by Tom Hoyle
‘Not me,’ said Sam.
The Twins’ parents were striding up our garden path. ‘Come on, boys,’ said their father. ‘The police want a word with Ben.’
Jack quickly, casually, glanced around to see if it was safe to speak. ‘We’re always looking to the next Challenge, Ben. The Games Master has something even more radical than this. Something you’ll be fascinated to be part of.’
I was certain that the second half of what he said was heard by their parents. ‘You need to go,’ I said blandly. ‘Thank you for coming over.’
Soon after midnight, I sat in my living room with my gran and a couple of police officers.
‘Is there anything you can tell us, son?’ said the man, who introduced himself as Toby.
‘No,’ I said. ‘There was just . . .’ And I started to cry.
‘He’s been through so much. He’s such a good boy,’ my gran whispered, her eyes welling with tears.
Gently tapping me on the shoulder, the PC said, ‘I think we can do this tomorrow at the station in Barrow.’
I saw a red light flashing on my phone and picked it up, as had become instinct after my friendship with The Twins. The text had been sent at the time that I was dragging Mike away from the fire.
Sup on your side of the lake??
Whatve U been doing??
Hope youre OK
I looked at the policeman and at my phone. ‘It’s from friends,’ I said.
‘It’s good that you’ve got support,’ said the policeman.
Attachment
NOVEMBER 2011
LONE SUSPECT
I spent Sunday afternoon at the police station in Barrow.
When I arrived, the reason was ‘to be eliminated from their inquiries’, which were proceeding because of the fear (confirmed later that week) that ‘foul play was involved’. Mike had received anonymous death threats. I had been near the body and near the house and therefore might have contaminated the scene. They took hair and saliva samples and fingerprints. It was polite rather than friendly.
My gran stayed with me throughout – as I was under eighteen, it was my legal right to have an adult present. She sat with her hands pressed together, eyes to the floor, and didn’t say anything other than greeting the police officers and thanking them afterwards. A feisty parent might have intervened more, I suppose.
The interview was in a beige-coloured room with a simple table and hard chairs. The interviewer, a sweaty man in a dark suit, spoke into a video camera on a tripod before he turned to me. ‘We just want to establish what you know.’ He sniffed. There was a female PC present, an emotionless smile stuck on her face.
The man started by asking questions about Saturday evening that were uncomfortably similar to the ones I’d been asked after Will disappeared. Had I seen anyone? Heard anything? Any cars? Anyone in the road? The focus changed to who I thought had committed the earlier crime, and whether I suspected Mike Haconby . . . as everyone else did. Near the end, some questions were more direct.
Do you think that Mike Haconby killed your friend Will Capling?
‘No, not really.’ I thought of the notepad and Bullseye’s barking. ‘I’m not sure. But it’s not up to us to punish people.’ Us – it just slipped out, not that they noticed. I wondered if it sounded too defensive. Perhaps if I got the blame for Mike’s murder I would somehow be held responsible for Will’s. I thought of my hand being guided towards the gas tap.
Did you go into the house over the road and leak gas for a joke?
The ‘It was just a joke’ defence. ‘No. I was inside all evening watching TV.’ It all sounded fake, as if I were detached from the words forced out of my mouth.
Did you have anything to do with the death of Mike Haconby?
I shook my head.
We need to hear you say it.
‘No.’
The chairs made a low screaming sound against the floor as we pushed them back and stood up.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ the man said. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Maybe later in the week.’ His lack of a smile let me know it was not over. ‘Don’t leave the country, will you.’ He snorted, his version of a chuckle, and took me through to write a statement.
Gran and I returned in a taxi in silence. I got out my phone. Ethan and Anna had been texting me daily, and there was one from her about the fire –
I hear theres been a fire
and you got a guy out
– and another about the following Friday’s Sixth Form ‘Christmas’ Party. That party was renowned for being rowdy, and had moved from place to place over the years as venues refused to repeat the booking.
