Reaper, page 6
‘Oooooh, spooky.’ The words from Tiny broke the spell and were accompanied by jazz hands and a sarky face.
‘You joke all you like, but Skeet said he saw him, saw the Reaper with his own eyes. Saw him stepping out of nowhere with that black coat, with that big hood, but he had no face, nothing but a black hole where he should have had a face, and burning-red eyes. Skeet was scared. And we all know there’s nothing that scares Skeet – he’s tough as nails.’
‘Bollocks. That man is afraid of his own shadow,’ Artie said.
‘Nah, he’s not afraid of it, just skittery, it moves faster than he does.’ That one was from Roddie, and there were a few more derogatory comments before Max chipped in to the conversation.
‘Skeet told me about seeing the Reaper too,’ he said. ‘I don’t know that he was scared. But he was shit-faced at the time.’
‘Well he should be scared,’ Old George said. ‘He’s seen the Reaper, and looked him in the eye. That means he’ll be next. Mark my words, he’ll be the next to fall. He’ll be the next to go to hell.’
A crack of lightning ripped across the sky, followed by a roll of thunder. They all looked up and Old George crossed himself.
‘See, God is sending omens and portents. It’s a sign I tell you.’ He looked directly at Max, pointing a gnarled, shaken finger at him. ‘If you’ve got any shred of decency, you’ll go find Skeet and you’ll keep an eye on him, make sure he’s alright and the Reaper doesn’t get him. You’ll go fight off any ghosts or demons.’
Max dropped his eyes to a chewing-gum blot on the pavement, Old George’s intense gaze too much to weather.
‘I’ve got quite enough demons of my own to fight, old man. I don’t need to take on anyone else’s,’ Max said. ‘I only deal in real people, not imaginary foes. And one of the ones I need to fight is one of those drug-dealer fuckers.’
The group fell silent, faces closed, the humour and buffoonery discharged as quickly as the lightning.
‘What do you want to be messing with them for?’ Artie asked.
‘It’s personal. Let’s just say I have a grudge to settle. I need to find someone who deals meth.’
Max knew some of them had dealers, but he wasn’t naive enough to think they would give up who they got their fixes from, or any arrangements they had to pay for them. That would be a highway to a beating, at best. But he did want to plant a seed just in case one of them also had a gripe, wanted some retribution, but didn’t have the guts or fortitude to do it themselves.
‘It fucked up my baby girl’s life, and I need to make someone pay,’ he said. That was all he was prepared to give them at this point. They didn’t need to know exactly how much it fucked Jess up, and even just saying those words brought a well of tears to his eyes. Tears that didn’t go unnoticed.
‘Look, Max, I can see that something went down, something bad. But don’t you mess with those people. They’re ruthless. They even get wind that you’re looking for them and there will be hell to pay. You know that?’ Artie said.
‘Yeah. I’ll be careful.’
Artie gave him a look that clearly showed he doubted Max’s ability there. ‘You need to be more than careful, otherwise you’ll be dead. Dead before the Reaper gets Skeet.’
19: Max
Old George’s words played on repeat in his head, and realising the voice wasn’t going to shut up anytime soon, Max gave in and headed back up Queen Street towards K-Road to check on Skeet. He couldn’t imagine the old man would be in his usual spot behind the shops, as the direction of this miserable driving rain meant the shelter of the doorways would be useless right now. Skeet hadn’t survived this long on the street by being a fool. Still, Max swung around the back of the block to check. But all he succeeded in doing was getting even wetter and more annoyed with himself, because his hyperactive imagination insisted he look twice into the shadows. He couldn’t help checking behind him towards Myers Park, the spot between his shoulder blades twitching as he did so. He didn’t go in for superstitious nonsense like ghosts and demons. Yes, evil was walking the streets, but in his experience its origin was man-made, not some myth. As far as he was concerned the only demons you had to worry about were those inside you.
