The October Boys

by Adam Millard

  Those words got too small to read in less than ten seconds, by which time Wood had fallen to his knees in the rain and was hammering at the wet tarmac with his fists.

  Just a shadow.

  Just a shadow.

  Just a shadow.

  * * *

  October 25th, 2016

  Redbridge, London

  Tom listened to Wood’s story without interrupting once. This was exactly what he needed right now; an ally, someone who believed what he had to say, who had seen the evil sonofabitch with his own eyes. “So you saw it?” Tom finally said, wishing his empty glass was full to the brim, and hold the ice. God, he needed a cigarette after that.

  “I saw it,” Wood said. His own glass now stood empty, yet he still cradled it as if it contained a miracle elixir. “I didn’t know what the hell it was, and I still don’t. But you were right about all that stuff when we interviewed you back in ’88. It took seven years for me to realise you and your friends had been telling the truth all along.”

  Tom didn’t know whether that was an apology, of sorts. Sorry I didn’t believe your crazy story about the shadow who likes to drive around in an ice cream truck. It’s perfectly plausible… “You said you heard a girl screaming from the back of the truck as it drove by?” Tom said. “Were there any missing girls at the time?”

  “Cheryl Mitchell,” Wood nodded. “It was all over the papers the next day. Eight-year-old girl snatched from the corner of her street in broad daylight. She was on her way to a friend’s Halloween party. Dressed as a cat, according to her parents. A black glittery cat.” He paused, shook his head with disgust. “And that thing just took her. Drove around the streets with her in the back of its truck with the music on full blast.”

  “Looking for more,” Tom said.

  “I think so,” Wood replied. “But there were no more missing kids reported that year. I guess it got one: Cheryl Mitchell. Still not been found, as far as I’m aware. I made a statement, told Brownlee and the boys what I had seen, and they said they would look into it, but I think they were just humouring me.”

  Tom thought he saw a glimpse of something in Wood’s face; was he contrite? Now that he knew how Tom and his friends had felt in ’88 when Wood had all but laughed at their tall tale, exactly the way he had been treated by Sergeant Brownlee seven years later, was he regretful?

  “I’m going to get a drink,” Tom said. He asked if Wood wanted another ale, and Wood told him yes, yes, he would very much like that. When Tom returned a few minutes later, Wood picked right back up from where he left off.

  “I’ve never been able to put that fucking trucker and its driver out of my mind, Tom. I dream about it, a hear that creepy-ass music in elevators and when someone puts me on hold. It’s like it imprinted something on me.

  Tom knew exactly what that felt like; he’d wakened almost ritualistically three times a night for the past twenty-eight years with that sicko’s discordant theme tune running through his head.

  “Then it all happened again,” Wood said. “Twice more, in fact. In 2002 a young boy named Harvey Poulson was snatched from outside a shopping centre while his mother was inside trying to get hold of some last-minute pumpkins to carve. There were no witnesses, despite it being the store’s busiest time of the evening, but several of the people questioned remembered seeing a white-and-yellow ice cream truck moving slowly around the carpark. When asked whether any of them had seen the driver, it was a resounding no. But they heard that fucking tune. Pop Goes the Weasel.” He picked up his glass and clinked it against Tom’s. “I read about that one in the newspaper. The last I heard, Brownlee moved up north with his wife and kids, so there was no one at the station I could talk to, not without them taking the piss. When Rochelle Chambers was taken from her bedroom in 2009, I didn’t even need to read the rest of the article. I just knew it was that thing, and I was right. Down there at the bottom of the page, the reporter mentioned the ice cream truck, which had been seen parked outside the Chambers house just a few hours before she was taken. Her parents had even heard the chimes but thought nothing of it.” He smiled sardonically. “I think it’s one of those sounds, you know? Your brain tunes it out. You hear it so many times in the summer, in the spring, that when it happens in the autumn you don’t think anything of it, not unless you stop and really think about it.”

