A Very Reaper Romance

Chapter Six – 312 days left

After the failed reaping of Mr Castle, Jack had found life, or death, to be rather quiet. That is with the exception of Zoie.

Since his first message two weeks ago, Jack and Zoie had spoken almost daily — about food, university, and occasionally life after death (a topic Jack quickly sidestepped). Talking to her was the highlight of his days.

But this day was Friday, which meant his weekly tea and cake date with Mrs Bailey. Her baking club met on Thursdays, so the cake was always nice and fresh. Jack really looked forward to their weekly meeting; Mrs Bailey always knew the latest local gossip, and loved sharing it with Jack.

“…and then she fell straight off the ladder!” Mrs Bailey laughed. “We’ve warned Celia about climbing that bloody thing. She’s pushing ninety-six, for goodness’ sake, and her arthritis isn’t really compatible with shimmying up the side of a house to hang Christmas lights. Well, not if you want to see your hundredth birthday.”

Jack swallowed. The ledger stayed quiet, but his body didn’t trust the silence.

“She’s only at it because she saw Alan Pemberton doing his drains back along. She’s always had a point to prove with that man.” Mrs Bailey rolled her eyes.

“Why, uh, why is that? What do drains have to do with it?”

“About ten years ago Alan jokingly told Celia she was getting old, which unfortunately Celia took to heart, so now she goes out of her way to prove she’s still spritely. Of course, taking a daily walk and doing a charity bungee jump are two very different ways of proving it,” she laughed.

Jack pictured Celia’s ladder, the slick rung, the wrong step. He hated that his mind now jumped to the worst-case scenarios.

“And then there’s poor Arthur Finch,” Mrs Bailey continued, reaching for her teacup. “Collapsed in the corner shop last week. Scared everyone half to death.”

Jack stilled. “Collapsed?”

“Oh yes. Down he went between the frozen peas and the fish fingers. Someone said he was properly gone for a minute. His eyes were rolled back, the lot.” She shook her head in a show of disapproval, but Jack couldn’t miss the underlying glee in her voice. “Ambulance came quick though. Turns out it was dehydration. Imagine that. Nearly popping your clogs over not drinking enough water.”

Jack’s pulse thudded loudly in his ears. For a split second, he could see it – fishfingers and some cryptic word blooming across the ledger page, the sharp tug behind his breastbone that meant go now.

“So, he’s… alright?” Jack asked, carefully.

“Oh, he’s fine.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Back home by the evening. Still went to bowls on Tuesday, the stubborn old sod.”

Jack glanced towards the window. Mrs Bailey’s pristine garden lay still under a light dusting of frost, the bird feeder swung gently, untouched and the birdbath was a dull sheet of ice. Peaceful. Deceptively so.

“You know,” Mrs Bailey continued, entirely unaware of the thoughts running riot in his head, “it’s always the same ones. The ones who should be resting that insist on tempting fate.”

Jack forced himself to nod. Tempting fate, as if fate were some mischievous being that you could tease into action rather than a hung blade waiting patiently for its moment to fall. Mrs Bailey laughed. Jack sat back slowly, the chair creaking beneath him, and forced a laugh, but it came out more like a choke.

“Oh, you alright dear? Is the croquembouche a bit dry? I admit pastry isn’t really my forte…”

Jack took a sip of his tea and smiled. “Not at all, a flake went down the wrong way.” He pounded his sternum with his fist for dramatic effect. “You shouldn’t worry, Mrs Bailey, it tastes lovely,” he assured her, earning him a wide smile.

“Jamie, I’ve told you, call me Mirri. What’s going on with you anyway, young man? How’s work?”

“A bit slow at the moment, but I’m not complaining. I like when it’s quiet.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Quiet meant no one was dead.

“Trust me, when you get to my age you’ll be desperate for something to do,” Mrs Bailey laughed.