The detour did do something to alleviate his conscience, though: he could hand on heart say he’d tried. Yet, it wasn’t quite enough. Now the seed of concern had been planted by Old George, he couldn’t stop there. He had to find Skeet.
Back in his day, on the truly wretched nights they all used to decamp to the shop fronts where the verandas were wider, afforded more shelter. Not those up on K-Road, where it was too noisy, too busy. The ones down around the corner in Pitt Street were better. There had been a time when you could sneak into some of the large parking garages after business hours, take shelter in there from wind and rain, but misplaced concerns about theft among the entitled and paranoid meant most of those were gated and locked now. Pity. A few homeless people keeping warm were no threat to the vehicles. They weren’t the ones stealing them. They might piss on one occasionally, but that washed off. And it wasn’t like they were going to damage an already ugly concrete edifice. And a few gates and some Keep Out signs weren’t going to deter the graffiti taggers.
Max emerged back onto Pitt Street and made his way up towards K-Road, eyes scanning for any sign of Skeet. Nothing. He was grateful to get back undercover as he reached the corner, turned right and walked in the direction of the bridge that spanned the snaking motorways below. He never traversed that bridge – a city boundary he couldn’t bring himself to cross. He had no idea why. It was just Ponsonby on the other side, not purgatory, but still, it was there. He’d come to accept those idiosyncrasies that were barriers in his mind. He didn’t think he was superstitious – but yet like your battles, you picked your demons. There were a few more blocks to go before he reached that mental barrier though. He made his way along the road, manoeuvring around the drunks, the inconsiderate groups of teenagers herding three and four abreast across the footpath, and avoiding eye contact with the hookers. They had seen him enough to know he wasn’t a prospect, but it didn’t stop them from cooing an invitation, taunting him, something that made him intensely uncomfortable, bringing back memories of some other adolescents who had been trapped in the game at far too young an age to be in that business. He couldn’t help his fatherly instincts kicking in and thinking that they should put on more clothes in this weather. Shit, he was getting old.
There were a couple of beggars huddled in doorways along the way. Desolate men sitting on the cold pavement with sob-story signs and a hopeful container. Max dropped a coin in each on the way past, hearing the ‘cheers, mate’ in his wake. He was about to pause to reply when his eyes fell on a form twenty metres ahead and to his right. There was someone lying down outside one of the vacant shop fronts, facing the wall, legs pulled up to their chest. Usually if people were hunkered down for the night they had a sleeping bag or a blanket of some kind, something to insulate them from the elements. The homeless might be disadvantaged, but they weren’t stupid. Their situation made them resourceful, and that meant they found warmth, somehow. Max slowed down, little pangs of alarm starting to edge into his mind. He recognised that coat. He recognised that vintage-looking flat cap. The pangs built up to a stab and he picked up his pace, cut diagonally across in front of a hand-holding couple, getting an angry ‘hey’ for his troubles.
He knew. Even from afar. It was in the way he lay, the fall of his arms, the angle of his head, the way his mouth sagged open.
‘Oh, fuck, Skeet,’ he uttered.
Old George’s words rang in his head: ‘You’ll be dead. Dead before the Reaper gets Skeet.’ Two homeless people dead could have been coincidence. Three? That was a pattern.
The thought made Max pull up short of the prone form. His training kicked in and he resisted the urge to rush towards the body. Instead he quickly circled around, looking from all angles, assessing. There was no blood, no signs of a struggle, such as smears on the shop windows or broken glass. He could see none of Skeet’s belongings, or objects other than the usual litter that gathered in the nooks of the doorways – crisps packets, takeaway wrappers, a beer bottle, cigarette butts. He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures, the images blurring with the welling in his eyes. This was no way for anyone to die. Despite his shortcomings, he was fond of Skeet. The old man deserved some dignity in death.
‘You’re a sick fuck,’ a deep voice spat out behind him. He swung around in time to see a young man flipping him his middle finger as he walked past. ‘Get a life and leave him alone. Go get your jollies somewhere else.’