Cant believe our yr gets a hotel!!!
Hope youll be mageeek!
There was one from Sam, and one from Jack.
Jack:
Hope it goes well with the cops. Just deny everything!!!!!
The Gazette says you were in the action.
Sam:
We’re gonna rule at the party on Fri.
Got the best ever challenge, youre gonna love it.
I read them both ten times, despairing.
After a silent tea back at home, I went upstairs, my head a jumble of hardened memories of Will and vivid pictures of Mike lying on his garden path. The moment I turned on the old stove’s gas tap played like a two-second video clip.
In my room I dragged out Will’s Box and poured the contents on to the bed. Spread out in front of me was his life as it had met with mine: his Rough Book, the Solo Sail key ring, a well-read lads’ mag and loads of other bits and pieces: a little Yoda figure, a Carlisle United ticket stub, a twelve-inch wooden ruler with a microphone drawn at the top, a yo-yo . . . a lot else. Each item held memories. The things sent by ‘Will’ were also there.
I picked up Will’s Rough Book. It was probably the only thing in the world that would bring a smile to my face. On the fifth page there was a drawing of our Headmaster, Mr Morris, as Spongebob. The pink blob next to him had ‘Benny’ written above ‘Patrick’. A few pages later, there was a strange creation: half pop star, half muppet.
One picture Will got caught drawing was a band from X Factor . . .
But it wasn’t there.
The whole page had gone.
Of course, the pages weren’t numbered, but as I looked at the book more carefully, I realized that six pages were missing – and they definitely had been there . . . though I wasn’t sure when I’d last seen them. I thought that they were parallel pages: when you remove a page from the front end you have to take one out at the back, or else it’s really obvious that a page has been ripped out.
I was so stressed that my first thought was that I had somehow lost them. But that was stupid. They hadn’t fallen out. They had been removed.
No one had been in my room on their own. I thought back to when The Twins and I planned the raid on Mike Haconby: no, I hadn’t left them alone. Someone else had been in the house, crept into my room, and torn the pages out.
I thought about calling the police, but the last thing I wanted to do was encourage their attention. They would want to go through everything in the box, and it was none of their business. The murderer secretly kept a lads’ mag that belonged to his dead friend . . . (Not that it was like that, but I knew how it would look.) I felt sick.
Someone had crept up the stairs, had touched Will’s stuff . . . But why? What could possibly be of importance now? They had probably hoped I wouldn’t look – and what were the chances that I would? I might have gone months or years – or forever – without noticing. That was why he (they? she?) hadn’t stolen the entire book. As it was, I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen the missing pages.
Nervous dread that The Twins were involved nibbled at me.
I hoped that I could work out what had been on the missing pages of Will’s Rough Book by looking at the indentations on the page underneath, but this trick doesn’t work nearly as well in real life as it does on TV. There were just squiggles and
shapes – the best I could make out was a triangle with two words inside: E-something and Cloud (?).
The house suddenly felt insecure. If someone could walk in when I wasn’t there, they could walk in while I was asleep. Fears that had been controlled while I trusted The Twins came flooding back. I went downstairs and tried the back door: locked. And all the windows were closed (I was still thinking about The Twins).
‘Are you OK? What are you mooching around for?’ asked Gran.
‘Just, um, checking,’ I said. ‘Does everything seem OK to you? Like, secure?’
‘Benny, dear, please stop.’ Gran smiled. ‘Will you sit with me for a bit?’ She turned off the television.
I sat in my usual chair, closed my eyes and breathed out deeply.
‘Benny,’ she started, ‘I want to ask you something.’
This didn’t sound good. I swallowed, then opened my eyes.
She leaned forward. ‘You know that I’ll love you whatever you’ve done.’
‘I know.’ But how would she cope with the truth? There was no way I could tell her.
