Hinton Hollow Death Trip

by Will Carver

  Jacob should have been there. And she should have been a hero. A mother.

  She was neither of those things.

  The father didn’t know the truth. He wasn’t there. So he thought that he was the weak parent.

  ‘Come downstairs. It’s no good to be up here alone. You can’t get through this by yourself.’ Owen Brady pleaded with his wife, trying to be the stronger half of the relationship, though the redness of his cried-out eyes betrayed his want for that role.

  It was the second day in a row she had done this.

  He couldn’t get through this by himself.

  ‘I’m not good to be around, Owen. Look what happens.’ She didn’t even glance at him as she spoke. Perched on the edge of the bed, her chin almost resting against her chest, she stared into the palms of her cupped hands. They were empty but it seemed that she was holding something only she could see. Her straight, auburn hair obscured her usually pretty face.

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Faith.’ He knew he needed to be supportive, understanding of her situation, but he couldn’t stand the self-pity. Nobody was blaming her for what had happened. It was a freak occurrence, they’d thought. Hinton Hollow wasn’t the place that this kind of thing happened.

  SOME QUESTIONS I’VE BEEN TURNING OVER

  Am I still necessary?

  Does the world still require Evil?

  Could I retire?

  Could I be less involved?

  ONE MORE THING

  Maybe it’s harder to be Good?

  ‘Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what you’re thinking, what everybody’s thinking.’

  ‘Nobody is thinking anything.’ He looked around the room as if waiting for approval from somebody. ‘Just come downstairs. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you don’t want to talk, we won’t. Just … please.’

  He felt pathetic. Like he was the one that needed the support. She had seen it happen. She was there. She’d held Jacob, dead in her arms. Owen had been at work. In a meeting. A pointless fucking meeting about nothing that mattered when he should have been protecting his family from this hurt.

  Faith finally lifted her gaze, her eyes squinting as though she agreed with Owen’s estimation of himself. Like she could hear his thoughts.

  Pitiful. Inadequate.

  ‘You don’t want to be around me now,’ she told him, her voice seemingly not her own – I was helping her. Owen Brady went to speak but his breath halted the words. ‘And I don’t want to be around you.’ Faith Brady spat the last word out in apparent disgust.

  I should have been there, his bloodshot eyes groaned.

  Would he have taken the bullet?

  It’s much easier to think that you would after the event.

  Tears fell silently down Faith Brady’s cheeks. Owen had nothing left. She knew it as much as the man’s own shadow.

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to come down then at least go and see Michael before he goes to sleep.’

  ‘I don’t want to see Michael,’ she shouted, not thinking of anyone but herself again. ‘I don’t want to see anybody. Can’t you get that through your thick skull.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Owen stepped towards his wife, his sadness giving way to momentary anger.

  ‘Just leave.’ Her voice was still raised.

  Owen stepped forward again. It was the closest he had been to his wife in a day or so.

  ‘Keep your fucking voice down.’ He was quiet, venomous through gritted teeth. He didn’t blink. He was thinking only of his sons. The one that had died but, even more, the one that was still alive in the next room.

  Faith just stared at him, her chest moving noticeably up and down, her heart racing from the outburst.

  ‘I’m not ready.’ Her crying became more audible. Owen felt like he should reach his arms around her. Hold her, for months if he had to. But he was frozen to the spot, trapped between fear and sorrow.

  It’s hesitation that can get someone killed.

  When would she be ready?

  I let them go for a moment, stood back and watched.

  ‘Please, Owen.’ She softened, the tension in her face releasing. ‘Just tonight. Go and see to Michael. I can’t be around him. Not now. Not yet. Just … just time … I need a bit of time. For me. For Jacob. All of us.’ At this point she placed her right hand on her husband’s chest.

  It was contact.

  It was a start.

  Faith told her husband that she was going to try to relax in the bath; she needed a little time to think. She may feel better afterwards.

  ‘And come downstairs?’ Owen asked, one final, pathetic time.

  She nodded.

  She lied.

  The truth was too frightening.

  The truth was damning.

  THE BOTTOM BUNK

  Michael’s father kept telling him that Jacob was in heaven. Like that made it easier to digest. It just made it less real. The Bradys didn’t go to church; they never even talked about things like that. They were not invited to Oz and Liv’s wedding.

  He was a kid. He wasn’t an idiot.

  The kid, who was certainly not an idiot, slept on the top bunk, because he was the eldest. Michael was seven. Jacob was five.

  Was five.

  Would always be five.

  Michael was in bed by half past seven. The same as always. His father was desperately trying to keep their routine, keep everything normal. Though things were far from normal. They’d never be that way again. Jacob was gone. Whether his soul had been transported to some celestial plane or he had already been reborn as a swallow or he was simply in a state of grotesque, bloated decay, his life was over and the Brady family would be forever changed.

  Michael knew what his father was doing and he understood the reasons, but Michael wanted to feel sad. He wanted to think about his brother. He didn’t want him to be in heaven. He wanted him to be on the bottom bunk.

