Jack Stocker
I do a lot of stuff. Mainly though, I write.
The Death of Robbie
It had been a long time.
Jacob sipped from the glass he held in unnaturally long fingers, his eyes never straying from the horizon. Birmingham wasn't a particularly pretty city, and he didn't live in a terribly pretty area. But then again, it suited him not to have tourists wandering around. He got too many visitors as it was – maybe it was time to move some of them on.
The first drops of rain started to darken the balcony, but Jacob didn't move. The rain didn't bother him particularly much. It was better than the alternative. His eyes wandered as a train appeared on the horizon. He smiled as the rumbling got closer and closer, drowning out the sound of his iPod speakers. The railroad track, and its proximity to the building, was one of the reasons he picked this flat. He liked the trains. They reminded him of home. Not too much though. Home was just distant enough to be a pleasant memory, rather than an unpleasant reality. He could remember the little things he liked, rather than the bigger things he didn't.
A knock at the door startled him out of his reverie. He drained the rest of the glass in one as he got up. He stared at the departing train for a second longer, and then reluctantly went inside, taking the iPod out of the speakers as he went.
The knocking came again, loudly and more urgently. Jacob muttered something to himself as he turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open.
He felt it immediately. It was familiar, yet unwelcome. The air felt heavier for a second, as if he was breathing smoke, and his casting hand tingled.
The sensation of Death.
There was only one other man he knew who exuded that kind of power.
"Chase." He snapped. "In."
His visitor scowled at him. "Never really one for manners, were you Jake?"
"In."
Chase stepped across the threshold, gripping a hold-all and dragging the small boy with him. Without bothering to ask, he collapsed heavily into Jake's armchair, pouring himself a glass of red liquid from the decanter. The boy stood awkwardly next to him, looking nervous but knowing he had no choice.
"Up." barked Jacob, looking down at the recalcitrant Chase.
Chase didn't move. "We're snappy today, Jake."
"Well, you haven't been in four weeks. I'm running dry."
"It's not easy to make people disappear." Chase pouted, rising. "It's not as simple as leaving a note saying 'Mum, I've run away'. It takes planning."
"I'm sure, I'm sure." Jacob scowled. "Took you long enough to get the last one."
"Well she was older, so it was trickier." Chase retorted, sitting down in the chair opposite. "It takes about six weeks before the missing persons start to be forgotten. I'm not magicking these people out of thin air, Jacob. The children are harder; their parents are less inclined to believe their darling has gone."
"When you're done moaning…?" Jacob turned the music back on, thin fingers delicately connecting the iPod to the speakers. He jabbed a finger over his shoulder to the bathroom.
But Chase wasn't ready yet. "I don't think you appreciate the work I do, Jacob."
"I pay you enough, don't I? And you get some of the blood."
The boy started, but neither of them paid attention.
"That's not the point!" Chase slammed his hand down on the table, cracking the glass.
Jacob stared at the hand for a second, taking in the glass. He appeared to be thinking.
Without a second's warning, he shot from his chair and snatched Chase up like a ragdoll, displaying impressive speed for such a fat man. He slammed him against the wall, dislodging one of the pictures hanging there, which fell to the floor with a crash.
Jacob spoke, his voice a whisper, his face centimetres from Chase's. "Do you think. For a second. That I give a single fuck about politeness."
Chase considered the situation. "No." he breathed.
"You get me the shit I need. You get some too. Isn't that enough."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Jacob nodded, smiling a deadly smile. "Then take the boy, get in that room, and get me my blood."
Chase was inclined to agree with his assailant, mostly because of the heat, and the steam gently rising from Jacob's long fingers. Of course, Chase had similar power, but couldn't match Jacob's strength. He was the one who got the majority of the blood, after all.
Jacob released him, and Chase didn't waste a second, picking up the hold-all and grabbing the stunned boy by the collar, dragging him into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, kneeling so he was at the boy's eye level.
"You're doing a good thing." he said. "You're helping people. But this is the bit I told you about, Robbie. I'm afraid it's going to hurt."
There were tears in the boy's eyes, but he nodded.
"I'm ready."
Chase opened the hold-all.
*
The music drowned the sound of the gurgling. It was the Dire Straits – Sultans of Swing. After twenty years in England, Jacob had only discovered them recently. This was his favourite album. He considered turning on the TV, but decided he preferred the music.
He went out onto the balcony again, closing the door behind him just as another train shot past the building. He smiled, emptying the last of the blood into a glass. He'd been worried, for a bit. Worried that he would run out before Chase arrived with another victim. But for all his annoying quirks, the man had never failed to disappoint. Mind you, he couldn't afford to – they must have been two of the last Bathians in England. He knew of a few in London, and a few scattered around various cities. He could have found more; there was always the Internet. But he'd have had to plough through hundreds of disturbed teens, and a few disturbed adults. Humans who believed they were special; thought they had powers, thought the sunlight harmed them. He'd tried it once, and given up after half an hour, leaving the computer for the balcony. He had Chase, anyway. He didn't really need to find any others.
