by Adam Millard
Tom worked his way back to the search engine and typed in: ice cream kidnapping.
The girl to Tom’s left must have seen what he had typed; she was whispering into the phone now, telling Rochelle about the man sitting at the computer next to her looking at weird shit. It was an opportunity, Tom thought, not to be missed.
He turned to the girl.
He smiled.
“Do you like ice cream?” he asked, sounding a little like Hannibal Lecter, a little like Donald Pleasance.
The girl looked terrified, and for the first time in fifteen minutes she was speechless. When Tom flashed her another, even more maniacal, grin, she got up, slung a bag across her shoulder, and headed for the exit as quickly as she could, daring to look back over her shoulder only once as she went.
Childish? Tom thought. Yes, indeed. Worth it? You betcha!
He turned his attention back to the screen in front of him, began to scroll down the page, looking for something—anything—to jump out at him. A YouTube video was the number one result. Someone had put together a rather elaborate social experiment to prove just how easy it would be for an Ice Cream Man to kidnap your kid. Tom didn’t need to watch the video to know that was true.
He’d lived it.
There was a Snopes article about a Mr Softee driving around, chloroforming the living shit out of young girls, but Snopes called bullshit, so that was the end of that one.
There was an article whose title was simply: Does Ice Cream Man = Pervert? Tom didn’t need to read that one, for it was like saying, Does Window Cleaner = Voyeur? Or, Does Grass Mower = Frog Murderer?
Tom clicked to the next page, and that was when he saw it. The very first article at the top of the second page—ICE CREAM VAN POLICE CHASE ENDS IN TRAGEDY—was accompanied by an image: an ice cream truck being pulled from the Thames, yellow-and-white with more than a little rust. The article was dated October 31st, 1987, a year—to the day—before Ryan’s disappearance.
Although he couldn’t be certain, Tom thought his heart had stopped beating. Everything around him was now deathly silent. Even the click-clacking of the manic typists, their fingers all a blur, faded into the distance as Tom clicked the link which pulled up the article.
He began to read.
When Tom finished reading the article, he read it again, and then a third time. Frederick White? Was that the real name of the Ice Cream Man, the thing which had returned to claim children’s souls? Tom looked closely at the picture; it was definitely the same truck, right down to the MIND THE CHILDREN! vinyl decal on the back. Tom could almost hear the atonal chimes now.
Pop goes the weasel.
This was something. After all these years, Tom had made progress, but was it a case of too little, too late? If this sonofabitch was coming back on Halloween, where would he be? Who would he go after? The possibilities were limitless. The fucker had millions of children to choose from, in hundreds of cities and towns across the country.
And yet Tom knew he was coming back to Havering. The recent torment, the nightmares which left Tom in a pool of his own sweat most mornings, the terrifying incident with Kurian, it all pointed to the return of the Ice Cream Man.
The thing was mocking him, plaguing him day and night, haunting his dreams and toying with him while he was awake.
I’m coming back…
The creature had even said so itself. If not Havering, then one of the surrounding boroughs, but where, and how would Tom and Wood know when the truck appeared? Would they hear the discordant chimes from the pub?
So many likelihoods, all disparate, and Tom could feel himself growing increasingly frustrated as he stared at the screen, his heart now thumping hard in his chest, and tried to work out his next move.
Laura White.
Frederick’s widow.
That’s it, Tom thought. The woman shouldn’t be too difficult to track down, not with all this modern technology at his fingertips. He would find the address of Laura White, maybe he and Wood could pay her a visit, find out as much as they possibly could about the man behind the demon. Tom didn’t see the flaw in his design, however, at least not until her really thought about it. Laura White might be reluctant to discuss the man who had, ultimately, either intentionally or accidentally, killed their daughter. It was one of those sore points, Tom thought, which people didn’t like dragged back up, especially twenty-nine years after the fact.
Tom took out his phone, pointed it at the screen, and took a picture. The words were just about legible, enough for him to read out to Wood later on.
How had Wood not heard about this incident? Surely, he had. London’s big, Tom thought, but it’s not so big if you’re a copper. This kind of thing would have been the talk of all the stations around London; at least, that’s what Tom would have thought. Maybe Wood was off the week it happened. Maybe it was just another death in London, throw it on the pile, let’s never speak of it again, let’s go get some of those salt-and-pepper crab claws you like so much, Brownlee…
“You do know we have a printer for that kind of thing?”
Tom turned to find Margaret standing just behind him, smiling in that motherly, and yet condescending way she was really good at. She was looking at Tom, and not the screen behind him, which Tom was grateful for. The last thing he needed right now was more questions. “Excuse me?”
“The printer,” Margaret explained. “It’s hooked up to all the computers. All you have to do is right-click on the page you want printing, and it’ll come out over there.” She motioned to an antique-looking crème box across the room. “I wouldn’t leave anything important lying around on there for too long, though,” she said. “Identity thieves… they’re everywhere.”
“Thanks for the advice, Margaret,” Tom said, and then she went about her business. Tom turned back to the computer and followed her instructions. It was relatively simple, and a minute later he held in his hand a crisp, warm printout of the article.
