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The
Reaper
The
unshaved dishevelled man unscrewed the top off
his half bottle of whisky and drank greedily,
much to the disgust of the snobbish middle-aged
couple. He thrust his head of thick brown hair
forward, offering the tutting woman a glare that
would rattle the devil himself. He took another
swallow for luck and returned the bottle to the
pocket of his grubby leather coat.
To the watching passengers John Ryan was a bum,
a blot stain on society, in reality he was a
broken man. Just six short months ago he was a
successful journalist with a healthy salary, a
large house, two cars and a loving wife and
child. That all seemed so long ago.
That dark stormy night when through no fault of
his own, the juggernaut had veered across the
carriageway and destroyed his life. That he had
survived was no consolation, as he blamed
himself for the death of his wife and daughter.
If only he had taken more time fitting the roof
rack; if only he had put in a litre more of
petrol, he would have missed the juggernaut; if
only.
John Ryan looked ten years older than his
twenty-five years, the effects of sleepless
nights and alcohol abuse being responsible for
the heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. This
once handsome face had been ravaged by the grim
reaper, who had gate-crashed his once content
life. Ryan was now unemployed, his once
luxurious house a hovel, his cars sold to
satisfy his alcohol addiction.
The blurred sign of Newark stirred him as the
train slowed down. He groped for the letter in
his pocket and wondered if he was doing the
right thing. Why? He asked himself, why after
all these years?
He swallowed the remainder of his whisky and
flung the bottle into the hedgerow. The bitter
cold wind numbed his face, as his tongue sought
out the cavity in his aching tooth. For now he
had an excuse to drink, to numb the pain. He
pulled up his collar and cursed the unfamiliar
June climate. His eyes traced the contours of
the long gravel path leading through the
well-manicured gardens to the magnificent house.
Ryan checked the address on the letter for the
third time, surprised how well she had done for
herself. He ambled nonchalantly towards the
house; his cold hands buried deep within his
pockets and marvelled at the colourful blooms
and stone lions outside the front door. He
looked up and saw the twitching curtains; his
immediate thought was to turn around; he did not
belong here. His curiosity compelled him to
advance and he rang the doorbell. The intercom
clicked and a feeble voice ordered him to step
inside.
The cool air of the interior of the house did
nothing for his already freezing body; his
breath visible as it escaped from his mouth. The
first impression he got from the magnificent
decor with crystal chandeliers and the lavish
portraits adorning the staircase was that his
mother had somehow accumulated great wealth. He
looked up the splendid winding staircase and
felt to his pocket, cursing beneath his breath
when realising his supply of whisky had been
exhausted. He touched his cheek, grimacing at
his aching jaw before starting his ascent. He
did not know how, but he was certain his mother
was upstairs.
The tall walnut door was slightly ajar and he
saw the shadows of the dancing flames on the
wall. He pushed the door and saw the enormous
bed covered in a transparent shroud at the end
of the room.
“Over here John,” croaked the inhabitant of
the bed.
The heat of the blazing fire was welcome as he
approached the four poster bed slowly.
“Come closer John.”
He squinted trying to see through the shroud;
her face was so yellow and gaunt; her hollow
cheeks made her look like a victim of Auschwitz.
He did not recognise this woman as his mother,
with her long white hair and despairing eyes;
death had already marked her. She could have
easily been mistaken for someone twice her age.
“Closer.”
“I’m not sure I should have come here.”
“The letter was most difficult for me to write
John,” she whispered, her breathing
accompanied by a rasping wheeze. “Not one day
has passed when I have not thought of you. I
know what sort of a mother I’ve been and am
not proud of it. The last thing I wanted to do
was to hurt you and Paula; you’re everything
to me. You must understand your father and I had
passed the point where we cared about one
another. Lust drove us apart; a strong emotion
that destroys lives, as it did your fathers.”
Ryan looked around the room and took in the
grandeur of it. “Lust seems to have rewarded
you.”
“How ironic that David left me shortly after
your father took his life. I’m not asking you
for forgiveness, as I realise your hatred for me
is as deep as any ocean. Eight years have passed
since you left and a new millennium has dawned.