It was well past dark by the time Chase came stepped out onto the balcony.
"Ah." Jacob grinned with delight. "Fresh?"
"First bottle." Chase laughed.
They sat for some time, watching the railroad and drinking, all animosity between them apparently forgotten. Chase knew that addicts will do crazy things to get their fix, and Jacob was one of the most exotic kinds of addicts there was.
There was a knock.
"I'll get it." said Chase, rising.
It occurred to Jacob that it was odd for someone to visit at this time of night, but the thought was fleeting. Chase could deal with it. He had his blood, which he could easily pass off as wine as long as he didn't let his visitor out on to –
"Mr Smith?"
Jacob started, almost spilling his glass.
"That's me."
"Could you step inside for a second?"
"Certainly."
He left the decanter on the balcony, along with his glass. When he slid the doors shut, he made sure to lock them, and put the key in his pocket. He turned to face his new visitor. The first thing that struck him was how thin the man was – he almost fancied he could see bones underneath the suit. The second thing was his black eyes, which bored into Jacob. He didn't like the way the man stared at him. It was almost like he knew him.
The man stared at him for a few seconds, and then his narrow, bony face spread into a smile.
"I'm Detective Inspector Cotard. I'm investigating the disappearance of a young boy. Lived on this street, actually."
"A disappearance?" Jacob repeated dumbly. His mind was whirling.
"Yes. Robbie's been missing for about six weeks now. His family are very worried about him. I don't suppose you've seen anything?"
"Well, no, I –"
Cotard raised a hand, stopping his babbling. "You don't know what he looks like yet."
"I haven't seen any boys." Jacob muttered.
"What, ever?" Cotard smiled. "Not even on your way to the supermarket in the mornings?"
He was enjoying this, Jacob could tell. Did he know something? No, impossible. He had nothing. As long as Chase had cleaned up properly in the bathroom, and the DI didn't look too closely…
Cotard smoothly cut through Jacob's train of thought.
"I have some pictures, if that would help."
Jacob nodded. "Yes. Yes, I should probably take a look."
He concentrated, mentally fumbling around for Chase's mind. He found it within seconds.
Why did you let him in?
Chase met his glare.
It looks suspicious if we don't.
Jacob frowned. Chase made sense. Cotard spread out the photos on the table. Jacob looked for as long as he thought appropriate, spreading them out, hming and ahing, but finally leaned back with a practised air of disappointment.
"Sorry, Detective. I don't recognise him."
"Are you sure?" Cotard met his gaze. Again, Jacob had the sense the man knew him. He didn't like it.
"Dead sure." he said.
"Shame." said the man, gathering up the pictures. He rose, and started towards the door. After a few steps, he stopped and turned to face Jacob again.
"I don't suppose you could spare me a glass of that wine before you go?"
Jacob spoke before thinking, his relief causing him to momentarily forget his caution.
"I don't have any wine."
The thin man frowned. "What were you drinking out on your balcony? Blood?"
He knew.
He knew.
Cotard laughed, and Jacob felt it. He didn't know how he hadn't before. Smoke clouded his vision. His casting hand tingled again, and he felt a cold breeze sweep through the flat, knocking over the speakers, spinning the iPod across the floor. This creature emanated dark power – it reeked of Death.
The Detective Inspector, or whatever it was, crossed the flat, still laughing, and sat itself in an armchair. It was an oddly warm, friendly laugh.
"Ah, Jacob. Shit, man. That was hilarious."
Jacob sat, stunned.
"Oh, Chase, you can go by the way, sorry."
Chase crossed the room without a word, pausing only to high-five Cotard, and left.
"Shame you couldn't see your face." Cotard continued. "You were so scared!"
Jacob could barely find the words to speak. He was in trouble, he knew that much. But for what? "What…am I under arrest?"
Cotard shook his head, his laugh finally fading. "No, shit-for-brains, I'm not human. Not the brightest, perhaps. I mean, for starters, 'Jacob Smith'? Do you have any idea how unoriginal that is? I chose Smith when I came to Life, too. Cole Smith. At least Cole was vaguely relevant. It means dark. Do you want to know what Cotard means?"
Jacob nodded dumbly. There were too many words in a short space of time for him to being to understand them.
"The Cotard delusion," the creature began, "otherwise known as negation delirium, was first described in 1880 by a French neurologist, Jules Cotard. Sufferers commonly believed that they had lost their blood or internal organs, were dead, or just didn't exist. That's interesting, right?"
Jacob nodded again. There didn't seem to be anything else he could do.
The creature sighed, apparently becoming impatient. "You still don't know who I am, do you?"