‘I need to know if you had anything to do with what happened to Mike. I need to know so that I can help you.’ She laid her hands in her lap. I knew that she wouldn’t say another word.
I picked my words carefully, still thinking of The Twins and how clever they were with answers. ‘It wasn’t me.’ I looked her in the eye. ‘It wasn’t.’ At least, it wasn’t the real me.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I had to ask. I know that you couldn’t do such a thing. Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea?’
We watched a documentary called The World at War. Every dead body reminded me of Mike; every figure in authority reminded me of The Twins; the man with binoculars at the top of the observation tower on the submarine reminded me of Mr Winter in his Lantern Room.
I wasn’t sure where my guilt ended and my fear of consequences started.
And there was something else, something that held my depression together: a vague sense that I was now a slave to The Twins, not even a servant, and certainly not a friend.
THREE DAYS TO GO
Draft Email
To:
Cc:
Subject: The Past
Someone else has to know the whole truth.
‘Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday,’ he said. Then I watched him disappear into the woodland. With anyone else, they’d be empty words.
It was so far in the future I thought we’d never get here.
I came close to telling you everything when we went to Compton for Gran’s funeral. You mentioned the view from the houses in Compton across Lake Hintersea and how it must be full of memories. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Just Yeah – not I can remember what we did as if it was yesterday. Not I can remember the faces of those who died.
Someone else has to know the truth in case it all goes wrong.
I’m not sure when it all started to change. Maybe that night at the party. It was the first time I’d set out to hurt someone else.
Now you see why I have a dog, despite the hassle that Ewok is. And you understand why he had to be a Leavitt Bulldog.
I still have all the documents from the story – they’re here in my bedroom in a small black metal case bound up with brown tape. You’ll know it when you see it.
I can’t believe this is about me. Please read the whole thing before judging me. I want you to know all of it.
I know |
Attachment
NOVEMBER 2011
BEYOND DEATH
You would think that the week that followed Mike’s death was different, full of whispered conversations and frightened glances. You’d imagine that we were in huddles, ensuring our tracks were covered, warily checking over our shoulders. But it was as if nothing had happened.
I steered The Twins into an empty classroom on the Monday morning, after History. ‘I’m going through hell, how’re you guys?’ I whispered.
‘We’re cool.’ They shrugged. ‘OK, no probs.’
‘This is a nightmare!’ I must have been wild-eyed. My head felt full of wool. ‘What if the cops find something?’
‘Like a knife with fingerprints on it?’ whispered Jack.
‘No, like, I don’t know . . . something that fell out of our pockets.’
‘Our pockets were empty,’ said Sam. ‘And I’m certain that you didn’t drop anything.’ He half smiled. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Come on, guys – surely you understand? I’m going crazy.’
‘Look,’ said Sam. ‘We’re the only people who know you did it. And we’re not gonna tell anyone. You’re our best buddy – you know that. You’re a Challenger with us.’
‘And we’re sure you’ll be up for the next Challenge,’ said Jack.
‘But I want to get out of this. I just want it to stop.’
‘Stop?’ said Sam. ‘We’re building up to the ultimate Challenge.’
‘But – look . . .’ I insisted. ‘Please. This is not me, I don’t want to be part of it.’
‘We brought justice down on the man who killed your friend,’ said Jack. He put his hand on my shoulder.
‘We’re bolted into this forever,’ said Sam, his hand arriving on my other shoulder. ‘We’ve trusted you more than anyone, ever.’
Their hands lingered on my shoulders and I felt them both press slightly, just as I’d imagine a parent would. For a second there was a tighter, more menacing squeeze. Then, together, they let go.
‘And I think someone might have been in my room.’ I hadn’t planned to say anything. I suppose I half wanted their help, half wanted to see their reaction.
‘You’re kidding! What makes you think that?’ asked Sam. Either they were truly surprised, or they were amazing actors.
‘Just a hunch,’ I muttered. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. I’m so tired and stressed.’
