Grim

by Gavin McCallion

  For example, he wouldn't bet on a Reaper showing up at his door in the form of his wife's ex-boyfriend and the biological father of his missing daughter. He would rather have kept the pint money on that bet, that's for sure.

  But alas, the doorbell went.

  ~

  Tom didn't answer. Nobody ever came to the door for him. They would usually fuck off after one or two of those gothic bing-booooong... sounds.

  The "computer" room in which he slept was at the front of the house, by the hall, by the door, right next to the bell. If the doorbell rang, he couldn't sleep.

  When it happened, he grumbled a few swears into the pillow and forced himself back unconscious.

  Bing-booooong…

  Awake again. 'Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.' He clamped his eyes shut.

  Bing-booooong…

  'FUCK OFF!'

  He lifted his head and wouldn’t lay it down again, not until his visitor had, in fact, fucked off. A minute passed. Hesitantly, he lowered is head back into the pillow and shut his eyes over.

  Bing-booooong…

  'RIGHT.'

  Tom got to his feet, disturbing Paddy from his slumber as he did so. He barged from the room and down the hall, still very naked but unwilling to give a fuck. Nothing could feasibly be more embarrassing than the park incident. One stranger seeing his cock didn't bother him.

  Through the glass at the front door, Tom identified a looming black presence and a definite change in temperature when he reached for the handle, but he was in too much of a tizzy to stop himself.

  He hauled the door open. 'RIGHT YOU, WHEN-'

  Grim stood there in his Reaper cloak. 'Eh, hello-'

  'Naw!' Tom slammed the door shut and ran away to his room.

  He wondered at what point he had died.

  Being one of the few people on the planet that put a degree of research into a Reaper's job, he knew a person had to die before a Reaper came. He never thought they would be polite enough to knock, mind you.

  He re-entered the computer room and didn't see his lifeless corpse in the bed.

  It relieved him, sure, but it begged a whole new question: why was there a Reaper at his door? It couldn’t be good news.

  Bing-booooong…

  He peeked his head back into the hall. Through the glass, he saw Grim's silhouette.

  He didn't have many options. It came down to either answering the door or going to bed.

  So, obviously:

  Back in bed, he tried to sleep through the gong of the doorbell getting on his tits roughly every two minutes.

  Oh, all he wanted was to be bloody hungover. He lay face-down in his pillow, trying to hum himself to sleep even though Paddy barked every time The Reaper rang.

  Eventually, a different noise caught his attention, a noise which sounded like Grim trying to communicate with him through the door. He yelled, likely aware the house was enormous, and Tom could be anywhere within.

  Tom stopped humming just in time for Grim to introduce himself.

  'Hello? Eh- it's Cora's Dad!'

  That got Tom out of bed.

  He sat up and perked his ear towards the window, considering it for a second before he responded. He chose his words carefully. He didn't know he was gearing up for a long day when he said, 'I'm Cora's dad!'

  'Right!' Grim replied. 'Okay, but... is she in?'

  ~

  Twelve

  Out of the Frying Pan, into the Probable Explosion

  Derek decided to take his medicine before he said anything.

  He had some perfectly valid concerns to address regarding his employer's plans, but he managed to convince himself he might be overreacting. Maybe. A little.

  As soon as he got home, he excused himself to go straight to his room and take his pill.

  Afterwards, he felt better. His nerves fell away and tension slipped from his shoulders. He rolled his toes in the carpet like he liked to do and took a deep breath.

  Unfortunately, medicated or not, the facts were straightforward: Judge Rabbit had Cora Quinn in his basement, and he planned to kill her. Cora Quinn's father was the island’s new Reaper, and Judge Rabbit set him free. The Reaper would search for Cora Quinn upon discovery of her vanishing.

  'Oh, Daddy...' he said, approaching his mantelpiece. 'Oh... dear.'

  ~

  High above the entrance hall of Rabbit Manor was an overpass running from east to west. The Judge referred to it as the GRAND OVERPASS and frequently used it as a means of communicating with guests of a lower stature than he.

