Shadow of the Past

by Thacher Cleveland

  Why couldn’t they just let it go? Did they think he enjoyed reminiscing about it? Last year in Biology Ken Shenkman randomly turned to him and said “Hey, remember that time in 7th grade when Mr. Hollman made you cry at the black board? That was pretty wild, huh?”

  No, it wasn’t “wild,” Mark thought, it was something I was trying to forget but thanks for bringing it up fucknozzle.

  It was even in Steve’s eyes, sometimes with concern, like the other day at the funeral, and sometimes with that mischievous “I take things too far” glint. The only person that never had it was Clara and she’d seen him plenty of times at his blubbering, snot-caked worst.

  Now it was in Christine’s eyes.

  He saw it when he dropped her off at home and she waved at him when he looked back at her. He realized there was more to it when he kissed her cheek and she pulled back ever-so-slightly. This wasn’t just about crybaby Mark Watson, this was about the “New and Improved Holy Shit He Beat That Guy with a Helmet” Mark Watson. He wanted to say the perfect something to make her realize that today was just the final straw in a long line of horrid, humiliating straws that he never thought he’d get rid of, but there was no way.

  The girl he was going to have the fresh start with and who he wanted to be perfect for just saw him at the worst he’d ever been. So much for that plan.

  Mark wasn’t surprised when he got to homeroom the next day and there was a referral to go directly to the office. He’d spent the night wondering when Detective Prescott would show up at his door, helmet retrieved from the garage and held aloft in a plastic bag. Finally, the piece of evidence he needed to bring Mark Watson down to the station and sweat him out under the lights.

  There was no helmet or lights, and thankfully no dreams that night either (although he wasn’t sure if he’d slept long enough to have any). A couple of the kids he knew nodded at him when he passed them on the office, one of them even putting up his dukes and bobbing and weaving around until he passed. Mark wasn’t sure if he was being congratulated or mocked.

  Are you Mark Watson? What do you think?

  The office for Mark’s end of the alphabet was in the basement and when he got there he showed his pass to the secretary. She waved him to a seat while she buzzed the inner office to let them know he was here and probably to bring out the Lecter-style restraints. He hadn’t said a thing to Joe about what happened, and it finally sank in that he wasn’t going to be able to keep it from him. And Joe would not just talk about it he'd yell and take things away because that was the way things were done.

  “Mr. Watson, right in here,” a voice rumbled at him. Standing in the doorway of one of the offices was Mr. Lafayette, the assistant principal assigned to this office. Mr. Lafayette was tall and built with the semi-loose muscles of an athlete who had left his prime far behind him. His skin was deep brown, his head was clean shaven and he wore a pair of glasses that were almost comically small for his stern, imposing face.

  Mark squeezed past Mr. Lafayette and was directed to take a seat in front of the desk next to Ms. Kennedy, Mark’s guidance counselor. She was in her mid twenties and as small as Mr. Lafayette was large, with shoulder length, tightly curled black hair and an olive complexion. The only times he’d talked to her was when he was picking out classes for the next year.

  He’d never been in Mr. Lafayette’s office before, but realized that if it had the two-way glass it’d be a dead ringer for the “interview room” he’d talked to Detective Prescott in.

  “So,” Mr. Lafayette said, taking a seat across from Mark “would you care to explain to us the events of yesterday afternoon?”

  I think they speak for themselves.

  “Well,” Mark said, sitting on his hands to keep them from shaking. “I, ah, got into a fight with some guys, and, uh, then I went home.”

  “You just ‘got into a fight?’” Mr. Lafayette said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “A fight that landed one student in the hospital because you hit him repeatedly with a,” he paused to look down through his glasses to consult the folder that lay open in front of him, “helmet of some sort. It just sort of happened, right? Just like that?” Mark took a breath and held it, trying to make everything perfectly still.

  “Not just, I . . . I was minding my own business and they came up and started it. I didn’t do anything!”

  “You don’t put another student in the hospital by not doing anything, Mr. Watson. Do you know that Jack’s father was talking about suing? Not just you, Mr. Watson, but the entire school district.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do,” Mr. Lafayette said. “So what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Watson?”

  “They . . . ” Mark said, his voice a tiny squeak, looking from Mr. Lafayette to Ms. Kennedy, who sat with her fingertips at her chin like she was carved from marble. He swallowed and tried again. “They started it, sir. They just came up, and they, they just started messing with us! I was just defending myself and they just kept pushing at me!”

  Mr. Lafayette’s eyes narrowed and Mark hoped that he hadn’t made things worse for himself. “So ‘they started it’,” he said, no trace of question in his voice. “That’s your story.”

  “It’s no story! That’s the way it happened! Jack and his friends have been pushing me and pushing me for years and this time I pushed back! I was defending myself, and my, uh, girlfriend.”

  “If these boys have been bothering you so much, why didn’t you report it to a teacher or Ms. Kennedy?”

  Do you seriously work at a school? Really? Are you sure you don’t just hunker down in here and wait for the lights to go out?

  Mark closed his eyes and tried to keep from letting his breath out in an exasperated sigh. “Well--” Mark started, trying to find a way to explain it that wasn’t like how you’d talk to a child.

