up, like Dad had done. But I’d performed so well that Dad wanted me to go as far as my brains would take me. And I was happy to oblige, to shut myself away in academe. By this time I was having trouble coping with life. I was different. I’d discovered that I was more than sensitive. I was seein
g things, visions, when I came into physical contact with people. Terrible things. Never anything beautiful. So I was happy to hide with my books while my brother went to work in the business.
‘And to be fair to him, he did well. He became a good manager, a good entrepreneur. Like father. And when I finally went to work, we had the ideal partnership. I could supply all the expertise for the new processes for product development and Steffi could wheel and deal-under Father’s watchful eye of course. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have control over his own destiny. That’s when he killed Father.’
Brook took a sip of his whisky, and rolled the burning liquid around his mouth. What he was learning was interesting and told him a lot about the psychology of his opponent but took him no nearer The Reaper.
‘You don’t seem surprised, Damen?’
‘This kind of rivalry is well known, particularly in twins. It produces all sorts of imaginary hatreds and jealousies. Each believing the other is their enemy, each trying to promote themselves at the expense of the other…’
‘I see.’
‘I mean he didn’t really kill your Father, did he?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You have evidence?’
‘No.’
‘But you saw it-in a vision.’
‘No. Steffi knew. After they found Father with his neck broken at the foot of his office stairs, he never came near me. Never let me touch him. He was my twin. He could sense my abilities.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you have proof that I’m The Reaper?’
The directness of the question threw Brook for a second. ‘I did have. I destroyed it.’ Brook shifted a little in his chair and took another drink. ‘I searched your house that night, while you were asleep. The serial number on a CD system stored in your house matched the number on the system in Wrigley’s flat. I removed the delivery note.’
‘But you destroyed it?’
Brook shrugged. ‘An illegal search. It was inadmissible.’
Sorenson’s knowing grin was close to an outright laugh. ‘Inadmissible. Of course.’ Now he did laugh. ‘You couldn’t condone such corrupt practice. Another drink, officer? Or would that constitute a bribe?’
‘I’ll risk it.’
‘Brave man.’ Sorenson went to put on some music and returned with another tumbler of whisky. Brook took an immediate sip. The heat felt good on his tongue, he swirled it around like mouthwash. He felt relaxed, at ease with his host. This was where he was meant to be, where he’d been so often in his dreams.
‘So you can’t prove I’m this killer?’
‘I’ve proved it to myself.’ Brook decided against mentioning Charlie’s confession. That was an ace he’d only use if he needed it.
The music drifted over from the speakers. Beethoven this time. Brook wasn’t sure which.
‘The Ninth-von Karajan conducting,’ said Sorenson, as though answering an audible question. ‘You’ll enjoy it more than you can imagine,’ he said with a cryptic smile and set off round the room, switching on lamps to dispel the gathering shadows.
Brook looked at his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon. This could be a long night.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Damen, I’ve got some medication to take. I won’t be a moment,’ and he stepped through a door at the back of the room, behind one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Brook picked up his glass and ambled around the room, wondering what Sorenson had meant by his remark about the music. He sniffed his glass and examined the bottom of the whisky bottle. If Sorenson had doctored his drink he couldn’t tell. He took another hearty swig and positioned himself to admire the ‘fake’ Van Gogh he’d seen on his first visit to the room. Everything about it was right-the bold brushwork, the light, the signature. It was an impressive mimic of Van Gogh’s style.
He picked up an instruction booklet from the desk. It was for the video camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. He flicked through it then tossed it back on the desk.
He continued to wander round, stopping at his overcoat to pick out Noble’s mobile. He turned it on. There were no messages so he returned it to the coat. The music played on.
Brook arrived at one of the bookshelves and examined its contents. A book caught his eye-Empathic Depths of the Mind. He browsed through it.
‘Keep it,’ said Sorenson over Brook’s shoulder. ‘A gift. You’re going to need it.’ He returned to his armchair and arranged the blankets around his legs.
Brook made a show of replacing the book but Sorenson had closed his eyes. Brook stepped back to his chair and sat down.
‘One thing Vicky didn’t explain was why she latched onto me.’ Sorenson didn’t respond so Brook pressed on. ‘She said she saw me on the news, at the Wallis Murders press conference, but if she had no idea you were involved why would she even be interested in The Reaper?’
‘Vicky thinks he’s still alive.’
‘Who?’
‘Her father. She’s terrified of him, of the memory of him. She thinks he’s The Reaper.’
‘But she knew her father was dead.’
‘Not at first. She was very young. I couldn’t tell her. Not after killing him. I said he went away.’