Max tensed, waiting for him to stop and deliver the sentiment more forcibly, but the young man walked on, bold enough to call him out, but not enough to get personally involved. If people had got more personally involved, perhaps Skeet wouldn’t have been lying here, dead on the pavement, being overlooked or ignored.
Max tucked his phone back into his coat pocket. There was no getting around it. He took a deep breath, stepped in closer and squatted down behind Skeet’s head. He reached out, gently placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed hard and called out loud. ‘Skeet?’
Nothing. It felt like an awful parody of Groundhog Day as he placed the back of his hand on Skeet’s cheek. Cool, not cold. Hope? He rolled Skeet back a bit then and hope evaporated. His head lolled back, revealing cornflower-blue eyes that were open but unseeing, the pupils dilated, staring into nothingness.
20: Reaper
He watches as minutes tick into hours.
He watches as car after car drives past.
He watches as bus after bus disgorges its passengers onto the footpath.
He watches as soul after soul walks by, most not even taking a glance.
Each time his heart races, hoping this will be the one to find his handiwork.
Each time humanity lets him down.
Finally he watches as someone approaches, stops, checks, cares.
He leans forward.
It is him, the thin man.
Why is it always him?
He is becoming a problem.
Or is he?
A smile spreads across his face.
Opportunity is opportunity.
This could be perfect.
He sits back and waits for the sound of sirens.
21: Meredith
She frowned when she saw the name that flashed up on her screen. What the hell was he ringing for at this hour of the night? Or at any time, for that matter. She considered leaving it to go to voice mail, but curiosity got the better of her and she answered on the third ring.
‘Max?’
‘Meredith,’ he said, almost shouting. She could hear voices and the distinct noise of traffic on wet roads in the background.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m on K-Road.’ More voices. She heard a muffled ‘yeah’ from him, then he was back loud and clear. ‘Look, there’s been another one.’
‘Another what?’
‘Another murder,’ he said.
What did he mean another murder? As far as she was aware there hadn’t been a first one. There were no recent homicides on the caseload. It had been a quiet month so far on that front, thankfully. She draped the shirt she’d been ironing over the board and walked across her lounge to the sofa.
‘Sorry, what exactly are you saying?’
Max replied, but she couldn’t catch what he said over the noise of some large vehicle thundering past him.
‘Can you repeat that?’
There was a long pause before the reply.
‘Sorry, I said another one is dead.’
He must have moved location as she could now hear more clearly.
‘Another who?’
‘One of the homeless people,’ he said. ‘First there was The Ferret, then Karina, and now Skeet. Skeet is dead.’
Meredith took in what he’d said, caught the catch in his throat.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Max.’ She knew he felt a responsibility for that particular man, recalled his relief mere days ago when the body under the drape at the morgue wasn’t Skeet, as first thought. But it appeared fate had caught up with him. ‘You said it was murder. Does that mean you know how he died? Was it a beating? A violent death?’
‘No, it was nothing obvious like that. I found him just lying there, dead on the footpath on K-Road, near the kebab place.’
‘Wait, did you just say you found him?’ Finding dead people seemed to be becoming a habit for Max.
‘Yeah?’
‘When was this?’
‘Half an hour ago.’ Her eyes dropped down to her watch. It was just after 9.00pm. ‘The police are here now. But I can’t convince them to treat it as a full murder scene.’
That didn’t surprise her, if there was no obvious sign of homicide.
‘So you’re still there?’
‘Yes, I had to hang around to make a statement. I’ve just ducked into the kebab shop to get away from the noise, but they’re trying to close up. I guess a dead body and a police cordon near your door isn’t good for business.’
It was a bit of a leap for him to take from discovering the body of a sickly old homeless man on the street on a wet and freezing winter’s night, to calling it a murder. But one thing she did know from years of working with him was that Max had a nose for these things, and in this instance, considering his recent past, he had a unique perspective.
‘Okay. You said another murder. You think the others were killed too? That’s quite the conclusion to jump to. What’s your reasoning?’ She sat down crosslegged on the sofa.