He smiled weakly, a pang in his chest reminding him that he would never get to her age. Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. For a split second his heart dropped, worried it was the ledger, but when he realised it was the phone he fished it out of his pocket, smiling widely when he saw Zoie’s name on the screen.

“Sorry Mrs, uh, Mirri. Do you mind if I take this?”

“Of course not, I’ll pop the kettle back on,” she smiled.

Jack slid the arrow on the screen to answer the call. “Hey, how are you?”

Zoie’s voice rang brightly. “I’m fine, how are you?”

“Good thanks! Just having my weekly date with Mirri,” Jack winked at Mrs Bailey as she walked through with a fresh pot of tea.

“Date? Oh, sorry…” Zoie said with disappointment and Jack slapped his hand to his forehead.

“No, no, not like that! Mirri is a lovely lady in town who shares her weekly cake bakes with me over tea and gossip,” he laughed.

“He’s a lovely young man looking out for a lonely old lady,” Mrs Bailey called out, and Jack grinned, she was possibly the oldest wingman he’d ever had.

Zoie giggled, music to Jack’s ears. “Well, aren’t you sweet? Look, I won’t keep you, I just wondered if you were free tonight?”

“Tonight?” Jack’s heart rate picked up. A small, reckless joy flared in him before he could stop it.

“Yeah, I’m staying with Nana for the weekend, but she’s usually in bed by seven. I wondered if you fancied a date, but it sounds like you already have one today,” she teased.

“No! I mean yeah! Urgh, s**t…” Jack stammered. “I mean, I’m free tonight. That sounds great.”

“Call me when you’re home and we’ll make a plan.” Jack could hear the smile in Zoie’s voice as she spoke.

“Ok, I’ll ring you in a bit.”

“I promise not to wear him out dear!” Mrs Bailey called out with a laugh. Jack heard Zoie chuckle before she hung up.

“You’re terrible,” Jack said, shaking his head.

“So, who was she? You’ve not mentioned a young lady before,” Mrs Bailey probed.

Jack blushed, shovelling some more caramel coated choux pastry in his mouth to avoid the question. He purposefully chewed slowly and took a long sip of tea as Mrs Bailey watched him silently. Knowing he couldn’t avoid it, Jack sighed.

“That was Zoie. She’s, um, well she’s—”

“Not your girlfriend but you wish she was?” Mrs Bailey finished for him.

Jack nodded mutely.

“Tell me about her,” Mrs Bailey smiled, placing her elbows on the table and balancing her teacup delicately between her fingertips.

“She’s smart, and beautiful. I met her the day I moved into Reaper’s Rest ­– we bumped into each other in town, literally.”

Jack told Mrs Bailey all about Zoie; how he’d paid for her phone repair, how her grandma didn’t seem to like him, how they had spoken near daily for the past two weeks, how he was besotted with her. He didn’t add how terrified he was of losing her before he ever truly had her.

“Ah, young love,” Mrs Bailey smiled wistfully. “And love at first sight too. Just like me and my Jack. May all be so lucky.”

Jack’s heart dropped at the mention of his real name. For a moment, the room felt off-kilter, as if the universe had nudged something it shouldn’t have. “Wh-Who was Jack?”

“My husband, God rest his soul. He passed away five years ago. I often wonder if he was the town reaper for a while. ‘Jack the Reaper’ would have tickled him.”

Jack was fairly sure every drop of colour had drained from his face, but he forced a laugh.

“Y-You reckon i-it’s true then? The, uh, the reaper thing?”

“Oh, certainly,” Mrs Bailey nodded. “One of my ancestors was one of the healer-women. The story’s been in my family for generations. I’ve no doubt about it.” She said it with the same certainty she used for recipes and weather forecasts.

Mrs Bailey gave a small, thoughtful hum, as though she’d said more than she’d intended. She picked up her teacup again.

“Then there was the story my gran used to tell,” she said casually, her eyes on the delicate china in her hands. “Might’ve just been something to scare children into behaving.”

Jack stayed very still. “About what?”