‘But she’s not young any more.’
‘I know. When she was old enough to understand we told her, Sonja and I. Said he was killed by a burglar. But it was too late. It had taken root. Her father was a monster-a beast, preying on his family. Do you see? Families. That’s how she connected to The Reaper. She fears the monster coming in the night, killing without mercy, destroying families then melting into the darkness. And to confront those fears she has to seek him out, to find him. It’s not rational, I know. But our nightmares rarely are.’
Brook nodded. ‘And your brother?’
No response. Finally Sorenson’s eyelids parted slightly. Already he looked like a corpse. He opened his eyes and contemplated Brook.
‘Sonja was home for the weekend. She’d been in care for a year, driven out of her mind by Steffi’s cruelty. But he wouldn’t allow her proper treatment. I’m sure he wanted her to go mad in that glorified country club he put her in, just to save himself the bother of dealing with her. He never visited. I did-without his knowledge. And that’s when she told me about Vicky. That’s when I first heard of the Dentist Game. She couldn’t be absolutely sure. We’re talking about a little girl. Her own father. But I was sure. I knew what he was like.
‘One day, I waited for Steffi to go out and called round to see Vicky and Petr. I hadn’t seen much of them that year. Steffi had hired a housekeeper to keep people away. Especially me. He knew better than to let me near them. He must have known I’d sense the truth at once. But Sonja warned me about her so I pretended to be Steffi. We were so alike. How could she have known? I’d forgotten my key, I said. It was easy.
‘Poor Vicky. I didn’t need to hold her tiny hand to know. It was so strong. Just seeing her, imagining her and Petr alone with that monster. And Sonja, going mad with guilt, powerless to protect her own children. I decided then to kill him.
‘I left the house but before I went, I fired the housekeeper. I told her I’d made a mistake hiring her. I offered her a thousand pounds in cash if she left immediately. Steffi never knew.
‘Sonja was coming home for a visit the next day so I called round unexpectedly to see them. I took flowers.
‘She opened the door. She was crying, her blouse was torn. Steffi was in the living room. Drunk. He had an old cutthroat razor, a coming-of-age gift from my father, and he was waving it about in front of the children. They were terrified. Howling the place down. Sonja had finally got up the courage to tell Steffi she was leaving him and taking the children and he’d gone berserk.
‘Strange. He couldn’t have cared less about them. But his ego was bruised. The thought that his power was no longer taken seriously, no longer feared, mortified him. So he’d decided. Told them he was going to tie them up and cut their throats one at a time.’
&
nbsp; Brook looked up-another reason for Vicky to connect with The Reaper. ‘What happened?’
‘I managed to distract him long enough to get the children out. Sonja brought them back here. When I came home the children were asleep. I made Sonja take a taxi back to the hospital, her alibi, you see. Then I went straight back to Steffi’s.
‘He was even drunker by now. The violence in his eyes was savage. He attacked me, verbally, then physically. It all came out. All his poison. And then I saw. He’d wasted his life. He didn’t deserve to live. It was easy. He was too drunk to stand. I tied him to a chair. I needed to make it look like a frenzied attack by a burglar so I beat his brains out with a poker. Afterwards I put a few antiques in a bin bag to suggest a burglary and left.’
‘Just like that?’
Sorenson smiled. ‘Not quite. Something happened. Something terrible, something amazing, something few people can understand. Even murderers don’t get to see it. Most of them.’
‘What was that?’
‘I think you know. You’ve seen it in Harlesden, in Brixton, in Derby. Those last few moments of life when people realise what’s happening and beg for a little longer-a few minutes, a few seconds more. Everything changes in those moments.
‘I saw that in Steffi. Those final seconds of his life he lived more than he’d ever lived before. Because suddenly he knew. He knew it was right. He knew he was about to die and every breath, every sight, became urgent, precious. He looked around the room at all the beautiful things and saw them as if for the first time. They were different, wonderful. He asked me to put on some music so I played him our song. La Wally He cried. We both did.
‘And to die, to give up your wasted life surrounded by the apex of human achievement, to end your time seeing such beauty and listening to the breath of Heaven, instead of gaping at a hospital ceiling or the bonnet of a car or a back street puddle…
‘By the time I’d crashed the poker into his skull the first time, I’d changed him. I had changed him. He was different to the Steffi I’d always known. Better. At ease with himself, with his fate. I envied him for once. No more worry. No more having to hide the pain, the guilt. He was in the terminal ward. In rapture. If it were possible, I would have untied him so he could do the same for me. But I couldn’t let him down. He was depending on me.’