A Dark Inheritance

by Chris D'Lacey

  “What’s happened?” I heard Mom saying.

  Detective Probert replied, “Michael’s gone to get a drink of water. It’s natural to feel unsettled after an interview. He’ll be fine. Thank you for your time. We won’t be troubling you again. It’s highly unlikely we’ll find the person responsible for the accident, but if Michael should remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

  I heard the front door close. Mom came through to the kitchen.

  “You all right, love?”

  I turned and flopped back against the sink, my mouth full of foul-tasting saliva.

  She stepped forward and pushed my hair out of my eyes. “Don’t fret. This will go away in time. We have to put it behind us now, like we’ve dealt with our … troubles in the past. You’re safe, that’s all that matters. Safe and entirely blameless. Whoever did this to you will have to live with their guilt for the rest of —”

  “I hate him,” I said.

  She let out a sigh. “Oh, Michael. You mustn’t feel like that. It was a terrible thing the driver did, but —”

  “Not the driver,” I snapped. A tear wet my cheek. “Dad. I hate Dad. For not being here. For leaving us. If it wasn’t for Dad, this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “What?” she said, sounding hurt and confused. “Your father’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “He has!” I screamed, barely inches from her face. “This is all because of him! This is all his fault!” Then I did the weirdest thing ever. I ran to the room he’d used as his office and hammered on the door and cried, “Come out! Wherever you are! Stop hiding!” And I hammered more and more until the strength went out of me and all I could do was scratch at the wood. I wept and implored him one last time, “Dad, come home. Just please come home.”

  And I sank to my knees and sobbed. And when I found Mom’s arms, she was sobbing, too.

  We talked, awkwardly, me and Mom. We sat in the room with the echoes of my dad, and she encouraged me to tell her anything I needed to, good or bad, quiet or loud, whisper or scream. “Let go,” she said. “Just let go.” I said I missed him at times like this, but I would miss her more if she weren’t around. That just got her blubbering again. When we finally dried up, we burst out laughing and told each other what a mess we looked. After that, a sweet sort of calm descended. Mom pulled two tissues from her sleeve and we got to work cleaning our faces. “One day,” she said, “we should decorate in here. Move a few things out. What do you think?”

  I nodded quietly. I knew what Mom was getting at. It was time to let go of Dad for good. I sniffed and looked around. The place had barely changed in the last three years. His old vinyl albums were still stacked against the wall, all the classical music he’d liked so much. Beethoven, mainly. Wagner. Mozart. It had once been a rule that when the music was playing, Dad was working and you didn’t come in here. I’d hated it then; I missed it now. My gaze drifted to the big oak desk that Dad himself had built into the alcove, a green leather chair tucked underneath it. Mom had always thought I might use the desk for doing my homework, but I couldn’t ever bring myself to sit in Dad’s place. She had emptied its deep drawers long ago, but there were still some bits and pieces on the top: the pen holder Josie had bought Dad one Christmas, the desk lamp that looked like a wading bird, a paperweight gathering dust.

  “Shall we get rid of that?” I asked. I pointed to a framed print hanging above the desk on the alcove wall. As well as classical music and opera, Dad had liked abstract art, and it didn’t come much more abstract than this. It was a kind of psychedelic drawing of a tree set against a plain gold background. The trunk of the tree and the earth around it were decorated like a patchwork quilt. Six main branches divided into smaller ones, all of them ending in neat brown whorls. There were no green leaves, just occasional strips of what looked to me like bunting flags (though Josie had always insisted they were crowns). Every now and then, a thing like an acorn, or possibly a fruit, grew upright out of one of the branches. And in the body of the tree, low down on the right, sat a tall, dark bird. I had never asked Dad what kind of bird it was because whenever I’d looked at the picture in the past, I’d always assumed it to be a crow, even though its tail feathers were tipped with white.

  “Oh, no. I like the print,” said Mom. “Maybe I’ll move it into the living room.”

  “Mo-om? Come on. It’s hideous.”

