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 offered the objective 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 on the train, 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 were responsible for the heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. This once handsome face had been ravaged by the grim reaper, who had gatecrashed his once content life. Ryan was now unemployed, his once luxurious house a hovel, and his cars sold to satisfy his alcohol addiction.

    The blurred sign of Newark stirred him and 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 out of the window and into the hedgerow. The bitter, cold wind numbed his face, as his tongue sought out the cavity in his aching tooth. The excruciating pain offered him another excuse to drink.

    He pulled up his collar and cursed the unusual June climate. His eyes traced the contours of the long, gravel path, which led 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.

    He marvelled at the colourful blooms and the stone lions that were standing proudly outside the front door. He looked up and saw the twitching curtains. His immediate thought was to turn around, as 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. He perceived the magnificent décor, with crystal chandeliers and lavish portraits adorning the staircase. He now realised 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 that 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 that his mother was upstairs. The tall, walnut door was slightly ajar, and he saw the shadows of the flickering flames on the wall. He pushed the door and saw the enormous bed that was covered in a transparent shroud.

    “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; and with her hollow cheeks, she resembled 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’ve 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 father’s.”

    Ryan looked around the room and took in the grandeur of it. “Lust seems to have rewarded you, Mother.”

    The ailing woman continued. “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… Also, 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,” she screamed.

    “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.”

    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 that they’ve been acquitted?”

    “There are other forms of justice.” He could tell by her eyes what she meant.

    “Oh no, don’t even ask. How can you ask this of me, after you’ve shut me out all of these years?”

    “It was not I who shut you out… 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 envisaged that he would ever 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 and building a castle, whilst his sister, 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!” she demanded.

    Ryan reluctantly picked up the notepaper and left.

 

The shabby exterior was in dire need of a lick of paint. Ryan was standing 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 D-Dowling?”

    “At your service.”

    “Er… a friend of mine recommended you.”

    Dowling lay under the Fiesta and continued the conversation. “Who was that then?”

    “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 that the narrow street was clear. The perspiration ran down his rugged face, and 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. He was trembling, watching, 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 when the tool made contact with Dowling’s skull. The mechanic’s false teeth shot out of his mouth and came to rest in a puddle of oil. This time, the mechanic was motionless.

    Ryan wiped the hammer handle with the rag and noticed that 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 as he had never run before.

 

Ryan slammed his empty glass down on the bar and received an ugly, hostile stare from the landlord. The intoxicated man 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 the landlord’s arms, as he briskly cleaned the glasses. The name of Queeny stood out, which repulsed Ryan, as he realised that this monster must have a sweetheart, or even a wife.

    The landlord noticed that he was the object of the scruffy man’s gaze, and leaned on the bar. “Do you got a problem, mate?” he asked in an East London accent.

    “Tommy Craven, right?”

    “Yes, Sherlock, my name’s above the door.”

    “Tommy fucking Craven,” slurred Ryan, 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 seized Ryan by the collar, dragging him outside into the downpour. He shoved the drunk 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 that he was still fully clothed, his hair matted down with the rain from the night before. His memory of returning to the hotel was non-existent.

    He swallowed 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 bowed, his 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, before he swallowed another generous mouthful of whisky. He spotted the bloodstains on the bedclothes, and in a rage, he dragged them onto the floor. He recalled vaguely the argument in the pub with Craven, who was 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 when he fumbled with the regulator. He closed his eyes, as the now hot, steaming water cleansed his naked body. The image of Tommy Craven now recurrently invaded his thoughts. The dead, bloody body that was riddled with stab wounds, and was now lying in the car park. He recalled the still, open eyes, which 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 that he was also dying. Dowling and Craven certainly did not appear 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 was standing 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, who was sitting on the bench and 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 faced 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, hugged her brother and wept. “Where have you been You never wrote or called in all this time?”

    “Paula, when you left the institute, I knew you were well, and so I let you get on with your life. I didn't wish to impose my pathetic life on you.”

    Paula‘s face registered sadness. “I didn't even know you were married and had a child. It was only when I read about the accident in the newspapers.”

    Ryan sat beside his sister. “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’ve 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 cannot understand, is why nobody is with her? She ought to have a nurse at least.”

    “A nurse?” frowned Paula, a look of bewilderment on her face.

    Ryan continued. “Why didn’t you write to me and tell me that she’d 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.”

    Ryan held his aching head in his grubby hands. “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’m not drunk. I received a letter from mother, begging me to see her, and then she tells me that she’s dying of AIDS.”

    Paula held up her hands. “I don’t know why you are doing this, 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  that it looks like her writing though… Show me this house, John.”

 

Paula manoeuvred her car outside the gates of 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 earlier in the week, I tell you!” He again checked the address on the gate.

    Paula was adamant. “John, I know this house. You’re mistaken. It’s been empty for eighteen months.”

    He reached into his pocket for 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 and Paula hugged her brother. “John, this house belonged to Queenie Sullivan…a prostitute.”

    “What are you saying?”

    “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 discovered that 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 during her demise… One of her  customers did have AIDS, and died six months after Queenie.”

    “Frankie Drysler,” muttered Ryan.

    “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 that she had AIDS, mother ceased visiting her.”

    The sirens were now close.

    “How did you know about Frankie Drysler, John?”

    “It doesn’t matter… 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.

    As he was driven to the police station, Ryan reflected on the mysterious events, realising that he had been duped by a ghost. He chuckled, before laughing loudly; his life such a bloody mess.