by Derek Flynn
Ten minutes later, Concord is receding in my rear-view mirror.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
If Charlie and Samantha’s relationship had just kicked up a notch, then so had their attempts at subterfuge. They came up with inventive ways of getting messages to each other, leaving notes under rocks or in mailboxes. The problem was that everywhere was public. So, actually picking up the notes was the problem. There were a number of days I saw Samantha walk home from school with her friends and glance nervously at a rock or a mailbox. I’d know that was the drop. She knew she couldn’t look while her friends were there. She’d have to wait until she was alone. Of course, she could have walked home alone but that in itself would have raised suspicions. And everything was about not raising suspicions. So, she’d wait until dark and go then, probably telling her parents that she was going to a friend’s house. If there was no note there, she’d walk the streets for an hour and then go home.
If Samantha was to leave the note, Charlie too would wait until dark. He knew it would raise suspicions if the town freak was seen peering into mailboxes or under rocks. So, he’d catch the bus in at night and check for the note. If there was none there, he’d catch the bus home again.
So many times I wanted to run over to either one of them, tell them it wasn’t there, that I saw Samantha leave it somewhere else. Or tell them I could help them. All this trouble they were going to so the town wouldn’t know what they were up to. No one even looked at me. Why not let me be the patsy, let me take the fall? No one would ever know.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say it to them. Part of me was afraid to. I knew I’d probably be rebuffed. Then, they’d know of my existence and it would all be over. So many nights I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, imagining the scene as I walked up to either one of them, told them what I’d been doing, told them how I could help them. They would smile and say, “Yes. We want your help.” But it was too soon for that.
So, I waited. I hid in the shadows. Literally. Hiding in the shadows in the Black Wood. It wasn’t too hard staying hidden. Sometimes, I’d even get there before them, if I’d gotten the opportunity to look at the note before they did. Then, I’d be lying in wait. It was perfect; they’d never hear me. Other times, I had to be very careful. A cracked twig here, stubbing my foot on a stone there, and the whole thing would be blown out of the water.
I dressed appropriately: all in black, soft shoes or trainers. Then, it was just about being as stealthy as possible. Most of the time they were too engrossed in each other to pay attention to me. And there were other noises – night noises, forest noises – that usually covered up anything.
Things got a bit surreal. It was strange being in their world to the exclusion of everything else. But that’s how it was. I’d get through the day, get through school, just looking forward to getting to the Black Wood and hearing them talk to each other. Of course, it wasn’t every night; they couldn’t risk that. Samantha’s parents were still suspicious. They met as often as possible but not as often as they – or I – would have liked. I know it must have been the same for them too. I saw Samantha every day, in the school’s halls. She had the same look in her eyes that I saw staring back from the mirror at me – waiting for all the nonsense to end so her real life could start. Because that’s what it was. Life with Charlie was real life. She was like a ghost now in the school hallways that she used to bestride like a colossus. All around her, all her friends clicked like inane hens getting ready for Prom Night and graduation. She looked like she couldn’t care less. In fact, I knew she couldn’t care less. All that mattered now was seeing Charlie.
I still couldn’t figure out what it was that had them so obsessed with each other. I don’t think they even knew. From that first night, they said that they wanted to see each other, but they never seemed able to articulate why. Physically, they could obviously be attracted to each other. But it was way more than that. This one ran deep.
“Are you going to the prom?” he asked her one night. He didn’t sound jealous when he asked, just curious.
“I don’t want to, but if I don’t it’s going to look suspicious.”
“Who will you go with?”
“I don’t know. A bunch of guys have asked me. I haven’t made up my mind.”
“Get you.” Again, it didn’t sound like a jealous comment, more amused. It was as if he knew that wasn’t real life for her anymore. Real life was here in the Black Wood.
“I don’t care about any of them,” she said.
“You should bring me.”
“God, wouldn’t that be awesome? We would freak the heads off everyone in that school.”
“Yeah, but you’d be locked away for the next ten years.
“I know, but it would almost be worth it.”
Whenever they said something like that, I would wonder, is that what this is about? Is it a game to them; is it just about getting their kicks? But then, they’d go back to telling each other how they had to see each other again.
After that, there would be silence. All I would hear would be the rustling of their sleeping bag, mixed with the sounds of the wood at night. And the sounds of them. Their breathing, their sighing, the sound of moist lips on dry skin. On warm nights, they would throw aside the sleeping bag. And when the moon was bright, I would glimpse her back, the curvature of her spine, the contour of her hips rising from her waist to her thigh. She would move as though in a trance, side to side, forward and back, slow movements, her body shimmering, her hair grazing her shoulders.
