The Finders Keepers

by R.G. Strike

  The February breeze trailed off the boundaries of Galania. The normal temperature during the day had dropped to a stringent negative one degree, sending the villagers fast asleep during the nightfall; it was not a new thing for them. Since the past fortnight, it became their habit eating early dinners, settling to watch some corny television program just to get them tired, and then going to their bedrooms when a jingle TV commercial disappointed them.

  Nevertheless, the instant change of weather had lessened the errand of policeman patrolling streets during midnight for drunk and delinquent gangsters causing small but blatant arguments. Of course, it was impossible for most villagers to sleep in this small village for the past years. Apparently, it had become a surprising miracle for them to be perfectly able to sleep two weeks since the weather had started making swift changes.

  Though most of the household had drawn out their lights, one bedroom was still up at St. Mayleboune Orphanage’s highest room. Golden lights shimmered through the curtains and off to bounce towards the manicured lawn.

  A boy was sitting on top of a blanketed steel bed, his legs stretched out in front of him, his shoulders leaning against the wall, holding a thick book labeled: Medusa & the Gorgons; on a Perkin’s chair beside him, however, rose a tower of books toppled against each other, most of which were leather-bound and thick.

  Another boy at his age grunted in his sleep on a bed pushed just a few meters away from the Perkin’s chair. He scratched his eyes and looked up at the other boy who was reading.

  “Er – been up so early, Alex, eh?” he asked vaguely.

  The boy named Alex glanced at him but did not close the thick book. He blinked for a few seconds as if thinking how the other boy waked up from a normal and soundless sleep.

  “Yeah, I am,” he muttered.

  The other boy, however, felt snubbed. He closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep.

  There was no trace of any interest on Alexander Abercrombe’s face of talking to the other kid. For ten long years of staying in the orphanage, Alex had developed the characteristic of surviving without friends. He would sit on a swing under an acacia tree in the backyard and watch the other kids play and chase each other until lunch time, when he would then eat so little and lock himself inside his room.

  Alex seemed not to need companionship with the other orphans. And for a very long time, he had been capable of handling his timetable after arriving from school. Now that school days were over, Alex looked desperate to go back but he could not, school was two months away.

  In fact, he had even tried to fail some of his subjects to have a reason to go back for summer schooling but he found it odd to believe he was topping the class. There was so much expectation from everyone, even the principal himself, on Alex’s capacity to excel. But to Alex, it was a heavy burden to carry along towards the years ahead. He wanted freedom: The freedom of moving without people expecting anything from him.

  Alex was distracted by the other boy in the room. He grunted for a few seconds, then went silent again. Alex looked over at him and concluded that his roommate had been dreaming.

  There was something strange on that boy since Alex had started sharing the room with him. On the first day that he was there, he had talked so much of what wrecked his life. His name was Zeejay Sanders.

  Zeejay Sanders told him that his parents died because they killed each other. He was left under his aunt Amexis for a year, but she never told him any of the reasons why his parents’ misunderstanding had led to a secret murder. Often, Zeejay tried to approach his aunt Amexis during good mood, but she would never speak.

  Then, a week later, aunt Amexis told Zeejay that she was about to die too because of a stringent cancer on her head. Zeejay had actually observed her move oddly before she had confronted her story; his aunt was crying when she told him about it.

  It was then that Zeejay was left at St. Mayleboune’s Orphanage. Mrs. Sandra Foster, who took care of his admission in the orphanage, had talked to Alex to share his room since there still was no vacant room. Alex accepted Zeejay.

  But unlike Alex, Zeejay wasn’t obsessed with books. Instead, Alex could proudly tell Zeejay was good at endless interview and chitchats. They had become close friends as they stayed in the same room. For him, it was enough that he had a friend to talk to during vacant periods, though he preferred to be alone.

  Alex yawned and closed the book, listening for the sounds. Apart from the hissing of the hosepipe waters spreading on the lawn, there were sounds of movement from the downstairs room. Alex quickly piled the book on the Perkin’s chair, and hurried towards the window to look over the dark, silent backyard.

  There was a clicking sound, and light immediately glared on the lawn from the windows below.

  “Thieves!” he shouted in his mind.

  He wore on his pajamas over his trousers and jumped to his feet. Panicking on what he had heard, Alex grabbed a pen for defense in case the thieves tried to hurt him, then he quietly tiptoed on the stairs.

  Just before he reached the landing, he heard another sound of spoon stirring on a glass –

  “Poisons!” he whispered shockingly.

  Alex was sure the sounds were coming from the oak door on the hallway, whose silver lights shone through the gaps, casting a long trail on the floor.

