by Neil Watson
“Are you deaf?” Ozborn retorted. “I know what I said. But something came up, okay? Now you can come back tomorrow or not. I don’t care. But I ain’t got the money today.”
Melody began crying. “Come on Stephen,” she said. “Let’s go before I get to do something to the bastard that I’ll regret.”
Stephen started the engine and began driving away. “We’ll be back at six tomorrow. You’d better have the money then!” he called out as his window closed.
“Oh yeah! Or else what? Damn! Get outta here!” Ozborn called after them as they exited the trailer park gates. He kicked the ground, sending a shower of small stones into the air and creating a plume of dust.
“Damn!” repeated Ozborn as he entered his home through the flimsy aluminium door that slammed shut behind him. “Oh, fuck!” was the next thing he said, as he was greeted by the sight of the smashed TV screen and shards of glass, still on the floor since yesterday. At least he could afford to get a new one, but for now it was as much as he could do to crawl under the sheets of the bed at the rear, and fall asleep. But sleep did come almost immediately. He didn’t awake until the middle of the following morning, and for the first time he could recall, it was with a clear head.
CHAPTER 30
(SATURDAY, 20TH JANUARY, 2018)
Information Appeal
S ober for once, that Saturday morning, Ozborn was able to think much more clearly than usual. He pulled back the curtain to a crisp winter’s day with bright sunshine and a cloudless sky, then opened the window to allow some fresh air in.
He got up, got dressed, made himself a strong coffee and looked around. What a mess, he thought. He’d never really taken much pride in his surroundings before, and as he began clearing things up, he experienced a minor epiphany. With a new sense of clarity, he knew what he wanted to do today, and in what order. Finish his coffee was first on the list. Second, was to go shopping for a new TV. Then he’d buy a muffler and a new set of wheels for the old pickup, and he’d get to work on it fixing it up. All of a sudden, Ozborn felt he had a glimmer of something to live for, aside from the cocktail of booze, weed and cigarettes that he was used to.
Oh yes, and the third thing to do, he remembered, was to get the money for his daughter. There! He at last acknowledged her existence, but then quickly shut off any emotions he felt for her, vowing not to become distracted by them again. Maybe one day in the far future he might want to see her, but not yet. So, for now, he’d buy away any tiny amount of guilt he felt and simply make it disappear with a visit to the First State Bank to withdraw $5,000.
But along with the euphoria of his life’s wake-up call came an uneasy threatening sensation from the Bike Radio Murder newspaper article that played heavily on his mind. He’d have to deal with that threat somehow if it became necessary to do so. But for now he’d concentrate on going to the bank, along with Joe’s TV Depot and Supreme Custom Wheel Mart. After dressing a little more smartly than usual, he went off into town, stopping for a hearty breakfast of waffles and bacon on the way.
By the early afternoon, Ozborn returned to his trailer with a thick wad of cash crammed into his wallet, and the latest large-screen Samsung that he staggered inside with. In the back of his Ford, ready to be fitted to the old Dodge later, was a set of four gleaming chrome wheels with new tyres, as well as a very expensive stainless steel muffler and tailpipe system.
Beginning to feel mildly happy with his new-found assertiveness, he took the TV from its box, replacing the smashed one that he’d find somewhere to dump later. For now, he chucked the old one outside the trailer door, hearing it crash to the ground, and then began flicking through the various channels once he’d connected up the new one and switched it on.
The Bruce Springsteen song ‘57 Channels (And Nothin’ On)’ came to mind as he ploughed through endless advertisements, cartoons and keep-fit instructors flogging their latest DVDs. On some stations he found 1960s B-films, as well as old Dallas episode re-runs that were being shown back to back with yet more ads, weather and news reports. He had no interest in any of them and began to wonder why he’d bought a television set at all. Until, that was, when he happened to come across the WTHTV-NEWS10 channel, coming from Terre Haute.