Paula has made her peace with me and I wrote
this letter in the hope that I could see you
just one more time before I die. Yes John, I’m
dying. Each breath I take may be my last.”
Ryan could not hide his tears. “What about me?
What about Paula? Have you ever thought that
what you did drove this family apart? My father
took his life because of you and Paula almost
died of a broken heart. I lost my wife and
child; yes they died in a road accident. Where
were you when I needed you?”
She coughed before answering slowly. “I tried
to come to the funeral but Grace’s father
wouldn’t allow it. I never hated Grace and I
loved little Sarah. I have suffered greatly and
perhaps this is God’s punishment?”
“So now you beckon me here to ask for
sympathy?”
“Forgive me John.”
He bowed his head and held out his hand.
“No! You must not touch me.”
“I must not touch you? What are you dying of
mother?”
She attempted a smile, her wrinkled eyes
moistened by the tears. “I have AIDS John.”
“AIDS, but how?”
“I was raped my son. I was raped and left for
dead.”
“My god! When did this happen?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“Did they catch who done it?”
“No. The men had alibis.”
“Men?”
“Yes, there were three of them. Each gave the
other an alibi.”
“But surely the DNA would have convicted
them?”
“It was inconclusive. They threw it out
John.”
Again he held out his hand but she waved it
away.
“Mother, you cannot catch AIDS simply by
touching.”
“Nevertheless, I do not wish to take that
chance.”
She closed her eyes and was silent before she
rasped. “John, these animals must be brought
to justice.”
“But how? You yourself said they’ve been
acquitted?”
“There are other forms of justice.”
He knew by her eyes what she meant. “Oh no,
don’t even ask. How can you ask this of me
after you have shut me out all of these
years?”
“It was not I who shut you out John. I have
money; you could pay someone.”
“This is not real. I don’t believe I’m
hearing this.”
“The list of names is on the dressing table.
Do what you think is best.”
“Don’t you put this on me mother! I owe you
nothing.”
“You owe me your life.”
He was silent and brought his hand to his aching
cheek once more. His mind was going through a
vast spectrum of emotions. “Who is looking
after you? You shouldn't be on your own.“
“It was my wish. Go now John; I don’t want
you here when I die.”
He sobbed violently, his shoulders shrugging as
she pointed at the note on the dressing table
with her long spindly finger. He never thought
he would feel like this but his mind was
elsewhere, on a sandy beach many years ago with
his mother and father. He was playing with his
bucket and spade building a castle, whilst Paula
filled the moat with seawater. His mother with
her long jet-black hair and pretty face kissed
his father and held his hand.
“Go!”
He picked up the notepaper and left.
The shabby exterior was in dire need of a lick
of paint. Ryan stood across from the garage
hiding in the shadows. He swigged another
mouthful of whisky before stepping forward and
crossing the road.
A short, middle-aged bald man with large
side-burns and rotten teeth wiped his oily hands
on a rag and watched his approach.
“Good morning, what can I do for you?”
Ryan froze for a moment before stuttering.
“Are you Howard Dowling?”
“At your service.”
“Er, a friend of mine recommended you.”
Dowling lay under the Fiesta and continued the
conversation.
“Who was that then?”
“Er, Bobby Freeman.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Oh you did a good job for him.”
“That’s what I’m here for. What do you
need doing?”
Ryan checked in both directions; the narrow
street was clear. The perspiration ran down his
rugged face; the alcohol seeped out of every
pore. He bent over and selected a hammer from
the toolbox.
“Remember Maggie Ryan?”
“Who?” The short mechanic slid from beneath
the car and put his hands up to protect his face
as the hammer came down powerfully connecting
with his forehead.
Ryan stepped back, the bloody hammer hanging
loosely in his hand. Dowling’s face was
obscured by the flow of blood; his voice
squealing like a piglet, his body convulsing
like a marionette. Ryan backed up against the
garage wall, trembling as the mechanic attempted
to crawl beneath his car.
