Suddenly she was acutely aware that she couldn’t lie. Not in a confession booth. For a fleeting second she considered telling Bobby how she really felt about him, but she didn’t know how to phrase the words. Ashamed at her lack of courage, she decided to trust him with her other great secret.
“Here’s a confession,” she whispered. “Baba Rana, my grandmother, isn’t what she seems to be and neither am I…” She hesitated, unsure of how to continue.
There was a deep breath from the other side of the hatch.
“And neither is Dodd Pollen, Mary.”
The voice coming through the mesh was deep, throaty and utterly menacing. And it didn’t belong to Bobby.
The girl gave a small moan of fear.
“Dodd Pollen is here to stay,” the voice rasped. “And God help any do-gooders who try and change that.”
Mary jerked backwards, slamming into the wall so hard that the whole structure shook. The cubicle door swung open and her mouth opened in silent terror.
“Mary?” Bobby’s head poked through the doorway. “I can’t get into the other box. It must be locked.”
The girl leaped to her feet, pushing him back into the church.
“Run!”
“Why? What are you…?” Bobby began, but one look at his friend’s terrified face silenced him. He glanced at the adjoining booth. “Is the priest in there?”
“Just run!”
Mary hauled on his arm and pulled him up the aisle and out of the building.
-21-
“What just happened back there?”
The children had sprinted across three white coated fields, blasts of condensed air bursting from their mouths, until they found an adequate place to hide. Now they sat behind a low wall, letting their breathing get back to normal. Mary was shaking all over.
“There was something in the other confession booth.”
“It must have been the priest.” Bobby leaned his head against the mossy dyke. “He won’t have seen us though. We could’ve won an Olympic gold in cross country just then.”
Mary kept her eyes down, staring at the rutted tractor tracks running parallel to the dyke. She didn’t know what to tell her friend.
“Your dad found out something about Dodd Pollen on the internet,” she said. “What was it?”
“Not much.” The boy fished a pair of black woollen gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. “Turns out he was a real kid who vanished in Dundee about thirty years ago.”
“Did he die?”
“I hope so.” Bobby tried to zip up his coat, the gloved fingers making the simple manoeuvre a laborious task. “I don’t want to sound rotten but it would prove that Dodd Pollen and my dad are different people.”
“Maybe there’s another explanation.”
“What do you mean?” Bobby finally managed to pull up his zipper. “And don’t be giving me any of your Mumbo Jumbo Hoodoo Voodoo.”
“Ssssh.” Mary held up her hand. “You hear something?”
The boy cocked his head. “I can hear barking.”
“It’s the dogs at Smith’s kennel. They sound like they’re going nuts.” Mary shuddered. “Why are they acting like that?”
“They’re probably being attacked by a Polar Bear.”
“Excuse me?”
“After the last couple of days, nothing could surprise me.” Bobby vaulted the wall and headed in the direction of the barking. “C’mon. Let’s check it out.”
Mary thought about the sinister voice in the church.
“I don’t think your surprises are over,” she muttered, following Bobby over the dyke.
Smith’s Boarding Kennel had its own little road leading to the main gate and the barking was coming from somewhere to the left. The compound was filled with wooden sheds for the animals and a high wire fence surrounded the entire property, allowing the dogs to roam freely during the day. Following the fence, the children pushed through moisture laden branches, heading in the direction of the noise.
“I wonder where Mrs Smith is.” Bobby held a bough back to let Mary get past. “She normally runs this place like some doggie concentration camp.”
Then the trees ended and they found themselves in a small clearing.
There were five dogs on the other side of the fence. A couple of Alsatians, a Doberman and two mongrels, all barking, slavering and throwing themselves against the barrier, desperate to get at the person standing on the other side.
It was Bobby’s father.
“Dad! What are you doing here?”
Gordon Berlin’s head jerked round, his eyes wide. Then he spotted who had shouted and a nervous grin sprouted on his face.
“I thought I’d do a bit of exploring. What are these, eh? Killer guard dogs or something? Good job this bloody fence is here or I’d have been torn to bits.”
“They’re people’s pets.” Mary edged away from the slavering hounds. “I’ve never seen them act like this.”
“You must be Mary.” Gordon Berlin gave a friendly wave. “I’m Dodd Poll… eh, I’m Bobby’s father.” He gave his son a quick thumbs up.
“She knows who you are dad.”
“Yes, of course. Bobby’s eh… a fine young lad and I like him very much.” Gordon pulled himself erect and tried to look manly, though the effect was spoiled by his gelled up punk hairstyle. “Yes. And I hope you’re attending to your studies at school and all that.”
“I mean she knows about Dodd Pollen.”
“Ah, good.” Gordon nodded towards the frenzy. “You think we could carry on this conversation somewhere else? These pooches don’t seem to like me.”
“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” Bobby pushed his father away from the fence and into the trees. He glanced back once at the snarling dogs.
“I don’t know what’s possessed them.”
“They always liked your dad before.” Mary glanced suspiciously at the retreating Berlins.
“I’m not sure it’s the dogs that are possessed.”
