Don't Fear The Reaper (17 page)

‘I want to be on my own for a while,’ he said. ‘Please leave.’

Sue didn’t speak or move for a short while. ‘I know this is going to
sound selfish, and I apologise for that and the inconvenience, but Nadine and I
were hoping we could use your kettle and warm some milk for the baby and make
ourselves some tea. But perhaps now isn’t the best time.’

Perkins dug into his jeans pocket and tossed the keys to the church and
to his home at her. Sue caught them after a quick fumble. ‘Thank you.’

Perkins said nothing. He sat stoic. The breeze lifted his fringe off his
brow, not that he paid it any heed.

Sue pivoted and went to get Natalie and the baby. Then she halted. ‘Do
you want anything? I bet you could use a cuppa.’

Perkins shook his head once and stared impassively into the night.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Sue said. ‘What’s the little one’s name?’

‘Sapphire.’

Forcing a smile, Sue said, almost to herself, ‘Yes, that’s an appropriate
name. The child is very precious.’

Perkins watched Sue walk back down the gravel path up to the church where
Natalie and Sapphire were. When he saw her disappear behind the church to the
underground lair, he reached behind his neck and fidgeted with something
between his fingers. Then he brought his hands back around and held the
necklace where a silver crucifix twinkled in the moonlight. He stared at the
cross for several seconds, seriously deliberating the tiny figurine of Jesus
dying. A scalding tear brimmed in his right eye before escaping down his cheek.

When he stood up again, Perkins ambled down the path to the timber fence
of his back yard. He flicked the porch light on. The women would be able to see
their destination the moment they emerged from the bunker and follow the path.

The silver crucifix he’d worn ever since Bishop John Hayes gave it to him
lay abandoned on the gravel path. Hidden in the layers of darkness the crucifix
twinkled nevermore. 

*

The
time was 1:03am when Number 1 pulled into a rest stop alongside the M4. He’d
been awake since seven that morning and had been watching the hospital edifice
vigilantly. He hadn’t taken the risk of putting the radio on, stopping
somewhere to eat and drink. Ever since leaving London and driven to Bristol, Number 1 had filled the Sedan’s tank to the top and followed the reverend.

His euphoria and satisfaction of accomplishing his task had ebbed as the
endless night road coaxed his consciousness into a deep slumber. Realising what
was happening, Number 1 prudently came to a halt at the rest stop.

The rest stop had a Texaco filling station, a KFC and a McDonald’s. After
filling the tank up again, Number 1 rolled the car through the Drive-Thru of
McDonald’s and ordered himself a strawberry milkshake, large fries and a
Quarter Pounder cheese burger.

Once he’d finished his midnight snack, Number 1 killed the engine and
rolled the seat back so he could stretch his legs. He closed his eyes and
embraced the slumber that had coaxed him on his journey home.

Number 1 dreamt of mayhem and death and… a screaming baby.

ON 26
DECEMBER 2006
Number 1 arrived back in East London and returned to the
dilapidated red-brick building where he and the others met to discuss their
plans.

No homeless people were to be found sprawled out between trash cans or
Dumpsters. No drunken lovers who had stumbled out of nightclubs and pubs in the
area were heard or seen fornicating in the niches. Silence. The day, although
bitterly cold, was without wind. The night before a flurry of snowflakes
descended the clear night sky. Underfoot was slippery with ice. Number 1 was
still weary. His anatomy still hadn’t recovered from the long drive. Groggy,
Number 1 took his time ambling down the deserted pavement to the abandoned
alley. His slumber in the Sedan had been uncomfortable. Four hours undisturbed
rest was better than he’d anticipated but not enough. However, returning
A.S.A.P. to the capital was imperative. Otherwise the others would assume he
wasn’t going to make it back.

He was relieved to see the gaunt figure of old man Sacasa. His remaining,
stray strands of long black hair were tied back in a loose ponytail. The old
man was balding, and yet it suited him more than if he’d had a full set of
hair. Sacasa was no taller than five feet five, aided by the walking stick that
was the only thing keeping him at a vertical base.

Presumably hearing his footfalls or merely sensing his presence, Sacasa
pivoted and stared at Number 1 with his one functioning eye. Number 1 would
never grow accustomed to the scarred face and ruined scalp of the old man. He
appeared to suffer with the worst case of psoriasis Number 1 had ever seen. The
scaly parts of the disease circled what could only be described as bubbles
filled with blood and pus. Long, scraggly hair hung beneath his liver-spotted
chin. His unseeing eye joggled in its socket like an overzealous pinball.

Number 1 was overly glad that since making his acquaintance Sacasa had
never produced his hand to shake. Sacasa hadn’t washed, bathed or shaved in
years. Even his greying eyebrows had a fringe.

Sacasa nodded a greeting which Number 1 reciprocated.

‘The others haven’t arrived yet?’

Sacasa snorted, clearing his sinuses and then spat out a big wad of
gelatinous phlegm. ‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘Won’t be long. How’d it go?’

‘Good,’ Number 1 said turning to face the street. ‘I found their hideout.’

Sacasa bared his russet-yellow crooked teeth.