  “Four kids,” Tom said. “Over the course of twenty-one years? Spaced out like that, as if it was content with what it had and didn’t feel the need to overdo it.”

  “Every seven years,” Wood said. “Did you realise that? This thing, it comes back every seven years and takes a kid. That last one, the Chambers girl, she wasn’t even in London. They lived in Glasgow. Harvey Poulson and his family lived in Brighton.”

  Tom was still running through the dates in his head. 1988, 1995, 2002, 2009; every seven years, just like Wood said.

  And this year was 2016.

  Seven more years.

  “When Margaret told me she’d met you at the library just this morning, I knew I had to come and see you,” Wood said. “I think… I think that sonofabitch, whatever the hell it is, is coming back, Tom.” Tom was already nodding. Had Wood experienced a Kurian moment of his own? “It’s been seven years since Rochelle Chambers vanished into thin air while she combed the hair of her favourite doll, and unless this is just some sort of coincidence, and the dates are not correlated at all, then we’re running out of time.”

  Tom knew the dates weren’t coincidental; every seven years, and this year was one of his. That was why he had watched Kurian transform into the Ice Cream Man (such a silly name!), why the nightmares had become more frequent, inasmuch as he’d been having them at work during the day.

  Work?

  Shit! Bob’s going to fucking crucify me! Or fire me. Either would be bad. The latter would be more likely.

  “Like I said earlier,” Tom said, “I saw him—it—come through my doctor, and I knew it was real. More than just another nightmare. It’s as if the bastard’s gearing up for what’s to come, drawing power from us, testing us.” The thought sent a chill the course of his spine, and he shuddered, the same way one might when sitting alone in a room late at night and, suddenly, there are eyes on you. Whose?

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Wood said, “but I really wish I was thirty years younger. I don’t know how much use I can be confined to this stupid scooter, or my ridiculously expensive wheelchair.”

  Tom thought about asking how Wood had ended up the way he had, but it wasn’t the done thing, especially with someone you hadn’t seen for the better part of thirty years. Wood, however, must have seen the question lingering upon Tom’s lips, because he smiled slightly, and said:

  “Car accident. Back in ’14. Even crueller is that there’s nothing actually wrong with my fucking legs? There were no breaks, no sprains, nothing like that. Head went through the windshield first, hit the pavement before the rest of me. Traumatic Brain Injury fucked up my coordination and voluntary movements.” He patted his useless legs. “They’re not paralysed, but they’re about as useful as tits on a fish. Been having physio three times a week for the last two years.”

  Tom felt for him. He’d been through so much, what with his wife leaving him, early retirement from the force, major car accident, and now this: the return of the Ice Cream Man. Truthfully, Tom was just glad he didn’t have to fight this thing alone.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about more pleasant things; about how they had both watched Marcus Berry’s rise and rise, from his Olympic bronze to Heavyweight champion of the Midlands, and how Wood always knew that kid had it in him. Tom told a few of his anecdotal stories about the weirdest things that happen when you’re an estate agent; he told the one about how he’d arrived to a country-house viewing once, only to discover a trio of squatters had taken over the upper floors. They had even brought gas bottles and camping stoves, because although you don’t own the house, a nice fried breakfast first thing in the mornin
g goes a long way to helping forget the fact. He told the one about how he’d been showing a nice young Christian couple around a three-bed semi when they’d stumbled upon what could only be described as a sex dungeon. The previous owners, it seemed, had had a thing for wall-chains and ball-gags. And he told the one about the couple who he watched implode right in front of him at one particular viewing. Everything had been going swimmingly, right up until it was time to make a decision. The girl loved it; the guy hated it. The girl slapped the guy. The guy called the girl some of the worst things Tom had ever heard fall out of a human’s face. He told all those stories to keep from thinking about the alternative, and they both knew it.

  When the time came for Wood to leave, Tom didn’t want to let him go.