-22-
“So what team do you support?” Gordon plodded along beside Mary, trying to make conversation. “I used to support Dundee FC, before Davie White took over as the manager, then they were rubbish.”
“I don’t really follow football,” the girl said shyly.
“Ach, me neither. What about bands? I really liked the Rolling Stones but then I heard a new band called the Sex Pistols. They’re ace.”
“Dad!”
“Yeah sorry.” Bobby’s father smoothed down his gelled hair with a guilty smile. “I write articles for a newspaper you know. I’ve got a degree.”
The girl shot Bobby a look of thinly disguised horror.
“I’ll eh… just walk up ahead for a while. Look! A rabbit.” And Gordon was off, chasing the startled animal up the lane. With a grunt, his son started after him.
“This is seriously wrong!” Mary grabbed Bobby’s arm and pulled him back.
“Great.” The boy grunted. “When you start finding things strange I know we’re in trouble.”
They caught up with Gordon at Pennywell Cottage. He was hiding behind the garden hedge, just out of sight of the front door.
“C’mere. Quick!” He beckoned the children over. “Stay behind me!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” Bobby and Mary crouched beside him, pressed against the thick evergreen foliage. “There’s nobody around.”
“Just wait a minute.” Gordon peered cautiously round the edge of the hedge.
“It’s your house, dad. Nobody’s going to bother if we go in the front door. We can climb down the chimney if we want.”
“No. Just wait a minute.” Gordon held up his hand, like some oddly coiffured commando.
“Hey. I hear an engine.” Mary interrupted. It was enough to silence the others. Vehicles weren’t a common occurrence on the narrow road that led past Puddledub.
As they watched, a panda car crested the rise a hundred yards in front of them, coasted down the hill and turned into the drive
way of Pennywell Cottage. Bobby’s father shrank back, pushing his companions further into the foliage.
“I’ve got a stick up my nose!” Mary complained.
“Shhhh! Quiet!”
Two police officers got out, went to the front door and knocked. When there was no answer they walked around the house peering in the windows.
The three onlookers held their breath, pressed as far into the greenery as they could manage. The Constables appeared round the other side of the house and headed back to the vehicle.
“C’mon. My wife will have tea on by now.” Constable MacDonald opened the door. “Steak pie and chips tonight.”
“Are we coming back tomorrow?” WPC Arnold put her hands on her hips. “Now I’ve got a feeling about this.”
“Woman’s intuition?”
“I believe it’s called a hunch when you’re in the police force.”
“All right.” MacDonald sighed loudly. “We’ll come back tomorrow. Though I doubt we’ll find the whole family murdered inside.”
They got back into the car and drove away.
The hidden figures waited until the sound of the engine had faded, then let themselves into the house. Gordon flopped down in his chair, perspiring heavily.
“Oh no! The police aren’t looking for you dad!” he scoffed, in an uncanny imitation of his son’s voice. “Think they came over to borrow a cup of sugar?”
Bobby and Mary took off their coats and stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.
“Hey. You got a message on the answering machine.” There was a flashing red light on the telephone.
“What’s an answering machine then?” Gordon lowered his head wearily into his hands. “All this new technology, you’d think they’d have invented something for zapping someone’s head, you know… a bringing their memory back kind of thing.”
Bobby pressed a button on the phone.
“Gordon. This is me.” The voice was female and upset and Bobby recognised it immediately. “Your mobile is switched off so I’m calling to let you know I’m coming round tomorrow night. I’ve got a late Christmas present for Bobby and I’d like to give it to him in person. And I think we should have a real chat.”
There was a click and the message ended. Bobby’s father slowly raised his head.
“Who was that?”
“It’s Angelica. Your soon to be ex-girlfriend.”
“I have a girlfriend that sounds like her?”
“Dad. I don’t think we can cover this up much longer.” Bobby sat down next to his father. “The police will just keep coming back, and Angelica certainly won’t give up.”
Gordon Berlin rolled his eyes dramatically, but Bobby pressed ahead.
“We haven’t got any money left and you can’t even remember your PIN number. We can’t go on like this.”
“All right,” his father grumped. “If my memory isn’t back tomorrow we’ll go to a doctor. Happy?”
“Thank you.” The boy’s relief was obvious. “Hey. What do you want for tea? I’ll make it.”
“Kraft Macaroni Cheese please. But don’t put any butter or milk in it. I like it all sticky.”
“You want to stay for tea, Mary?” It’s… eh… vegetarian.”
“No. I think I’ll get home.” The teenager fastened up her coat. “I hope you feel better tomorrow, Mr Berlin.”
“That’s the problem, toots.” Gordon said gaily. “I feel fine. Just a bit pooped.”
“I’ll see you to the door.” Bobby got to his feet.
“No kissing in the hallway!” His father gave a childish snigger.
“Dad!” Bobby blushed bright red and practically pushed Mary out of the living room.
In the hall, the girl quickly shut the door and leaned in close. For a second Bobby thought she really was going to kiss him. He moved his head away, nervously, but Mary’s lips stopped next to his ear.
