by Jackson Lear
The lid opened up just an inch. It was just enough to push the diary inside, but even that was a struggle. With several shudders and heaves, Warrick pushed the diary into the bin and heard it thump against the rubbish below. The smell from inside brought him back to the emergency room in London, next to a man who spent the night throwing up into a bucket. Every memory of smells swirled into one and brought him back to the stench in the tunnel when he found Zofia.
Warrick moved onto a second dumpster and pushed the bras and knickers inside one at a time. Each lid sloshed with old rain water that might as well have been ooze from another world. With every heave the water lapped against his fingers, drooling over them. He had to settle for wiping his hands along the damp grass and hoped that he wasn’t about to develop gangrene from the rotting contents of the bins.
He hurried home, moving between bursts of running and exhausted walking. Then–
An instinctive glance ahead crippled him as molten panic shot through his entire body. A tall man, deathly thin and hunched-over, walked in the distance.
The Beast.
It was the monster that had tried to kill Warrick in the valley. The savage responsible for him stumbling for hours through field after field while being irrevocably lost, terrified that he was about to die.
The shape of that man was burned deep into Warrick’s mind. His pulse quickened, his breathing shortened. His counsellor warned him of panic attacks. One was coming and it would soon drop him unconscious.
Think of a gentle song … a safe place.
His hands trembled against his sides.
Think of a safe place!
He couldn’t even tell if the Beast was heading towards him or away.
Think!
Any chance of going along Blyth Street was now out of the question. The Beast was wandering through the streets of Luxford at four thirty in the morning and no one was there to stop him.
Warrick felt the desperate urge to piss. He stepped towards the hedge beside him and tried to blend in, but the twigs and leaves rustled, spiking in volume, and snapped under his heavy feet.
Help! He’s here! The woman’s murderer is here!
The Beast walked to the edge of the road, glanced over his shoulder–
– and froze.
Warrick’s heart exploded as the Beast’s eyes shone back at him. The Beast hunkered down, the same move that he adopted when he first chased Warrick.
Warrick turned and ran for his life.
His mum remained by his side until they reached his classroom. Carol Mickelham peered in through window and looked over all of the boys inside with great care. It appeared as though the school had actually appeased her request that Daniel and Ian would no longer share any classes with Warrick.
In every single class the kids asked Warrick what happened in the tunnel. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” was the only answer he was allowed to give.
He had lunch in the library. With his mother sitting at the table opposite.
“How are your new classes?”
“Fine.”
“Are there any you particularly like?”
Warrick shrugged.
“How are your teachers?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have Mrs Holden again?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Warrick soon tuned out as he turned over the newest of news to spread through the school. During the first class the story was simply that a house burned down during the night. By lunch time the word was that Zofia Bukowski’s murderer had gone on an arson spree all along Strachen Road.
Jenny told anyone who would listen that her whole family got out of bed to see the flames from the road. Soon enough the owner of the house stumbled outside in his underwear and t-shirt, hurling abuse at everyone he could see while nearly pulling his hair out as he watched his house and beaten-up cars burn to the ground. Jenny had always been told to stay clear of that house, that the man who lived there was as rude as they came and wasn’t all there after a car accident some years ago.
Warrick had no idea where Jenny lived, nor the name of the street she talked about. He was impressed that it took three fire trucks to put the fire out. That meant it was a big fire. Jenny’s dad had seen the house before they left for school. It was likely the owner didn’t even have insurance. If so that might be enough to get him to move away.
Before the day was done Warrick wandered off to find Ian, or maybe even Daniel, to find out what they had told the police about the tunnel. His path took him past the sixth form locker room.
“Hey, what the fuck are you looking at?”
Warrick jumped at the sight of a giant of a sixth former and his posse.
“I asked you a question! What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” stammered Warrick.
The sixth former marched after him. “Nothing? Are you calling me fucking nothing? Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Warrick launched into a sprint and was running for his life again. Over his shoulder, the four sixth formers laughed and high-fived each other.
65
McIntyre
The fire destroyed his house and burnt every car he had to a crisp. It had spread so quickly that James had no chance at putting out the flames. He only managed to escape through his bedroom window at the last minute before the smoke suffocated the room. Once the fire trucks left, the only thing still standing upright was the chimney.
He hacked a cough and felt his insides wheeze like he had just been aged forty years. The cough lingered and refused to move away. Along with it came the taste of the fumes and smoking tyres.
The whole street had come to watch like it was some kind of Guy Fawkes bonanza.
The police asked him to calm down, saying that his temper was making it difficult for everyone to work. Then they asked some of the world’s dumbest questions, like if he had an electric blanket running. In summer. Or if he had been smoking that night. The gleam in all of their eyes spoke volumes: he was a retard and they had better things to do than to find who burnt his house down. They also had the nerve to believe that he left a full can of beer by his kitchen door, a beer that expired twenty years ago.
