Whisper For The Reaper, Jack Gatland [good books for high schoolers txt] 📗

for years. I know you are a bully. I know what you did to that girl.’

‘I didn’t assault her,’ Craig snapped back. ‘She came on to me. I didn’t do anything.’

‘I’m sure you did not,’ the man replied, stepping back from the bridge, beckoning Craig in. ‘But perhaps we should talk more about this together, rather than shouting it loudly across a stream?’ The old man watched Craig, still not moving.

‘Your dog is in pain,’ he said. ‘You will not save him?’

Now terrified, Craig shook his head. The man thought about this for a moment and then pulled something out of his jacket pocket, tossing it over the stream, the item landing at Craig’s feet. As Craig bent down to look at it, he could see it was an ivory handle. Picking it up, he realised it was a wickedly sharp cut-throat razor.

‘See?’ The man smiled. ‘Now you have a weapon. If I attacked, you could hurt me. Please, come in, Craig. Come and play a game with me.’ And as Craig watched, the man walked back into the woods.

With the blade now in his hand, Craig felt more in control of the situation. The man was right; he could hurt him and hurt him badly if he tried anything. And, as he crossed the rickety bridge and entered the wooded copse, he saw Scamper, a rope loosely tied to his collar and secured to a tree, wagging his tail with delight at this strange game they were playing. The dog wasn’t in pain or in distress at all. Craig looked to the man, angry that he had lied to him, and found him sitting on a fallen tree trunk, with another fallen trunk facing him.

‘Sit, please,’ the man indicated the other trunk. ‘We have much to talk about.’

Now more curious than scared, Craig ignored the dog and walked to the tree, sitting down on it, blade still in his hand, ready to defend himself. Noting this, the man reached into a pocket and pulled out a hip flask with two small metal cups, made of metal bands that clicked into shape when flicked. Into these, he poured a liquid, offering one to Craig, who shook his head.

‘And I thought you were almost an adult,’ the man sighed, drinking one cup. ‘See? Not poisoned. But you will need to drink this, Craig Randall of Gleeson Road.’ He held the offered one up again. ‘Drink.’

Craig didn’t mean to, but the man’s voice was so commanding that he couldn’t help himself, taking the metal cup and downing the liquid with a cough. It was a sweet, strong taste, like apples.

‘Good, yes?’ The man smiled. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine added to numb the pain.’

Craig coughed as the man pulled out a small, silver coin.

‘You know what this is?’ the man asked, not waiting for an answer as he explained. ‘This is a solid silver East-German Mark.’ He twirled it in his fingers. ‘See? A number one is on this side, that is heads, while on the other side is a compass and a hammer; tails. I have had this for many years now.’ He looked up from the coin now, staring intently at Craig.

‘We play a game now,’ he explained as he reached into his pocket again, pulling out another cut-throat razor. ‘I will flip it. If it lands heads, I will take this razor, this very sharp blade and slash my throat open. If it shows tails, however, you will do this instead, yes?’

‘No!’ Craig rose now, angry. ‘You’re mad! I—‘ he stopped as a heaviness overcame his legs, sending him back to the tree trunk. ‘What did you do?’

‘I told you,’ the man replied. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine.’

‘I don’t want to play,’ Craig whined, realising that this was a terrible place to be right now.

‘I understand, it is scary,’ the man nodded sympathetically. ‘But you have been a wicked man, Craig. As have I. And as such we must face repercussions.’ He rolled the coin over his fingers. ‘And you might not get tails. I might lose.’

‘I’ll scream,’ Craig insisted. ‘I’ll call for help.’

‘And that is your right,’ the man nodded calmly. ‘But know that if you do, I will be gone before anyone arrives. And then, at some point very soon, I will enter your house while your mother, father and dear little sister Ellie are asleep and I will slowly and painfully skin them all alive. And then I will find you and make you watch as I slice pieces off you with this straight razor.’

Craig was crying. ‘Please, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to die.’

The old man smiled.

‘Maybe you will not,’ he said as he flicked the coin into the air, watching it lazily flip before landing on the back of his hand. ‘Let us see, shall we?’

DI Freeman climbed out of his BMW and looked around the campsite. It was right after the school holidays had started, and there were families and children everywhere. A nightmare to keep a crime scene contained.

There was a perimeter already placed around the entrance to the copse; a couple of police officers ensuring that the small crowd of onlookers couldn’t enter.

This was good. They really didn’t want to see this.

One onlooker, a young dark-skinned woman with frizzy black hair, waved to him as he approached the police officers, catching his eye. Forcing a smile while silently swearing, Freeman walked over to her.

‘Kendis,’ he said amiably. ‘I didn’t think you worked for the Maidenhead Advertiser anymore?’

‘I don’t,’ Kendis Taylor replied, pulling out her voice recorder. ‘But I’m visiting mum. It’s the Olympic opening ceremony tonight and my cousin’s in it. Saw the blues and twos as I was driving to the house.’

Freeman wanted nothing more than to escape. ‘You needn’t turn that on. There’s no story here.’

‘You sure?’

Without answering, Freeman walked away from the annoying reporter, showing his ID to the nearest officer and passing under the incident tape, entering the woodland clearing. Here he found