Hinton Hollow Death Trip

by Will Carver

  With his back to the track, an invisible shadow stretching out behind him, Pace started his walk into town. He could see RD’s Diner at the bottom of the sloping street, bustling with trade, its glass front still in one piece – for now – still displaying the dated, American diner-style signage; it offered free refills at a price any of the coffee chains would charge for half a biscotti, if you ate it outside.

  The police station was close but Pace was hoping he could avoid that for as long as possible. They were expecting him. To them, it was a temporary transfer, to Pace, it was a sabbatical. A break. An escape. He wanted to announce his own return. To spread the word himself, on his terms. The darkness I had brought to his town was moving slowly but deliberately, even downhill, but, in Hinton Hollow, word has no choice but to travel fast.

  His plan was to hit RD’s place first, sample some of their legendary homemade cake and drink coffee – no refill necessary on this trip. He’d move on to the corner grocery and pick up a few essentials, give the locals a few minutes for g o s s i p. That would only leave Rock-a-Buy, across the road on the adjacent corner, where Mrs Beaufort would undoubtedly already be expecting him. Then he would go to work.

  It was important to visit the old lady, because if she welcomed him back with open arms, he knew the rest of the village would fall in line.

  That was Pace’s plan.

  Mine was to chaperone him around. Make sure his paranoia did not flare up. Not touch him. Keep the shadow off his feet and flames from the walls. Let him meet the various pillars of his former home and remember them as they were.

  Then I would change them so that they were unrecognisable even to themselves.

  SAMARITAN

  Maeve Beauman woke up alone.

  After her husband had died, this had been a novelty. Something new to embrace, to try. But getting together with Pace had changed that. She’d convinced him to stay the night before, but he had sped out the door the next morning to work on his case. He hadn’t told her too much about it but she’d seen the news. A suicide cult with no leader. People getting together and jumping off bridges to their deaths.

  She hadn’t asked him too many questions, she didn’t want to push. It was the same with their relationship. She liked him more than he liked her. That’s what Maeve told herself. So, the things she often wanted to say or feel, she held back.

  But she needed to hear his voice.

  She called. It went to voicemail.

  ‘Hey, it’s Maeve. I just wanted to check in with you. Make sure everything’s all right. I’m guessing you’re busy. I’ve seen the news so you must be tied up with all of that. Looks crazy, I don’t know what this world is coming to, you know? Why would someone do that? I suppose you’re more used to it than I am. Look, I just wanted to talk. You left kind of suddenly. I know you had to get to work but we had such a great night before that. We were close. It’s just hard for me. I guess I’m being overly sensitive. Felt a bit like you fucked and ran. I know that’s not it, obviously. It just would’ve been nice to have a little more of a morning together. Difficult, of course, with everything going on. I totally understand. I just … Can you just call me when you get this, please? Let me know how you’re doing. Maybe you’ll be around later? Anyway … call me back or drop me a text if you’re tied up. Speak soon.’

  The message was relaxed. Maeve was not.

  More feelings locked away.

  It would not take a lot from me to open up the detective’s girlfriend. To make her true.

  CRUMBLE

  The bell tinkled lightly as Detective Sergeant Pace pushed through the café door. There were locals in there but not enough to make it uncomfortable when the faces turned to view the dark figure that had rung his entrance. RD spotted him immediately, his eyes smiling a greeting that was gratefully received.

  RD was in his early sixties. His hair had not thinned but was short, silver and parted neatly to the right. He’d added a few pounds since Pace had seen him last but that was to be expected in a place like this. It was a wonder he wasn’t bigger.

  Just one more slice…

  Pace had only ever known him as RD but some of the older folk occasionally called him Rick. There was a rumour that it wasn’t his real name, he just wanted to sound more Yankee.

  Another way that evil may present itself: rumours. See also: Chinese whispers, viral marketing and self-promotion.

  ‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ he announced, resisting the urge to deliver in some kind of Southern American drawl.

  His wife emerged from a door at the back as though that was her cue. RD ran the room, she ran the kitchen. And she was big. Just the way RD liked her. He always said, ‘Never trust a thin chef, cos they ain’t tasting what they’re serving.’

  ‘I guess you want one of those fancy city coffees with the frothed milk and whatnot? I’ve got black and I’ve got white.’

  ‘Black’s fine, RD. Thanks.’ Pace smiled, puffing out a sigh that was disguised as a laugh. I hadn’t seen him like this. Relaxed. Relieved. Resigned. Everything was as he had imagined it. People were pleased he had returned, yet reticent about the suddenness of his arrival.

  Pace ignored another vibration in his pocket.

  RD spoke as he poured. ‘It’s been a while. This a flying visit?’

  His wife tinkered in a glass cabinet behind the counter before emerging next to her husband with a plate of something that looked like a plum crumble and smelled like Christmas. She nodded at Pace before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  I could have made RD’s old football injury start to throb. I could have constricted the airways of his obese wife until she blacked out. I could have danced black flames across the walls and crushed Pace’s spirit. But I did none of these things. I swivelled on the diner chair and let it play out.