  With his heart beating rather faster and faster every second, Alex moved across and beside the door. The sound had stopped as if the intruders had sensed his presence. Alex pressed his ears against the wall, trying to grasp the conversation, but –

  “Alex!” a voice came from further the hall. Then, lights flickered on.

  Mrs. Melody Foster was standing distances from him, her short bushy hairs seemed to shine gray on top, and both of her hands rested on her hips.

  It was unlikely to have a chance that Alex would find comfort with Mrs. Melody Foster. Ever since, she had been tough on the rules inside the orphanage, promoting curfew and often patrolling across the alleys to goad rule-breakers (which were famous for years now). The only bad thing about Mrs. Melody Foster was her attitude and knack of bringing out perfidy to orphans who were innocent, exasperating everyone because of her over-suspicious sense.

  Alex tried to swallow, but Mrs. Melody’s brown eyes ploughed out his energy to do so.

  “How on earth could you be so awake this early, Mr. Abercrombe?” asked Mrs. Melody strictly. She raised her brows and gazed at Alex, scrutinizing him for a lengthy explanation. “And – what are you doing here, may I ask?”

  Alex stood immobile for a moment. He bit his lips as he was thinking.

  Always tell the truth, Alex remembered the Minister saying. You’ll always lose if you lie. Your own weapon in a terrible situation is the truth. As long as you have it, you will always win.

  Alex heard Mrs. Melody clear her throat with catchy, “Ehem.” She looked at him; her brown eyes reminded Alex she was much desperate for his word.

  Just in time before Alex opened his mouth to explain, he heard hurrying footsteps from behind the walls where he had eavesdropped, and then the oak door swung open, banging hardly against the wall. Mrs. Melody’s sisters Sandra and Suzette bolted out of the room and glanced from her to him.

  “What’s the commotion all about, little Al?” asked Mrs. Sandra, the woman who had shoulder-level, straight black hairs. She seemed not to look angry but shocked.

  “I – I thought there were thieves,” said Alex, agitating.

  And then Mrs. Suzette, the one with long ponytailed hairs, scowled at Alex. She never believed him, especially because Alex appeared like a liar than an innocent boy.

  “Ehem,” said Mrs. Melody. “Why should thieves enter this orphanage if they’ve got nothing to steal? Besides, we have the best protection in our surrounding.”

  “I know,” said Alex, his British accent evident, “but it was different from my point of view. I mean – I was reading in my room and wasn’t expecting any noise to crack in the middle of the dawn. And it was my adrenali
ne that kept me observing about it . . . lights flickering on the downstairs window and sounds of clinking bottle and spoon. . . .”

  “I guess that was me,” said Mrs. Sandra. “Our coffee, I should say.”

  “So,” Mrs. Suzette concluded awkwardly, “there is no need chasing this boy – I mean, accusing him for any other reason. Perhaps, we should free him from any mischief punishment.”

  “Are you quite sure about it, Su?” Mrs. Melody clarified; the bitterness in her voice seemed to vanish for a while.

  “Oh, of course, I am!” Mrs. Suzette answered angrily. She moved her eyes to Alex. “Next time, you should carefully –”

  Mrs. Suzette’s voice was drowned in a loud, echoing scream of pain that seemed to have come out from behind Mrs. Melody. Then for a few seconds, the scream became a soft whimper as they all turned around to see who it was.

  Lying on the cold stone floor was a boy at Alex’s age, trembling uncontrollably as he veered his head towards the ceiling and into the people staring at him. He had an overgrown, bright chestnut hair, evidence that he was not a native of Galania.

  Then Alex immediately observed something: the boy there seemed not to have been hurt at all. He was, in fact, enjoying what he was doing and the attention he was attracting. Alex threw him a nasty glance, but the boy pretended he had not seen him.

  “Oh, goodness!” said Mrs. Melody. “What is this? What happened –?”

  Her statement was broken out by the sound of simultaneously opening and closing doors. Not after a long while, boys and girls poured down the stairs in their night dresses, some laughing at the boy and some had gasped.

  This apparently was the great opportunity for the boy on the floor to scream even louder, making the audience into an extreme silence as they stared at him. Now he was shaking his fists against the floor, trying to maneuver something.

  “I will not tolerate any word to roam around the building,” Mrs. Sandra said. “Go now. Go. Off to your bedrooms!” She shook her wrist towards the direction of the kids who were watching.

  “Come with me, Sandra,” said Mrs. Melody, whose tone was fully restored with strictness at once. “Suzette, carry John Tanner from the floor. . . .” She backed away immediately to face the door on the alley, but from the corner of her eyes she spotted Alex slowly walking up the stairs. “Follow us also, Mr. Abercrombe.”