On the screen, shown standing outside a house in Paris, Illinois that Ozborn still had etched in his memory, was a young man being interviewed by the channel’s reporter. Standing next to him was an elderly lady with long, silver hair, obviously relishing her time being on the television. Ozborn reached for the remote control in order to increase the volume, just in time to catch the tail end of the lady being interviewed.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I was the one, on that fateful day, who discovered the body of the young woman lying in a pool of her own blood.” The woman raised her hands to her face, and her voice quivered as she continued. “It may have been over thirty years ago, but I remember it just as if it were yesterday. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, you know!” And with that, she tossed her head sideways, and then down, dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue before looking up once more at the camera.
The reporter then turned to the young man, and as he did so, a caption reading ‘OLIVER MARKLAND FROM ENGLAND (‘YOUNG SHERLOCK’)’ scrolled along the bottom of the screen, while he answered the reporter’s question. “So, Oliver, you’re known locally as the journalist ‘Young Sherlock’. Can you tell us briefly what it is about this particular case that has brought you all the way from the United Kingdom to investigate it?”
Oliver looked confidently at the camera. “It’s true that Yushi Yakamoto was found guilty of murdering Sandy Beach in 1981. He’d been cycling across your great country when he was apprehended for the brutal killing that took place in the house behind me. It was big news at the time, and I’m sure many of your viewers will still remember it. But, you see, I’m just not convinced that justice was done all those years ago. The more I’ve researched it, the surer I’ve become that the whole truth hasn’t yet come out. Yushi Yakamoto was an American citizen with a Japanese name, held securely in a prison cell for fifteen long years. He was locked in tightly by this very key,” Oliver said, holding up his Florida Key for the viewers. “That was until he was, I believe, unjustly executed.”
Ozborn continued watching, not quite believing what he was seeing, as the lady standing at the young man’s side interjected. “Yes, and I’m certain I heard raised voices that fateful night when poor Sandy, my dear neighbour, was killed. I’m sure there was more than one man present. And what’s more, I saw someone drive away from the scene early the following morning. What bothers me is that I told all this to the police at the time, but they chose to ignore me. And now I’m really hoping our British friend, with your help of course . . .” Mrs. Toporofski continued, staring directly at the camera. “. . . might be able to uncover the whole truth.”
The cameraman focussed the lens back on Oliver as the reporter spoke into his hand-held microphone: “Mr. Markland, you’ve become kind of a local celebrity around these parts, haven’t you?” he asked. Oliver smiled, turning slightly red with embarrassment. Clearly, he was enjoying all this new-found attention, yet concerned that, at the end of the day, it was all because someone had actually died. He tried his best to steer the interview back on track, with a more sincere and serious slant.
“That’s not really the point here,” he began, in his most exaggerated English accent. “What’s important is for anyone who has any information about what happened that night in 1981, to please come forward and contact me.” As Oliver continued to speak, a telephone number and email address appeared on screen. “It could mean that there’s someone still roaming these streets of your country. Someone who thinks he’s gotten away with murder for all these years. I appeal to anyone who has information, no matter how apparently insignificant, to get in touch with me. I pledge to do my best to uncover the truth.”
The camera turned back to the reporter. “Well viewers, you heard it here. This is Osca
r Peters, with the Young Sherlock and Mrs. err–Mrs . . .” as he looked down at his notes, “. . . Mrs. Hannah Toporofski, coming live from Paris, Illinois. And now back to you Davinia, in the studio.”
“Damn!” said Ozborn softly to himself, trembling with a mixture of acrimony and worry. He very nearly punched the TV screen and broke the second one in as many days, but stopped himself in the nick of time. He retrieved the crumpled newspaper article from the trash, sat back on the couch and read it once more, considering what he should do. “Damn Brit! Who the hell does he think he is, coming over here, stirring things up?”
The unusually positive emotions Ozborn had begun experiencing earlier that day quickly evaporated, and he felt his hackles begin to rise.