  Michael pulled his duvet back and hung over the side of his bed, looking down at where his brother used to lay. He didn’t expect to see him there, upside down, pretending to be asleep like he did every night; he just wanted to look, keep with his own routine.

  But he remembered the gunshot and closed his eyes tightly, hoping this would stop him from seeing anything. It had been louder than they showed it on the television or the pft on computer games. There was a bang and then his little brother had slumped to the floor. And Michael didn’t know what the man said to his mother before running off.

  He didn’t know why he was the one still there.

  Then, another sound. His mother was shouting again. She’d been doing that a lot.

  ‘I don’t want to see Michael.’

  Her words hit his chest like the bullet to the son she had chosen to die.

  The seven-year-old boy didn’t know what he had done wrong. Why was it his fault? Why does heaven need a five-year-old boy, anyway? Shouldn’t it just be for old people? And why did his mother keep saying those words?

  Her thoughtless eruption upset Michael but not enough to make him cry. Nothing could hurt as much as losing his little brother. But he turned and climbed down the ladder to get into the bottom bunk. Rotating the pillow lengthways down his body, he held it tight but comfortingly.

  ‘Just leave,’ he’d heard through the too-thin walls.

  His eyes closed tighter and he pictured his brother without a hole in his chest.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jacob,’ he whispered out loud, ‘she doesn’t mean it. She’s just sad about you, that’s all.’

  The seven-year-old boy, who was not an idiot but had recently witnessed the callous murder of his younger brother, didn’t hear any more shouting from the room next to his. His room that he now only shared with a memory, an impression that would fade with time. Right then, it felt like he would never forget Jacob, but the difficult years ahead would diminish his recollection until all that was left was the sound of two thuds. One when a bullet hit an innocent living boy. And one when a dead child hit t
he ground.

  Michael kept whispering.

  ‘Daddy is sad too but he doesn’t shout. I think he just wants Mummy to feel better. She won’t come out of her room, Jacob. Are you in heaven? Is it nice? Are you an angel now?’

  He waited for an answer, hugging the pillow, protecting it.

  ‘Did you hear what that man said to Mummy?’

  Another sound. The bottom of the bedroom door scraped against the carpet.

  Then a soft voice.

  DISBELIEVING PINCHES

  ‘Michael, are you still awake,’ the concerned father whispered.

  His son made a noise, a groan of some kind that suggested he may have been asleep. But Owen knew that his son must have heard the words his wife had shouted a few moments before.

  Brave boy.

  ‘A change of scenery tonight, I see.’ Owen spotted his alive son lying in his dead son’s bed and it broke his heart even more. I could see it. The Brady boys were good.

  ‘Maybe I should sleep on the top bunk.’ Owen smiled, holding back emotion.

  Michael didn’t need his smile any more. He just held the pillow against his chest.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry you had to hear that.’ He sat on the bed and placed a comforting hand on his son’s arm. ‘Sometimes adults say things that they don’t really mean when they are upset. Your mum is … Well, she’s having a tough time. And she’s sad. And it’s probably best that she comes to see you when she’s feeling a bit better.’

  Michael didn’t speak.

  ‘If you want to talk about anything, anything at all, if you’re feeling down or sick, then you can come to me. It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to feel whatever way you want.’

  The father waited for acknowledgement. It didn’t have to be verbal, a simple nod would have sufficed. But there was no discernible reaction.

  ‘And, if you don’t want to say anything for a while, that’s fine too, just let me know and I’ll make sure you get the quiet you need.’

  MICHAEL KNEW ONE THING

  His mother was keeping something from them both.

  ‘I’m fine, Daddy,’ he finally chirped. ‘I just wanted to see what the bottom bunk is like. I kinda feel close to him down here, you know?’ His voice wobbled.

  Owen tried to camouflage the wiping of his tears.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Owen Brady inhaled and held his breath. His son should not be asking him that. A seven-year-old should not be offering comfort. He thought of his miserable wife in the next room, running a bath so she could have her fucking time, so that she could soak in the filth of her experience. And for a moment Owen hated her.

  For being the one that was there but could do nothing to save Jacob.

  For not allowing him to grieve properly because one person had to keep it together.

  But mostly for that very moment, when a young boy who watched his brother slump into non-existence only a day ago was having to be strong for his parents. He was pretending not to hear his mother’s acrid rants. And he was worried about the father who thought he was coping but realised he was fucking everything up.

  It had started as g u i l t. A slight push from me and this manifested itself as anger. It didn’t take much after that to see that Owen Brady had started to feel hate.

  TRAITS OF OWEN BRADY

  Cool under pressure.

  Hardworking.

  Thoughtful but prone to overthinking.

  Patience. Above all, patience. With children, the elderly and a demanding partner.

  But inside, there must have been repressed anger because, when I pushed him, even slightly, that is what came out. Anger. Anger and hate.

  And hate is darkness. It is something I can work with. It’s the easiest thing to use.