Or other nights, from other vantage points, when she would be facing me, her head thrown back, arms outstretched, like some goddess bathed in an otherworldly light, worshipping the moon. The light on her skin, the light and the dark, like a Caravaggio painting. If there was perfection, she was perfection. Not flawless perfection, nor airbrushed. But perfection nonetheless. After those nights, I knew every inch of her, every mole, every indent, every muscle and sinew of her body.
For years afterwards, I would picture those moments. I would take them out like a photo album and savour them. Although, I’ve often wished that there’d been some other way to capture them, because – over time – the mind erodes them. You’re no longer sure if it’s the actual memory or simply what your mind believes is the actual memory. Gabriel García Márquez said, “Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.”
Then there is the notion of how one remembers it in order to recount it. That’s almost suggesting that you invent parts of it, and that’s exactly what writers do. They do invent – whether they’re using memory autobiographically to invent or using memory unconsciously. There is that element of deceit, almost. Memory can be deceitful. All these fictions – autobiographical or otherwise – all telling lies of one form or another. But then, as Anais Nin said: “Lies for the sake of a beautiful illusion do not taint the soul. They are like costumes.”
***
“So,” Charlie said one night, “Have we figured this out yet?”
“What?”
“This ... this thing we have going on here.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.”
“What if we have and we just won’t say it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno ... I mean, look at us. We’re hanging out day and night, we can’t wait to meet up with each other ... I mean if we were outside of here, we’d be boyfriend and girlfriend, right?”
“Is that what we are?”
“I didn’t say that’s what we are, I said that’s what we would be. I don’t know what we are.”
“You make it sound bad.”
“When I’m not here with you ... I think it is. I’m gonna be up in court for what happened with Dale ... you’re gonna have to get up on the witness stand and tell them what happened. I could actually get jail time.”
“Stop ...”
“I’m serious. So yeah, I think you could
say it’s not a great situation.”
“Please tell me there’s a ‘but’ coming ...”
“But ... I can’t stop myself. And I don’t think you can either.”
“No.”
“So ... what does that mean?”
“Are you saying we’re ... in love with each other?”
“If we were, it would probably be the worst thing either of us has ever done. That can’t end well.”
How I longed to be them; how I longed to be him. It wasn’t enough anymore just to live vicariously through him. I wanted to be him. I wanted her; I wanted to possess her.
And then, I found a way.
***
The clearing in the Black Wood – the same clearing that would end up haunting me for the rest of my life – became their regular meeting-place. I could see they felt confident there. They weren’t complacent: it was just, they knew they were in a place where no one would find them. They didn’t like sneaking around but – if they had to – it was worth it to them if they could do it someplace where they knew they were safe, and they could relax.
They grew more and more comfortable in each other’s company. They laughed more, they shared silly jokes, nudged each other playfully. If you saw the two of them together in a diner or at the movies – and you didn’t know their history – you would have said they made the perfect couple. Hell, even with their history, they made the perfect couple.
“I wish I could stay here, with you,” she said one night. “Just never go home.”
“Me too.” He paused. “Sam ... there’s something I want to tell you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I want to tell you, but I think you’ll be pissed at me.”
“Why?”
“I think I know what it was now ... why I hit you. I think it was anger.”
“What were you angry about?”
“I was angry with you. Well ... not with you, I was angry with who you are and what you have.”
“What, you want to be the popular kid now?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “Since when?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s nothing like that. Popularity ... it’s all bullshit. You know how many Prom Queens and quarterbacks end up flipping burgers in McDonald’s five years out of High School? No, it’s not because you’re popular. It’s because of what you have. Because you’ve got money.”
She sat upright suddenly and looked down at him. Even in the sparse light, I could see the look of annoyance on her face. “What kind of a fucking reason is that for slapping me in the face?”
“I told you you were gonna be pissed.”
“It’s not my fault if my family have money. Should I be ashamed of it?”
“I’m not saying that, I’m just trying to explain to you.”
“Besides, I don’t have money. My parents have money.” She grabbed a cardigan and wrapped it around her shoulders, getting out of the sleeping bag and standing up.
“That day,” Charlie said, sitting up, “I looked at you and I saw all of it ... I never laid a hand on a girl in my life. I never thought I would. I don’t know what came over me, it was like a black rage. It was all I could see, the opportunities that you have that I don’t have. The things you can do that I can’t do. You know how life is measured? Money. That’s it. It’s not measured by how good or kind you are, how talented you are, how well you do in school. It’s measured by money. If you have money you can do things ... if you don’t have money you can’t. If I had money like you, I could put my grandfather into one of those expensive nursing homes. There’d be someone to look after him, nurses and doctors there in case he got sick. I wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. And then, I could do the things you talk about, go to all those places. If I had your money. But I don’t. And I never will have.”