He couldn’t survive on just his disability pension, certainly not if he had to start all over again. There was no way he would go and live in the council flats with all of those alcoholic and drug addicted pissants. They were either too old to leave the flat without a nappy or too young and stupid to do anything other than get high and scream at each other throughout the night.
James sifted through the debris that used to be his garage. The hood of the Volvo was still warm from the blaze. He crunched over what used to be the shelves lining his wall. The only thing that seemed to survive was a twelve inch wrench.
The adults that night had winced away from the flames, thinking more about their own houses rather than trying to help. The kids, though … they had a different look in their eyes. One of glee.
James was left wearing his garden boots, tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, and a bathrobe. He turned the wrench over in his hands, figuring out what to do. He pocketed it and headed for the school.
St. Bart’s lay just across the road. The front gates were closed. Someone was keeping an eye on the entrance. A teacher. The type who would squeak loudly and fall quickly. The school hadn’t increased its security since he was a student there. There were still ways in and out without anyone seeing him.
The rear of the school wasn’t even walled off. The campus had expanded with a few more buildings, but the layout was still familiar. The younger classes were still to the left and circled around to the right as the year levels increased. The single storey red brick rooms from the sixties lay in a straight line while the new limestone-clad buildings rose two storeys into the sky. They were wrapped in colour that would one day spread to the other rooms as well. All around him, feigning interest in class, were hundreds of st
udents in their blue trousers, kilts, and white shirts.
James peered into the first classroom to his left and glanced over the faces of the students inside. Some of them shifted as they looked back at him. James stared at each face until he was sure that none of them were the three little shits he had trusted. He squeezed his fingers around the wrench in his pocket and moved onto the second room.
Almost immediately he found the weak link in the group. Warrick looked up and jolted in his seat. The panic swept over him in an instant.
James recognised that look of guilt. Without a doubt, Warrick had lit one of the matches that burned his house down to ash.
James pulled the wrench from his pocket and pushed his way into the classroom.
The short, fat, female teacher paused mid-sentence. “Can I help you?”
James paid her no attention and charged towards Warrick in the middle of the room. He raised the wrench high over his head and swung it down into Warrick’s face.
“You burn my house down you fucking little shit!? I will rip your fucking guts out and feed your brains to the dogs, you fuck!” James swung again and again, beating the metal wrench into Warrick’s skull. After just the first hit, Warrick fell limp and slid sideways out of his chair. The class of nineteen kids screamed in fright and scrambled out of the way, pushing the heavy desks and chairs as they went.
Warrick tumbled unconscious to the floor. James pushed the boy’s body down and started beating the back of Warrick’s head. “You will never see the light of day again! I will burn you like you burned my house!”
Warrick’s blood splattered across James’ face and hands, dazing him for a moment. He wiped it out of his eye in disgust and the moment of ferocity ebbed away. All around him the kids were screaming, gasping, and crying as they scrambled towards the exit. It created a barrier between James and Mrs Porter.
James stood, stared back at the teacher and raised the wrench above his head. “Don’t you fucking look at me!” He leaped forward, scaring her back in fright. James drove through the kids in the doorway, pushing them out of his way.
All around him the classroom doors started to open. Dozens of teacher came out, searching for the cause of the sudden screaming. Faces were pressed against the windows while Warrick’s classmates ran for their lives.
James drew in a deep breath, one that was met with a toxic cough from the fire. He staggered forward until the hacking faded, then wiped his lips. He was met with a metallic taste of blood. He spat a mouthful of saliva and felt another wheezing cough take him by surprise.
More than a hundred faces surrounded him now. Warrick’s teacher was screaming incoherently from the classroom. One of her hands covered Warrick’s bloodied skull while the other was fumbling with her phone.
There was no way James could get to Ian or Daniel, not in this crowd. He would have to find them after school. He pocketed the wrench and left the row of classrooms, wiped his face and hands clean, and headed through the trees as a short cut back home.
Then he remembered he had no home to go back to.
66
Claire
The ride home from school was silent. Every pothole they drove over thumped under the car. Every tick tick tick tick from the indicator howled with such volume that it nearly deafened them. At long last, the car pulled into the garage, the engine fell silent, and the door behind them rumbled to a close. The alarm beeped quickly, giving them thirty seconds to pin the code in before rupturing their ear drums.
Ian slipped off his shoes, nudged them so that the toes were square against the wall by the door, and before he even made it to the first step his mother pulled him aside.
“No you don’t. You’re going to talk to me in the kitchen.”
Ian paused, waiting for his mum to lead the way, but she didn’t budge an inch. He headed to the kitchen stools like a dead man bracing himself for, “Do you have any last words?” before they flipped the switch. He moved to stand with the kitchen counter between them while his mum took a seat opposite.
