The Boy Must Die

by Jon Redfern

  Downtown, at McDonald’s, Karen sat with her coffee and started to cry.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “What? You’re not!”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “God, fuck, Karen.” Justin leaned in closer to her damp face. “You told me you were on the pill.”

  “I was. Sometimes my timing is off. It was an accident.”

  “Oh, great.” Justin leaned back. He began tapping his fingers on the top of the booth table. “You told your father, didn’t you?”

  “I had to.”

  “You had to? What do you mean?”

  Karen started weeping again. She reached for Justin’s hand, but he pulled back across the table.

  “What do you mean, Karen?”

  “I told my mom, and she told him.”

  “Great. This is just great.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We?”

  “Poppa will kill us. He’ll kill you for sure if you don’t do something.”

  “Like what, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Please keep your voice down, Justin.”

  “Like what?” Justin whispered.

  “Marry me.”

  “This is not the fifties, Karen. You ever heard of abortion?”

  “I can’t do that.” She covered her face with her hands.

  Justin unfolded a paper napkin and handed it to her. “Here. Go on.” Karen wiped her eyes. “I can’t. I love you, Justin.”

  “You can’t do this to me, Karen. Not right now. And besides, we agreed to break up, remember?”

  “You love me, don’t you?”

  Justin shifted. He wanted to get up and walk out and let the air and the warm sun wash him clean. He liked Karen and had been dating her for a year. But he didn’t love her. She was a pretty girl, and they’d had wonderful, hot sex, but it stopped there.

  “Poppa will kill you, Justin.” Karen’s voice was low and ominous. She had straightened and was looking at Justin head on, her brown eyes staring directly into his face.

  “Is that a threat? Are you trying to scare me? Let me tell you, here and now. We’re going to do something about this, and I don’t mean buying a wedding ring. You understand? It’s your fault. You fucked up and got pregnant. You fucked up telling your parents. You’re going to do what I want now, you hear me?”

  “Don’t be so sure, Justin.” Karen’s voice had deepened with feeling. “Don’t be so sure my father won’t bring the wrath of Jesus down on your head.”

  Justin leaned forward and placed his face in his hands. “You have to help me, Karen.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I need money.”

  “Not again. You run up debts faster than anyone in the world.”

  “Don’t kick me when I’m down.”

  Karen lowered her voice. But her tone was cold and disbelieving. “How much this time?”

  “Over five.”

  “God help you.”

  “It’s from Yianni Pappas.” Justin looked at Karen’s face.

  She lifted her chin in a gesture of disdain. “How could you?” she whispered.

  “I’ve been selling dope, too. And I got a call from some fuck detective who wants to talk to me about that Sheree Lynn asshole who lives next door. He wants to question me about those two losers, Darren and Cody. The police found Darren’s body in her basement on Saturday morning.”

  Karen’s face had turned white.

  “But you had nothing to do with them.”

  “I sold those two losers dime bags, Karen. They were underage.”

  “Okay, but you didn’t know them at all, right? You are not responsible for what happens to them.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Those kids paid me with stolen money. I’m sure of it. The police could arrest me for selling to minors. I’d have no way to pay off Yianni then. You never know with Yianni. He could go after my mom. He could torch our house.”

  “Justin, calm down. You know I don’t have anything to give you. Have you tried the bank?”

  “Fuck the bank.”

  “Please keep your voice down.”

  Justin shut his eyes and leaned back and felt like he was choking. He slammed his fists on the table and stood up so violently he knocked his coffee cup to the floor.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing Karen by her wrist.

  He drove Karen home. They did not speak. Justin was dizzy: Now you’re going to be a father. He waited as she climbed from the Oldsmobile, and he watched her cross the street and go into the bungalow. Her gentle walk prompted an old feeling. One of love. He had always liked her sweetness, and now she was being forced to act in a cruel and angry manner. “Karen, I’m sorry,” he whispered. He started the engine and drove and drove until he found himself, half in a trance, his body in a cold sweat, by the rushing waters of the Oldman River. He sat stock still, his hands on the steering wheel.

  So this is the new day, he thought.