Hoping that doing some work and having a few beers would calm him down, he stormed from the trailer and yanked down from the back of the truck the four new wheels that he’d bought earlier, and chucked them furiously one by one to the ground. The second of them narrowly missed a stray cat that had been befriended by one of his neighbours who, of course, Ozborn didn’t get on with, and it shot away. By the time he picked up the fourth wheel, the cat had returned, and this time Ozborn deliberately hurled the heavy object right at it, this time clipping its tail and causing it to squeal loudly in pain. Ozborn smiled and wished he had a fifth wheel to throw.
He was right. Getting stuck into some work on his old truck did help to soothe things a little. And he reasoned that at least there were no reports on the news of the Bike Radio Murder case being re-opened officially by the police. But the work therapy only worked until Coldplay’s guardians returned at six o’clock, just as they said they would. By then, the light was fading fast and Ozborn had already consumed several Buds. As he heard the crunch of their car on the gravel, he was just lowering the jack after fitting the last of the four wheels. He looked up and peered through the gap in the row of bottles perched upon the pickup’s hood.
Ozborn approached his visitors, swigging from yet another bottle and holding a monkey wrench in his left hand. He didn’t care that his stance looked so aggressive. “I s’pose you better come in while we get this done,” he growled in a deep drawl. Stephen followed Ozborn into his trailer while Melody leaned into the rear of their car to pick up Blaise-Pascal.
“Come on, my little darling,” she said lovingly to the tiny dog as she carried him, following Stephen inside the trailer where the TV was still on.
Ozborn’s eyes were glazed and distant as he pulled out the batch of high denomination banknotes from his wallet, throwing the money down on the table. “There! Count it. It’s all there,” he instructed Stephen, coldly.
In the background, while Stephen counted the notes, the main six o’clock news headlines were being read out relaying President Trump’s latest rhetoric. “Yeah, go man, go! That’s just what this country needs,” Ozborn declared, to the utter dismay of the other two adults. Blaise-Pascal growled, sensing the negative atmosphere in the room.
Stephen was about to interject and contribute his own opinion as a Democrat, when he felt a firm nudge against his foot. He looked at Melody, her face telling him to shut up, get the money and leave. They both then noticed Ozborn suddenly stop and stare at the screen as soon as the commentator announced they would soon be continuing with local news.
“Join us after the break,” said the newsreader. “We’ll be right back with our report on the British Young Sherlock hoping to get to the bottom of a murder that happened thirty-seven years ago.”
“That damned son-of-a-bitch,” exploded Ozborn. “That kid needs a lesson taught!” Coldplay’s guardians were then even more shocked to see Ozborn reach down behind the cushions of the sofa and pull out a handgun. They had no idea why Ozborn had reacted this way to the item on the TV, and they didn’t want to stick around to find out.
Without delay, Stephen gathered together the money as quickly as he could, pulled his wife to her feet, and almost shoved her towards the door in front of him. “Come on, Melody, it’s time for us to be going.” Melody didn’t argue.
Ozborn shot at the ceiling, creating a hole in it large enough to see the moonlight through. The noise was deafening and startled Blaise-Pascal so much that, without warning he leapt from Melody’s arms, yapping in fright before scampering to the open door and jumping down the steps.
Melody screamed and Stephen grabbed her by the hand, eager to get away as soon as they could. Turning to look behind her, Melody caught sight through the open tin door of Ozborn still holding the gun and firing it randomly. Dogs from all over the trailer park began barking and more stray cats meowed. Stephen opened the passenger door of his car and pushed his wife in, then ran round to the other side and got in as quickly as he could, fumbling with shaking fingers to locate the ignition key slot. “But where’s Blaise?” hollered Melody.
“I dunno. It’s too dark to see,” answered Stephen, scared out of his wits and more concerned for his wife’s safety than the dog’s whereabouts. With a roar of the engine, he selected reverse gear and put his foot down hard. The tyres skidded on the loose ground as their car shot backwards through the trailer park gates, clipping the rear bumper against the post as it sped through the gap. With Stephen using his rear-view mirrors to guide him, Melody strained her head around, looking for any signs of her dog.
