by C. J. Tudor
“Shit.”
I wrestled with the bike, but it just stuck more firmly. I tried to heave it up, but I was small and the bike was heavy and I was already tired from den-building and running.
“Leave it!” Fat Gav shouted.
Which was all right for him, with his shiny racer. My bike probably looked like a bucket of junk.
“I can’t,” I gasped. “It was a birthday present.”
Fat Gav turned; Hoppo and Nicky ran back. After a split second, Metal Mickey followed. They tugged from the other side. I pushed. A spoke bent and it was free. Fat Gav staggered backward and the bike thudded to the ground. I swung my leg over the stile and felt someone yank me backward by my T-shirt.
I almost fell but just managed to grab hold of the fence post. I turned. Sean loomed behind me. He held a bunch of my T-shirt in one fist. He grinned through streaks of blood and sweat, teeth eerily white against the red. His one good eye burned with feverish fury. “You’re fucking dead, Shitface.”
Out of sheer gut panic, I kicked back with one foot as hard as I could. It connected with the lean muscle of his stomach, and he buckled, grunted in pain. The grip on my T-shirt loosened. I flung my other leg over the stile and leapt. I heard a tear as the T-shirt ripped. But that didn’t matter. I was free. The rest were already on their bikes. As I scrambled to my feet, they started to pedal away. I grabbed my bike from the ground and wheeled it along, running along at the side then throwing myself into the saddle at a sprint and pedaling as fast as I could. This time I didn’t look back.
—
The playground was empty. We sat on the roundabout, bikes slung on the ground. Now the adrenaline was fading, my head throbbed. My hair was sticky with blood.
“You look like crap,” Nicky told me bluntly.
“Thanks.”
Her arm was all scraped up and her T-shirt streaked with dirt. Bits of twig and fern had lodged in her auburn curls.
“So do you,” I said.
She looked down at herself. “Shit.” She stood up. “Now my dad really is gonna kill me.”
“You could come and clean up back at mine?” I suggested.
Before she could answer, Fat Gav interrupted. “Nah, my house is closer.”
“I guess,” Nicky said.
“But what are we gonna do then?” Metal Mickey whined. “The whole day sucks now.”
We all looked at each other, kind of downcast. He was right, although I felt like pointing out that it was his stupid brother’s fault that it sucked. But I didn’t. Instead, something pinged in the back of my mind and I suddenly heard myself saying, “I’ve got a cool idea for something we can do.”
2016
I am no cook. I take after my mother in that regard. But living alone does necessitate a basic knowledge of the kitchen. I can rustle up a decent roast chicken and potatoes, steak, pasta and varieties of fish. My curry I am still working on.
I have reasoned that Mickey probably eats in good restaurants. In fact, his first suggestion was to meet at a restaurant in town. But I wanted to see him on my home turf. And have him on the back foot. An invitation to dinner is hard to refuse without seeming rude, even though I am sure he accepted reluctantly.
I decide on spaghetti bolognese. It’s easy, homely. Everyone likes it, usually. I’ve got a decent bottle of red wine to go with it and a stick of garlic bread in the freezer. I’m preparing the mince and sauce when Chloe walks back in just before six. Mickey is due at seven.
She inhales deeply. “Mmmmm, you’ll make someone a lovely wife someday.”
“Unlike you.”
She feigns offense, clutching at her chest. “And all I ever wanted was to be a homemaker.”
I smile. Chloe usually manages to make me smile. She’s looking, well, pretty isn’t exactly the word. She’s looking very Chloe this evening. Her dark hair is in two pigtails. She is wearing a black sweatshirt with a picture of Jack Skellington on, a pink miniskirt over black leggings, and para boots with multicolored laces. On some women this would look ridiculous. But Chloe carries it.
She wanders over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer.
“Going out this evening?” I ask.
“Nope, but don’t worry, I’ll make myself scarce while your friend is here.”
“There’s no need.”
“No, it’s fine. Besides, I’ll just feel like a spare part while you two talk about old times.”
“Okay.”
And actually it is. The more I think about it, the more I think it might be better if Chloe isn’t here. I’m not sure how much she knows about Mickey and our history in Anderbury, but the story has been pretty well covered in the press over the years. It’s one of those crimes that always provokes people’s interest. It has everything, I suppose. The weird protagonist, the creepy chalk drawings and the gruesome murder. We have made our mark in history. A small, chalk-man-shaped mark, I think bitterly. Of course, the facts have been embellished over time, the truth gradually worn away at the edges. History itself is only ever a story, told by the ones who survive it.
Chloe swigs her beer. “I’ll be upstairs, in my room, if you need me.”
“Want me to put you aside some spaghetti?”
“Nah, you’re fine. I had a late lunch.”
“Okay.” I wait.
“Oh, go on, then. I might be peckish later.”
Chloe eats more than I would have deemed humanly possible for someone who could comfortably disappear behind a lamp post. She also eats at odd hours. I’ve often found her in the kitchen, snacking on pasta or sandwiches or, on one occasion, a full fry-up in the early hours of the morning. But then I suffer from insomnia, and occasionally I sleepwalk, too, so I am not one to call someone up on their odd nocturnal habits.