  Alex was nearing the landing on the second floor when he heard Mrs. Melody. She sighed heavily and scuttled down once again into the bright alley. Alex paused for a moment, watching Mrs. Suzette trying to speak to John Tanner as she heaved his elbows around her shoulders.

  “Enter,” Mrs. Melody had ordered, and Alex quickly withdrew his eyes from the boy on the floor. Once again, he sighed and stepped into the room for the first time.

  The walls were purely padded with dusty books on rows and columns that flourished on the high ceiling of the room. There was a rectangular table pushed against the end of the wall; on either side were dark blue sofas that seemed to glow on its scratched, left plastic cover.

  “Sit,” Mrs. Melody added, falling on a high-backed leather chair behind the rectangular table.

  Alex immediately obeyed and collapsed on a sofa on the right side, which protruded a crunching sound as he sank. Mrs. Sandra sat beside him, waving her dark hairs around her shoulders so that a blooming scent had swelled.

  They waited in silence for a few more minutes for Mrs. Suzette and John Tanner to enter the room side by side. A pang of disgust stretched inside on every corner of the room. Mrs. Melody look ghastly tentative to the face of John, who quivered as if he was cold.

  “Look who I’ve got here,” said Mrs. Suzette, settling John on the opposite side. Then she stood to usher another boy from behind the door who was squat and chubby with rosy cheeks. His blue pupils were scanning the room, agitating as he hardly took a step forward. “Look at Denarius Fleer –”

  “He’s got no business here!” Mrs. Melody screamed, standing on her feet.

  “That’s always been your illness,” mumbled Mrs. Suzette softly so that Mrs. Melody sank back on her chair. “Have you ever learned to be open? I mean – knowing how to listen is what you absolutely lack. You stand on your own, keep bragging on things you know, never troubling to hear the sides of other people.”

  Mrs. Melody flashed her with whatever-you-do-you-will-never-make-me-cry stare, looking completely unaffected at what she heard. Then she said, “Go on.”

  “Denarius Fleer here,” said Mrs. Suzette, “has informed me that he witnessed what had happened to his best friend John the moment he fell onto the floor.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Melody barked, “don’t you get so close believing orphans’ great little stories.”

  “But you’ve got to!” said Mrs. Suzette.

  Alex found himself lost at this argument so he better took himself occupied gnawing his fingernails. Mrs. Sandra, who was sitting just beside Alex, was brushing her hairs, clomping them sometimes between her lips.

  “Even if you will listen or not,” continued Mrs. Suzette awkwardly, “I will still find authority to give Fleer the privilege to speak regarding the fast occupancy of events this dawn.”

  Fleer’s face glowed scarlet, his eyes amber like an owl. When he talked, the pitch of his voice seemed so high to match his looks.

  “It’s the Abercrombe boy!” Fleer screamed bravely, pointing his hands towards Alex, who jolted from his fingernails, startled. “He . . . stabbed . . . yes! Stabbed John at his back . . . hiding . . . I’m sure . . . the Abercrombe boy hid . . . after . . . after he attacked John!”

  The next thing that happened, Denarius burst into a tearful cry; Mrs. Suzette hurried to pat his shoulder, though he would not stop crying.

  Mrs. Melody’s resilient eyes darted upon Alex, who looked fazed by Fleer’s words.

  “Answer me with only yes or no,” she said, appearing disappointed. “Is Fleer telling the truth?”

  It would have taken a split of second for Alex to answer had he not glanced at John at the opposite side, who was eyeing him with a threatening look. What does John mean? Oh, right. He’s got it all planned again.

  “No, of course, not,” Alex had answered, apparently daring to cross John’s eyes. “I don’t even know him –”

  “Denial!” screamed John, suddenly looking well, as if this argument was the cure. “How dare your ass deny your crime, Alex Abercrombe! After you’ve sent me loads of thorn stems and a bunch of dead animals, you deny? Are you not just content of those? Oh, I get it. You wouldn’t rest until you’ve killed me!”

  “Kill you?” Alex asked, turning red. “Why would I kill you if I don’t even know you?”

  Fleer gasped. He tried to breathe normally, but it was a hard thing.

  “You see? Have you understood what he . . . he . . . yelled at us?” he said. “He’s an official criminal and he admitted it himself! He . . . he wouldn’t kill people he doesn’t know!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way!” Alex barked angrily.

  “Please,” said Fleer, waving a hand to stop Alex, “don’t be brave enough to bark out like you’re out of your own crime…. Don’t be so rude denying your deeds in front of women – because you just can’t. Once a criminal, always a criminal.”