  ‘Longer than that. Back for a little while but couldn’t really put a time on it.’ The idea of moving back there turned his shoulders cold and he shuddered.

  ‘Missed us, did ya?’ RD produced a fork as if by magic and placed it next to the plate of pie.

  ‘Something like that,’ Pace replied, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Well, that’s on the house. Welcome back.’

  ‘RD. There’s no need, honest—’

  ‘It’s on the house.’ He raised his right hand slightly as though pushing away the idea that Pace would be paying. Then he, too, sloped out the back. No doubt to discuss things with his wife and call Mrs Beaufort to prepare her.

  The plum crumble made Detective Sergeant Pace lean back in his chair and look at the ceiling towards a God he had lost faith in. It was that good.

  The Christmas smell was cinnamon and the spice complemented his coffee.

  It was perfect.

  It was Hinton Hollow.

  He had hoped to announce his return on his own terms but it was obvious to him that they’d been waiting. The cinnamon had given them away. And the fact that all the diners had resisted the urge to even look at him. This was some kind of clandestine welcome-home party and everyone was invited. It made him feel less nervous about visiting Mrs Beaufort, at least.

  Pace finished his crumble, downed the last of his cheap, delicious coffee then stood up, deliberately scraping his chair against the floor so that he could watch nobody acknowledge the noise for fear of giving themselves away.

  RD came from behind the counter to collect the empty plate.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘My compliments to the chef. I’ll definitely be back.’ Pace held his hand out and RD took it in one of his own giant, grey bear paws.

  ‘And I will happily accept your money next time, detective.’

  Pace nodded and left. He pulled the door shut, the bell rattling behind him like some Pavlovian cue for RD’s customers to finally relax.

  I tapped a few of the locals on their shoulder as I left. One of them was Darren from the abattoir. He had ordered two bacon sandwiches for his breakfast. When they arrived, he pulled out the meat, licked off the
sauce and ate only the bread.

  He was different.

  NOTHING IMPORTANT

  Maeve second-guessed herself the moment she hung up.

  She’d given too much away.

  She’d seemed desperate.

  Faking it through.

  ‘Me again. I knew it would go straight through to voicemail. It’s okay, I’m not a psycho. It’s just that my secretary reminded me about a thing I’m doing after work, so I won’t, actually, be getting in until later. Maybe you’ll just want to crash after a day like today but I should be back no later than eight, if you wanted to stay with me again. I have wine. I would’ve eaten but there’s plenty for you if you need something. Either way, it’s fine. Just drop me a message. I worry about you, that’s all. Okay, well, hopefully see you later. I have to go to a meeting now.’

  TWO THINGS ABOUT MAEVE

  She did not have to go to a meeting.

  She always feels alone.

  You cannot fix falsity with deceit.

  PASSING THROUGH

  Pace watched a young mother jaywalk with her toddling child. Traffic was light and there was no real need to walk up to the crossing and wait for the green man to start flashing. She looked left, right, then left again before dragging her son across at speed.

  Pace did the same thing.

  He looked left, right, then left again. A black BMW eased through the village centre crossroads from the direction of neighbouring Roylake. Just passing through.

  He crossed. His eyes focused on Mrs Beaufort’s shop. And he looked back over his shoulder. Right at me. The paranoia was still there. But he saw nothing. Not that he really knew what to expect. A darkness? A sensation? Cold? I blew in his ear to unnerve him and disappeared across the other side of town, leaving him alone.

  I would come for him eventually. Of course I would. I came for everybody that autumn.

  I watched.

  And I waited.

  And I went for Oz Tambor.

  THAT DAY IN THE PARK: FAITH BRADY

  A mother always knows more.

  She sees more.

  The world certainly looked different through the eyes of Michael and Jacob that day. To them, it was unprovoked and instant and it ruined the chance to play in the park or touch the beetle. For Faith Brady, it was a moment that would last forever. It was the end for more than just the youngest of the Bradys. And it started long before a shoe had been misplaced.

  A woman in her husband’s office had picked up the phone, informing Faith that Owen was in a meeting for the next couple of hours. She didn’t bother leaving a message. She didn’t have anything significant to say; she just wanted to kill some time that day while walking to the school to pick up her two sons.

  She hung up, wondering who that woman was at the end of the phone. Owen had never mentioned her before. She wasn’t even sure what she would have talked about on the phone. Nothing important had happened that day. It was her regular routine. Drop the kids off, wait for the online food shop to arrive, drink coffee, get all the sports kits from the weekend into the wash, pick the kids up and make dinner.

  She flicked the oven on and set it to pre-heat so that she could throw something in when she got back.

  It would be on all night. Cooking nothing.

  She collected her youngest son first and asked him the obligatory questions about his day at school, though she was less interested at the start of the working week than she was by Friday, usually. He told her he’d done nothing, anyway.

  She held his hand because there were a lot of people about. Mothers. Fathers. Children taller than Jacob. They headed to the other side of the building, where Michael and the older kids were waiting. Jacob smiled when he saw his brother; they both looked like their mother when they were happy.