Dowling felt the hands around his ankles and
clawed the cold wet concrete, his fingernails
breaking with the effort. Ryan brought the
hammer down again and heard a deafening crack as
the tool made contact with Dowling’s skull;
his false teeth shooting out of his mouth and
coming to rest in a puddle of oil. This time the
mechanic was motionless. Ryan wiped the hammer
handle with the rag and noticed his jeans were
bloodstained. He left the garage and walked
briskly, his breathing laboured, his head in a
daze. He reached for his whisky bottle and it
slipped out of his shaking hands and smashed on
the pavement. He ran like he had never run
before.
Ryan slammed his empty glass down on the bar
receiving an ugly hostile stare from the
landlord. He watched the large grey-haired man
approach, his enormous head seeming too large
for his body, his thick forearms covered in
tattoos. His appearance with his bushy eyebrows
and thick lips reminded Ryan of a Russian.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Asked the
landlord checking his wristwatch.
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.”
“Ten more minutes and I’m closing.”
Ryan stared at the tattoos on his arms, as he
briskly cleaned the glasses. The name of Queeny
stood out, repulsing Ryan as he realised this
monster must have a sweetheart or even a wife.
The landlord noticed he was the object of the
scruffy man’s gaze and leaned on the bar.
“Have you got a problem mate?” He asked in
an East London accent.
“Tommy Craven right?”
“Yes Sherlock, my name is above the door.”
“Tommy fucking Craven,” he slurred, his eyes
half shut.
“Do I know you?”
“Bastard!”
“What did you say?”
“I said bastard!”
“That’s what I thought you said.” Craven
lifted up the hatch and grabbed Ryan by the
collar dragging him outside into the downpour.
He shoved him forcefully and Ryan fell over a
dustbin the contents emptying onto the sodden
street. He lay on the ground among the rubbish
like a discarded piece of litter.
“You’ll get yours Craven, do you hear me?”
He opened an eye and stared at the drab stained
ceiling. One hand reached for his head, the
other for his swollen cheek. Ryan sat up on the
bed his trembling hand groping for the bottle,
the unfamiliar surroundings taking time to sink
in. He stared at the mirror to see he was still
fully clothed, his hair matted down with the
rain from the night before. His memory of
returning to the hotel non-existent.
He took a large mouthful of the amber liquid and
swilled it around in his swollen mouth
attempting to dull the ever-worsening pain. With
his head bowedhis blurry eyes settled on his
hands. He brought them up to inspect them,
mumbling obscenities under his breath. His hands
were covered in blood, the memory of the night
before unclear.
A thousand thoughts entered his aching head as
he took another generous mouthful of whisky. He
spotted the bloodstains on the bedclothes and
dragged them onto the floor in a rage. He
recalled vaguely the argument in the pub with
Craven, one of his mother’s attackers, but
everything after that was a blur.
He carried the bedclothes into the shower and
stripped off his clothing inspecting them
carefully for bloodstains. The coldness of the
shower shocked him as he fumbled with the
regulator. He closed his eyes as the now hot
steaming water cleansed his naked body. The
image of Tommy Craven recurrently invaded his
thoughts. The dead bloody body laid in the car
park riddled with stab wounds, the still open
eyes that had registered shock during the gory
onslaught.
Ryan applied soap to the sodden bedclothes and
rubbed vigorously in an effort to erase the
evidence. Satisfied he returned them to the bed
covering them with a blanket from the wardrobe.
A thought entered his tormented mind as he sat
on the chair drinking whisky. If one of the
rapists in fact had infected his mother then
that would mean he was also dying. Dowling and
Craven certainly did not look as though they
were dying so that left only one man. Ryan
produced the piece of paper from his trouser
pocket and studied the name. The grim reaper may
be his ally after all, as it would be pointless
killing him if he was already a dead man.
A woman in curlers, a cigarette dangling from
her top lip answered the door. A baby was
nestled in her arms and a small girl stood by
her side.
“Yeah?”
“Is Frankie at home?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a friend of Frankie's.”
She eyed him suspiciously, the cigarette never
wavering. “If you’re a friend of Frankie's
you’ll know he’s been dead for over a
year.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“You been inside?”
“I just got out,” lied Ryan.
“Well like I said, he’s dead.”
“How did he die?”
