by David Laing
I was starting to get a little fed up with all the questioning. ‘Let’s tell him everything,’ I said to Snook. ‘We might as well.’ Snook nodded okay.
I had just started to explain how the visions always started with a sighting of the kid, when Gloria’s father interrupted. ‘That’s what I wanted to see you about. After I spoke to you this afternoon I went back to my office and looked up the file on Mr and Mrs Cooper. If you remember, their son went missing 60 years ago. Anyway, the strange thing is that when their son disappeared, he was wearing the same clothes as the boy in your vision. I know it’s silly to even think it, but I kept asking myself the same question: Are these two boys one and the same?’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Snook looked at me and rolled his eyes. He even twirled a finger around his temple in the classic he’s loony signal. Anyway, Gloria’s father was certainly embarrassed by the words that had somehow escaped from his mouth. Eventually, he said, ‘I was, um, wondering whether you could remember anything more about the boy, anything at all.’
I tried to think and then I remembered another tiny detail that we hadn’t mentioned before. ‘There was a bit of black hair sticking out from beneath his peak cap.’
‘Yeah,’ Snook said, ‘I reckon Jars might be right about the hair, but hang on … there is somethin’ else. I remember now.’
‘What’s that?’ the doctor asked, his voice a little shaky.
‘He had a ring on his finger, the kind the Phantom wears. You can order them from the back of the Phantom comics. Come to think of it, that’s not a bad name for ’im – the Phantom Kid.’
‘A ring. Yes, that could be important. I’ll check it out when I get back to town,’ and then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Don’t forget …’
‘What?’ Snook asked.
‘I’ll see you both in my office first thing Tuesday.’
‘Whatever,’ Snook said, mumbling something unintelligible.
After he and the others had gone, I suggested that it’d be a good idea to check Blowhard’s camp one last time. I was worried about the breeze. It’d picked up a little, enough to fan any smoking embers we may have missed back into life and we didn’t want that to happen.
Nodding, Snook, along with Shadow, caught up with me as I headed for the bridge. We crossed over and walked down to his camp. ‘Everythin’ looks okay,’ Snook said, ‘but I suppose we’d better have a look around.’
I thought so too. I couldn’t see any embers waiting to burst into flame, and after looking at the starless sky and feeling damp air against my face, I thought Blowhard’s camp was safe enough, for now anyway. ‘You’re right, it looks pretty good but maybe we should have one last check before we head back.’ I held out my hand. ‘It might even rain; if it does Blowhard’ll be okay for the night, that’s for sure.’
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 21
* * *
It was seven-thirty, nearly dark, and Reginald Blowhard could hardly wait to curl up in his annex. He’d set it up earlier with a camp stretcher, blow-up mattress, sleeping bag, three fluffy pillows and a bed-side table for munchies and other essential night-time goodies. He even had a bedside lamp that was powered from an outside generator. He rubbed his hands together and beamed. Yes, he thought to himself, I’ve done a good job. I’ll be nice and snug tonight.
After changing into his favourite pyjamas, the ones decorated with tiny brown bears, he turned on his iPod and hopped into bed. He attached his earplugs and lay back, listening to an old song, one of his favourites from the 1950s called The Purple People Eater. Outside, it wasn’t totally dark but his body felt tired. And no wonder, he told himself. Those pesky kids have been interfering in my plans all day … constantly trying to make me out as some sort of idiot. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll go out tomorrow and take the best, the most fantastic photos that anyone’s ever seen. He smiled as he imagined himself walking onto the stage in front of a cheering crowd to accept the winning prize. That, he told himself, would be most appropriate.
Feeling better now, he took off his earplugs and reached for a chocolate bar that he had placed on the table earlier. Munching away, he then reached over and picked up a can of Fanta. Taking a sip, he picked up his newest book, a horror fantasy called, The Curse of the Mummy, from the side of the bed.
He’d just got into the story when he heard a sound, a dull, muffling noise coming from outside.
‘It’s those kids again!’