  “Shut up, gloating pig!” said Alex firmly.

  Fleer squealed like he was about to be killed. He turned pale but his cheeks remained as scarlet as ever.

  “How . . . DARE YOU!” he shouted repugnantly. “HOW DARE YOU CALL ME A GLOATING PIG? YOU CAN’T JUST INSULT ME!”

  “Oh, of course I could whole-heartedly insult you as much as you had insulted me as a criminal,” said Alex calmly, in the hope of making Fleer angrier.

  “You’re a smart ass nerd,” spat John at once.

  “Oh,” said Alex, impressed. “Being the hero, are you? Well, if you’re expecting an optimistic result from your worse-acted drama, I’m afraid this is not your vicinity to claim –”

  “Stop it, Al,” said Mrs. S
andra, shaking her head. “It’s too early for an argument to rise.”

  “Well, I just can’t let this two morons roam once again, claiming that I’m a criminal, whatever, or worse they’ll campaign prevention of my innocence to hyperventilate – ”

  “Alex!” said Mrs. Melody, pleased. “You’re too young to think that way!”

  “I guess they’re too old to accuse me throwing thorns, animals, et cetera. But – urgh! Oh . . . well . . . I just wonder why John and Denarius keep bugging me down since I was younger.”

  “Because you’re supposed to be dead,” said John, emitting a soft snigger.

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’m sure about it. You’re even supposed to be ashes by now since . . . well . . . I don’t know. I’m giving you a warning that maybe the next time you make me angry, I’ll kill you.”

  “Prove it.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Suzette, eyeing John. “Stop this nonsense business, boys.”

  John’s face was raging in wrath, bloods rushing around his ears.

  “John, you shouldn’t do this,” Fleer whispered, but it sounded loud in the silence. “I mean, you have nothing to prove to Abercrombe, unless he wanted a bloody ending. Listen, you’ve got to calm down. He’s just a mediocre.”

  Alex chuckled at them.

  “Well, at least being a mediocre is better than being a moron.”

  “He . . . he . . .” said Fleer, trying to grasp something that was on his tongue but he couldn’t speak it out. “HE INSULTED ME AGAIN! YOU HEARD HIM, DON’T YOU?” Fleer looked at the women, who were, for a moment, speechless. “HE’S GOT NOT GOOD MORALS –”

  “Stop gloating, pig,” said Alex calmly; Fleer screamed even louder, but Alex seemed to be enjoying this. “I’m partially irritated by your squeal – urgh! Just be quiet, okay? Or else I’ll have to pierce you with a trident.”

  “You’re making me want to kill you,” John snapped, totally restored with solemnity. “It is beyond my will, but I’ll have to do it for your own good.”

  “Stop this, Mr. Tanner,” said Mrs. Melody, apparently tired listening to an unending and misleading conversation. “You’re a big boy, John. Don’t let your temper get Abercrombe crushed to his –”

  “Oh, no, let him do it,” said Alex valiantly. “Let him prove what he can, otherwise I’ll just accept the fact that he’s only good at threatening but just can’t do what he says.”

  For a fraction of a second, John bolted from beside Fleer. He rushed towards Alex with both of his fists closed and his teeth were clenching. Then he attempted a forceful smack onto Alex’s face, but Alex was so swift he deflected John’s arm; and his right leg went flying towards John’s face. Alex quickly twisted around and sent a punch upon John’s stomach.

  Mrs. Melody, Suzette, Sandra, and Fleer gasped in shock. Fleer ran out of the room, then there was a banging door and he was gone. Mrs. Melody, however, ran in between the two boys; John was lying face down on the floor, moaning and grumbling in pain.

  “I think you’ve done a very wise prediction of John crushing me,” said Alex, but Mrs. Melody was not convinced.

  “Oh, Alex, you’re so awful!” Mrs. Sandra screamed. “I . . . I . . . he. . . .” Her words were lost in the silence but for John mumbling in pain.

  “We’re leaving you here –” said Mrs. Melody.

  “No!” Alex objected.

  “I didn’t ask you to talk, did I?” said Mrs. Melody, looking at Alex with disgust. “We’re leaving you two inside this room to discipline yourselves. It’s up for you, Alex, to cure John. For now, we’ll be of touch until you two settle things for yourself.”

  The three women glided out of the room, Mrs. Sandra was frowning and shaking her head as though she could not make herself believe that Alex was actually capable of such action. Then there was a scuttling movement and the door closed and locked at once.

  CHAPTER SIX:

  THE MID-DAY TOUR