“Stephen!” she shrieked, just as she caught sight of two wide eyes reflecting the car’s reversing lights in them. Stephen slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt just in time, only an inch from one terrified animal. “Oh, thank God!” Melody shouted, as she leaned over and pulled the lever of the car’s rear door so it opened just enough for Blaise-Pascal to jump in. “Oh, thank God you’re safe, my little darling. Now Stephen, let’s get outta here!”
Stephen put his foot down again, and steered the car onto the dark road, only lit now by the moon. “What the hell happened there?” Stephen yelled, adrenalin pumping through his body as the car’s speed increased. “Something spooked Ozborn for sure. As soon as that Young Sherlock report came on, he went crazy. What the hell?”
Melody, although clearly shaken, was more concerned that she had her precious little Blaise-Pascal back safely with her. “I don’t know, Stephen. But we got Coldplay’s money, didn’t we? That’s all that matters.”
A few miles out of town, Stephen slowed the car to a more respectable level as they headed home to collect Coldplay from her friend’s house where she’d gone after school, and gradually calmed down. “I guess you’re right on that, I do guess you’re right. Let’s go see if our favourite little girl has had a nice time, shall we?”
CHAPTER 31
(SATURDAY, 20th JANUARY, 2018)
Caller Response
T o say that his first meeting with Siobhan had gone well was an understatement. “You were magnificent!” she said enthusiastically as she leant across to kiss Oliver on the cheek. Oliver had been looking forward to making the acquaintance of Ursula’s niece ever since receiving the photograph she’d attached in an email to him, and he was not disappointed. With long dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a perfectly smooth complexion, she was every bit as beautiful in real life as she had been in the picture.
Oliver blushed. “No, I wasn’t. I was just doing what I had to,” he replied, with a certain degree of false modesty. “The proof will be in the pudding, as we Brits say.” Having already decided that he fancied the pants off his new work colleague, he thought that mentioning anything remotely associated with England might enhance his chance of her feeling the same way about him. False modesty or not, he also believed his TV appearance had gone rather well. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if any responses were forthcoming as a result of its broadcast.
It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Siobhan had invited him to go back to her aunt Ursula’s house for dinner following the filming of his interview earlier that day. It had been Ursula’s suggestion, not only to be sociable, but also to discuss how best to progress the newspaper’s story that w
as rapidly gaining the public’s interest and imagination. They’d sat around the television, watching the latest re-run of the local news bulletin just after the six o’clock main headlines. Ursula couldn’t help but be impressed by Oliver’s performance on TV, as well as his captivating writing style, and she knew that she and her newspaper were on to something potentially big. She wanted to encourage Oliver all she could to continue with his campaign. It was good for business—plus, she liked him, and could tell that Siobhan did too.
“I think we should celebrate. Let’s break open some bubbles!” Ursula suggested as she unwrapped the foil from a bottle of her favourite French Limoux—so much more refined than Champagne, she thought. She proceeded before waiting for an answer.
“I’d love some, but . . .” replied Oliver, politely shaking his head and placing a hand over the flute that was being handed to him. “. . . I’ve got to drive home later, and the last thing I want is to get caught being over the limit.”
“Nonsense!” argued Ursula. “Call the folks where you’re staying and tell them you’re having to make an extended business meeting here. Don’t forget, I’m your boss! And I’m sure Siobhan won’t mind putting you up on her sofa for the night, will you darling?” she said with a wink as she turned towards her niece. “Her condo is only a short walk away from here, or if it’s too cold you could always call an Uber cab.”
“But I don’t have my overnight things with me,” Oliver protested, but not too emphatically. There was nothing he would like more than to spend the night at Siobhan’s. Anything might happen, and he definitely hoped it would.
After Oliver had finished texting Sam, informing her not to expect him because of his unplanned business meeting, Ursula proceeded to raise a toast. “That’s settled, then!” she said. “To our Young Sherlock!”
