by Tim O'Rourke
‘No!’ I started back towards the tracks, but Tom held me back. I looked one last time at my dad as he waved his arms desperately above his head as if trying to attract the driver’s attention.
Then, he was gone.
CHAPTER 42
Charley – Thursday: 01:17 Hrs.
Tom folded his arms around me. I buried my face against his chest to drown out the sound of my sobs. I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest. I had never known such pain before. The urge to lie down and never get up again was unbearable. I didn’t know how I would ever move past this place. Everything I had seen and learnt about my mum and dad was agonising.
‘It was your dad who killed those girls, wasn’t it?’ Tom whispered.
‘Yes,’ I replied through my sobs. ‘Please don’t tell anyone what he did.’
‘Charley, we can’t keep something like this a secret,’ he said. ‘Look, we’ve already got company.’
I peered over the crook of his elbow and could see torchlight heading in our direction along the tracks. ‘Please don’t tell them,’ I said, looking up into his eyes. ‘Please.’
Tom brushed the tears from my cheeks then gently kissed me. ‘Whatever happens, Charley, whatever anyone says about your dad and what he did, I will believe in you. Nothing will ever change that.’
‘Thank you,’ I cried.
The sound of feet trampling over the tracks grew closer. I looked up to see Harker and two others coming towards us. ‘Who’s that with Harker?’ I asked. I didn’t want to say anything about my dad in front of people I didn’t know.
‘The guy is DC Jackson, and the woman is my skipper. Her name is Lois,’ Tom told me.
‘What’s happened here?’ Harker barked, the shoulders of his fluorescent coat covered with snow.
Tom looked at me, then turning to face Harker. ‘Charley’s father has been struck by a train. He’s dead.’
‘Is this true?’ Harker asked me, cocking one of his bushy eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ I whispered, holding on to Tom.
Harker clapped his hands together, then looked at Tom’s colleagues. ‘Well don’t just stand there, you two. Let’s get the ball rolling. Get some uniform down here, and Jackson, you go and speak with the driver.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Jackson grunted and walked away, back up the tracks to where the train had come to a halt. Lois followed him. She hadn’t gone far when Harker called out to her. ‘Sergeant, can you contact the coroner? I think we’ll be able to wrap this one up nice and quickly.’
‘Yes, Guv,’ she said, throwing a quizzical look, then turning and walking away.
‘I don’t think it will be as easy as that,’ Tom said.
‘Oh no?’ Harker asked, staring at him. ‘It looks pretty straightforward to me. Death by misadventure, I’d say.’
‘How do you figure that out?’ Tom asked. ‘With all due respect, sir, you’ve only just arrived on-scene.’
Harker produced a beige folder from inside his coat. He briefly flicked through it, and then tucked it away again. ‘Your mum committed suicide down here nearly eleven years ago, didn’t she, Charley?’
‘How do you know about that?’ I whispered, tears falling against my cheeks.
‘I found her file the other day when I was going back over the deaths that have taken place out here over the last ten years or so,’ he explained.
‘Charley, you never said anything to me about . . .’ Tom said, sounding shocked.
‘I only found out the other day,’ I told him. ‘Dad had kept it a secret from me.’
‘And who could’ve blamed him?’ Harker half-smiled. ‘What a terrible thing to have to tell your child. But the news troubled you, didn’t it, Charley? It played on your mind. It ate away at you. Stopped you from sleeping. I can understand that. And what with all the reports lately about the death of poor Kerry Underwood dying up here, and the tragic loss of your friend, it made the news about your mother all the more painful to deal with. So you decided to come here, didn’t you, Charley?’ he asked, fixing me with his stare.
‘You wanted to be close to where your mother died. You wanted to be able to grieve properly for the first time. Then, your father comes home to find you gone. He worked out where you had come to and raced out here. Wanting to be left to grieve in private, you ran through that hole in the fence back there. Realising the danger you were in, he came after you. But in the snow and the dark, he got disorientated and staggered out onto the tracks, where sadly . . . Well you know the rest.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’ Tom gasped, staring at Harker.