‘Call it logic, or common sense or scepticism, but having two deaths occur in the same area, in the same community, you could call a coincidence – it’s winter, it’s been cold as hell, there are always one or two casualties, happens every year. But three? And in such quick succession? That just doesn’t sit right.’
It was a theory, and worth thinking about, but it was something that could have waited until morning.
‘That’s reasonable logic. But ringing me at this hour of the night to tell me that? That’s not the reason why we’re talking. What are you really thinking, Max? What do you know?’
Again, there was hesitation.
‘It’s something Skeet told me, just last night,’ Max said finally. ‘I’d gone to check on him because the weather had been so bloody awful, take him something to eat. He wasn’t that great at looking after himself. Skeet told me he’d seen someone, and these were his words not mine: he said he’d seen the Grim Reaper.’ He paused. She didn’t say anything, just waited. ‘And it was the Grim Reaper who had killed The Ferret and who’d killed Karina. And I will admit right now, he was pretty drunk at the time, so I didn’t pay much heed. But then I found out that not only had he told me he’d seen the killer, he had gone around and told others on the street too, put the wind right up a few people.’
Meredith could see where he was going with this.
‘And now he’s dead?’ she filled in.
‘And now he is dead.’
They both went quiet for a moment.
‘And you’re thinking it’s definitely not a coincidence.’
‘No, not a chance in hell.’
Meredith leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed at her temple. ‘Okay, Max, I can see your concerns and understand why you might think this needs looking into further. But I’d like to know what you want me to do about it at this hour on a Wednesday night.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘Look, I know there’s nothing you can do right now, and I realise the police here are just going to treat the scene as an unexplained death and they will do the basics. I didn’t know any of them, so they looked at me like I was some loony toon when I suggested it was a murder scene. I didn’t push it because I didn’t feel like being escorted to the cells myself for creating a nuisance. But, hey … Hang on a second.’ She heard the muffled sounds of him talking with someone in the background. ‘Sorry, I’m getting booted out, going to have to go outside.’ The road noise picked up again, and he raised his voice, trying to be heard over the din. ‘Meredith, so far there’s been one death a night. What happens tomorrow night? Is there going to be another?’
It was a valid question if you believed his theory.
‘I know the victims will be low priority on the post-mortem list, because of, well, who they are. But can you try and speed things up? Get them bumped up the queue? Find out cause of death, whatever it is. I could be completely wrong, but if they didn’t die from a health-related issue, or hypothermia from the damned cold, then that means there’s a killer out there picking off homeless people, and they’re probably going to strike again.’
The very thought of that sent a shiver down her spine. She hoped Max was being melodramatic, that the reality was a hard life had finally caught up with these people, not some so-called Reaper. But while she might not entirely trust Max, she did trust his instincts. The theory would be a hard sell with her boss, who trusted Max less than she did. But if he was right … it didn’t bear thinking about.
Rubbing her temple wasn’t doing anything for the headache that was forming.
‘Okay, Max,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
22: Max
He sat bolt upright, gasping for air, lungs aching, arms reaching out, desperately trying to find something to grasp on to. He could feel hands … hands raking down his shoulders, hands dragging him back – into the earth, into oblivion. But with each rasping intake of breath the cloying smell of damp soil overwhelming his nostrils lessened, the clawing faded to nothing and it was with indescribable relief Max realised he was here, in the cold, dark reality of the eviscerated villa – not fighting his way out of a shallow grave. He dropped his hands to the floor, felt the solid coolness of the wooden boards under his fingertips, tapped them twice, reassured by the hollow resonance. He rocked gently back and forth in an attempt to slow his pounding heart, modulated his breaths, deliberately slowing them to make them and the pulsing in his ears sync with his tempo. Fuck, what was the time? The numerals 6.00 glowed back at him. At least that was one small thing he could be grateful for, it was late enough that he could get up, didn’t have to risk closing his eyes again – risk sleep and the hellish world it brought with it.