  She pursed her lips and had second thoughts. “Hmm, maybe you’re right. It will only remind me of your accident.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You remember Dr. K from the hospital?”

  “Yes,” I said, warily. How could I forget?

  “The day I brought you home I asked him what the K stood for. It’s the same as the artist who painted that.” She pointed at the print.

  Curious, I stood up and went to look. In the corner of the print, in small black lettering, was the name … “Klimt,” I whispered. The air in my lungs seemed to turn to dust. I looked at the title. The Tree of Life. By Gustav Klimt.

  Mom nodded. “Odd coincidence, no?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Did this mean something? Some reference, some clue to Dad’s work with UNICORNE? “Why did he choose this picture?” I asked.

  Mom shrugged. “Because he liked it, I suppose.”

  “But —?”

  “Anyway, come on,” she said, standing up. “Anytime now, your sister’s going to surface. I don’t want her to find us moping about in here, red-eyed and sniffing. Oh, and while I’ve got your complete attention, what do you want for your birthday? I think you’re old enough now to choose.”

  I turned to look at her.

  “Speak,” she said, after the third second of silence. “Ask, and thou might receive. No promises.”

  “New bike?” I said.

  She drew a sharp breath.

  “We have to put the accident behind us, remember?”

  “Don’t push it,” she laughed, poking my chest. She licked a tissue and wiped away a tearstain I’d missed. “The Tree of Life,” she sighed, looking wistfully at the print. She put a kiss on her fingers and blew it into the branches behind me. “Love you, Thomas, wherever you are.” Her eyes misted again. “You, too,” she said, pinching my cheek. “New bike.” She smiled to herself. “We’ll see.”

  I really missed my bike that week. My return from the UNICORNE clinic had coincided with a half-term break. Eight days of recuperation before I could go back to school. By the end of day two, my brain was dissolving with boredom. I had, by then, looked up The Tree of Life online, thinking I might learn something about Dad’s connection to Amadeus Klimt. But there was nothing. Just a lot of stuff about Art Nouveau.

  Then there was the added frustration of not being able to go and see Freya, or even talk to her. I didn’t have her number and she wasn’t in the book. And although Mom said I could have friends over, the names she suggested were all male. There was nothing I could do but sit it out.

  To make matters worse, I had to put up with Josie and her latest new friend. One morning, a virtual clone of Josie, but with slightly darker hair, turned up. I had the misfortune of answering the door.

  “Hi, I’m Mystique.” She had a smile as wide as a slice of melon and teeth the size of mah-jongg tiles. She was carrying a wrapped box under one arm. A jigsaw by the look of it, or maybe a board game.

  “Miss what?” I said. Something about a type of wood?

  Her eyes sparkled like a couple of snowflakes. “Hey, are you Josie’s brother?”

  “No, they found me on the step one Christmas.”

  “Really?”

  I smiled. It seemed the polite thing to do. I’d heard that girls who think they’re nice-looking sometimes adopt a less attractive friend. Trust Josie to go for a pal with an IQ lower than the number of days in February. I widened the door. “You’d better come in.”

  Josie appeared, almost wagging a tail. They did a little air-kissing dance. As Mom entered the scene “Miss Teak” asked, �
��Can I use your bathroom, please? I’m desperate.”

  “Upstairs, first door on the right,” said Mom.

  The wooden one grinned and bounded up the stairs.

  Mom soft-shouldered the door. “So … what happened to Tirion, then?”

  “Too many issues,” Josie sighed.

  Mom raised an eyebrow. My thoughts exactly.

  “Do all your friends have weird names?” I asked. “Don’t you know any Marys or Suzys or Pollys?”

  Josie gave me her special look, the one reserved for inferior brothers and people who hate her favorite pop stars. “You are so retro,” she said, and swished up the stairs like Cinderella.

  It got worse. With nothing better to do, I headed into the living room to pick up my book. I was trying to work my way through The Catcher in the Rye because I didn’t want to get too far behind in English. I’d added a couple more pages to my tally when Josie came in, leaned over the sofa, and whipped the book right out of my hands.