  “Actually,” Ms. Kennedy interrupted, “this happens quite frequently. Students don’t feel comfortable reporting bullying or intimidation to other authority figures. I thought I had given you that article about it I found over the summer to read. Fascinating stuff, really.”

  “I must have missed that one,” Mr. Lafayette said, turning his glare to her.

  “I’ll be sure to put a copy in inter-office mail for you.” Mr. Lafayette opened his mouth to say something, but she turned to Mark. “As I said to Mr. Lafayette, Mark, when we talked to the other three boys that were there yesterday none of them gave me very convincing explanations as to what led up to the incident in question, but they were more than willing to point fingers your way. I guess that makes a little bit more sense now.”

  “However,” Mr. Lafayette said, “that doesn’t excuse what happened. This was an assault, with a weapon, and that’s not acceptable no matter how justified you think you may be. We have to suspend you for a week and then evaluate the situation from there.”

  Mark let out a sigh, and Mr. Lafayette’s scowl deepened. “Let me be very clear on this, Mr. Watson: if anything like this happens again, and I do mean anything, you are gone. Cut class, have excessive absences, anything, and I will have you removed from this institution. This is not a license to create mayhem. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Crystal clear.” Licenseless mayhem WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

  Mr. Lafayette collected his papers and files into a neat stack. “Ms. Kennedy will sign you out and give you some forms to give to your parents. See that they get and sign them.”

  “Yes sir. They won’t miss them.”

  Mark got up, gripping his backpack with white knuckles as he darted out the door.

  “Mark,” Ms. Kennedy said, following him and placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him from going any further. “I’m sorry about that. He must not have read about your parents in your file.”

  “He’s not a big reader, apparently.”

  He could see that she was fighting a smile, but before he could go out on a high note she stopped him.

  “Mark, this was a really big deal. I made
sure nothing more serious happened to you because I know these boys. I’ve dealt with them on a couple of other incidents and I know they are definitely capable of pushing someone to this.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know that I’m not just crazy.”

  “Mark,” she said, giving him a warning look. “What happened wasn’t your fault, but you messed up, big time. Aside from the possible legal trouble and school punishments, you’re going to have to deal with those boys again. They aren’t going to let something like this go. I’ve seen things like this escalate very quickly, and I want to be your advocate if anything else happens. You have to be straight with me and I need to know that you can keep your temper in check and talk to me, really talk to me, if there’s trouble. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And for the favor I did you by keeping you in school, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talk to me. Twice a week, before school or after, it doesn’t matter, but I want to know what’s going on up here,” she tapped her temple, and then a tap to the chest, “and in here.”

  Oh, supervomit.

  “And I take it there’s no way to politely decline?”

  “Not and stay in school.”

  “Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Checkmate, I guess. I’ll come see you the morning that I get back, okay? Does that get me off the hook?”

  “All except the paperwork,” she smiled.

  “Please, please, please tell me it’s true!” The blur running up alongside Christine said. For a brief second she thought it was one of those boys Mark had beaten up, but finally Steve stopped in front of her.

  “God, you scared the crap out of me! What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s running all around school already,” Steve said, hands clasped and eyes wide with excitement. “I just have to know if it’s true. Please, God, let it be true that Mark kicked the shit out of Jack!”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” she said, trying to keep the grin from her face. “He--” she didn’t even get a chance to finish before Steve dropped to his knees, threw both hands into the air, leaned back and screamed “THANK YOU, JESUS!” A couple of girls walking by rolled their eyes, and Christine reached down and dragged him to his feet with a smile. “Get up, you spaz!”

  “Yes, you’re right. Total spaz,” he said with a crazed grin. “Damn, I wish I’d been there! I mean, I heard it was the best fight ever! Was it? You were there, right? They say there was a beautiful redhead chick, and that had to be you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, I was there, but that’s not the most accurate description.”

  “Oh, don’t be bashful,” he said, wagging a finger in front of her face. “You’re a looker, don’t deny it!”

  She swatted away the finger with a laugh, and he smiled back at her. “There’s that smile, I knew I could get it out of you.”

  She opened her mouth to say something back, but he just carried on. “This is just too good. I mean, that asshole has been fucking with Mark since the day before forever, and now, finally, revenge!” He finished with a grandiose yell, waving a fist in the air.

  “Yeah, that's one word for it.”

  “Speaking of,” Steve said, lowering his voice, “I heard it was more than the usual fare, if you catch my meaning.”

  “You can say that.”

  “That bad?”

  “I've never seen anything like it. He just . . . exploded. I guess with Clara and everything they were saying it was just too much, but that was something else.”

  “Wow,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can't blame Mark for going all Columbine on him, but I don't think Jack is going to take the hint, y'know?”

  "Awesome. Just what he needs."

  The late bell rang, and Steve gave a long drawn out sigh. “God, how do they expect me to work like this?” He turned to go, and then stopped and spun around on his heels. “Hey, did I forget to tell you that it sounds like Mark was sent home today?”

  “Oh my God, really?”

  “Oh yeah,” Steve smirked. “The students aren’t the only ones using the grapevine. Do you still want to get together at lunch?”

