Until today, seven days after his last encounter with Liza Plain, Michael had been having a fair week. Volunteer ushering at the Harvard Film Archive one evening, same gig at the Tate Museum of Fine Art for three, and that was the one he’d been hoping for, because the TMFA liked long-term commitment, so maybe it might lead someplace, and though Michael was the oldest usher in the museum, his line manager seemed to like him, and he guessed he’d been rubbing along pretty well with the visitors. And so, yes, this week he had been almost happy …
And then there they were.
Edward and Julie Parks.
The architects of the beginning of his ruin, and the wreckers of his last attempt at rehab. Here again now, eighteen months later, their stares furious enough to make him aware that he was finished at the Tate before he’d really begun.
His line manager was embarrassed and apologetic.
‘They’re generous patrons, Michael,’ he told him. ‘I know it’s unfair, but we have no choice but to let you go.’
‘There’s always a choice,’ Michael told him.
Beyond disconsolate, he left the museum and walked home, hoping the exercise might help him burn off some of the anger, considering stopping at a bar and getting hammered, knowing it wouldn’t really help his blues; besides which, he couldn’t afford it.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, still walking, wishing his mind would just stop, wishing he would stop, because he’d been screwed yet again, and how much more could a man take?
Back in his room, legs aching, he put the kettle on the stove to make coffee, then turned on the laptop.
And there it was.
From: Reaper at Whirlwind
If there was a way of proving to the world that Donald Cromwell did not murder Alice Millicent, would you take it? If there was a way to avenge the destruction of your family and the theft of your personal happiness, would you take that?
‘They have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.’
Hosea, chapter 8, verse 7.
The shock was profound. Anger flaring first, familiar and sickening, before it dissipated and his legs turned to jelly and he had to sit down, trying to make sense of the new, unanticipated burst of longing suddenly overwhelming him.
This was insane. He needed to delete it, from the PC and from his mind.
But Emily’s face was suddenly right there, and his awareness of the ruination of her childhood, about her struggles rather than his own, and none of that would have happened if it hadn’t been for the murder, and what if his grandfather had been innocent – as she’d believed – and what if this ‘Reaper’ was someone who really could help him prove that?
His hand moved to the trackball and hovered.
‘Crazy,’ he said.
Don’t go there, his rational mind told him.
Michael ignored it.
He moved the cursor onto Reply and tapped out his answer.
One word.
Yes.