“Fucking hell, how long were you away for?
Frankie had AIDS. How he contracted them I
don’t know and I can only thank god that the
bastard did not pass them on to us. Did he owe
you owt? Because if he did...”
“No Mrs Drysler, he owed me nothing.
Goodbye.”
Bright sunshine had at last made an appearance
and the park was bustling again. Ryan peered
through the railings at the pretty dark-haired
girl sat on the bench reading a novel.
“Don’t go too fast Rachel!” She screamed
at the child on the roundabout.
Ryan’s eyes watered as he watched her. She had
not changed much in all these years; she still
had her slender figure even though she had
obviously given birth to a child. Ryan smiled as
he watched her eyebrows move up and down, a
habit she apparently still possessed.
He entered the park gates and stood in front of
his sister who continued with her book. She
raised an eyebrow and it took a matter of
seconds before her brain registered recognition.
“My god John. It is you isn’t it?”
She dropped her book and hugged her brother as
she wept.
“Where have you been John? You never wrote or
called in all this time?”
“ Paula, when you left the institute I knew
you were well and let you get on with your life.
I didn’t want to impose my pathetic life on
you.”
“I didn’t even know you were married and had
a child. It was only when I read about it in the
newspapers.”
“This family ceased to function once father
died.”
“Where are you staying John? Hell you look
such a mess.”
“Some slum of a hotel in town. You look
terrific Paula.”
“Thanks. What happened to you John?”
She looked him up and down, hurt in her big
brown eyes.
“Since Grace and Sarah died I have lost the
will to live. I contemplated suicide several
times but the coward in me prevented me doing
so. Anyway I received a letter from mother
begging me to come and see her before...well you
know.”
“You‘ve been to see her?”
“Yes. Quite a place she’s got there. What I
can’t understand is why nobody is with her?
She ought to have a nurse at least.”
“A nurse?”
“Why didn’t you write to me and tell me she
had been raped?”
“Raped? Whoa boy! I think we have our wires
crossed.”
“You mean she wasn’t raped?”
“Not unless it was this morning. I went to the
cinema with her last night.”
“That’s impossible; she’s dying of
AIDS.”
Paula’s eyes drooped and she sniffed the air.
“You’ve been drinking haven’t you John?
Mother is as fit as she‘s ever been.”
“No! Well I mean yes but I am not drunk. I
received a letter from mother begging me to see
her and then she tells me she is dying of
AIDS.”
“I don’t know why you are doing this John
but stop it.”
“I saw her Paula. She was dying. Look, here is
the address.”
“That is not mother’s address,” said Paula
scanning the letter. I must admit it looks like
her writing though. Show me this house John.”
Paula pulled up outside the gates to the large
house. Ryan was the first out and he looked in
disbelief at the overgrown garden and the
boarded up house.
“This cannot be. I was here yesterday I tell
you!” He checked the address again on the
gate.
“John, I know this house. You’re mistaken;
it has been empty for eighteen months.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his
whisky. Paula shook her head in sorrow as he
swallowed a mouthful.
“I know what I saw Paula.”
They heard the sirens in the background as Paula
hugged her brother.
“John, this house belonged to Queenie
Sullivan, a prostitute.”
“What are you saying Paula?”
“Queenie was a high-class hooker and made a
fortune in her time; that’s how she could
afford this house. As she grew older she decided
to retire, well almost. She kept three of her
best customers on, just to keep things ticking
over. Queenie found out she was HIV positive,
which she could have only picked up from one of
her three clients. She died eighteen months ago
vowing to avenge her death as none of her
clients visited her. One of her customers did
have AIDS and died six months after Queenie.”
“Frankie Drysler.”
“How did you know?”
He never answered. “Tell me Paula; did Queenie
know mother?”
“Yes. You know mother, she had no airs and
graces about her. She often called around for
tea. When Queenie realised she had AIDS, mother
ceased to visit her.”
The sirens were now close.
“How did you know about Frankie Drysler
John?”
“It doesn’t matter Paula. Give mother my
best love will you?”
The police car pulled up and two detectives
approached. Ryan looked towards the house to see
the upstairs curtain twitch. |