  It would be a bitter weekend. He rolled down the window. If only he could rise into the warm air and be free. Justin knew he must think and plan. He realized that now, above anything else, he had to keep his wits clear, his whole self alert.

  Billy led Mrs. Morton into a ten-by-twelve interview room, a dumpy short woman in a pair of purple slacks and a cotton jacket. She carried a straw purse and had a soft colourless face and an air of defeat about her as strong as the odour of her cheap perfume. She entered not in fear but with a wooden obedience, like a dog trained to heel. Through the glass window in the adjacent interview room, a space covered in white soundproofing tiles with a table, two chairs, and a camcorder, sat her son. At fourteen, Blayne Morton was huge, over two hundred pounds. His dough-like face had guarded slits for eyes, and his hair was the colour of lime Jell-o. The mother took her seat as if she had no choice.

  “We’ll tape you first, Mrs. Morton,” said Billy. “That’s the camera. You don’t need to be afraid. You remember Mr. Barnes, the counsellor from the junior high? He has joined us and is here to help you, if you wish. I have a few questions. All I want is the truth, Mrs. Morton.”

  Counsellor Barnes was a thin man with a closely cropped beard, a bald head, and neat brown clothes. He told Billy he’d been pruning his garden. Billy saw at once the man was used to helping others; he had a placid voice and manner.

  “You ready, Mrs. Morton?” Barnes asked. “The Inspector won’t take up much of your time. I know how upset you must be.”

  She sat still and passive.

  “Tell me,” Billy said, sitting down across from Mrs. Morton, “about Blayne. What you found this morning.”

  “For two years, my Blayne’s been like that. Two years I’ve seen him doin’ those things. I don’t know why he does them. He says he’s told to by a power. Since his dad left, my Blayne likes to sing in that voice. Oh, he reads that book, too. I got it here, Inspector. See, it looks like the Bible. But it’s like no Bible I ever seen. He sings, and he takes those matches and puts them on his skin. Says he wants pain, says he needs pain so he can hear the voices.”

  Billy took the book from Mrs. Morton. It had a red cover, a pentacle embossed in gold. Billy flipped open the first pages. There were spells and drawings. He checked the cover. It was another edition of Darren Riegert’s book, Thanatopsis.

  “Was Blayne up all last night, too?”

  “Oh, yes! Singing and rocking. Been almost two days now. Friday, I guess, he started. No, it was early Saturday morning by the time I got home, real late, from work. I’m a cleaner at the government building on Burdett. I found him in the front room. I couldn’t sleep. I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to leave him. Afraid he might hurt himself bad.”

  “What time was that? When you got home and found your son?”

  “About one. I get a cab home ’cause it’s so late.”

  “Did you sit with Blayne?”

  “Oh, yes. I tried. He needs protection, Inspector. He needs the hospital again.”

 
“You said you tried. What happened, Mrs. Morton?”

  “Yes, sir. I truly did. But I fell asleep. I wake up around seven, that’s seven on Saturday — real late for me — and he’s on the floor rocking, curled up in the corner. Like he was at the hospital.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “Say anything? He kept singing is all. No, maybe he said, ‘He betrayed me.’ That was it. I couldn’t hardly hear him. ‘He betrayed me.’ I reckon he was talking about his dad.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about him other than his cigarette wounds? Were there any different markings on his clothes or his hands?” Billy suddenly found himself picturing Blayne Morton as he sat in the next room, his face and hands speckled with blood and black paint, unaware of what damning evidence he was wearing in full view.

  “No. My Blayne is a clean boy, sir. He was wearin’ what he’s got on. In there. He looked tired is all.” She looked towards the window and saw Blayne in the next room. “Like I said, he was on the floor. I got him up. I fed him. He slept all day. All Saturday. He slept in the clothes he has on. Then last night, he started again. He went all night, like I said.”

  “Did you stay up with him, Mrs. Morton?”

  “I tried. I couldn’t sleep much ’cause he kept singin’, so I asked him. I said, ‘Blayne, who betrayed you, who?’ And he wouldn’t say. So I got up early this morning. I watched him a couple of hours, and after lunch I put him and me into a cab. I kept thinking about what Blayne was saying. Maybe somebody hurt him? Betrayed him, hurt him somehow? I was scared. I figured I should come here. So I brought him. That man — Sergeant Dodd — he said I could wait with him till you got back.”