They’re nosing around outside, he told himself – the cheek of it. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll pretend they’re not there and maybe they’ll go away. He adjusted his pillow, broke off another chocolate square, took a sip of his drink and once again turned to his book.
It was about an hour later – the Mummy was just about to creep into some poor soul’s bedroom to lay his curse – when he heard another noise. It was a scraping, scratchy sound coming from outside – near the back of the annex. Laying the book down next to him and propping himself up on his elbows, he looked around … nothing. ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ he whispered, as he turned to look at the canvas wall behind him. No answer. Then, in a slightly louder voice he called, ‘Have you kids come back?’
A drawn-out guttural sound like someone choking, answered him. ‘Arghhh! … Arghhh!’
He bolted to an upright position. His book and empty Fanta can flew across the room. ‘Wh-what? Wh-what’s that?’ he stammered.
The throaty, rasping sound came again. ‘Arghhh! … Arghhh!’ Eyes popping like periwinkles on a rock, he turned and stared at the tent’s canvas behind him. He gasped. There was someone outside, creeping around the tent, trying to find a way in; he could see his shadow. He could also see that he was big, with very large ears. ‘It’s Mamu,’ he heard himself saying, his voice shaking. ‘He’s come to get me.’
Unzipping the sleeping bag, he sprang from his bed, and like a charging bull, he raced through the flaps of the annex out into the night. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the guy rope and peg that were in his path. He tripped on the rope and the peg caught on his pyjamas bottoms that fell in a heap to the ground. He bent to pick them up.
‘Looks like a full moon’s out tonight,’ Snook said, as we watched Blowhard scrambling to set things right with himself.
Seeing the grins on our faces and realising how silly he must look, Blowhard spluttered, ‘You … you two. Come to ridicule me some more, have you?’
‘Nup,’ Snook said. ‘Just come to make sure you’re not goin’ to go up in flames. One last check, so to speak.’
‘I-It’s okay for you. You haven’t got a ghost after you.’
Snook and I exchanged glances, and trying not to giggle, I said, ‘Ghost? There’s no ghost that we can see, Mr Blowhard.’
Holding his pyjamas up with one hand, Blowhard pointed towards the annex with the other. I couldn’t help noticing that his hand was shaking. ‘Well, there was something,’ he said, his voice suddenly developing a squeak. ‘I saw it as plain as day. It was outside, trying to get into my bedroom.’
Standing on the tips of his toes, Snook made a show of looking around. ‘I can’t see anything. Maybe you were imagining it.’
‘No, no, I heard it,’ Blowhard insisted, his voice still squeaking like a trapped mouse. ‘It was making a horrible, snarly sound, and it was huge … and ugly.’ With his hand still quivering, he pointed through the flaps of the annex. ‘There’s something in there now! I can hear it!’
I could see that Blowhard was losing it fast, so I figured I’d better do something. Pushing one of the flaps to one side, I peered into his bedroom. I couldn’t help grinning. Signalling to Snook who was standing behind me, I said, ‘I’ve found Mr Blowhard’s ghost and it looks like he’s really enjoying himself.’
‘What’s that? What did you say?’ Pushing himself forward and still holding onto his pyjamas, Blowhard peered over my shoulder. ‘Wh-what do you mean, enjoying himself?’
Snook, peeking over
Blowhard’s shoulder, burst out laughing. ‘It’s your ghost, Mr Blowhard, and by the looks of him I don’t reckon he wants to hurt you. He might want to say thanks, though.’ Leaning back on Blowhard’s bed, eating Blowhard’s block of chocolate and making lots of grunting noises was a large, black, brush tailed possum.
Blowhard’s cheeks burnt crimson as he spluttered, ‘But I saw a ghost, I really did. I saw its shape. It was trying to get into my bedroom and it was making lots of ghost sounds.’
I could see that Snook was having trouble controlling himself. ‘Was it a sort of “Arghhh! … Arghh!” noise?’ he asked, imitating the possum and trying not to laugh again.
Squinting and screwing up his face as if he’d just eaten a lemon, Blowhard eventually said, ‘Y-yes. It s-sounded a b-bit like that. S-so what?’