Next, he found a site which promised to locate any person living in the UK with just a name and a street, town, or postcode. He typed Laura White’s name into the first box, and then Havering into the second. A list appeared on screen, and Tom cursed. There were eight Laura Whites living in Havering or the surrounding areas. But then Tom noticed a new column containing the names of the other occupants of those Laura White’s respective residences, and Tom brightened once again.
There, in the ‘other occupants’ box of the third result down, was the name Frederick White. Thanks to the electoral register, Tom had figured it out. He felt, in that moment, like a superspy, an agent of CSI, Sherlock Holmes on his very best day, and yet the information he had gleaned was readily available. He had done nothing, really.
7 Burke Street was the last known address of Laura and Frederick White, the house from which Frederick had fled the police with their daughter. There was a good chance Laura White had moved on, was actually one of the other Laura Whites from the results, now living at a different address—one without so many awful memories—but Tom didn’t really have anything else to go on. He would speak with Wood, and together they would decide whether it was a good idea to pay White a visit. If Tom knew Wood as well as he thought he did, they would be on Burke Street by that very afternoon.
Satisfied, Tom logged off the browser and the computer returned to its homepage, which featured the library’s insignia and details on how to get started.
And he was about to leave when he noticed the computer to his left—the one Little Miss Chatterbox had been sitting at—was still logged in to some social media site.
“Okay,” Tom said quietly to himself, checking around to make sure no one noticed what he was about to do. If Margaret was watching, she was doing it from between the stacks, a library ninja.
Tom shifted seats, clicked on the search box at the top of the social media page, and entered a name.
Luke Davis.
He hit enter and was immediately bombarded with a thousand Luke Davises. “Shit.”
Of course, there would be lots of them, far too many to work through. The tiny thumbnail profile pictures next to the names didn’t give much away, either. Tom quickly realised he was wasting his time.
He typed Marcus Berry into the search box, and there, in the very first two results, was his old friend. The first result was for a fan page—the little blue tick, Tom thought, made it a verified account—but the second was his personal profile. The profile thumbnail showed Marcus, arm around his old man, standing in front of some run-down gymnasium. Marcus looked happy, while his father fairly scowled at the camera. It was just the way he was, Tom thought, remembering back to how Clive Berry had been when they were just kids: a cantankerous bully with a heart of gold, a pushy sonofabitch who could break your skull one minute and then drive you to the hospital the next. Deep down he was a good man, but Tom was surprised to see him looking so old and frail. The years had not been terribly kind to Clive Berry, unlike his son, who showed none of the usual signs of middle age. There was no unfortunate spreading of the midriff to see here, no drooping of the man-tits, and no slowly shrinking into dotage, like some withering plant. Marcus and Tom were the same age, give or take a couple of weeks, and yet Marcus looked better now than Tom had twenty years ago.
Sonofabitch.
Although Tom didn’t know what he was doing with regards to this stupid site, he clicked on the personal profile of Marcus and hoped for the best.
What he got was Marcus’s most recent public posts. Photographs taken at the gym, posters promoting his forthcoming fight with Samuels Jr. (which was no longer forthcoming, Tom noticed; had already happened, in fact, and according to the stream of condolences on the post, it hadn’t gone in Marcus’s favour), a couple of comments about films he’d watched recently and would recommend.
To the left of the feed there was a sidebar, and Tom found a link which would lead to a list of Marcus’s current friends.
He clicked it.
Wow, there were so many of them! Not real friends, of course, but people who wanted to be able to say they were acquainted with ‘The Banger’. The sycophancy was strong with these ones.
Fortunately for Tom, the list was in alphabetical order, and he scrolled down to the L’s. There were several Lukes, but only one Luke Davis. Tom saw, even from the tiny picture, it was the right Luke. He hadn’t changed that much, really. Got a bit older, wore a bit more stubble around his chin and jaw, but it was Luke, all right.
Tom clicked the link and was immediately, by the magic of the internet, taken to Luke’s profile.
This profile is set to private, the text below Luke’s face said. The user must add you as a friend to see his/her profile.
“Same old Luke,” Tom said, smiling. He wasn’t even disappointed, for he knew his friend was okay. A helluva lot older, but still kicking. Maybe, Tom thought, when this is all over, I’ll sign up to this stupid site and add the fucker as a friend.
When all this is over…
Tom logged Little Miss Chatterbox out of the site and closed the browser. On his way out, he thanked Margaret for the help and told her he would probably see her in a couple of days, all being well. The library had become his home from home, now, a place to escape to when he was bored with the emptiness of the house, tired of the inane chatter of the senile clientele at The Walnut Tree, and fed up with not hearing a peep from Danielle, who was probably already expunging the last few years from her memory with the help of her meddling sister.
“Will you be seeing Trevor at any point today?” Margaret asked, hopeful. Tom felt for her, for he didn’t think the feelings were mutual; Wood was a good man, a strong man, but a ladies’ man? Maybe once, but not anymore.