  Judge Rabbit rehearsed his speech for the apex of The Reaper’s Gala on it. He had been practising daily for a month. Sometimes Derek would be made to stand in the hall below (to check The Judge's projection and such), and sometimes he stood by his side (to assess his posture and such). He opted for the latter today, though his mind snagged on other matters.

  The Judge croaked his way through the speech, with a voice completely ruined from alcohol abuse. 'Oh! I'm so buggered!' he announced, draping himself over the elaborately-decorated golden railing. 'I'm so bloody hungover Del-cat! I can't do it!'

  Derek - too busy struggling to think up a way of pulling information from The Judge without triggering a tantrum - missed his cry. 'Sorry, sir?'

  Judge Rabbit propped himself up. 'You weren't listening?' he asked, sounding bemused.

  'Oh, sorry sir, I'm somewhat... I'm preoccupied.'

  'I can't say I hadn't noticed, out with it man.'

  'Oh, sir...'

  'Now Derek, you've heard me spout some amount of nonsense in our time together. Brilliant nonsense, don't get me wrong, but nonsense still. Regardless, allow me to take my turn. You have my whisky on your person?'

  'Of course sir.' He produced the flask from his inside pocket and held it out.

  The Judge, with a smile, nudged it back. 'Help yourself to a dram and speak.'

  'Oh...' Derek eyed the flask and got brave, though not brave enough to overestimate The Judge's definition of a dram. He took barely a sip and replaced the lid.

  The Judge waited, slumped back on the bannister with his eyebrows raised.

  'Sir...' Derek started. He swallowed. 'I have some concerns regarding your course of action at that establishment back by the coast. You... you let The Reaper go. I don't believe when he discovers his daughter is missing, that he'll ever sign the opt-out.'

  'Well, that's a definite.'

  'Yessir, I just...'

  'Del-cat, my boy, he had me bent over, wouldn't you say? He wouldn't sign the opt-out either way.'

  'But sir... then what will we do? He'll need to send everyone you... he'll need to send the dead.'

  The Judge held out a hand, Derek passed the whisky.

  Following a much more indulgent dram than Derek's, he licked the droplets out of his moustache. 'What would you say the best course of action is, Derek? He won't quit, and we can't keep him on the job. What would you suggest?'

  Derek had some terrible ideas, ideas he didn't like to say. 'Should we... tortu...re him?'

  'Oh goodness no! How terribly grim!'

  'Yessir, sorry sir.'

  'Torture! We're not animals!'

  'Yessir, no sir, sorry sir.'

  The Judge handed him the flask back and, when Derek accepted it, clasped both hands on top. 'You worry so much Derek, and you bring me absurd ideas like that. Listen to me, I have a plan. You're not quite ready to hear it yet, but I can assure you I considered your concerns before you did. I'm in perfect control.' He let go and took a step back, holding his arms out.

  Derek tried to smile.

  'Del-cat, you listen to me, and you listen well. You’re not to worry one more bit about this, understand? David did some workarounds on today's sends, The Reaper will be kept busy all day.'

  'Sir?'

  'We're in charge, Derek. We took the three people who were supposed to die today and replaced them with three very nearly impossible cases. A veteran would struggle to send these people. Our R
eaper is positively humped.'

  '...If he isn't able to send them, then... he'll be fired.'

  'And a fired Reaper doesn't need to...?'

  Derek smiled, feeling lighter at the realisation. 'Sign the opt-out.'

  'Cricket.' Judge Rabbit winked at him. 'He'll be gone by the time my first guests arrive.'

  ~

  When Derek returned to his room, he hesitantly approached the mantel. 'Oh, Daddy... I think it's going to be... he has a plan.'

  ~

  Half an hour later, while Judge Rabbit took a cat-nap, Derek took in a delivery of three comically large barrels. He read the label, and his heart collapsed out his arse.

  Gunpowder.

  For what could The Judge possibly need so much gunpowder? Where could he even purchase so much? Guy Fawkes levels of gunpowder brought into a building roughly the size of parliament.

  The delivery driver shut the door, leaving Derek alone with the barrels. He stopped breathing for a moment.