I thought I’d better answer for Snook who was bent almost double, spluttering. ‘It was the possum making that noise, and what you saw earlier was the outline of its shadow caused by your lamp. The shadow cast by the light would naturally make it look bigger than it actually was, so the possum that’s now lying on your bed and eating your chocolate is your ghost.’
Snook, who’d managed to stop laughing, couldn’t help himself. ‘He’ll be after your can of Fanta next, Mr Blowhard. I’d grab that if I were you.’
Glaring at Snook, Blowhard replied, ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ He looked across at me. ‘Tell me young lady, did you and that impudent, ill-mannered ruffian arrange this … this fiasco? I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.’ Tossing his head in the air, his words dripping with contempt, he said, ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I should like to get back to my bed. It has been a long day and I have my book to read, and please, when you leave, kindly take that …’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the possum, who was still sitting on the bed finishing off the last of the chocolate, ‘… that beast with you.’
Trying not to giggle too much, we shooed the possum outside and then, watching him disappear into the night, I remarked to Snook that he still hadn’t taken any wildlife pictures.
’Nah, I haven’t, but seein’ the look on Blowhard’s face when he saw the wicked little possum sittin’ up in bed eatin’ ’is chocolate made it all worthwhile. Yeah, Charlie the possum sure made my day. That’s one cheeky possum that Charlie fella. I like ’im. So does Shadow.
Did you see the way they wuz lookin’ at each other?’
Chuckling, I said that I did. I also said that I liked Charlie too. We crossed over the bridge and headed back towards camp. It was time to pack up and think about heading for home although there was no real rush. Snook’s parents would be still at the pictures.
Chapter 22
* * *
In the meantime, after leaving Jars and Snook at the camp earlier, Gloria’s father had driven back to Cray Bay. After dropping Quinton off and then Gloria, without going inside himself, he drove straight to the Shady Rest Nursing Home in Queenstown, a little over half an hour’s drive. He wanted to have another chat with the Coopers. He wanted to ask them what the colour of Aaron’s hair was and whether he owned a ring that he might have been wearing. Depending on the outcome of that, he’d have to make a decision – whether the vision or image … or whatever it was that the Kellys had seen, actually was an image of Aaron, or whether it was just a coincidence that the two boys were so much alike. He had to find out.
At the nursing home, after announcing himself to a rather startled receptionist – it was after normal consulting hours – he made his way to the common room where some of the residents were sitting in easy chairs, talking, drinking tea and coffee, or watching television. Although his visit could have been construed as an unusual one because of the odd hour, none of the residents seemed to be too worried. The Coopers certainly weren’t when he walked up and sat down next to them. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘My apologies for disturbing you, but if you don’t mind, there are a couple of things I’d like to clear up. They concern your son, Aaron.’
At the mention of their boy’s name, Harry and Marge Cooper sat up as straight as their old bodies would let them. The doctor had their full attention.
Being careful not to sound too hopeful or too over-the-top, Doctor Huntingdale asked about Aaron’s hair colour. Noticing the looks of surprise on the Coopers’ faces, he immediately started to apologise. ‘I’m sorry; you must think my question insane. It’s just that some new …’ He searched his brain for a suitable word. ‘… information has come to light that may help clear up the mystery of your son’s disappearance. That is …’
Harry Cooper interrupted him. ‘Look doctor, as you know, Marge and I have been living with the pain of our loss for a long time now. I hope you’re not about to give us any false hope.’ Patting his wife’s knee as though comforting her, he said, ‘We’ve had too much of that already – from the police, from journalists and there was even a madam someone or other who claimed she was a medium. She couldn’t find our son, and neither could any of the others. It was a bit like when that young girl – Lucy Kemp was her name – disappeared some years before Aaron went missing; no one could find her either. But since you’ve brought it up, Aaron had black hair … jet black, in fact.’
Encouraged by Harry Cooper’s answer, the doctor broached the subject of the ring. ‘I seem to remember,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘some time ago, you told me that Aaron used to read a lot of comics.’