Number 1 fought back the urge to gag.

Soon thereafter Number 2 and Number 3 arrived on foot together and headed
down the alley where Number 1 and Sacasa awaited their arrival. They exchanged
obligatory hellos. Then Number 2 repeated the question Sacasa asked. Number 1
repeated the answer.

All four men moved to the refuse container, and noticed something amiss.

‘Where are the wheels?’ Number 3 asked, remembering his vivid dream.

‘The wheels snapped off so you’ll all have to push it,’ Sacasa said,
deliberately not including himself.

‘How long will we have to stay under?’ Number 2 said, looking at the
other three, not knowing who could provide an answer.

‘Little while,’ Sacasa said, as though he were an expert on this kind of
catastrophe. ‘The blasts could be so severe that it’ll suck all the oxygen out
of the air. Moisture, dust and other debris will also play a factor,’ he added.
‘The sun will be blocked, plant life will die either immediately or thereafter.
If you came up straight away there’s no knowing what you’ll expose your lungs
to.’

Number 3 realised what the old man said was in fact prudent and fact.
However, there was one main problem they faced. ‘If what you’re saying is so –
and I’m not disputing it isn’t – how will we survive with no supplies to
replenish us?’

Sacasa scratched a wart on the side of his nose until it oozed dark,
mucus liquid. ‘That’s all been taken care of,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘’Course there’ll be no electrical appliances. But plenty of food and drink has
been supplied that’ll fulfil your needs.’ He grinned again. ‘You’re not the
only one who’s been busy.’

Number 1 ignored the facetious remark. Old man Sacasa was as deranged as
he was infected. The most important aspect of surviving underground for the
time being had been taken care of. Although, his stomach churned at the thought
of being in the company of Sacasa in such a confined space, it would be
considerably better than staying where he was for the global barbecue.

Number 3 stepped forward. ‘Well, unless there’s anything else, I think we
should get on with shoving this Dumpster out of the only access to our
temporary home.’

Number 2 bent his knees and got his entire bodyweight behind his arms.
Number 1 joined the other two men and on the count of three pushed. The
Dumpster creaked in protest. Then, shortly after, began scraping forward across
the concrete. Sacasa watched as the three men built momentum and the Dumpster
inched forward.

After two intervals and much pushing and wheezing, the lid of the
drain-hole came into view. Seeing this encouraged the three men who pushed with
renewed vigour until the Dumpster passed the drain, allowing them access.

Number 3 dropped to his knees, face beetroot. Number 2 doubled-over at
the waist and gasped for breath. Number 1 leaned against the Dumpster and gave
Sacasa a baleful stare, disapproving of his reluctance to not even offer
assistance.

As though reading his indignation Sacasa said, ‘Had I joined you I
would’ve been no use and probably hurt my fragile frame.’

Number 1 shook his head in disdain before turning away.

‘You need me,’ Sacasa said. ‘It is I alone who knows the passages like
the back of my hand. It is I who can lead you to sanctuary. It is I who am the
gatekeeper to the Reaper.’

With his special powers of second sight, Number 1 was aware that old man
Sacasa was far more dangerous than he appeared. Sacasa came from a loving home.
He was the eldest boy and second eldest child out of four. He had two younger
brothers and an older sister – all of whom he hadn’t kept in contact with for
the best part of his life.

When he was but a boy, Sacasa’s parents noticed the palpable difference
in him. Their other three children often played together, being there was only
six years between Gemma and Paul (the youngest boy). Sacasa, however, preferred
to go fishing down by the canal on his lonesome. He’d take a magazine to read
and an apple and a Coke. He’d leave the family home shortly after breakfast and
not return again until after sunset. This introverted habit became worse the
older he got. The older he became the more freedom he was entitled to. But like
most young boys Sacasa’s curiosities with the world also grew.

Macabre curiosities.

At thirteen Sacasa had savoured the smell of blood and spilled innards of
fish and other neighbours’ pets. Soon thereafter he took an avid and unhealthy
interest in murder stories and serial killers. His parents didn’t think much of
this peculiarity at first. After all, Gemma enjoyed reading Sherlock Holmes
mysteries and Edgar Allan Poe tales. But when his brother Paul followed him out
of the house one day in the summer of ’57 he was not to know of the sights that
would scar him indefinitely.

Instead of going to the canal to do some fishing Sacasa left his rod and
knapsack behind the foliage on the other side of the footbridge. From there he
ambled down the footpath alongside the canal to a meadow. The high grass was
almost the same height as Paul. Nevertheless, intrigued at what his older
brother was up to, he followed.

Erected five hundred yards or so farther was an underpass. The
Dual-Carriageway stretched left to right beyond Paul’s peripheral vision. When
he looked up Sacasa had come to a halt and was gingerly descending the worn
path in the steep bank down to the dimness of the underpass.

The river ran through here and although it would have been an ideal and
secluded location to do some fishing, Sacasa had purposefully left his rod and
knapsack at the footbridge.

