by Aaron Dries
She navigated back a page and went to the next story.
Click.
MESSAGE AND A MYSTERY IN A BOTTLE. It too, was from two years ago. The photograph that accompanied this story was of better quality and was an obvious digital upload as opposed to the prior print scan representation. It featured two students, Noah and a girl named Mary Gilbert. They were dressed in their school uniforms and had been photographed against a red curtained backdrop. Between them was a table with an old, corked bottle sitting atop it. The two students each held the corner of a piece of waterlogged paper.
Again, Simone was shocked by the resemblance. Mother and son had the exact same cheek structure, the same dark eyes. He looked so young and underdeveloped in his oversized blue shirt. Marshall had confided in Simone about Noah’s attitude shift over the past six months in the lonely editing suite. He had apparently mutated from confident achiever to a pale, withdrawn copy of himself in a matter of months. The latter bore no relation to the child in the photograph. This child was beaming, his face cracked open in a wide, toothy grin.
But this was awhile back, though. A lot can happen in two years.
Simone cracked her neck and half-read the story. Mary Gilbert, the girl in the photograph, had found a letter in an old wine bottle buried in her backyard. The letter within was damaged and difficult to read, but some details and a date had remained intact. It was addressed to a man known only as Bud, dated January 4th, 1933. The letter was the unnamed woman’s will and testament.
My dearest Bud, I am tossing this bottle into the tide and hoping for the best if nothing else. If providence delivers it to you, then we are meant to be, and then I shall see and hold and embrace you in Heaven… My estate I bequeath to whomever finds this note, for my earthly goods mean nothing to me… My love has been murdered and this sickness—
The letter was signed Prudence. The last name had been washed away.
If any of the details ring a bell with any of our readers, please contact fellow student and budding investigator Noah Deakins. “It’s just really interesting,” Mary’s good friend and classmate Noah said. “It’s a little mystery in her backyard. It’s a good story.” Noah can be contacted via the email address below.
Simone closed her laptop. She sat in the dark and listened to the computer whir, playing with her dreadlocks. More cars passed by outside, illuminating the movie posters on the walls of her room. When she closed her eyes she saw the young boy’s face and couldn’t help seeing that face superimposed on something dead. On something bleeding.
The memorial funeral booklet was speckled with rain, Noah’s dark eyes running in inky streams. Simone crunched it up in her hand, balanced the wad of paper on the veranda balustrade and walked away. Her iPhone chirped in her pocket. She pulled it out as she drained the last of her tea.
The message was from Tim.
Pls come home soon. I want to give u a giant hug.
Simone sighed, putting the phone away. She looked up and scanned the school grounds. People mulled in small groups under umbrellas, chewing cake and drinking hot chocolate. The air was sweet with wet, cut grass. Everything looked washed out—it hurt her eyes.
“Haven’t you got an edit to finish?” Marshall said, stepping up to his coworker’s side. Simone looked at him and noted the pale complexion, his cave-like cheeks. It was unnerving to see her boss so quickly emancipated.
“I’m so sorry,” Simone began. “I know that’s a retarded thing to say but it’s true.”
“It’s okay,” Marshall said. He leaned against the balustrade and looked at the rolled-up paper for a second before pushing it off the railing. His voice was thick and rattled with phlegm, the sound of a man twice his age. A man with throat cancer. “It’s a fucking circus in there.”
“I know. It’s intense.” Simone stopped and realized how lifeless her sentence sounded. Silence rushed in on her and she fumbled for something to say. “I finished the edit. I’ve got the DVD with me. Ta-da!” She gestured to the bag.
“Are you serious? You must’ve busted some ass to get that done so quick.” There was a faint smile.
“I did. Well, you know. I wanted it done so it’d be out of your hair. It came out nice, but it’s here so you can review it at home. If you want anything changed just let me know.”
“Thanks, Simone. You’re a good cookie.” Marshall laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. Lightning struck the valley—they waited for the thunder but it didn’t arrive. “In the kitchen at the back of the hall I’ve got my work bag. You know the one. It’s behind the counter. Just throw it in there when you get the chance. Don’t give it to me now, I’d only drop it or leave it somewhere. My head’s all over the place right now.”
“Yeah, for sure. No prob’. Should I go and do that now?”
“Nah it’s cool. Stay and chat just for another minute. I don’t want to go back in there. I can’t fucking bear to look at Claire right now. She’s breaking me. And that detective is wandering around. There are people in there I haven’t seen in years and they’re all talking to me like they know me. It’s nuts.”
“Yeah.” Simone pulled up the collar of her jacket.
Marshall’s eyes had drawn to narrow slits and his fingers were now intertwined before his face. “This is my old school. James Bridge is my old stomping ground.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. You’re a country bumpkin, then?” She chanced a jab. “You redneck twat.”
“Yessir. My dad was the town postman; he just retired, the lazy bugger. This place is in my bones… See that big old tree over there past the handball courts? My mates and I used to play marbles among the roots. And over there near the steps to the demountables? There used to be basketball ring there. I was playing once and I tripped and fell and cracked my knee wide open. Blood pissing out all over the place, a real mess and I’m just crying. I was a big girl’s blouse. Ha. Still am.”