  ‘Ready to go?’ she asked Michael, but it wasn’t really a question, it’s what she always said.

  R o u t i n e.

  What she meant was, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  The oven was on.

  Michael was looking through his schoolbag. Faith was feeling impatient. She thought that he had drawn her yet another picture that she would have to keep for longer than she wanted – before surreptitiously disposing of it on recycling day.

  ‘I can’t find one of my trainers,’ he informed her, worried but apologetic.

  She was, at once, relieved it was not another scribbling for the fridge door but irritated that he had been so careless.

  ‘You haven’t had them that long. When was the last time you saw them?’

  ‘I wore them earlier when I…’ He trailed off but something clicked. ‘The sports block. They must still be in the sports block. I had them last in the changing room.’

  He started to head off in that direction.

  ‘Wait, wait. We’ll all go, eh?’

  They found it underneath the bench where Michael had changed after sports. The boys turned the task into some kind of treasure-hunt game that Jacob ended up winning. They were always doing that kind of thing. Making everything about play. Faith stood in the background, allowing them to complete their mission. She watched and wished she still had that kind of energy.

  Looking at the two of them, how they interacted and looked out for one another, she was proud of them. And herself for being a major part of the way they had been brought up. She mentally patted herself on the back; they were growing up nicely. They were polite and thoughtful.

  They were Hinton Hollow.

  Her friends said that boys were worse when they were younger and that girls were harder to deal with once they hit their teenage years. Faith hated those kinds of generalisations but hoped this one was true.

  I shouldn’t have any issues with these two as teenagers, she thought.

  Well, maybe Jacob has the potential to get a bit rowdy.

  He was holding the missing trainer aloft as though he had dug up a golden nugget. Michael took it from him and rubbed his hair with a rough affection that she melted into.

  It was her favourite age, so far.

  Every age had been her favourite.

  The boys thought they had tricked her into agreeing that they could play in the park before going home, but Faith didn’t really mind. It was easier when they wanted to play with each other; it’s when they wanted her attention that she wondered what she had done before her caffeine dependency.

  Her sons ran off ahead. Michael found something on the ground that he was showing to his younger brother.

  Faith put the bags on the floor and checked her mobile phone to see whether Owen had called back despite her not leaving him a message. There was nothing, of course. He was still in his meeting, talking in numbers and acronyms, while a man emerged stealthily from the woods, undetected by a single member of the Brady family.

  The phone went back into the pocket of her jeans, the ones that accentuated the shape of her thighs. She picked up the boys’ schoolbags once more, one in each hand, but was stopped before she took a step.

  A large hand reached around her from behind and covered her mouth. Something hard, cold and metallic poked into the nook at the top of her neck. She had never seen or felt a real gun in her life but she knew that is exactly what was pressed into the ridge of her skull.

  ‘Don’t scream. Don’t you dare.’ His voice was a whisper. Calm and venomous and full of promise. He pronounced the ‘t’ in Don’t but still he sounded local.

  Fuck. She cursed in her head. What is this? The boys haven’t even noticed.

  Run, boys. Get out of here. She screamed with her eyes.

  But she knew not to make a sound otherwise her sons would be picking parts of her skull and brain from their hair.

  ‘Very good.’ He spoke slowly and clearly but it all happened so fast in Faith Brady’s mind.

  What do you want? Don’t rape me, her mind raced.

  Michael, take your brother and sprint.

  His hand smelled like cigarettes overpowering peppermint. They were not sweaty or clammy
despite the situation. He was not afraid. Nor was he nervous, though he had doubtlessly seen many a mother pass by that he could have pounced on and subdued.

  Why me? I’m nobody, her brain rattled.

  Her eyes widened like they were shouting at her sons because her voice had been taken away, but Michael and Jacob continued with their fascination with whatever lay dead on the pathway ahead; another of their games.

  Their stupid fucking games.

  The gunman’s breath tickled Faith’s right ear. It felt so wrong. So sinister. His hushed tone informed her that everybody dies but she did not have to. He explained her situation and why she was standing there with a weapon pointing at her brain, and she couldn’t believe the words he was saying; she could not fathom that something so evil existed. That someone so unhinged and deplorable would ever find their way to Hinton Hollow. To that park at that time with only that family around.

  She cursed the quietness of the town.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, and she sensed that he may have been smiling behind her.

  Time sped up.

  He momentarily released the pressure of the pistol on the back of her head and the strength of his grip waned.

  Michael. Get Jacob out of here. Her stare burned but the air outside had started to cool.

  She remembered their births, both very different, and the many milestones of their lives that had led to that point; Michael, being older, having slightly more of those moments and the added bonus of doing everything first.

  In her mind, she screamed his name. To warn him. To get him to hold his brother’s hand like he always did, and run, not looking back until they reached the front doorstep.

  But that is not how she said it.

  ‘Michael.’

  He turned to look at his mother.

  The gun appeared over her right shoulder and fired at the other boy. The small one with the hair that was sticking up at the back. The one who was always smiling and falling for his brother’s pranks. The one who wouldn’t get to touch the beetle.