“Why did the dogs at the kennel try to attack your dad? They’ve never harmed anyone before.”
“I don’t know”
“And why did your dad stop at the hedge outside and hide? It’s like he knew the police were going to turn up.”
“He’s just paranoid. You’re supposed to be the psychic, not him.”
Mary opened the front door. It had grown dark outside and scattered snowflakes danced across the night like frantic stars.
“You know, I quite liked your dad, even if he was a bit miserable.” She stepped into the darkness, pulling her hood over her head. “But Dodd Pollen is starting to scare me.”
-23-
Mary walked aimlessly for a long time before finally turning home. A brief flurry of snow had come and gone and now the air was crisp and clear. Stars were strung across the hemisphere like Christmas lights and fire billowed from the chimneys of the Ethylene Plant, lending the southern sky a bloody tinge.
When she got to her house, the lights were off. In the living room Mary found a note on the coffee table in her grandmother’s cramped handwriting.
Gone to bed early, dearie. Had quite a day. Grannie.
“You’re not the only one.”
Mary scanned the shelves of Rana’s bookcase, ignoring the volumes on gypsy lore and dozens of graphic novels and comics. Finally she saw what she was looking for on the top shelf.
The Encyclopaedia of Demonology.
Mary pulled down the volume and sat on her grandmother’s old floral couch. She studied the index for a few moments and then flicked through the pages until she found the chapter she was looking for.
Demonic Possession and Exorcism.
She kicked off her boots, curled chilly feet underneath her body and began to read.
Signs of Demonic Possession
The victim takes on a different personality.
The victim often curses a lot, though it is out of character.
The victim develops an aversion to religious objects, churches and clergy.
The victim’s personal hygiene changes.
The victim may become abusive and threatening.
The victim’s diet may change.
The victim may have a memory blackout.
The victim’s voice may change.
Animals may be frightened of the victim.
Mary thought of all the things Bobby had told her about his father - and what she had witnessed herself.
She shut the book, chewing her lip.
The passage she had read was a perfect description of Gordon Berlin.
-24-
Bobby scanned the reams he had printed out about amnesia. His father stood in front of the mirror, combing his hair backwards then forwards, trying to hide his receding hairline.
“You think I should put the purple streak back in?”
“Oh sure. That won’t attract attention.” Bobby held up the sheet of paper. “Look. According to this, we need to jog your memory. Find things from your past that you might recognize.”
“All I need is the TV for that,” Gordon tried a side parting. “They’re still showing Star Trek and Dr Who.”
“I mean personal stuff.” Bobby glanced up at the ceiling. “We should try the attic. That’s where all the old junk is kept.”
They found the key to the attic, lowered the ladder and climbed up into the darkness. Bobby switched on the light and his father began opening boxes and trunks like a child at Christmas.
“Hey, there’s a kite in this one.” Gordon held up a tatty red rectangle with a paper tail. “Want to fly a kite sometime?” He tossed the toy aside and delved into another container.
The teenager was staring at a pile of camping equipment in one corner. His father hopped over, a stuffed parrot attached to his shoulder.
“What’s up Bobby me lad?” He squinted at the teenager through his half closed fist. “What do you spy, scurvy knave?”
“My mum and I used to take camping trips around Fife.” Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets. “We’d eat lunch over that gas stove.”
Gordon dropped the parrot on
the floor.
“What was your mother like?” he asked quietly.
“She was wonderful.”
“So… why did I leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.” Gordon ruffled his son’s hair, unsure of how to comfort him. “Let’s keep looking, huh?”
They took opposite sides of the attic and began opening the rest of the boxes. There were more toys, old clothes and trinkets belonging to Alison Berlin. Gordon’s memory might not be getting jogged, but each new find was a fresh jolt for his son.
“You find anything at all?” The teenager suddenly wanted out of this dark vault, full of painful reminiscence.
“You better come look at this Bobby.”
He hurried over. His father was holding a shoebox full of old photographs.
Bobby took the box and lifted out a handful of yellowing pictures.
“What the?...”
Each photograph was of a boy. In some he was alone. In others he was with a couple who Bobby recognised as gran and granddad Berlin.
“Is that me?” Gordon said, shocked.
“I think so.” Bobby felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “It’s a bit hard to tell.”
In each photograph the child’s face had been obliterated by a thick red pen.
Bobby and his father were both shaken by what they had found. They sat in silence in the living room lost in their own thoughts.
“C’mon. No more sitting round like a couple of bloody pansies,” Gordon said eventually. “What sort of movies are you into? What’s your favourite band? Let’s make some toasties and talk about girls.”
Bobby and Gordon spent the rest of the night playing on the X-Box, talking and laughing, eating crisps and drinking Coke. His father had never let him drink Coke before – claiming it was something to do with all big corporations being evil. For a little while, all the unanswered questions were put to the back their minds and they simply enjoyed each other’s company.
By the time they decided to turn in for the night, Bobby had to admit he was starting to have a real affection for Dodd Pollen. More than he liked Gordon Berlin, in fact.
Waiting For a Train That Never Comes Page 7