“You’re not. You’re tough as…shit, I don’t know. You’re strong.”
Marshall paused, looked over the schoolyard. “You don’t expect this. Never. Serves me fucking right.”
“Don’t say that, Marshall, it’s not like that.”
“Hmm. My kid is dead. My wife is shattered. We’re under suspicion.”
“You’re what?”
“Yeah, under suspicion. Claire and I. It’s a bloody joke. The cops have pulled our place apart. I’m worried sick. I feel like throwing myself off Flagman’s Bridge.” There was another flash of lightning. Marshall shook his head and Simone noticed the sweat across his brow. “Everything is going to be different. All the good stuff’s gone.”
Simone shuffled closer and hugged her boss.
“You looking for a raise, Simone?”
“It doesn’t hurt to try. Grab the bull by the horns.” Simone pulled away. “It was a good service. It was very…neat.”
“Funerals are like weddings. They need to be neat and perfect because they need to make everything easier for everyone else. Planning a funeral is hard. Real hard.”
Simone nodded as though she understood and cleared her throat. “I was online last night and I saw a couple of articles about Noah from a few years ago. Back in one of the old school newspapers.”
“Really? Um, what?”
“Something about an art charity thing and another about a message in a bottle.” Simone took off her glasses and wiped them clean.
“Oh shit, yeah.” Marshall smiled. “A girl in his class found a wine bottle with a note in it from some lady. Man, I forgot about that. It’s still online?”
“Yeah, they both are.”
“Serious? I thought someone would’ve taken them down by now.”
“Nope, they’re still up there, photos and all. The Internet is just a big beach with lots of crisscrossing footsteps in the sand, only the footsteps never get washed away.”
“Listen to you, Miss Poet. If this editing thing doesn’t pan out consider writing.” Marshall un-knotted his hands and turned his back on t
he school grounds. “Claire always wanted to write. Ever since I first met her.”
“One day maybe… Mars, I only the mention the articles because, well, you know. Nobody’s going to forget Noah. To be involved in something like that, and the charity art too, it was really admirable. You should be proud. It might be worth you having another look. ”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.” He gave her a half-hearted smile. “Man, I’d kill for a beer.”
“Do you want me to go find one for you? I can go hunting.”
“No, it’s okay. Drop off that DVD and scram. You don’t need to be here, but I’m really fucking glad you came.”
“Of course I came. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, kiddo.” Marshall wiped his hands on his pants and gestured towards the door leading back into the hall. “Time to jump into the ring of fire again.”
“Okay,” Simone said. “Oh, Mars?”
“Yeah?”
“So, about the message in the bottle. Did anything ever come of it?”
“Man, I don’t even know.” Marshall opened the door, the sound of echoing chatter escaping. “That was awhile ago. But from memory, no. They never found out and it all blew over.” He toyed with the door handle. When he looked up, his eyes were brimming. “I’d forgotten all about that, Simone. Thanks. It’s nice to remember that stuff.”
Simone nodded. “Oh, Mars, one more thing.”
“Yeah, what?”
She crossed her arms and rolled on her heels. “Suck my balls.”
Marshall smiled, teary. “I sucked your mom’s balls, douche bag.” He slid inside and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Simone standing on the darkened porch, silhouetted by thunderclouds.
Chapter Seventeen
Their half-eaten lunch sat ugly on their plates.
Marshall was at the kitchen table and listened to Claire’s footsteps pass by. There was no other sound, just her feet padding towards their bedroom. Another dinner for one, it would seem. He shook his head and clenched his fists so hard his joints began to ache.
The refrigerator continued to hum its endless, soothing note. It, like the table, was no longer cluttered with Noah’s things. Gone were the old drawings and report cards. Gone was any evidence that Noah had ever sat in that room to eat. His wife had been very thorough in her scouring.
The sight of the food left his stomach in knots. The meat was half-cooked, just as they liked it. Greasy blood seeped onto the plate in a pink pool. It absorbed up into the gluten-free bread—he used to hate the shit. He only ate it because Claire did. He was surprised he’d managed to swallow what he had.
He thought of Noah’s body on the morgue floor, his head cracked open and the brains slopping out, and grimaced. His stomach churned again as though writhing with snakes, biting and tearing. The knife was in his hands, speckled with threads of flesh.
There had been an autopsy. The doctors would have had knives too.
He thought of those savages pulling Noah’s rib cage open, snapping his bones and fiddling with his little, grey heart. Marshall coughed, frightened he might vomit again. Images splattered against the inside of his skull. Funeral flowers. Mahogany. Pews. Body bags.
Claire.
He put down the knife; it clattered against the plate. His heart skipped a beat.
Marshall was growing more paranoid by the day. He was afraid the walls would crack at any moment to reveal more bored reporters, that when he boiled water for his coffee the kettle would explode and burn him. Death was everywhere. It was in the blood on his plate, in the knife, in the sharp edge of the kitchen table. It was in him.