  “Well, my options are kind of limited, so sure.”

  Steve rolled his eyes. “Oh geez, don’t sound so excited about it. Would it kill you to say ‘Steve, I would love to have lunch with you today, you big handsome stud.’”

  “Steve, I would love to have lunch with you today.”

  He cocked a hand by his ear, but she just smiled and turned and walked away.

  “Okay then, no problem,” he called after her. “We’ll get to the last part later.”

  She waved over her shoulder at him without looking back, and he stayed where he was, watching her disappear around the corner.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the darkness every muscle in Darren’s body hurt.

  He rolled, and the ground crunched and shifted under him.

  He tried to get up but a sudden wave of dizzying sickness shoved him right back to the ground. He was lying on a thin layer of sand and tiny rocks, and after a deep breath he tried sitting up again. It worked, although the nausea stayed with him. He put a hand to his head and there was a sudden flare of pain. The side of his face was covered in a tight, almost dry-almost sticky film.

  “What happened?” he mumbled, but when he actually saw the almost-dried blood on his fingertips it all came back to him. His room, the house and those eyes coming towards him in the darkness. He scooted backwards, thinking they were going to come for him again. He didn’t move very far at all before his back ran into a wall.

  He was in a corner he realized, cold stone walls on either side of him. He felt along the wall to his right, looking everywhere as his eyes slowly picked out more features in the blackness. A few feet ahead of him the ceiling dropped down so low he wouldn’t be able to get up off his hands and knees.

  He crawled forward, one arm outstretched to hopefully touch anything before he ran into it. The ceiling was cold, rusted metal and firmly in place he realized after as many shoves as his still weak arms would allow. He looked back at where he’d be lying, and saw that the ceiling there was wooden and slanting downward in an odd up and down pattern.

  He kept crawling forward until he came to another wall, made of the same rusted metal as the ceiling. He followed it along, seeing a tiny flicker of light up ahead. After a couple more feet he came to a makeshift door, cut unevenly from the metal, with several small holes poked in it and a slit big enough to see through.

  He pushed as hard as he could on it but realized the door was barred from the outside and it wouldn’t budge. Looking out the slot in the door he could see the bottom of a staircase to the left, and he realized that the wooden part of the ceiling of his little cell was the underside of that staircase, leading upward. He was in a basement, he realized.

  HIS basement.

  “Oh God.” His voice was a tiny croak, and it echoed pitifully in the darkness around him. He slammed into the metal door as hard as he could but it still didn’t budge. He pushed again, slamming his palms painfully into it.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  “Shhhhh! He’ll hear you!”

  Darren whirled around, looking into the darkness for whoever spoke. In the far corner saw a girl, hunched over in a dirty ball, holding her knees to her chest and peering at him.

  It was Suzie Morris, and she shrunk away when he moved close to her. He could see the skin on her wrists was rubbed raw and there were dark spatters over what had once been a nice dress.

  “What’s going on?”

  “He’ll hear you,” she said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t like it when we talk.”

  “Who?” he asked, lowering his voice to match her ragged whisper.

  “The Shadow Man.”

  She was staring straight ahead, not at him but through him. “He saw you. He took you and
brought you here. And he’s going to make you witness.”

  “Witness? Witness what?”

  Before she could answer, there was a pounding on the ceiling. Once. Then again. And again.

  Someone was coming down the steps. Darren watched the boards above them bend and creak, sending tiny rivers of dust down on them. Darren crawled to the cell window to get a glimpse of his jailer. The footsteps were steady and calm, pausing at the landing above Darren’s head. The boards creaked, as if he was testing them under the weight of his foot.

  When he came down the next half-flight of stairs his back was to Darren, and all he could see were tall, gangly limbs and the silhouette of shaggy, unkempt hair. In his hand was the cane and he let it tap along the stone floor. Watching the man (the Shadow Man) walk away from him, limping slightly, Darren was able to take in the rest of basement for the first time.

  About twenty feet from the cell door was the basement’s only source of the light: a large coal furnace, its door open and the flames inside flickering bright reds and oranges. Hanging directly in front of the open furnace door, maybe three feet from the opening, was a black boy who could be no older than he was. He was chained at the wrists, his hands stretched over his head and feet barely touching the floor.

  “Hey!” Darren yelled, shaking the door as much as he could, succeeding only in making the chain rattle.

  The man stopped right behind the chained up boy, towering over him. The man turned slightly, looking back at Darren, but then returned his attention to the child in front of him. The boy, who had been hanging limply, stirred slightly as the man knelt down next to him. The man reached under the boys’ chin and lifted his head. The boy’s eyes flickered open, and when he saw the man in front of him he began to twist and writhe in his chains.

  The man made calming, shushing noises and clamped a large hand around the boy’s neck to keep him still.

  “You see Him, don’t you?” The man’s voice echoed in the cavernous room.

  The boy was still writhing and struggling, making whimpering, panicked noises. With a snarl, the man slammed the silver top of the cane into the boy’s bare chest. The chains rattled with the impact and the boy doubled over as much as he could, legs swaying wildly.