“About a Reaper who got too attached,” she replied. “Not romantically – although I suppose that could happen too – but attached all the same. He started noticing the patterns. The almost-accidents. The people who were always a step away from the edge.”

Jack’s pulse quickened, roaring so loud in his ears he worried Mrs Bailey could hear it too.

“According to the story,” she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “he began nudging things. Nothing dramatic. A word here. A warning there.”

Jack forced a careful neutrality into his voice. “Did it work?”

Mrs Bailey smiled, but there was no humour in it. “For a while.”

She took a sip of tea. “Gran said the problem wasn’t that he saved people. It was that he started choosing who deserved saving.”

Jack’s stomach twisted.

“And when his year was up,” Mrs Bailey went on, “he begged for more time. The story says he thought if no one died, he wouldn’t have to leave.”

Jack’s breath caught, just slightly. Mrs Bailey looked him dead in the eyes. “It didn’t end well.”

“What happened to him?” Jack asked, quietly.

Mrs Bailey shrugged but her lips thinned slightly. She set her cup down with care, the china clicking softly against the saucer.

“Gran used to say he didn’t get what he wanted.”

Jack’s fingers curled around his mug. “What happened?” he asked.

“He stayed,” Mrs Bailey said. “Long past when he was meant to go. Kept turning up, kept interfering. But when the next death finally came, and it always does, the story says he didn’t move on… cleanly.”

Jack swallowed, mildly terrified at what she would say next.

“They found him,” she went on, voice lower now, “what was left of him. Right where he was standing. Like the world simply… remembered him all at once. Time caught up.”

“What does that mean?” he asked quietly, a chill creeping up his spine.

Mrs Bailey looked at him then, really looked, her gaze sharp beneath the warmth. “It means,” she said gently, “that borrowed time doesn’t stretch. It snaps. Naught left but a pile of bones and skin.”

Jack’s stomach turned as Mrs Bailey sighed, the tension easing as she waved a hand dismissively. “But it’s only a story. Old women’s nonsense.”

Jack nodded, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Yeah. Just a story.”

But his mind had already leapt back to that first warning from Mr Carruthers. ‘Decompose right there in the street.’

He’d ignored it at the time. Assumed it was gallows humour. But now the idea no longer felt like a joke.

It felt like a limit.

The ledger sat heavy in his pocket, and for the first time since taking the role, Jack wondered not just what would happen when his time ran out – but what would happen if he tried to stop it.

Jack wasn’t sure what to say and just nodded, taking another sip of tea to hide the silence that seemed to crash over them. His mind raced a mile a minute, he thought of Zoie, how he would have to say goodbye without her ever truly knowing why.

“Anyway, you should get going and call your young lady. She sounded keen.” Mrs Bailey stood and began clearing away their plates.

Jack’s limbs felt all too heavy as he carried his cup through to the kitchen, reaching for the sponge to wash up but Mrs Bailey shooed him away. “None of that, this is my weekly treat. I look forward to our chats, the least I can do is wash up afterwards.”

Jack did as he was told and went to get his coat, shrugging it on, preparing for the icy December blast when he left Mrs Bailey’s nicely heated house. Mrs Bailey followed to see him out, but before Jack opened the door, he turned and embraced her in a tight hug.

“Oh!” she cried in surprise before patting his back in return. Jack towered over her small frame, and he noticed how delicate she felt. How elderly she felt. “What’s this in aid of?” she laughed.

“I look forward to our chats too, Mrs— Mirri. It’s the highlight of my week.”

“You great softy,” she laughed and batted him away, pushing a tub with leftover pastry into his hands. “Go on, go get your girl. I expect to hear all about it next week. It’ll be chocolate fudge cake so bring an appetite.”

Jack smiled and walked out the door, leftover croquembouche in one hand, and Zoie’s name glowing on his phone screen in the other. The ledger stayed silent in his pocket. He hoped, somewhat selfishly, that it would stay that way tonight.