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The Thames was an unforgiving friend.
But the subsequent white walls and sterile stares which awaited her in a purgatorial prison were far far colder than the river. Indifferent grey doors became portals to new worlds: a bedroom, an office, general affairs; and the faceless headquarters locked away from the bottom-feeds like herself under the title of “management.”
Before long she was in training. And he was in line for a promotion to this elusive management division.
“This is Agent Spears. He will be your mentor for the final part of your program. He will report to us your competency for individual field work. Once he assesses you as adequate, you will join the ranks of full-fledged reapers. Good luck, Agent Sutcliffe.”
“Take it,” were the first two words he spoke to her from over his spectacles, his head still positioned in the direction of her class file, “you’re going to need all the luck you can get.”
There had only been a few days of basic instruction in a variety of posts before the “higher ups” (as she had heard her future peers calling them) decided which division she would train for. And then a mere week or so later, she found herself on her final assignment in the slums of London with “Mister” William T. Spears.
“So long as I am training you, you are to show me the utmost respect,” he had warned the moment they stepped foot in the moral realm; “be keen to remember that I hold your fate in my hands,” then to add to the threat (she supposed) he adjusted his spectacles (not bulk-issues like hers, she noted) with the tip of his (also not bulk-issued) death scythe.
“My fate’s not the only thing I’d like to see you get your hands on,” she had said with a wink, blowing a kiss his way.
She had been shy in life, reserved; wanted nothing more than to blend as deeply into the crowd as possible. Until she found out who she really was, until she wanted nothing more to wholly embrace the woman she really was. In life, she could not. Even the little things she tried to make her existence a little more tolerable did nothing to ease the pain of looking in the mirror. And eventually, these little things could not stack up against the cruel cards fate had dealt her, and they led her right to Westminster bridge, looking up at the new palace, a faceless belltower as silent as she.
In death, she was determined to change that; show everyone up front who she was (with a dramatic flare, hoping no one got close enough to see it was all an act.) And “Mister” William T. Spears, whether he liked it or not (though as time would tick on, she began to think more and more he did) was to be her first experiment.
Still, it was quite obvious that, if she wished to truly embrace any sort of individuality in this new life of hers, she would have to play by the rules a bit, wait until she graduated from this training nonsense.
He did not like this approach. He made that very clear. So she tried a different one.
“So, Spears,” she asked, her fingers twitching to run down his arms. He looked unassuming enough, but some would say so of the few men she let herself fancy in life. And better yet, from her minimal experience in training, she got the impression that those who worked in retrieval had a fairly toned physique; she was ever so curious if this theory held true.
But she also wished to avoid being failed for pressing too hard too quickly.
“How long have you been stuck here?”
He sighed.
“Memories come and go, and time drags on,” was his vague, evasive answer.
“Painful ones you wish to forget? After all, we all know how each other ended up here.” Her tone held no remorse.
“I am not here for idle chatter, but to do a job. We all are. Methods vary, as do reasons. I shan’t be discussing such with you, and I advise against doing so with anyone else. There is an unspoken understanding that we don’t talk about those things. How willing would you be to divulge your secrets?”
His last comment hit a nerve, but she tried not to falter. Still, struck speechless, William pressed on with only a hint of guilt tucked away in the back of his mind. Less than a day he had known her, but he already knew that her sudden loss of words was probably a sign he had overstepped. Maybe one day he would find out why.
“I am here to… help you with your first reaping—which is what we both should be focussing on at present.”
She flipped through her (bulk-issued) death log, loathing to admit she admired his tact in changing the subject. She felt somewhat exposed, like he could see through her poorly-crafted role. She would need to work on that. “We’ve a whole ten minutes before the death.”
He looked back at her, his green eyes icy. “That kind of attitude will quickly get you killed if there’s a demon prowling around.”
“Oh honestly, William,” he scowled at her use of his given name, “even the instructors said that rarely happens. Loosen up a bit.”
“Frequency is irrelevant. Carelessness is foolish—amateur. I don’t see why it is so hard for you to follow basic directions.”
“I don’t see why it’s so hard for you to be kind; act like a human! I know you once were – or have you forgotten what it’s like?”
“I’m not being unkind, I’m being rational,” William replied through gritted teeth as he fought the urge to berate the latter part of her comment, “I am doing the job I was given. I am being professional—something you would benefit from learning to do. I do not know what you are expecting from this Hell we’re in, but you can be certain that you will not get on well if you’re worrying about clinging to your humanity. Your job is death now. Get used to it.”
Grelle smirked back at him. “Idle chatter is a pointless distraction, but arguing with your mentee is professional. I understand.”
“Why you–”
“I lead by example, Mister Spears.” She put a hand to her face, feigning offence, “you’d do well to get used to it.”
“There is a time and a place for flippancy, and field work—particularly under my mentorship—is neither. You’d do well to get used to that !”
Grelle laughed. “Temper, temper.”
“Fancy yourself my caretaker?”
“Seems someone ought to do it—only I wouldn’t submit an application.”
William wished desperately to reply with more than a grunt of annoyance; but before he could think of something to say, the target of Grelle’s reaping appeared.