‘That’s right,’ Marge Cooper said, taking over from her husband. ‘He was always reading them. He was particularly interested in one comic as I remember. In fact, he had a whole series of them. I remember him bragging about it.’
The doctor’s lips trembled slightly when he asked, ‘Were they The Phantom comics by any chance?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. He even sent away for one of those rings that you see advertised on the back page. He was really looking forward to wearing it.’
Marge Cooper didn’t have to tell him anymore . Snook had told him that afternoon.
He had a ring on his finger, the kind the Phantom wears.
Doctor Huntingdale knew that he could be committing the biggest faux-pas of his life if he continued with this current line of thought, but deep down he also knew that he shouldn’t stop now because maybe, just maybe, the boy that had been missing for 60 years may have surfaced – in whatever form – even though it was totally ridiculous. Doctor Huntingdale tried to think it through. On the one hand, he was taking a terrible risk that was foolhardy and totally unnecessary, and one that could lead to great suffering by the boy’s parents if he was wrong. To be confronted with the unlikely story that their boy could be alive and then find out that he was not, could be too much of a shock for them. After all, they were both in their nineties. On the other hand there was hope, but it was a ridiculous long shot.
As he stood up to leave, the doctor couldn’t help noticing the stale, clinical smell of the room. It always reminded him of sickness and sometimes even despair. He hoped he wasn’t adding to that now. He looked down at the Coopers as they sat there, frail and helpless in their dressing gowns. They were both watching him, their eyes puzzled, yet hopeful. Then old Mr Cooper, the back of his hands black with aging spots, reached over to pick up his walking stick and with some effort struggled to his feet. Leaning on the cane and in a surprisingly strong voice he said, ‘I think we’ve heard enough, Doctor. You’re just giving us false hope … again. I think you should leave us now.’
‘Just a minute, Harry; don’t be so hasty,’ his wife said. ‘Doctor Huntingdale is only trying to help us and if he wants to know about the ring then we should tell him all we know. For instance, I can remember that the ring arrived in the post on the morning of Aaron’s disappearance. He was as proud as a peacock that day and when he left to show it to his mates, well, that was the last we saw of him.’ Struggling to her feet, Marge Cooper grabbed the doctor’s arm, and in an urgent, pleading way, said, ‘What should we do now? Where do we go now? Does the ring mean something?’
The doctor hesitated. He hadn’t even considered the next step, but he had to do something. The Coopers expected it, especially Mrs Cooper, and besides, it seemed the right thing to do. He could hardly believe what a fool he’d been. He’d raised the hopes of these good people and now he didn’t even know what to do next. ‘Perhaps we should talk to the Kelly children,’ he ended up saying. ‘Jars and Snook are the ones who keep running into your …’ He didn’t finish. There was such a thing as going too far.
Mrs Cooper didn’t hesitate. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do, doctor. We’ll speak to the Kelly children as soon as possible.’ She prodded her husband. ‘Right, Harry?’
Realising that it was more of a statement than a question, Harry said, ‘Right, Marge, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go and see …’ He looked up at the doctor. ‘Who was it you wanted us to see again? Do I know them?’
Doctor Huntingdale smiled to himself. If nothing else, at least the Coopers would have a day out, and who knows, mira-cles can happen. He’d witnessed a few in his time.
Chapter 23
* * *
Snook and I were dead tired when we arrived home to an empty house. Following Snook’s mum’s directions, we heated up the casserole she’d left for us and then, after washing the dishes and feeding Shadow, we decided to call it a night. We didn’t even watch television. Besides, Snook wanted to get an early start in the morning to take photos of any wild animals that came down for a drink in the gorge park lagoon.
It was about midnight when I woke to rain drumming on the roof. It sounded heavy and, for a brief moment, I wondered how Mr Blowhard was getting on in his van. I listened to the steady beat for a while until its rhythm lulled me back to sleep. It must have been a deep sleep because I didn’t hear the wind-storms that roared throughout the night, bringing with them one of the heaviest downpours that Cray Bay had experienced in years.