Jacob's mouth moved almost of its own accord.
"Cole. You're the Grim Reaper."
Cole finally dispensed with the human shape, and Jacob stared at the skeleton sitting on his armchair. He'd kept the suit, and his bones were a pearly white. He picked up a hat that had appeared on the ground next to him, and placed it at an angle on his skull.
"For a second there, I thought you were a complete moron." Cole grinned. "Although, it was a pretty smart operation you set up with Chase."
Hearing the sound of Chase's name again somehow made it all real; more than a nightmare. Jacob started from his chair, but Cole was standing over him before he even had time to blink. A long, thin sword had appeared in one hand, and was levelled at Jacob's throat.
"Sit down." Cole said. There was no malice in his words. From the tone of his voice alone, it could even have been a polite request. But Jacob did as he was told.
"Chase was working for you." Jacob hissed.
"He was." Cole said casually, settling himself in the armchair again. "It was simple enough. All he had to do was make contact with you. Being a Bathian himself, it wasn't difficult. We knew you'd recognise the signs. What I didn't expect was for you to have a delicate plan set in place for abducting and killing people. You're a smart one, Smith. Smarter than all the others."
"Clearly not smart enough." Jacob scowled, still not moving from the chair.
"No." Cole admitted. "You can't have it both ways. You can be a human in Life or a vampire in Death. Some Bathians stay off the blood and it makes them harder to find. But not everyone knows that. Or so Chase tells me."
Jacob allowed his mouth to curl into a sneer. If he was going down, his accomplice was coming with him. "How much did Chase tell you, Cole? Did he tell you all of it? Did he tell you about the people he's taken, about the people he's killed? About the blood he's drank?"
Cole didn't start. "Well – yes. Who do you think supplied him with people?"
"You'd let people die just to get to me? That's noble." Jacob barked, his old bravado returning in waves.
Cole sighed. "No. Let me explain to you how this works. Souls have, if you like, a sell by date. The time at which they hit it is mostly random. They can reach it when they're nine years old, or when they're ninety. After that, it goes bad. Insane. And then you have a poltergeist trapped inside a human body, something that's not happened in thousands of years. I took those who reached that sell by date. They needed to die anyway. And they volunteered, believe it or not."
"All of them for just me? I doubt it." Jacob spat.
Cole shrugged. "A death that violent cancels out some bad deeds. Those who died here are going to the Seraphs."
"So not completely selfless then."
"No, but willing to make a sacrifice. You can't know what that's like for them. Bathians don't generally die; but you can do the next best thing."
Jacob ignored it. Despair gave him confidence. He was going back to Death – he'd accepted that. He might as well milk it, needle Cole while he could.
"Why string it out that long? Why let me kill that many?"
Cole turned, angry for the first time. "Don't try and make me feel guilty, Jacob. That's fucking pathetic. You heard what I said. Brutal deaths cancel out their sins. You were a vehicle for their salvation, and if they volunteered, I don't have a problem with it. It's a loophole in the Life and Death process, and I'm happy to exploit it if people wish that on themselves. You are one of the last Bathians left here – there are fewer than twenty of you now, and I will enjoy sending each and every one of you back."
Jacob made to stand up, and this time Cole let him. "You think we're evil, Cole. You judge us for being who we are."
Cole waved away the argument. "I've had this conversation before. I'm not getting into a philosophy debate with you, Jacob. Not this side of the Trapdoors."
Jacob's voice rose desperately. "Bathians are vampires, demons! We're designed to take pleasure in pain!"
Cole raised his sword, dark magic crackling around his other hand. "Perhaps, but only the pain of evil men. You're not inherently evil as a race, and I will not have you inflicting suffering on the innocent."
"I did it only through your plan! Not even I! Chase killed them by your design!" Jacob screamed. Panic caused his carefully learned human mannerism to slip back, into his old archaic way of speaking. "I only had the intention, not the action. Is that enough to judge me?"
Cole twirled the sword once.
"It is for me."
He plunged it into Jacob's stomach, and the demon screamed. A brilliant light streamed from his eyes, and he vomited it from his mouth. When Cole withdrew the sword, the same light spewed from his stomach. It pooled on the floor, and then rose up, enveloping him. The Bathian's arms thrashed, swinging wildly in and out of the light. There was a flash of heat, and then a bolt of dark red shot from the mass, straight at Cole. The Reaper blocked it with little effort. He raised his skeletal hand again, ready for another, but the thing that had called itself Jacob had no more energy. With a final shriek, the ball of light expanded; then faded.
The demon was back beyond the Trapdoors, into the final expanse of Death. Where he rightly belonged. Cole hoped Kuladra was still on hand to dish out some form of justice.
He lowered his sword, thinking. He abruptly made a decision, and wandered towards the kitchen.