The Reaper

part iii

part iii

Death wore black well.

He wasn't sure whether it was the way it brought out his gaunt yet daunting solemnness, or just an eternity's worth of practice. Either way, he had refused any clothing of Rosa's unless it fit his specific criteria: black and inconspicuous. The closest she could manage was a slightly baggy black jumper that used to belong to her brother before she had abducted it when she moved out of her family home. It still smelled of apples and autumn and that musky outdoors scent that comes with the rain.

"You look good," admitted Rosa. "For a million-year-old serial killer."

"I keep telling you," said Death, opening up his large black umbrella before they stepped out into the rain. "I don't kill. I harvest."

"Sure," said Rosa, sticking close to him as the rain battered his umbrella. "Whatever you say. Arguing with you is as pointless as an art history degree which, by the way, I already have."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "It didn't amount to much. I did English after, anyway."

Death noticed that Rosa was staring at the wet pavement awfully hard. He tried observing it to see what was the matter. The answer seemed to range from bird shit to the occasional crisp packet or discarded glove.

"Do you dislike litter?" he asked.

She looked up at him sharply. "What?"

"Well you seem rather upset – which, might I add, is confusing considering you were not the one who spent the night on a sofa so sordid it violated several international human rights protocols – so I deduced it must be the litter."

Rosa's face melted into an apologetic grimace. "The sofa was really that bad?"

"It was very...human-y."

"And that is...?"

"Well," said Death, "it was unsatisfying, degenerate, lonely and eventually cold."

Her eyes widened. "Wow."

"I'm sorry." He felt suddenly uncomfortable. "I would be happy to listen to your litter-related complaints?" he offered.

"It's not the litter," she sighed. "It's the shop. It's been the first time I've opened the place since Tuesday– since Anna – and I'm a little nervous that business might be slow."

Death would have liked to imagine that, given the opportunity, he would have comforted his new friend and told her that everything would be fine. He did not get that chance to do this, nor did he get the chance to give her some amicable encouragement about keeping a high chin and a stiff upper lip. The reason for this came in the form of a rude interruption from a screaming lunatic.

"Today is the day!" screamed the lunatic. He was balancing precariously from the edge of an eighth-storey window that he had managed to climb out of. The heavy English rain lashed at the lunatic's wet face and soggy clothes to the extent that he was almost vertically drowning. Below him was an eight-floor drop and a sharp line of black railings.

"Oh my god," hissed Rosa, grabbing Death by the arm.

This only seemed to gain the attention of the lunatic. "Yes!" he cried at Rosa and Death in particular. "I end it all today!"

The street was virtually empty save for a few cars rolling down the road, and a couple of quickly passing pedestrians. The lunatic in the window was a definite casualty in the onslaught of rain. His acid green hair clung tight to his pale white face, and his baggy plaid shirt gripped his bony arms.