  “One more thing, Mrs. Morton.”

  A brief sigh of relief came out of Mrs. Morton’s mouth. Billy handed her a tissue so that she could wipe her nose. Out of his pocket he slipped the Polaroid of Darren in his leather jacket and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Have you ever seen this before, Mrs. Morton?”

  She peered at the photo, and her mouth opened slightly. She flicked her eyes up to Billy’s, then lowered them again, cutting his face from her view. Her hand clasped the side of the table. “You get this from Blayne?”

  “From a friend of Blayne’s. A boy called Darren Riegert.”

  “The dead boy?” Her face fell.

  “From his mother. She said Blayne gave it to Darren. Do you recognize it?”

  “All I know is Blayne has a camera takes these kinds of pictures. I’ve seen lots of them in his room. He likes Valentines, too. One time he bought a red box for himself. Kept it to himself in his room.”

  “All right, Mrs. Morton. That’ll be fine for now.” Billy helped her stand up. “I want to talk to Blayne now. I want. . . .”

  “He’s tired, Inspector. You want me to be with him?”

  “Well, for now I think it’s best if I talk to him on my own. I’ll be careful, Mrs. Morton. I’ll just ask him a few questions.”

  “Yes, all right.” The woman walked towards the door as if she’d been commanded to start moving forward. Counsellor Barnes then led her from the room. When he came back in, Billy was writing notes. “She’s in the lobby. What’ll you do with him, Inspector?”

  Blayne remained staring at the tiles in the adjacent room. He was so still that it was as if he’d been put under a spell. “Dodd, can you call an ambulance, please. I think it’s best this boy be taken to the psych ward for observation. Can you get the chief to fill out a deposition? Just for one night. The mother can go with him.”

  “Happy to.”

  “I need to talk to him, Mr. Barnes. At least, I need to see what he can tell me. I want to thank you for helping us out. Giving us names and calling up people like you did.”

  “You’re welcome, Inspector. What do you expect to get out of Blayne?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Opening the door to the adjacent interview room, Billy noticed how suddenly Blayne Morton reacted. He started blinking quickly. He unfolded his hands and lay them flat, palms down, on the tabletop. He looked up at the ceiling.

  “Blayne, my name is Billy. I want to talk to you for a minute. Can I come in?”

  Blayne Morton began to sing softly, rocking his torso back and forth. Barnes stood at the door and signalled to an officer in the hall. “Can you wait just outside?” said Barnes. “We may need you.”

  “My name is Billy, Blayne.” Billy slowly sat down across from the swaying boy. He nodded to Barnes to activate the camcorder. “Blayne Morton, aged fourteen, Sunday, June 30.” Billy spoke in a low, firm, cautious voice as he slid his notebook out of his upper pocket. Blayne was wearing a rumpled white T-shirt. There were dirt smudges on the chest area. Billy leaned closer. There was no indication of black paint or blood. He next studied Blayne’s hands. On them were old scabs, round brown spots the size of cigarette ends. His skin was sallow, ill-fed, but there were no splotches of black or red. Blayne’s green hair was in knots. Again, no signs of blood or paint. Billy bent down and looked under the table to check the boy’s shoes and black jeans. Dirty smudges on the toes, streaks of dust on the pants. Counsellor Barnes stood silent. Billy watched Blayne move back and forth in his chair. The boy’s eyes were ringed with grey circles, and he did not seem to notice either Billy’s or Barnes’s presence.

  And then the boy’s eyes filled with tears. “Help me,” he whispered. “Help me.”

  “How can I help you, Blayne?”

  “Darren,” Blayne replied. “Darren betrayed me.”

  Blayne rolled his eyes back. He raised his scab-spotted hands to his face and covered his forehead. He began rocking again, singing in a low voice: “Darren loves peace, Darren loves peace.”

  “Officer.”

  Blayne ceased his chanting. He shut his eyes, rolled off his chair with a pounding thud, and curled up on the floor.

  Billy threw a glance at Barnes. “Let him be,” Barnes whispered.