Tom nodded. “You know, when I was a kid, if you’d told me I’d grow up and spend hour after hour with Sergeant Wood, I’d have told you to get lost and stop winding me up.”
“Well,” Margaret said, “when you see him, tell him the book he ordered has come in. Tell him I don’t approve of its content” —she made the sign of the cross over her chest— “but who am I to judge?”
“You want me to take it to him?” Tom said. “I’m meeting him in a few; save him coming in here to bother you for it.” But she liked that. She liked it when Wood came in to bother her, wished he would do it more often. Tom half-expected Margaret to vehemently decline his offer.
“That would be most kind of you,” she said. She bent down behind the counter and came back up with a large tome, brand new, ordered in especially for Wood, Tom thought. Of course! Margaret would order the man The Satanic Bible if she thought it would get her into his Y-fronts. She handed the book to Tom. “I’ve already stamped it,” she said.
“Thanks,” Tom said, tucking the book underneath his arm. He wished her a pleasant afternoon and left the library with Wood’s book and his article printout. Not a bad haul, considering.
Tom sheltered from the rain—which was coming down in sheets—for a few minutes, lit a cigarette—on the fourth attempt—and decided to take a look at what was next on Wood’s reading list.
The book was heavy, but its cover gave no clue as to what it contained. A single line of text, with awful kerning, was its only feature. There wasn’t even an author’s byline.
GHUUL: THE CHILDREN-EATER
“Holy shit!” Tom said. Was this fiction? It certainly didn’t look like it. Where the hell did Margaret even find this book? It was like something someone had self-published, only to decide they didn’t want their name on it after all.
After examining the book more closely while the rain hammered the pavement six feet in front of him, Tom realised this was a relatively serious investigation into some Babylonian deity. The writing was scientific; to Tom, it was like reading the instruction manual for the Large Hadron Collider, but he had no doubt Wood knew what he was looking for.
The Children-Eater?
Did Wood think this had something to do with the Ice Cream Man? That wasn’t possible. Frederick White was no Babylonian deity; he was just a spurned husband making a run for it.
Maybe Wood knew something Tom didn’t. He’d been researching for so long, perhaps the old guy had turned up something useful, something which Tom would never have considered possible in a million years.
Maybe, Tom thought for the very first time, I need Wood more than he needs me.
SIXTEEN
October 28th, 2016,
St. George’s Hospital
Tooting, London
Screaming. Women screaming. Men moaning. Agony? Pleasure? It was hard to tell the difference. Beeping. Machines whirring and screeching. The sound of a squeaky trolley-wheel zipping by somewhere to his right.
Open your eyes, Luke…
But he couldn’t. Not just yet. It was far too bright, and his eyes felt brand new. Fluorescent lights hovered above where he lay; he could hear them buzzing, could see their glow through his eyelids.
Pain in his left arm. An IV, perhaps? What was happening to him? How had he come to be here, in this room with its incessantly beeping appliances and, just beyond, a whole army of lamenting souls?
He had been in an accident. That much he knew. But what? What accident? It was just out of reach, the explanation he desperately sought. He could almost taste the words on his lips—car crash—but not quite, not just then. It would be several more hours before the doctor arrived to tell him what had happened, that he was very lucky to be alive, and that the man in the other vehicle was doing well. Uninjured, would be the word the doctor used, uninjured and doing just fine, “But we’re keeping him in for observations,” and Luke would nod and thank the heavens he hadn’t killed someone.
But for now, he needed sleep. He needed to go back under, let the doctors and nurses do their thing all around him while he fell deeper into the darkness and his pain washed slowly away.
He slept.
* * *
Ghuul.
“What?” Luke was in a tiny room, surrounded on four sides by brick walls. He was seated at a table, upon whic
h sat a fruit-bowl, its contents seemingly ripe and fresh for the taking. There was a strange scent in the air—vanilla?—and Luke knew straight away that this was a dream. It was far too surreal to be anything but. “What does that mean? Ghuul?” Now that he had established this was fantasy, what the Scottish might call a Dwam, he relaxed a little, for nothing could hurt him here, could it? Nothing could hurt you in a dream? Luke had read, once, that if you fell from a great height in your dream and didn’t awaken before you hit the ground, then you died in reality. However, he knew that to be complete bullshit; he had hit the ground on many occasions. He had fallen from skyscrapers in the wake of 9/11—too much TV footage, he ascribed that to—and had woken to feel pretty damn bad about himself the next morning. He had survived flayings and beheadings, gunshots and war.
You simply could not die as a result of a dream.
Ghuul.
“I heard you the first time,” Luke said, standing from the table. “But what does it mean, and who are you?”
One question at a time, Luke thought, otherwise this could all get a little confusing.
When no answer came, Luke explored the four walls, dragged his hands across the coarse brickwork, feeling for… what? A secret passageway? A loose brick that would send one of the walls sliding aside to reveal a hidden room? This wasn’t Indiana Jones, and Luke certainly wasn’t Harrison Ford, even in his dreams. There would be no ancient artefact discovery here today. Just confusion and nonsensical mindfuckery, what the old folk liked to call ‘Bamboozlement’.