At the door, Chloe pauses. She has on her concerned face.
“Seriously, though, if you need a get-out I can give you a call on your mobile if you like—fake an emergency?”
I stare at her. “This is an old friend coming for dinner, not a blind date.”
“Yeah, but ‘old’ is the operative word. You haven’t seen this guy in decades.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in.”
“Point is, you guys haven’t exactly kept in touch, so how d’you know you’re going to have anything to talk about?”
“Well, after all that time we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“But if you had anything worth saying you’d have spoken before now, right? There must be a reason he wants to come and visit you after all this time?”
I see where she’s going, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable.
“There doesn’t always have to be a reason for everything.”
I reach for the glass of wine I poured to savor while I was cooking and gulp down half the glass. I can feel her watching me.
“I do know what happened thirty years ago,” she says. “The murder.”
I concentrate on stirring the bolognese. “Right. I see.”
“The four kids who found her body. You were one of them.”
I still don’t look up. “So, you’ve done your research.”
“Ed, I was coming to lodge with a strange, single man in a big, spooky old house. Of course I asked a few people about you.”
Of course. I relax a little. “You just never mentioned it.”
“Never saw the need to. I guessed it wasn’t something you wanted to talk about.”
I turn and manage a smile. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
She tips back her beer and finishes it.
“Anyway,” she says now, depositing the empty bottle in the recycling box near the back door. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Again, it’s not a date.”
“Yeah, because a date really would be something to write home about. I think I might even hire a plane and have them fly a banner across the sky—ED HAS A DATE.”
“I’m happy as I am, thank you.”
“Just sa
ying, life is short.”
“If you tell me to seize the day I’m confiscating all the beer.”
“Not the day, just some booty.” She winks and sashays out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Against my better judgment, I pour myself some more wine. I’m feeling nervous, which I suppose is natural. I’m not sure what to expect from this evening. I glance at the clock. 6:30 p.m. I should try to make myself vaguely presentable, I suppose.
I plod upstairs, have a quick shower and then change into gray cords and a shirt I deem suitably casual. I drag a comb through my hair. My hair springs back even more roughly. As hair goes, mine has a stubborn resistance to all methods of styling, from the humble comb, to waxes and gels. I’ve shorn it almost to the bone and it has miraculously gained several unruly inches overnight. Still, at least I have hair. From the photos I’ve seen of Mickey, he hasn’t been so fortunate.
I leave the mirror and head back downstairs. Just in time. The doorbell rings, followed by a heavy rat-a-tat-tat on the door knocker. Imaginary hackles rise along my back. I hate it when people ring the doorbell and use the knocker, implying that I must be incapable of hearing or that their need to enter is so urgent it requires a full frontal assault on the exterior of my property.
I compose myself and walk down the hallway. I pause for just a moment and then I open the door…
—
These moments are always more dramatic in books. Reality is disappointing in its banality.
I see a small, wiry middle-aged man. His hair has all but gone, clippered to a close grade one all round. He wears an expensive-looking shirt, a sports jacket and dark blue jeans, teamed with shiny loafers, no socks. I’ve always thought men look ridiculous wearing shoes without socks. Like they got dressed in a hurry, in the dark, with a hangover.
I know what he sees. A thin, taller-than-average man in a threadbare shirt and baggy cords with wild hair and a few more lines than a forty-two-year-old should rightly bear. But then, some lines you have to earn.
“Ed. It’s good to see you.”
I can’t in all honesty say the same, so I just nod. Before he can stick out a hand and I am forced to shake it, I move to one side and hold out my arm. “Please, come in.”
“Thanks.”
“Just through here.”
I take his jacket and hang it on the hall coat-stand then indicate the way to the living room, even though I’m pretty sure Mickey remembers where it is.
I am struck, perhaps in comparison to the pristine sheen of Mickey, at how shabby and dark it seems. A tired, dusty room occupied by a man who doesn’t really care much about decor.
“Can I get you a drink? I’ve got a nice bottle of Barolo open, or there’s beer, or—”
“Beer would be good.”
“Okay. I’ve got Heineken—”
“Anything. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Right.” Another thing we don’t have in common. “I’ll just grab a bottle out of the fridge.”
I walk back into the kitchen, take out a Heineken and open it. Then I reach for my wineglass and take a deep swig before refilling it from the bottle, which is already half empty.
“You’ve done a good job with this old place.”
I jump. Mickey stands in the doorway, looking around. I wonder if he saw me gulp and refill my wine. I wonder why I should care.
“Thanks,” I say, even though we both know that I have done very little with “this old place.”
I hand him his beer.
“An old house like this must eat money, though?” he says.
“It’s not too bad.”
“I’m surprised you don’t sell up.”
“Sentimental reasons, I guess.”
I take a sip of my wine. Mickey sips his beer. The moment lingers a fraction too long, drifting from a natural pause into an awkward silence.
“So,” Mickey says, “I hear you’re a teacher?”