Paul arrived at the underpass and shrank back at how steep the muddy path
had been worn by constant treading, and didn’t risk falling to the bottom and
hurting himself. The river was shallow. Rocks jutted from the scintillating
surface from the resplendent sunshine overhead. He retraced his steps until he
could see through the tall grass the shaded underpass.

A grubby, dishevelled man sat against the wall, legs sprawled out on the
layering of stones and pebbles. The neck of a brown bottle protruded from a
brown paper sack. His beard was dense and caked in mud. He stirred awake at the
sound of movement. Then he raised his haggard face to the lean figure that was
Sacasa. Paul watched his brother hop across the stones to the other side of the
trickling river. Now he stood directly over the homeless man. Paul couldn’t
hear a single word that was exchanged between them. Perhaps Sacasa had
befriended the homeless fellow out of pity.

However, the incipient alteration from the older, distant brother Paul he
had known to this new person transpired as fast as it took for Sacasa to remove
the long, serrated bread knife from his jeans. Paul hadn’t noticed the knife as
Sacasa’s shirttail had concealed it. 

Now the homeless, drunken dude snapped fully awake and tried to get up. Yet
as he’d been stationary for so long and was without proper rest and nutrition this
mundane task was arduous. He used his arms as levers to push himself out of a
crawl posture. The wall also aided him to keep upright on his trembling legs.

In all the time it took to achieve this vertical position Sacasa never
moved. Yet as soon as the homeless man shifted around to face him, Sacasa drove
the blade into the man’s midsection and then retracted the blade in a fluid and
rapid motion.

Paul gasped!

Sacasa watched with morbid fascination as the wounded man clutched his
abdomen and staggered as blood gushed out of the fresh wound through his
fingertips. The homeless man raised his head and gave Sacasa a pleading look.
Instead of succumbing to the begging, Sacasa unremorsefully swiped the jagged
blade across the man’s face.

Paul spun away, feeling his gorge rise. When he looked again what he saw
had more of a lasting effect on him than it did the victim. Sacasa was
repeatedly stabbing at the gut and throat of the man, who slithered down the
wall, leaving a crimson streak.

Paul’s mind was being mortally stabbed simultaneously with every physical
wound his older brother was inflicting – his equanimity breaking, shattering
into a million irrevocable pieces.

Then the worst, most ghastly sight his
naked eyes would ever absorb but would replay over in his mind thereafter
destroyed him completely. And it was this, his psychologist stated, that had
been the catalyst to his declining mental health and lifelong insomnia. Sacasa
gripped the homeless man’s head with his left hand and tilted it back. Then
with the same precision and concentration as a surgeon, Sacasa assiduously
began to gouge out each eye.

Paul had screamed at the top of his
lungs then.

His heart froze when Sacasa whipped
his head into his direction and their eyes met.

Then Paul’s adrenaline kicked in and
he sprinted.

On that particular day in the summer
of ’57 the temperature was 36 degrees Celsius. Paul was the fastest of all his
brothers and sister. He ran the mile or so to his house and collapsed in his
father’s arms.

When Paul came to he was lying on the
sofa in the living room.

His mother and father, Gemma, Johnny
and Sacasa sat around him all wearing masks of deep concern.

Paul had screamed again and recoiled
until he shielded himself from Sacasa with the cushions. But what frightened
him most was how Sacasa had met his terrified eyes and stared not at him, but
into his very soul, and shook his head once. Paul may have been young and might
not have been able to articulate his emotions then, but he knew what that
single shake of the head meant.

Only after Sacasa had left home and
not kept in contact with his estranged family, who moved back to Switzerland
ten years later, did Paul tell his family of this incident.

All of this information Number 1 knew
just by staring and focusing into the crimson eyes of the old man who had
killed God knew how many other innocent people and animals in his life. He may
have been old and physically inept, but he still possessed that primal,
untainted evil within.  

Number 1 was fully aware that Sacasa
knew he was seeing imperative information, and didn’t care. This was not the
time or the place to use their special gifts bestowed upon them.

One by one they descended. Sacasa went
first. He flicked the torch on and shone the yellow beam into the opaque
darkness. The other three men gathered around in a huddle and listened to the
drip…
drip… drip
echo below.

Number 3 spoke what he was pondering
aloud. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked the old man.

Sacasa grunted what quite possibly
could have been a ‘Yes’ in response.

The three exchanged anxious
expressions. Then they watched the old man pivoting, pointing the beam, finding
his bearings. At least they all hoped that was what he was doing.

Finally Sacasa grunted something
unintelligible and followed the cone of light down the passageway. The others
followed, somewhat tentatively. The passageway was roughly 10ft wide and 8ft
high. Apart from the endless stream running down the passageway the water was
sparse.

Up ahead an arrow had been painted in
fresh white. Sacasa followed it and turned left down another passageway. This
continued for some time, and had any of the other men been asked to retrace
their steps they would’ve found it nigh on impossible to do so. The labyrinth ended
in front of a rusty metal door. Flaky bits had crumbled here and there leaving
forlorn patches. Sacasa dug into his trouser pocket and brought out a set of
keys. He selected one and inserted it in the lock. Even after doing this the
door needed to be forced to yield. It scraped across the flat concrete floor.