That break, The Twins played football as usual, living in the moment. I couldn’t be bothered. It was one of the first really cold days of winter: the wind whistled down over Hadrian’s Wall, but The Twins swaggered around with their sleeves folded back.
Anna and Ethan were late, so I called over to Blake as he walked past and we stood together, just as we used to, and I searched for something to say. ‘Are you going to the Sixth Form party on Friday?’
‘Might do,’ he said.
I shivered and pulled my coat up around my ears. ‘I think that I have to go. I’d like it if you were there.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, unconvinced. I’d dropped him after The Twins arrived and now he wasn’t prepared to be picked up again.
Ethan crashed out of the school door and hurtled over. ‘Hell! It’s cold enough to freeze your balls off!’ he started. Then a quick glance: ‘Oh, hi, Blakey.’
Blake wasn’t given time to answer.
‘Now, Ben, man,’ he carried on, oblivious to my depression. ‘One guess who Anna is talking to, nicely set up by Sam’n’Jack . . .’ He held his palms out for an answer and then thrust them into his coat pocket. ‘Bloody hell, why aren’t we inside?’
Why weren’t we inside? Because The Twins were outside.
‘Anyway,’ Ethan continued, ‘she’s talking to –’ he made a trumpet sound – ‘the sexy Caro-line! And she’s trying to talk the poor gal into going to the party with –’ trumpet sound again – ‘Ben-the-love-machine!’
‘Oh, good.’ I was a wretched, ugly murderer – what was the point? Why bother?
‘Don’t look too excited.’ He smiled. ‘I reckon it can happen, man . . .’ He lowered his voice. ‘I heard Sam and Jack say that it was their number one Challenge to get you two together.’
I watched as Jack, ball at his feet, weaved past a couple of players, feigned a shot at goal, sending the keeper the wrong way, then trickled the ball gently into the other half of the net.
The week passed in a sleepless, aching haze. The longer it lasted without the police contacting me, the more obsessed I became with the idea
that an arrest was imminent. But on Thursday, a police officer came to the house and explained to Gran that I ‘was not part of their current inquiry’. I was, literally, going to get away with murder.
On Friday, the morning of the party, The Twins and I had a study period together in the school library. We had a regular place on a table at the far end between the Physics section and a window. No one else was nearby.
‘All set for tonight?’ asked Sam under his breath.
Caroline had agreed to go to the party with me ‘as a friend’. Her relationship with Mark had faded since his embarrassment at the Halloween party, and he had started to go out with one of the girls who played football. I had been talking to Caroline in school and we had been to the same things a couple of times, but there was no suggestion that we were an item. I couldn’t really claim that we were ‘just good friends’. Caroline was still the girl against which all others were measured: I thought there was no one better looking or more fascinating – in fact, I wanted her to be slightly less beautiful so I could look at her without feeling awkward.
‘I don’t see how you can inspire Caroline to chase after someone like me,’ I mumbled. ‘There are some things even you can’t manage.’
‘There’s nothing we can’t do,’ said Sam.
The party was going to be at the the Royal Northern Hotel in Grange-over-Sands – a venue that sounded much smarter than it was – and it was miles away from Wordsworth Academy, so the school was having to lay on transport.
I actually sat next to Caroline on one of the rickety double-deckers that pulled out from Wordsworth Academy at 6.30 p.m. We were downstairs. Anna and Ethan sat in front and turned around to talk to us most of the time. Apart from a draught from a window that wouldn’t shut and general queasiness caused by the erratic motion of the bus (or perhaps from embarrassment when Caroline’s leg touched mine), it was a journey happy enough for me to almost forget what had happened.
My eyes were occasionally drawn to Blake, sitting on the front left-hand seat nearest the driver, staring ahead, an empty place next to him. Every now and again an object flew forward in his general direction: a ball of scrunched-up paper, and then a coin, which narrowly missed him. Blake sat unmoved through it all.