  ~

  'Oh, Daddy...' Derek muttered as he shuffled back into his room. 'He has a plan, and... Daddy, I don't want to know.'

  He cried on his bed until The Judge called for him again.

  ~

  Thirteen

  Tom's Year

  Tom eventually let Grim into his house.

  He took a lot of convincing.

  Through the door, Grim told him about their last meeting, right down to the strange saying about how the pancakes are made and how Grim didn't understand what it meant. Tom realised he had forgotten all about that catchphrase and took a second to add it back to his daily banter.

  Grim swore he just wanted to see me.

  Tom didn't know where I was, of course, but he at least owed Grim a face-to-face explanation on the subject.

  Grumbling, he poddled off and put a housecoat on before he opened the door.

  Grim stood on his doorstep, hunched over with a suitcase clutched to his chest and rainwater dripping from his hood. He looked like a Reaper, only with half the threat and stature of the one he met when he was a kid.

  'Alright,' Tom said, with a manly upwards nod.

  'Good morning.'

  The Reaper squelched into the former McKay household leaving wet prints on the carpet.

  In the living room, Tom saw him looking around the place, but for the hood he couldn't see the expression he wore. He wouldn't be happy. To say the house looked better on his last visit would be a bit of an understatement.

  Ignoring the quiet judgement, Tom asked, 'you want a drink?'

  Grim replied absently, 'y-yes, water please?'

  'Aye, no bother.'

  In the kitchen, Tom did his best to find something to pour his guest's drink into. He found only a mug he didn't use anymore because it said 'World's Best Dad' across the front. It would be cruel to offer it to Grim, given the circumstances, but just because he’d returned from the dead didn't mean Tom suddenly had to like him.

  He poured the drink and went back to the living room where Grim had cleared himself a little corner at the end of his sleeping sofa. He was in the middle of shuffling his suitcase amongst the clutter of the coffee table when Tom entered. When it was stable, he turned to Tom.

  'Thank you.' Grim accepted the mug and noticed the logo immediately. 'Oh, you have a child?'

  'Aye. Cora.'

  'Right.' Grim nodded and switched the subject. 'H-How long have I been gone?'

  'Dunno... sixteen years? Seventeen? They didn't tell you this shit when they brought you back?'

  'Sorry... it slipped my mind.'

  Tom perched himself on the arm of Grandpa's chair, not keen on sitting anywhere near The Reaper. 'So eh...' He tried to summon Grim's name but found himself struggling. 'What's your name again?'

  'Oh, they... they took my name.'

  'Oh aye, forgot they did that. What name did they give you?'

  Grim itched his ear under his hood. 'They-they haven't given me one yet.'

  'They let you out without telling you your name?'

  '…Y-Yes, I'm afraid they did.'

  Tom didn't think The Reaper's new name was something they should be taking away for consideration. Seemed kind of shitty to let him out without that information, actually.

  Before he could question it, Grim - again - changed the subject. 'Is... Is Cora in?'

  Tom took a sharp breath through his teeth but didn't respond. He wasn't sure he knew how.

  Grim tilted his head.

  Tom considered lying to him, but what was the point? How long could he lie for? Grim was The Reaper. He was immortal. Short of outright saying I'd died, the truth was the easiest option.

  'She's...' he started, but followed with another one of those sharp breaths. 'Wait there.'

  Tom went to collect visual aids.

  In the corner of the "computer" room lived a lot of newspapers. On Wilson's Well, there was one thick, weekly rag. Fifty of them sat in the corner of that room in no particular order, collected for the information they used to provide, aiding him in his hunt for me.

  Now they only made him angry.

  The story of fourteen kids gone missing on Wilson's Well drifted further to the back of the paper in exchange for trashy stories about boxers, beekeepers, magicians and - most recently - the return of the annual Reaper’s Gala Wilson's Well was hosting this year.