  “Hey?!”

  “I need you.”

  “I’m busy. Give that back.”

  “Misty’s brought her Monopoly set. It’s no good with two. So you’ve got to play.”

  “I don’t want to play Monopoly. I want to read, thank you.”

  “Right, well, I’m gonna tell Mystique to tell everyone at school that you only change your underwear twice a week.”

  “I so do not!”

  “So do,” Mom muttered, breezing past.

  Thanks, Mother. “Look, I don’t care if Miss whatever-she’s-called thinks I roll in doggy doo. I am not playing Monopoly. GIVE ME BACK MY BOOK.”

  Josie slapped it onto the coffee table, out of my reach. “Okay, be a grumpy guts all your life.” She waltzed by and stuck out her tongue. “By the way, Mystique lives next door to Freya.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  “I want to be the banker.”

  “Done.”

  Cool.

  It was a lie, of course — well, a dark shade of white. I had to let Mystique own half of the properties before Josie would bring up the subject of Freya.

  “Hey, Misty, you know that goth girl who lives on your street?”

  On your street? I mouthed.

  Just go with it, Josie mouthed back.

  “Freya? Yeah. She’s SO weird.” Said the girl in the bright pink sweater with white epaulettes. A starry wand and a pair of false wings were all she needed to complete the look. She bobbed a judgmental head. “But in a good way. I kind of like her.”

  “So does Michael. He’s going out with her.”

  The fairy child dropped her shoulders.

  Oh, no. This couldn’t be true. That wasn’t surprise I was seeing on her face; it was disappointment. She had a crush on me. Help! “B&O Railroad. Two hundred dollars,” I muttered.

  Mystique bit her lip and reached for her considerable wad of money. She counted off the notes in small denominations, applying poison to each with her thumb.

  “He’s not allowed to see her out of school,” Josie said. “The excitement would probably crack a rib.”

  “Sixty, eighty …” Mystique counted.

  Josie rolled the dice. She landed on CHANCE and took a card. “He wants to know if you’ll take a message to her?”

  What? I eyeballed Josie again. She grinned like an alley cat. She was loving this.

  “Oh, look, prison again,” she sighed, sliding her top hat there. “Honestly, I am so bad.”

  Misty looped her hair and handed me my money. She picked up the dice cup and plonked it by my knee, creating an earthquake on Mediterranean Avenue. “Your turn.”

  I rolled the dice and moved my flatiron nine places clockwise.

  Josie sucked in through her teeth.

  Wouldn’t you know it? I’d landed on Boardwalk.

  “That’ll be twenty thousand dollars,” said Misty.

  “You win,” I said, shoving every bill I had her way. “You’re good at Monopoly, aren’t you?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Josie raise a thumb. Compliments. Way to go.

  Misty looked down, braiding the ends of her hair. “We could play another game, if you like?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Josie, “after you’ve taken Michael’s note. You can bring Freya’s answer back then, can’t you?”

  Misty plaited on for what seemed like hours.

  “Course, it won’t do him any good,” said Josie. “He never has much luck with girls.” She whirled her hands. Rope. More rope.

  I couldn’t believe I was about to say this. “Yeah,” I sighed. “Josie’s right. I don’t think Freya’s really … the one, but … you have to try, don’t you?”

  Mystique looked up and nodded in agreement.

  Honestly, it was a wonder lightning didn’t strike my flatiron.

  I kept the note short.

  I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t know Candy would send me the article. I can explain about Rafferty. Please reply. Michael.

  Three days, another three games of Monopoly, but no word came from Freya. Misty, to be fair, had done her part. Unsure of exactly where Freya lived, she had hovered along their road and finally put the note in Freya’s hand, saying that if Freya wanted to reply, she’d be at the bus stop every morning at ten.

  She didn’t see Freya again.

  School opened.

  Ten minutes before first period, I saw Freya at the lockers, putting away her coat. She didn’t see me until she closed the locker door.