He stood back, watched. Her scores cleared her to be put out in the field; and he wanted to see if she was truly deserving of that clearance. From her attitude, he doubted it. Also, he wanted to prove himself a capable supervisor. The best way to learn, he would always say, is to do things oneself. So, he stood in the shadows ready to jump in if she required his help—and desperately hoped she would not.
Not because he hoped she’d do well—he shook his head—simply because it would make his life a lot easier. He had already proven himself a worthy mentor in the past; but the last thing he needed, a promotion right within reach, was a slip up that could cost him his reputation. And he had a feeling Grelle would not hesitate to cause him any problems she could.
Which was why he was so surprised by not only her efficiency, but her sensitivity with her victim.
Years of suppressing his emotions hardened his demeanour, made him stiff and awkward when offering praise; which was precisely why he seldom did it.
“That was… quite satisfactory.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose, straightened his shoulders; and Grelle could tell that he was genuinely impressed, that such was high praise coming from his lips—lips she would very much like to get more acquainted with.
She smiled at that thought, blushing in spite of herself. William chalked her reaction up to pride in her accomplishment, bashfulness in receiving any kind of affirmation. Then, unfortunately, she moved to reach her arms around his neck.
He froze, his breath hitched, he hardly had time to react before she was stepping away.
“Not one for hugs—noted,” she said, looking down in the first act of shame he had seen her display.
“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, unable to think clearly now that she was acting so differently, “it is quite an improper exchange for a man and a woman—especially ones who have only recently met.”
She perked up at his words to her. “Improper for a man and a woman , indeed, when they are hardly acquainted. So, perhaps we should get to know each other better sometime?” she suggested with a wink, her previous courage returning as she boldly dragged her fingertip down Will’s lapel.
He slapped her hand away, more angry with himself that her flagrant flirtation was getting to him than he was at her. “Let’s return to the dispatch. They don’t like us spending more time than necessary amongst the humans.”
“You’d deny a lady a drink after her shift, William?” she called out, already running in the opposite direction.
Will rolled his eyes with a sigh and followed after her at a brisk walk, loathing the very thought of running wildly after her. Even as she gained ground, her hair made her an easy target to follow whilst picking and weaving through the busy streets of London. And thankfully he was the only one who could evidently see the streak of red as she carefully avoided these unsuspecting citizens of the living world; at least she could follow one rule.
He scoffed aloud. This thought only made matters worse: making it more evident that her disobedience was a willful choice on her part.
He rolled his eyes to the sky.
Finally he caught up to her, her pace slowing as she walked across Westminster bridge. The way was pretty clear, few people to risk hitting (and William was a good shot), so he resorted to force, extending his death scythe towards her.
She let out a small yelp as he lifted her up, dangled her over the edge. Her face turned back to him; set serious, startled, unable to keep her eyes on the tumbling waters of the Thames as she hung by her starched shirt collar.
A moment more Will held her there, retracting her back to him for one final scolding: “Know that I would have dropped you if I would not get in trouble for your failure to return promptly.” She nodded, submissively keeping to his side as they resumed their walk. A chill ran up his spine. Only twice had he seen it now, and only briefly the first time; but he already knew he did not like this quiet, servile part of her. Something felt wrong .
“I won’t have this management position pass me by because of your childishness. Hell knows I deserve it more than that oaf, Pommeroy.” He added the latter part more to himself than to her, hoping he sounded more authoritative than he felt. Was he really this frightening?
He hated to admit the higher ups might like that when it came to his evaluation for promotion. Fear was excellent for control, so long as you cared not for the subject receiving the scrutiny.
Did he care for Grelle?
“I understand, sir,” she replied quietly.
William shook his head and looked straight on to hide the concern in his eyes. Grelle’s feet followed of their own accord.
She looked back over her shoulder, at the bridge that would disappear once they turned the corner at the next intersection. And she thought about life. About what it had meant to be alive.
So much had happened since her little accident; and the world carried on. She learnt new skills, new roles, new rules; her whole existence—former and new—seemed an endless list of rules she was sure to break, she was sure to fail at. Though she hated to admit it, she found herself beginning to fancy her hard-nosed mentor. That was probably also against the rules.
“If only he could feel the same,” she told herself, outwardly only expressing a defeated sigh. If his earlier stunt was any indication, he would be a fruitless pursuit.
Mayhaps the cold embrace of the river would have brought her to her senses, but she rather liked her new self: more outgoing, more daring; not a doormat terrified of disappointing her dear old father. Still, she didn’t fancy finding out how the silt and sediment felt sunk to the bottom of the polluted water.
She took a breath and held her head high, chin up. She was a new woman, she was given a new lease on life. And she would take advantage of it. Not even immortality was enough to hinder her desire to not let it go to waste. Complacency came of monotony, and she was already dead set on livening up the dispatch, Mister William T. Spears be damned. She would become the best agent the British Branch had ever seen—even better than her mentor seemed to think himself.
But she would also be a scoundrel, a bitch of an associate, a menace to anyone who dared to push her back into the box she had spent the last twenty four living years hiding inside; she would be sure to instil enough fear in the black soul of the man who had his sights set on the role of her new boss that he would never again feel it wise to try that balancing act on her.
Then she would make him fall in love with her.
And if he broke her heart, then she would be the one dropping him off that bridge. After all, the Thames was an unforgiving friend.