Ignoring Tom, Harker looked at me and said, ‘Unless Charley has anything different to add?’
I didn’t say anything.
With a smile of satisfaction, he looked at Tom. ‘Case closed.’
‘You know as well as I do that Charley’s father killed those girls,’ Tom snapped, releasing me from his hold.
‘Yes,’ Harker nodded.
‘Then we need to investigate it,’ Tom said.
‘Investigate what, Constable?’ Harker asked. ‘There is not one shred of physical evidence to say that Charley’s father was involved in the deaths of those girls. We have no witnesses. No CCTV. Nothing.’
‘We have Charley,’ Tom said.
‘Do you seriously think I’m going to file a report stating I believe the deaths out here are the work of a serial killer on the say so of your seventeen-year-old friend, who claims to have seen it all in a series of flashes? Jesus Christ, Tom, use your brain. I’d be laughed out of the force.’
‘But it’s the truth,’ Tom insisted. ‘And it’s the truth that matters. I didn’t become a police officer to cover things up. I didn’t . . .’
Before I even knew what was happening, Harker had closed the gap between him and Tom. With his face just an inch from Tom’s, Harker hissed, ‘Why don’t you go around to Mr and Mrs Underwood’s right now and tell them their beautiful daughter was dragged through the filth and the mud by some nutter. Then terrorised, forced to drink until she was unconscious, then laid across a set of railway tracks. Tell the mother that Charley heard Kerry begging to call her – tell her how Kerry’s last dying wish was to talk to her mum on the phone. And when Mrs Underwood collapses broken-hearted to the floor, tell her how you know all this. Tell her about Charley and her flashes. Go on, Henson. Go and tell her.’
‘But it’s the truth,’ Tom whispered.
‘That woman couldn’t handle the truth!’ Harker said. ‘Jackson was right. Kerry Underwood left the pub drunk, decided against getting a cab and walked home. It started to rain and she took a short cut home across the tracks. Not easy for the Underwoods to deal with, but easier than knowing that their daughter’s last moments on this Earth were a nightmare. Do you understand what I’m saying, Constable?’
Tom looked away.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Tom whispered.
Then, turning to face me, Harker held out his hand and said, ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Why?’ I asked, taking it from my pocket.
‘I read the list of messages on the fax that came through to the office,’ Harker explained, taking the phone from me. He looked at it, and then dropped it onto the ground. He crushed it under his heel and kicked the smashed pieces of plastic into the under-growth.
‘I don’t believe I just saw you destroy a piece of evidence,’ Tom said.
‘Believe what you want, Henson,’ Harker said, turning away.
‘And what do you believe?’ I called after him. ‘Do you believe me?’
Harker turned slowly to face me, and said, ‘Yes, Charley, I do believe you. I do believe you see things in your flashes – things that no one else can see.’
‘So what now?’ I asked.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he smiled. ‘I’m sure you will be of great help to me in the future.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Tom asked, taking my hand in his.
‘Let’s just say that with Charley’s gift, she may be able to point us in the right direction should we ever . . . well, you know . . . need an extra clue or two in the future,’ he smiled.
‘But I thought you said no one would believe her,’ Tom said.
‘I’m not planning on going public about getting Charley to help us,’ he said. ‘It will be a secret shared only by us three. I’ll keep your secret, Charley, about what really happened up here tonight. I’m sure you can keep one or two for me.’
‘But . . .’ Tom started.
Before he’d had a chance to get his words out, Harker looked at him. ‘That invitation for Christmas dinner is still open, you know. To the both of you.’
Tom wrapped his arm around my shoulder and said, ‘No thanks, sir. I think Charley and I will just spend Christmas Day together.’
‘You do realise McDonald’s will be closed on Christmas Day, don’t you?’ he smiled. Then he was gone, disappearing into the snow.
Tom stood and held my hand. ‘What happens now, Charley?’