  “Jeez, Michael!” She put a hand on her heart. Rafferty’s heart.

  “Sorry, I … didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did. And you seem to make a habit of it. Bye.”

  “Freya, wait.” I grabbed her arm.

  She shook me off angrily.

  “Did you get my note?”

  “It doesn’t matter about the note.” She wrapped her arms around her textbooks and backed away. “Look, I’m sorry about your accident and everything, but I’ve moved on with my life, okay?”

  “But I want to make up with you. I want us to be friends.”

  By now, other kids were aware of our spat. Suddenly, one of them waded in. “Hey, get off her, Malone.”

  I thumped back against the lockers, pushed there by none other than Ryan Garvey.

  “What do you want, Garvey?” I launched myself back at him, pushing him as far as the opposite wall. “This is a private conversation. Get lost.”

  “Stop it!” cried Freya, trying to come between us.

  But he came for me again, wrestling an arm around my neck, trying to bend me down so he could knee my face. Kids whooped and hollered and offered their advice. “Knee him, Ryan!” “Kick him, Malone!” Around and around the corridor we danced. A useless knot of arms and legs. I’d seen fights like this a dozen times and they usually came to nothing or were stopped by a teacher. This time, my time, I stomped on Ryan’s foot and he let me go. He squirmed right around and met me face on — and walked into a perfect rabbit punch. Smack! Right on the bridge of his nose. It was the first time I’d seriously hit anyone. The other kids gasped. Ryan didn’t cry out. He just slid down against a radiator, blood running through his hands.

  “What have you done?” wailed Freya. She crouched down and slipped her arm around his shoulders.

  I stood there, not knowing what to do. I felt bad about hitting Ryan, and weirdly confused about what I was seeing. Freya’s next sentence clarified everything.

  “Go away. I’m going out with Ryan now, all right?”

  “Teacher!” someone shouted.

  The crowd scattered like a flock of pigeons. I looked down the corridor. Mr. Besson was approaching. A woman I didn’t recognize was close behind him.

  “What is going on here?” Mr. Besson thundered.

  I couldn’t believe it. Ten minutes back to school, and I was looking at another lengthy suspension.

  Of all people, Fr
eya came to my rescue. “Ryan’s having a nosebleed, sir.” She made Ryan stand.

  Mr. Besson clucked. “Oh, is that all?” He took out a handkerchief and handed it to Freya. “Nose pinched, head between legs. If it hasn’t stopped running before the first lesson, make sure he gets to the nurse. And I’d like my handkerchief back when you’re done.”

  “Sir,” said Freya. She dragged Ryan away.

  Mr. Besson turned to his colleague. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Perdot, not the best way to start a school day.”

  “Nothing I have not seen before,” she said.

  It was the z she put in nothing that gave her away. Her blond wig and glasses had thrown me at first, but the soft French accent was unmistakeable.

  Chantelle. How had UNICORNE managed that?

  “Ah, Michael,” Mr. Besson said. “I suppose I should be glad to see you back. We were all very shocked to hear about your accident.”

  “Yes, sir,” I gulped. I couldn’t take my eyes off the “new teacher.” She was wearing a stylish black suit and peach-colored top, with a skirt that flared like a mermaid’s tail.

  “This is Ms. Perdot, who’s with us as a substitute teacher. Mrs. Francombe unfortunately broke her ankle during term break. We’re lucky to have Ms. Perdot on such short notice. Well, off you go, boy. You don’t want to take root.”

  And we parted company, Chantelle and I.

  I was five yards down the corridor when I heard someone wolf whistle. Oh, boy. French with “Ms. Perdot.” That was a lesson I could not wait for.

  I caught up with Chantelle at morning break. She was alone in Mr. Besson’s classroom, smiling at the contents of a French textbook. “The things they teach you to say here, Michael. Next time you visit Paris, be sure to stop the first person you see and tell them, ‘My pan of vegetables is boiling over.’ I’m sure they will find it illuminating.”