  He struggled with that last one. As he leafed through the stack of papers, he passed the one announcing the return of the event: a full front-page spread on the subject with a photo of the island's grinning Judge, taunting him. Worse still, and he's not sure how, was the man stood behind Judge Rabbit - hands down the ugliest person he's ever seen in his life (Derek, ladies and gents!) - smirking at the camera with a suggestively raised eyebrow. The Judge grinned like an idiot, but Derek's smirk mocked him.

  Tom had never spoken to Derek, but in his head, he'd had a hundred conversations with the man. Each one riled his anger.

  With one eyebrow raised, and out of the corner of his mouth, behind the smirk, came the words, 'you think your daughter is more important than The Judge's Gala! HA. Poo-poo to that idea, you silly, fat man. Poo-poo!'

  Tom didn't miss Derek's little putdowns. Seeing the paper brought them back with a vengeance.

  'Thought you'd gotten away from me? You'll never get away! And you'll never find your daughter!'

  Tom pushed the redeveloping fury down and chucked the paper across the room.

  He grabbed a few relevant issues from the pile - from when the missing were front-page news - and took them back to Grim.

  He sighed, handing them over. 'Right...'

  The Reaper shuffled through them. Tom talked.

  He told him that for three or four months, starting in December the year prior, teenagers began to drop off the face of the earth. The hunt swept Wilson's Well for a while and then died out as leads dried. Kids stopped vanishing, people stopped caring.

  Rightfully, it infuriated Tom.

  What was worse, though, is that people forgot all about it.

  ~

  Yep.

  The people of Wilson's Well - population three thousand at a push - forgot fourteen kids disappeared from the island less than a year ago.

  Tom had to remind people any time he brought it up.

  Suspicious, right?

  ~

  Tom continued by telling Grim that Mum struggled from the get-go. Her parents died in pretty quick succession in 2014, around about the time I discovered single life and the university years of alcohol poisoning. We started to fight a lot, and then I vanished on her. Mum made the decision to separate herself from it all. She left. Tom was alone in her house with only dreams of getting his family back together. Dreams that drowned in his lovely new drinking habit.

  Tom stopped looking and wanted to be left alone for the rest of his life. The memories stung him. They hurt him right down in his guts. He couldn't stand it.

  'But we need to find her.' Grim spoke matter-of-factly when Tom finishe
d. 'We should be out looking for her.'

  'Aye, because nobody's thought of that.' Tom stood up and jabbed a thumb at the door. 'Look, can you go? That's everything.'

  'N-no? You can't-'

  'Yep, I know. It's not gonna happen, she's gone. They're all gone.'

  'No, we should be looking.'

  'I already did. You were having a nap at the time.'

  Grim shied from the topic, hunching the cloak around his shoulders. 'That isn't entirely fair, Thomas. I died.'

  'Aye, actually. Since you're here.' Tom scratched the developing beard on his face and folded his arms. 'You headered an ice-cream van with your daughter in the back seat. You're the most nervous, careful, wet-wipe of a guy on the fucking planet. You wouldn't cross a road without the green man. How'd you manage to end up going head-on with a truck?'

  'Eh...' Grim shuffled. 'It just happened.'

  'Oh right, cool. Got that mystery solved then. Fuck off. '

  Grim sprung to his feet and clasped his hands together. 'Please, Thomas. I can't do this without you. I don't know where anything is anymore and people are confusing me. I walked past a bus stop there and everyone had these-these-' he shaped them out with his fingers '-these little televisions they're engrossed with. And-and-‘ He bent over and fumbled around with the case on the table.

  Tom groaned at the ceiling.

  When he got in, Grim retrieved a tablet and held it out. 'Look, what is this? This is all the help they gave me, and there doesn't appear to be any way to turn it on.'

  Tom was way too hungover for this.

  'Look, pal. I'm sorry, listen to me.' He took Grim by the shoulders. 'Cora's gone, alright? The case is dry. No one cares anymore.'

  'N-no, you listen to me, buster.' Grim swiped Tom's hands off and jabbed a finger in his face. 'You don't get to call off the hunt for my daughter, okay? All I wanted, all I ever wanted was to be th-the best Dad in the world. I want one of those mugs, and you don't deserve yours. Nossir.'

  Tom simmered. 'Is that right?'