Claire needed a moment to gather her thoughts. Even when she had the general concept it took a while longer to figure out exactly what she wanted to say.
“Do you know who did it?”
Ian shook his head.
“Did he talk at all about being in trouble? That someone wanted to hurt him?”
Ian stared down at the counter, looking as small as ever.
“Ian?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“Then why did someone try to kill Warrick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Someone broke into the school and tried to kill your friend today. He was sitting in the middle of the room. He was the target, not some random bystander. Why was he chosen?”
Ian gulped back a choking swallow while his eyes remained locked on the kitchen counter.
A wave of frustration crested over Claire, consuming her like she was verged on erupting. There was a madman at large who targeted a boy who used to play in her own home. A boy who was chosen above all others to have his skull crushed in with a wrench.
“Who attacked him?” Claire asked.
Ian remained silent, which spoke loud enough for a second wave of frustration to hit Claire. She had thirteen years of experience in deciphering her son’s silent idiosyncrasies. He normally shrugged or mumbled a, “I don’t know,” but pure silence was a guilty conscience trying to avoid getting himself into any further trouble.
“Is this about you three finding the dead woman in the tunnel? Is that?”
He couldn’t have moved if he even wanted to. All he saw was his friends running and shrieking, teachers racing to Warrick’s classroom before coming back to the doorway covered in blood.
“Ian? Ian!”
He sniffed.
“Talk to me, please. Your friend’s not going to be okay. There was so much blood, and it took too long to get him airlifted to hospital. When someone is airlifted, it’s bad. It means an ambulance can’t drive fast enough. It’s the sort of bad that if he even does wake up, he’s not going to be Warrick anymore. Not for a very long time. Someone tried to kill one of your friends today and it wasn’t an accident that Warrick was chosen.”
Claire leaned over the counter, narrowing the gap between them. “You’re going to talk to me now and you’re going to tell me everything you boys got up to over the holidays.”
“We didn’t do anything,” mumbled Ian.
“Bullshit.”
Claire saw Ian’s shoulders tense and shy away. She had never felt more ready to hit her son than she did right now, but she forced herself to hold onto that anger until it turned into something that would benefit the both of them.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Ian. At the start of the holidays you were fine. Now you’ve become distant. Even your friends have become more distant and each of their parents suspect something. I know what cigarettes smell like and you should know that your t-shirts smell like them as well, no matter how much deodorant you use. I know when whiskey goes missing and when vodka is watered down. I had Anthony and Josh talk to you boys because I was sure your friend Daniel was filming me while I was in the shower. Then you found a dead body and tried to keep it a secret. You’re supposed to be better than that and you let that poor girl’s family die a million deaths while she was missing. You knew where she was and only told someone when you had no other choice. Then Warrick was convinced to go looking and you see what happened to him? Someone tried to kill him and he got away. Now, on the first day of school, after so many weeks of laying low, someone came in and beat your friend halfway to death. You three are in this together, so what the hell did you do to inspire someone to try and kill one of you?”
Ian was convinced that his patience could outlast his mother’s temper. She had a routine. She would get flustered, she would start contradicting herself, then she would tell him to go to his room. Round two would begin by taking away his computer, his comics, and his pocket money.
/> Claire, on the other hand, was prepared to stay there until Ian passed out from starvation. “The police will find whoever did it and they will catch him. When they ask him why he went after Warrick, what do you think will happen then? Do you think he’ll remain quiet to protect you boys or do you think he’ll give a good answer to what I’ve been asking? Do you think it’s Zofia Bukowski’s father and he’s furious that you didn’t let the police know earlier? Or is it actually her murderer and he went after Warrick because Warrick saw him there all those weeks ago when he found the body?”
Ian stayed exactly where he was, waiting until–
– Claire slammed her fist down on the kitchen counter. “You are not getting out of this by being silent! You’re going to tell me everything you three have been doing over the summer, and if I think for one second that you’re lying or hiding the truth from me ...”
She needed to hit him just once, that’s all it would take. She would make it count as well. Months of secrecy would come tumbling out in an instant if she allowed herself that one chance.
“Your friend is lying in a hospital with his head beaten in! There was part of his brain lying on the classroom floor! He’s not going to be okay when he gets out of hospital. Those injuries are going to cause severe brain damage for the rest of his life, the kind of damage where he’ll be lucky if he can even talk ever again. And it could have been you! With part of your brain lying on the floor in front of your school friends. So, Ian, tell me what the fuck you three did over the holidays!”
All of a sudden the tears and blubbering came and they didn’t stop. The image of Warrick’s head spilling open flooded Ian’s imagination, while the mental sight of a clump of brain made him gag.
