The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  I ran my own fingers over her face and then, almost without thinking, I lifted her up. She was heavier than I thought. And now I had touched her, I found I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t leave her there, discarded among the rusty leaves. Death had not just made her beautiful again, it had made her special. And I was the only one who could see it. The only one who could hold on to it.

  Gently and reverentially, I dusted off some of the leaves and placed her in the rucksack. It was warm and dry and she didn’t have to stare up into the sun. I didn’t want her staring into darkness either, or bits of chalk getting in her eyes. So I reached in and closed her lids.

  Before I left the woods, I took out a piece of chalk and drew directions to her body, so the police could find her. So the rest of her wouldn’t be lost for too long.

  No one spoke to me or stopped me on the way back. Maybe if they had, I would have confessed. As it was, I reached home, took the bag with my precious new possession inside and hid it beneath the floorboards.

  Of course, then I had a problem. I knew I should tell the police about the body right away. But what if they asked me about her head? I wasn’t a good liar. What if they guessed I had taken it? What if they sent me to prison?

  So I had an idea. I took my box of chalks and I drew chalk men. For Hoppo, for Fat Gav, for Mickey. But I mixed up the colors to confuse things. So no one would know who had really drawn them.

  I drew my own chalk man and pretended—even to myself—that I had just woken up and found it. Then I cycled out to the playground.

  Mickey was already there. The others followed. Like I knew they would.

  —

  I take the lid off the container and stare inside. Her empty sockets stare back at me. A few strands of brittle hair, fine as candyfloss, cling to the yellowed skull. If you look closely, you can still see small grooves in her cheekbone where the metal from the Waltzer sheared right through her flesh.

  She has not rested here all this time. After a few weeks, the smell in my room became unbearable. Teenage boys’ rooms smell bad, but not that bad. I dug a hole right at the far end of our garden and kept her there for several months. But I brought her back. To keep her close. To keep her safe.

  I stretch out my hand to touch her just one more time. Then I glance at my watch. Reluctantly, I close the lid, place the container in the rucksack and walk downstairs.

  I put the rucksack in the boot of the car and pile several coats and other bags on top of it. I’m not expecting to be stopped and questioned about the contents of my car, but you never know. It could be awkward.

  I’m just about to climb into the driver’s seat when I remember my house keys. The estate agent has a set, but I meant to post mine back for the new owners before I left. I crunch back across the driveway, take out the keys and slip them through the letter…

  I pause. The letter—?

  I try to grasp for the word, but the more I try, the faster it slips and slithers away. The letter—? The damn letter—?

  I picture my dad, staring at the door handle, unable to find that obvious yet elusive word, his face a picture of frustration and confusion. Think, Ed. Think.

  And then I find it. The letter…hole. Yes, the letter hole.

  I shake my head. Stupid. I panicked. That was all. I’m just tired and stressed about the move. Everything is okay. I am not my dad.

  I shove the keys through the door, hear them land with a clunk, then walk back to my car and get in.

  Letter hole. Of course.

  I start the engine and drive away…toward Manchester, and my future.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Firstly, thanks to you, the reader, for reading. For buying this book with your hard-earned cash, for taking it out from a library or borrowing it from a friend. However you got here, thank you. I am eternally grateful.

  Thanks to my brilliant agent, Madeleine Milburn, for plucking my manuscript from the slush pile and spotting its potential. Best. Agent. Ever. Thank you also to Hayley Steed, Therese Coen, Anna Hogarty and Giles Milburn for all their hard work and expertise. You are a fantastic bunch of people.

  Thanks to the wonderful Maxine Hitchcock at MJ Books for our conversations about toddler poo and for being such an inspiring and insightful editor. Thanks to Nathan Roberson at Crown US for the very same things (minus the conversations about toddler poo). Thanks to Sarah Day for the copy edit and to everyone at Penguin Random House for their support.

  Thank you to every single one of my publishers worldwide. I hope to meet you all in person one day!

  Thank you, of course, to my long-suffering partner, Neil, for his love and support and all the evenings he spent conversing with the back of a laptop. Thanks to Pat and Tim for so many things, and to my mum and dad—for everything.

  Almost there, I promise…

  Thanks to Carl, for listening to me witter on about my writing when I used to be a dog-walker. And for all the carrots!

  Finally, thank you to Claire and Matt, for buying our little girl such a great present for her second birthday—a bucket of colored chalks.

  Look what you did.

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