I nod. “Yes, for my sins.”
“Enjoy it?”
“Most of the time.”
Most of the time I love my subject. I want to share that love with my pupils. I want them to enjoy their lessons and to go away having learned something.
Others days I’m tired, hungover and I’d give anyone an A* just to shut the hell up and leave me alone.
“Funny.” Mickey shakes his head. “I thought you’d end up being a writer, like your dad. You were always good at English.”
“And you were always good at making stuff up. Guess that’s why you’re in advertising.”
He laughs, a little uneasily. Another pause. I make a pretense of checking the spaghetti.
“I’ve just rustled up a bit of spag bol. Hope that’s okay?”
“Yeah, great.” I hear the scrape of a chair as he sits down. “Thanks for going to all the effort. I mean, I was happy to stump up for a meal at the pub.”
“Not The Bull, though?”
His face tightens. “I guess you told them about my visit.”
By “them,” I presume he means Hoppo and Gav.
“Actually, no. But Hoppo said he ran into you in town the other day, so—”
He shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t keeping it a secret.”
“So why ask me not to tell them?”
“I’m a coward,” he says. “After the accident, everything that happened…I just didn’t think either of them would want to hear from me.”
“You never know,” I say. “People change. It was a long time ago.”
This is also a lie, but it seems a better thing to say than: You’re right. They still hate your guts, especially Gav.
“I suppose.” He tips up his beer and takes several deep gulps. For someone who doesn’t drink much he’s putting on a good show.
I fetch him another one from the fridge and settle at the table opposite him. “What I’m saying is, we all did things we probably weren’t proud of back then.”
“Except you.”
Before I can reply there’s a spitting sound behind me. The spaghetti is boiling over. I quickly turn the gas down.
“Want a hand with anything?” Mickey asks.
“No. It’s fine.”
“Thanks.” He raises the beer. “I’d like to talk to you about a proposition.”
And there it is.
“Oh?”
“You’re probably wondering why I’m back?”
“My legendary cooking?”
“It will be thirty years this year, Ed.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“There’s already media interest.”
“I don’t really pay attention to the media.”
“Probably wise. Most of it is misinformed bullshit. That’s why I think it’s important for someone to tell the real story. Someone who was actually here.”
“Someone like you?”
He nods. “And I’d like your help.”
“With what exactly?”
“A book. Maybe TV. I have contacts. And I’ve already done a lot of background research.”
I stare at him. Then I shake my head. “No.”
“Just hear me out.”
“I’m not interested. I don’t need to drag it all up again.”
“But I do.” He throws back the bottle. “Look, for years I’ve tried not to think about what happened. I’ve been avoiding it. Shutting it away. Well, I’ve decided it’s time to look all that fear and guilt in the eye and deal with it.”
Personally, I have found that it is much better to take your fears, lock them up in a nice, tightly shut box and shove them into the deepest, darkest corner of your mind. But each to their own.
“And what about the rest of us? Have you thought about whether we want to face our fears, go back over everything that happened?”
“I get what you’re saying. Really I do. That’s why I want you involved—and not just with the writing.”
“Meaning?”
“I haven’t been back to this place for over twenty years. I’m a strange
r. But you still live here. You know people, they trust you—”
“You want me to smooth things over with Gav and Hoppo?”
“You wouldn’t be doing it for free. There would be a share of the advance. Royalties.”
I hesitate. Mickey takes my hesitation for continued reticence.
“And there’s something else.”
“What?”
He smirks, and I realize, in an instant, that everything he said about coming back and facing his fears was just crap, just a pile of stinking Buckaroo.
“I know who really killed her.”
1986
The summer holidays were drawing to a close.
“Just six more days,” Fat Gav had said despondently. “And that includes the weekend, which doesn’t count, so really, it’s only four days.”
I shared his despondency, but I was trying to put the thought of school out of my head. Six days was still six days, and I was clinging on to that for more reasons than one. So far, Sean Cooper had not made good on his threat.
I’d seen him around town but had always managed to duck out of vision before he could spot me. His right eye sported a great big bruise and a nasty-looking cut. The sort of cut that would probably have stayed with him into adulthood—if Sean had actually made it all the way into adulthood.
Metal Mickey reckoned he had forgotten about me, but I didn’t think so. Avoiding him during the school holidays was one thing. The town was big enough, as cowboys say, for the both of us. But once we were all back at school, avoiding him every day—at lunchtime, in the playground, on the way to school and home—was going to be far more difficult.
I was worried about other stuff, too. People think kids’ lives are worry free. But that’s not the case. Kids’ worries are bigger because we’re smaller. I was worried about Mum. She had been kind of sharp and snappy recently and even quicker to get cross than usual. Dad said it was because she was stressed about the opening of the new clinic.
Mum used to travel to work in Southampton. But now there was going to be this new clinic, in Anderbury, near the technology college. The building used to be something else. I forget what, but it was a forgettable kind of building. I think that was the point. There wasn’t even a sign. In fact, you’d have probably walked straight past without even noticing it was there if it hadn’t been for the people hanging around outside.