‘Take me home, stay with me tonight,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’
He wrapped his arm around my waist and together we left those railway lines, the dilapidated house and what happened there behind us.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to give special thanks my wife, Lynda, and three sons, Joseph, Thomas and Zachary, for putting up with me. I would also like to thank Barry Cunningham for being the first publisher to take a chance on me, and Imogen Cooper for all her advice and help. Both of you have brought out the very best in Flashes. Thank you. Thanks to my agent Peter Buckman for signing me on that cold snowy day in March and for telling me to go away and write a gripping mystery for young adults. I hope I’ve done that with Flashes.
Although Flashes was the first of my books to be signed by a publisher I had been self-publishing my stories on the internet since 2011. During that time I have sold 300,000 books and none of that would have been possible without the army of loyal fans who follow my stories and tell all their friends and family about them. So I am truly grateful to the following fans who have encouraged me:
Lisa Ammari, Jennifer Martin-Green, Carles Barrios, Shanna Benedict, Carolyn Johnson Pinard, Caroline Barker, Amanda Golder, Sarah Lane, Rose Lennart, Spandana Nallamilli, Louise Chapman, James Hodson, Marsha Meadows, Rose Freeman, Toni Francis, Lindy Roberts, Zoey Burns, Roz Hilditch, Kara Cheney, Erica Paddock, Stacey Szita, Gemma Dahren, Michelle Wilton, Paul Collins Bullet, Shereen Baldwin, Courtney Jackson, Noreen Mc Cartan-Doran, Trish Diehm, Cassie Sansom, Michelle Brearley, Conny CH, Shelley Mckelvey, Cathy Douglas, Tina Altman, Shelbey Proudfoot, Teresa Walsh, Jackie McLeish, Heidi Madgwick, Claire White, Kellie Micallef, Maureen Harn, Rachel Micallef, Nereid Gwilliams, Tricia McDaniel, Jen Rosenkrans Montgomery, Wendy Wiegert, Robbie Parker, Joanne Lonsdale, Michelle Hayman, Sue McGarvie, Lieann Stonebank, Abbey Pearson, Jessica Claire, Jennifer Goehl, Maria Vargas, Stacey Tucker, Michelle Thornton, Kathy Howrey Brand, Holly Harper, Sarah Isherwood-Smith, Kiera Hayles, Savannah Harrop, Amber Mundwiller, Kathleen Guardado, MaryAnn Brittingham, Laura Wootton, Lois Li, Tara Taggart, Andreia Lopes, Kimberly Mayberry, Helen Louise Ellis, Ruth Morgan, Tina Langford, Melissa Wright, Rebecca Holloway, Cally Munn, Rachel Roddy, Sabrina Christine Quarantillo, Tina Altman, MaryAnn Brittingham, Amanda Duke Ne Carlin, Krystale Willis, Etta Mellett, Julie Garner Shaw, Lindy Roberts, Shellie Hedge, Sam McMullen, Jackie McLeish, Jen Clachrie, Amanda Anderson, Jaime-Leigh Wilton, Jordan Wilton, Jemma Wood, Barbara Grubb, Heidi Madgwick, April Harvey, Lisa Kresco-Churchey, Samantha O’Rourke, Jade Sutherland, Stephen Gibson, Kay Donley, Beata Janik, Warren Bixby, Helen Websdale, Fiona Nelson, Gemma Rushton, Kristen Heyl, Michelle Thornton, Nikki Espiritu, Jenn Waterman, Nikki Ayres, Gayle Morell, Nichola Dickson, MaryAnn Brittingham, Lee Creed, Wayne Millard, Jenna N. Waller, Jolene Saunders, Patricia Lavery, Ally Esmonde, Julie-Anne Hope, Hannah Landsburgh, Kayleigh Morgan Griffiths, Clare O’Neil, Bernice Thomas, Abbie Robertson and Marilyn Waters.
Thank you all so much.
Hugs,
Tim xx
Text © Tim O’Rourke 2014
This electronic edition published in 2014
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