The frosted shower door showed off the milky contours of Claire’s body. She faced the stream of water, her palms flat against the tiles. Marshall watched and hungered for her. He slipped out of his clothes; a chill made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His fingers pressed against the door and slid it open. A thin cloud of spray covered his chest, clinging to his skin like dewy confetti. Claire didn’t turn to look at him. She couldn’t. Her hair was plastered flat in a V that extended down to her shoulder blades. He stood there, afraid of the anger that radiated from her flesh, and watched her breathe. Her rib cage, like his, was well defined now. Marshall stepped into the stall, whispering her name. She didn’t reply; there was no response to his touch. Soon he was crying, his eyes turning red. He hugged her from behind, his face against her spine. Soon she stood upright and left him, disappearing into the steam.
Chapter Eighteen
Marshall had forgotten all about the edited DVD Simone had given him until the day before they left for Vancouver. They were going to see Claire’s parents for the first time since Noah’s death. He dreaded seeing them, dreaded knowing that he would have to speak when there were no words to be said. Their relationship was strained at the best of times, let alone this. He tried to push the Redmans out of his mind whilst walking towards the study to retrieve the DVD from his work bag. He passed Noah’s bedroom on the way. The door was ajar. Again, he broke out in a cold sweat. A moment ago there had been saliva in his mouth and now there was none. He crossed the hall and pressed his hand against the door. His wedding ring was now loose on his finger; it rattled against the wood. He was quivering.
Warm light cut into the dark revealing Claire on the bed, wrapped up in Noah’s clothing. Her back was to him. “Are you okay, babe?”
He listened to her sniff; it was quiet and refined. “No, not really.” A beat. “I’m okay.”
“What are you doing?”
She said nothing. Above her was the window. A gust of wind blew hard and cold, the skeletal branches of a tree scratching against the glass. As if it wanted in.
“Please answer me, Claire. Please.”
She rolled her head towards him so he could just make out the shape of her nose. The rest of her face remained in shadow. “I can smell him here.”
Marshall put the DVD into the player and switched on the television.
He held the remote with one hand and a glass of Gewürztraminer with the other. He swirled it, savored the aroma and downed it fast. He didn’t give a shit about the taste. A little slipped down his chin and he wiped it away, his calluses rustling his four-day beard. The alcohol hit his stomach and burned.
The corporate logo appeared, followed by the six bar musical cue he had paid ridiculous amounts for. Fade to black. Marshall could see his face reflected on the screen in the light from the badly assembled Ikea lamp in the corner of the room. It was the face of a skull with a brand new silver streak through its fringe. He had awoken yesterday morning to find it.
A moment passed by and the title of the video appeared. Familiar sound effects began to play, drippings and oogey-boogey organ music. Simone was a good post-production supervisor and the edit had a sleek, vibrant quality the performances didn’t deserve. But that was the gimmick; it was meant to be funny. Marshall had seen it all before. By this point in his career it was simple paint-by-numbers assembly. The only thing that changed was the client.
There was no real reason to doubt Simone’s abilities but he still liked to have one final view before the DVD was sent out. It came as no surprise that the children made their ridiculous expressions on cue and all the sound effect stings were in the correct places.
Vampires. Small, white-faced vampires. Their mouths were bloody. Simone had substituted their impish giggles for puma growls. The lights flickered and the children danced in the strobe. He watched their bodies contort, their arms flail.
He heard a laugh that didn’t set with the rest of the soundtrack.
It had come from one of the boys. Marshall sat up so quick his head spun. He took a deep breath and all he could taste was dry, musky wine. He reached for the remote control; it slipped from the pillow and disappeared between the cushions. His eye skimmed back to the television set.
Between flashes of light he saw the dead boy near the coffin. He stood still whilst everyone else wreathed. The music died away.
; Marshall’s fingers stopped digging for the remote. A numb wave rolled over him and he grew afraid. He tried to pull his eyes away from the screen but he felt as though his neck had turned to stone, trapping him inside his own skin.
The child wore a plain white school shirt. It was stained with blood. His head sat against his right shoulder at an unnatural angle. His mouth was open a fraction and when he breathed it blew scarlet bubbles. Where there should have been eyes there were only dark wells leaking ink. Its head was crushed in on one side.
Marshall found the remote and hit the pause button. The vampires froze, out of focus faces at gleeful play. All was still except for the boy near the coffin, with his snapped neck and leaking eyes and his bubbles of blood. The sideways lips opened and a single world gurgled out.
Dad.
Chapter Nineteen
North Bend, WA, America
July Twenty-Seven, 2008
It was five thirty in the afternoon, time for Joe Burnett to feed his wife. He stirred up a bowl of pureed mash—peas, potatoes, water and a small helping of instant gravy—and spooned it into Marline’s mouth. She suckled on the pulp, a faint curiosity in her eyes. But soon, even that flicker of curiosity would slip away and her jaw would begin to grind, slack and mechanical.
The food slipped down her throat and she drummed her fingers on the arm of her rocker—a signal that she was ready for the next helping. Joe leaned forward in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight, and fed her again. The steam from the mash caught in the afternoon light in smoky tendrils, reminding him of the morning mist that rose from the shit-covered pigs out the back. Even though it was summer, there was still a morning chill in this part of Washington State.
He could hear the sows screaming now. They were hungry too.