  ‘You don’t have to ask me that, buddy. Don’t worry about your old dad. I’m sad like you. Like your mum. But I know Jacob is in heaven. He’s probably with your gran right now wondering what you’re doing on his bunk.’ He forced something close to a smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched with the lies he was telling himself and his son.

  Michael said nothing. Again.

  A father rubbed his son’s arm – marked with disbelieving pinches – affectionately yet apologetically. Then he pulled the cover up over his shoulder.

  ‘You want to stay here tonight, then?’

  Michael nodded.

  Owen kissed his son on the head and said, ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ It was the same thing he’d said to his wife.

  Then he told his son that he loved him.

  Again, Michael said nothing.

  THIS WASN’T HIM

  Now, watch how I can work with hatred.

  Owen Brady was a placid and patient man. He loved his job, it took up a lot of his time, but he loved his family more. It hurt him to arrive home only to see the boys at bath time, read them a story then put them to bed. He’d always felt like he had missed out and it was time he would never get back.

  SOMETHING WORTH CONSIDERING

  Time, whether missed, spent well or not used in a productive and memorable way, can never be got back.

  You never get it back.

  He’d spent every weekend, though, trying to make up for that. When he could have been resting or playing golf or going to The Arboreal for beers, his focus was solely pointed at being a present and attentive father.

  Owen Brady left his sons’ bedroom door slightly ajar in case Michael called out. He knew he’d be sleeping downstairs for a second night. Like there had been some kind of marital dispute. Like he had done something wrong.

  Just a tickle from Evil at this point to get the mind racing.

  He stopped in the hallway, creaking his neck to the left; his eyes boring into the closed door his wife hid behind, and he snarled. A nocturnal growl. He was giving in to the darkness.

  Then a kiss from Evil.

  Time. Sure. He imagined her submersed in the bath. You have your fucking time while I lie to our kid about the lovely place his dead brother has gone to. You have your time in bubbles, wallowing in the grief you think only you can feel. I’ll be fine on the sofa again. Don’t worry about me.

  He could feel something boiling but managed to collect himself before doing or saying something he would never be able to take back. Or that’s what he thought he had done, but in fact, I had let him go for a moment. I like to see what they do, what people are capable of. Without me.

  Owen went straight to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of lager. He didn’t turn on the television, he didn’t try to lose himself in any kind of distraction. He sat at the kitchen table, with me, a pile of unopened mail at one end, and he drank. The first bottle went down as fast as iced water in July.

  SOMETHING THAT HAS CHANGED

  I never used to be scared of people.

  You have the power to destroy everything.

  He opened another and looked at the ceiling beneath the en-suite bathroom where his selfish fuck of a wife was lying in scaldingly hot water.

  An evil tap on the shoulder.

  Time. You bitch.

  Another beer and another ten minutes to allow his thoughts to wander. For some reason he tried to imagine what had happened in the park. The information he had received from Faith was patchy. He knew no more than the average TV addict. His wife was too distant, too hurt, to recount the story again. His son was barely speaking. And he had nobody he could talk to. There were friends, a family-liaison officer who had been assigned to the Bradys, but he just wanted honesty. And she was the only one that could give him that.

  I wished I could tell him but all I could do was push him towards the truth.

  You’re not the only one hurting, Faith.

  Three more beers. A false image of the shooting replayed in his mind like a badly filmed home movie – in black and white.

  I coaxed the anger and resentment towards the surface.

  It’s been over an hour. That’s more than enough time. The words were a whisper
in a voice that Owen Brady did not recognise as his own.

  He stood up at the table, knocked back the last half-bottle of beer and slammed it down hard onto the oak surface.

  You’re going to talk to me now. Whether you want to or not.

  Then he walked up the stairs. The sixth and seventh step creaking, but Faith could not hear it.

  And he paced past Michael’s room, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. He couldn’t think about Michael otherwise he wouldn’t go through with it. I swiped that notion away.

  He pushed through the bedroom door. It was quiet. The top-left drawer was hanging open. He was just walking, not thinking.

  Then he was rapping on the en suite door and calling his wife’s name.

  And he was saying let me in.

  And she wouldn’t answer him.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. This is my favourite part. The despair.

  So he asked again. And he shunted the door with his shoulder, not knowing what he would do when he got to the other side.

  This wasn’t him.

  The town of Hinton Hollow was different now. It had changed. Things were happening that should not. People were acting out of character. Local businesses were less welcoming. The residents could see it happening, they felt it, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  One final push.

  Owen Brady bust through the locked door.

  Then there was the screaming.

  DIE/DIET

  I pushed Dorothy too hard.

  Her flat was small. Too small for her despite the fact that she lived by herself. She had ordered undersized sofas to give the illusion of space, but it meant that she filled a seat designed for two people.

  She was eating a tub of ice cream while she waited for her dinner to be delivered. It was cookie-dough-flavoured with chocolate chips and a tube of peanut butter that ran up the centre from the bottom to the lid. But it was dairy-free and that was enough for Dorothy to convince herself that it was somehow healthier.