“People make money. My dad didn’t start out rich.” She was standing with her back to him, staring straight in my direction. I knew she couldn’t see me, but my heart started to beat faster nonetheless.
“I sometimes think about what it would have been like if I’d been born different,” Charlie went on. “You know, if my parents had been born with money, would they have done what they did? They hated their lives. I realised that later on. I was too young to realise it at the time. They hated where they were. My mom was a short-order cook; my dad was a steel worker. His dad before him, his dad before him. He hated it. I was going to become that, and he hated that too. They wanted better things for me, but they couldn’t find better things.”
He walked up behind Sam and put his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t fight him. They were both facing right at me at that moment. “I was wrong before when I said they were assholes,” Charlie said. “They were assholes for dying ... they weren’t assholes when they were alive. They wanted things for me. I know my dad didn’t want me to work in the steel works for the rest of my life. But what could they do, they were trapped. They didn’t ... there was no way out for them. Just like there’s no way out for me. That’s why they drank. That’s what happened that night in the car. It was a Saturday night, and they were coming back from the bar. It was a ritual. Every Saturday night they’d scrape together the last few bucks they had from their wage packets and they’d drive to the bar. They’d leave me with my grandparents. There’d be a band playing, and they’d drink, and they’d dance, and for a couple of hours they’d forget what a miserable fucking existence they had. I used to look forward to those Saturday nights too. They didn’t know it but when they’d come in, I’d sneak to the top of the stairs and I’d listen. After my grandparent’s had gone home, the two of them would stay up all night drinking and dancing. They wouldn’t even turn music on in case they woke me, they’d just dance and hum the music to themselves. I didn’t understand why then but I knew it was the one time in the week they were really happy.”
He dropped his head. “They were trapped. Just like me. I’m never gonna go to college. I couldn’t afford it. Never gonna get a job that pays that kind of money. I’m gonna get a job like my dad working in a factory. So, you say I can get out of this. I can’t. I was born into this and I’m going to die in this.”
I saw a look of shock on Sam’s face and she turned to face him. “Jesus, Charlie.”
“What? What’s the point in pretending?” He walked back to the sleeping bag and threw himself down onto it. They were silent for a moment. I wondered if Charlie had gone too far for Samantha. Then, she walked back over to him and knelt down beside him.
“What would you do to get away?” she said.
“What?”
“How far would you go?” She was staring intently into his face.
“You mean how far away would I go?”
“No. I mean what would you do ... what’s the worst thing you would consider doing if it meant you could get out of here?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m curious.”
“I don’t think it’s ever ‘just’ curiosity with you, Sam. Anyway, it’s like I said before ... I can’t think about it because that’s never gonna happen for me.”
“Hypothetically.”
He eyed her warily. “So ... hypothetically ... what would I do to get out of this fucking town? How far would I go?”
“Yeah.” She paused. “Would you kill someone?”
“Sam, where are you going with this?”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m asking you a question. I saw you beat up on Dale. You make like you’re some kind of pacifist but you’re not.”
“There’s a difference between getting into a fight with somebody and ... killing someone.”
“That’s my point. When does it go ... when do you cross the line? If you needed money, would you rob someone? Betray someone? Would you kill someone? How far would you go to get out?” Her voice had changed. There was a manic urgency there. Charlie seemed to notice it too. He looked uncomfortable. He shook his head.
“I couldn’t kill someone,” he said.
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“Not even if they were stopping you from doing the one thing that you wanted more than anything?”
“No.”
That ended the conversation right there. It was silent in the Black Wood. So silent, I thought they might hear me breathe. After a few minutes, Charlie said, “Look, I gotta get back.” She got up and followed him. As they walked out of the clearing back towards the road, I heard him say, “Tomorrow?”
I didn’t hear her answer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
And then there came a tipping point.
I thought a lot about the reason Charlie had given as to why he’d hit her. I have to say, I don’t think I really understood. At least, I understood but I don’t know that it made much sense to me. Or Samantha. But then, neither of us had ever known what Charlie was going through. My family weren’t rich, but we didn’t have the kind of money problems Charlie had. Equally, I wondered where Samantha’s whole manic speech about “How far would you go to get out?” had come from. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
They didn’t meet up the next night as Charlie had asked. But, oddly, there was no note from Samantha. She just didn’t turn up. That night, I watched Charlie scour all their drop spots for a note, but he found nothing. So, he left a note. More than one, in fact. He left a note in every one of their drop spots. When he had gone home, I looked at them all. They all said the same thing: Please meet me.
The next evening, Samantha read the note and left a reply. They would meet that night. I followed Charlie to the Black Wood. When he got to the clearing, Samantha was already there.