  THIRTEEN

  October 25th, 2016,

  Bromley, London

  The children were being good for a change. Danielle and Rebecca helped them dress for bed, and there were no tantrums, no fights or arguments with one another. Just four boys doing what they were told with a minimum of fuss. Danielle was grateful for their cooperation; she couldn’t get Tom out of her mind, had tried to call him seven times throughout the day, and each time it went through to that stupid answer machine message of his.

  She’d tried to convince herself that it was a good idea to drive over there to see if he’d made it home, but Rebecca had talked her out of it. You’ve just got to let him get on with it for a while, she’d said. If he loves you, he’ll do the right thing.

  If he loves you?

  Danielle didn’t doubt Tom’s love for her. That wasn’t even an issue. The issue was whether she had done the right thing, leaving him along like this. Was he in the right frame of mind to get the help he needed? Was he prepared to do whatever it took to save their marriage?

  If he loves you…

  With the kids in bed—Jayden and Justice in one room, Joel and Oscar in another—Danielle and Rebecca went downstairs and Rebecca opened a bottle of red wine, which Danielle wasn’t really in the mood for, but she accepted a small glass, nonetheless.

  “Do you think he’s okay?” Danielle asked, concernedly.

  Rebecca sighed and rolled her eyes. “Sis! What have I told you? You’ve got to put it out of your mind. He’s an adult, for fuck’s sake. I’m pretty sure he can cope on his own for a few weeks.”

  “Not if he gets himself fired,” Danielle said. The smell of the wine was nauseating, and she placed her glass down on the glass coffee table. “If he doesn’t show for work tomorrow, Bob’s going to get rid of him. And then what?” Tom didn’t love the job, not really, but Danielle knew he needed it. He needed something to keep him focussed. They needed the money to pay the mortgage—Tom’s one major bill—and Tom needed the money to fund his smoking habit. It was bad enough him trying to tone down his drinking without him having to face an involuntary battle against nicotine.

  “Tom’s a smart guy,” Rebecca said. “If that prick fires him, then I shouldn’t imagine it would take long for him to find something else. I mean, who knows, it might be just the kick up the arse he needs.”

  Danielle nodded. Why did her sister have to be the sensible one? It was because she wasn’t invested like Danielle was; she was a spectator watching two grown adults throw their toys out of the pram and then figure out how they were going to pick them back up again.

  Just then, Rebecca’s phone started to ring, and she frowned as she looked down at the screen. “It’s Tom,” she said. “Why’s he ringing me?”

  Danielle’s heart began to race. Thank God he was okay. He was okay, and he was—she checked her own phone and saw that it was dead—trying to call Rebecca because, apparently, it was the only way to get in touch with his wife.

  Rebecca answered with a curt “Hello, Tom?” She sounded, Danielle thought, like that evil computer from the Kubrick film. Hello Dave. You’re looking well today… “Yeah, she’s right here having the time of her life. You want me to put her on?”

  Danielle cursed at her sister—the time of her life? —and leaned in to take the phone.

  “Ignore her,” Danielle said when she had the phone to her ear. “Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to get in touch since nine o’clock this morning. And why didn’t you go to work? Bob’s going to fire you if you don’t show up tomorrow.” She knew she had made a mistake; she should have kept it to herself that she’d known about his nonattendance at work, to see if he lied. I was at work, babe. Had a couple of important viewings, but you already knew that…

  “Shit!” Tom said. “Did he sound angry?”

  “He sounded like he’d already made up his mind,” Danielle said. “So, where were you?”

  “I was at the library,” Tom said, which was not what Danielle had expected to hear. She wasn’t even sure Tom had a library card.

  “The library?”

  “Yeah. I had to look some stuff up.”

  “For ten hours?” Danielle said.

  “Well, it didn’t take that long, but I went for a walk afterwards. I haven’t been drinking, I swear. I’m getting my shit together, Dani. Just like we talked about.”

  Danielle sighed. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. “So, what was more important at the library than work?” It was a damn good question, and one she couldn’t wait to hear the answer to. But when it came, she wished she hadn’t bothered.