  The officer stood in the doorway, staring at Blayne.

  “Go and get the boy’s mother,” Billy said. “She’s in the lobby.”

  Billy and Barnes waited in silence while Blayne remained in a foetal position, his arms clutching his knees. Soft moans rose from the boy’s throat until Mrs. Morton entered. She crept into the room clutching her straw purse to her breasts. “Oh, Blayne!” She crouched down next to her son, and the two of them were as pale as corpses.

  “I’ve called an ambulance for you, Mrs. Morton,” Billy said.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, Inspector.”

  “The officer here will accompany you and Blayne. Will you be all right?”

  “Will they look after him?”

  “We’ll put him in the hospital for observation. You can stay with him if you like. If he seems better in the morning, I suggest you give a call to your doctor.”

  “Oh, I did that already, sir.” Mrs. Morton attempted a smile. “He’s out of town till Monday.”

  Billy then realized that a man in a white medic’s uniform was standing in the entrance. The ambulance had arrived sooner than he’d expected. Blayne kept his face covered with his arms. Billy stood back as the officer and the medic lifted Blayne and led him and Mrs. Morton through the doorway.

  “Come on, Barnes,” Billy said. “Let me buy you a sandwich. I need to get some background from you.”

  The air was still as the two men walked across the shady green lawns of Galt Gardens. In its centre stood the cenotaph, a bronze soldier leaning on a rifle, the butt rooted in a mound of bronze poppies. The cottonwoods and blue spruce had been planted by the first British settlers to come into the west after the Riel Rebellion. Beds of impatiens and petunias were thick with red and pink, and in the branches of the trees starlings and sparrows chattered in the afternoon heat. The two men entered the glass-domed mall, bought sandwiches and soft drinks, and walked back into the shade of the park. They sat down at a picnic table.

  “What’s your take on these boys?” Billy asked
. “You had some acquaintance with Darren and Cody. And with this Morton.”

  “Outsiders. Loners. Kids from one-parent and broken homes.”

  “You met the parents of these boys at one time or another.”

  “I talked to them, yes.” Barnes did not hesitate. He took a drink and went on. “The parents never said much about their boys. These kids were in trouble — missing classes, cheating, smoking in the washrooms. All of them were pretty quiet for the most part. Stayed by themselves. None of them was into sports. We never saw any one of them at the dances. Fourteen year olds are often shy, but these kids seemed too withdrawn. Now Blayne Morton, he’s different. I didn’t want to say anything inside. Not with his mother there. I didn’t want to prejudice your judgement, but I’m not so sure what we saw today was real.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He lies. I’ve seen him go into that rocking act in a session in the counsellor’s office when he was caught with some stolen textbooks in his backpack. An unstable kid. Putting him under observation may give you some better indication, Inspector. We’ve had him assessed and have intervened a couple of times over his semi-violent behaviour. That kid fits the A.S.D. profile. He can change moods as fast as the weather, and he also knows how to manipulate.”

  “I’ve heard he was pestering Darren and fighting with other boys.”

  “Cody didn’t let Blayne into their little group. Blayne was only interested — as far as I could tell — in luring Darren away for himself. He was a bully who liked to punish people; he told me that in a session once, when I caught him hitting and threatening a young boy in the hall.”

  “Did Blayne know the boy in the hall? Was this an isolated incident?”

  “Blayne had few friends. He’s a big kid and was often made fun of because of his size.”

  “Do you think Darren Riegert’s hanging was a suicide?”

  Barnes stopped eating. He looked straight ahead, pulled off his sunglasses, and rubbed the fingers of his right hand.

  “I hope so. That sounds odd, I know. Cody and Darren were friends. I know they both frequented Miss Bird’s place. I fear that maybe the boys made some kind of pact. It’s just a gut feeling. But knowing them as much as I could, I find it hard to believe each one would act entirely separate from the other. Now, from what you tell me about Darren, his being tied and cut by a knife, well, that’s more difficult. Who knows? Maybe there’s a revenge thing going on here. A jealousy thing. Blayne could certainly be a suspect, as I assume you are thinking. These teenagers have feuds and battles they don’t tell us about.”