  “Ryan Fielding wasn’t the only kid abducted by that lunatic,” Tom said.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Tom, how is that helping things between us, huh?”

  “This isn’t about you and me,” Tom argued. “This is about the fact that Ryan wasn’t the only kid to go missing—”

  “Hundreds of kids go missing every week, Tom,” Danielle said, though she didn’t know whether that was true. It seemed about right, though, if you considered fourteen or so a day.

  “It was the same yellow-and-white ice cream truck, Danielle. Snatched kids from Glasgow, from Brighton, from—”

  Danielle couldn’t help herself. She fairly screeched down the phone, and across from her Rebecca almost spilt red wine down her favourite green dress. “Stop! Just stop with all this Ice Cream Man bullshit, Tom! It’s taken over every facet of your life. Is that why you don’t want kids? Because you’re afraid that someday, someone’s going to pull up to the kerb and take them away?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t believe it,” Danielle said, and she didn’t. All this time, all these years she’d pleaded with him to give her a child, to make them both parents, and the reason why he wouldn’t was because of something which had happened when he was a kid. Almost thirty years ago.

  “It’s not like that, Dani,” Tom said. “This… thing is real, okay? I spoke to someone today, someone from back then, an ex-policeman, and he—”

  “I don’t believe you!” Danielle said. “Tom, I told you what to do, I told you what you needed to do for me to come home, and you’ve been out there pulling some sort of… some sort of Poirot shit on the locals and raiding the library for information on things which happened before you had hair on your body!” She was losing it, and Rebecca was finding it amusing, for some reason. “Did you even go to see Kurian?” she said, for now she was beginning to doubt everything he’d told her.

  “I did,” Tom said. “I went to see him, and do you know what happened, Dani? That fucker stood up and transformed into a demon right in front of my eyes.” It was apparently Tom’s turn to rant now; they had done this so much over the past years, it seemed to be the only way they could communicate. “You know what, Dani? I went to see your precious Doctor Kurian because you made me believe that I was deluded, that the things I was dreaming about were just remnants of a past I needed to forget, to block out, to come to terms with, whatever the hell you want to call it. But today I found out that it’s all real, just like I knew it was. The ex-policeman from way back when, he knows it’s true, too. This thing is coming back, Dani, and it’s going to take another kid—fuck knows who—and then it�
��s going to vanish again for seven ore years—”

  “Have you even heard yourself, Tom?” Calm again now. There was no point, Danielle thought, trying to outdo one another. They were both raving lunatics to the outside world, and to Rebecca, who was at least seeing the funny side of things, even if Danielle wasn’t. “Seven years? What does that even, I, Tom, this is ridic—”

  “I don’t expect you to believe me,” Tom said. “You never have, not about what happened to Ryan, not about the shadow behind the wheel, none of it. But it doesn’t matter, Dani, because I’m going to make things right. We’re going to stop that sonofabitch this time around. We’re going to put an end to it.”

  “Who’s we, Tom?” Danielle half-expected him to say, We! Me and the voices in my head. We’re going to stop it, and then we’re going to have a nice game of chess, because Tom 2 is good at chess, aren’t you, Tom 2?

  There was a pause, and then Tom said, “Trevor Wood and I,” as if he didn’t quite believe either of them, was only just realising for the first time that neither of them, were up to the task.

  “Sergeant Wood?” Danielle said, if only to prove that she had been listening all these years, all those times Tom recounted the story. She had been listening, and it was his turn to listen now. Listen to her. Get some help. Stop being a fucking cuckoo!

  “Wood knows about the thing,” Tom said. “He was there when the second girl went missing, and he’s been doing research into it ever since. He believes me, Dani. Why can’t you?”

  “Because ghosts aren’t real, Tom,” Danielle said, and for the first time she had the urge to cancel the call. It would have been the easy thing to do. But it wouldn’t make a difference. Tom’s problems would persist; their problems would persist. “Don’t you see how crazy you sound?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe me,” Tom said. “It’s not as if you ever have, not about what we went through.”