by Matt Drabble
To his knowledge he had never contacted the town, or even come across it, but the advert had been small and classy. The text was minimal, but one phrase was hokey enough to catch his eye: “Heaven on earth and twice as nice”.
He had replied to gain more information, not thinking too much about it, but around a week later he had received a clandestine package in the mail.
He’d opened the large manila envelope, after a day of being chastised for sipping from a bottle of water in order to swallow a couple of aspirin to keep a fever at bay as he sweated profusely at his post.
He’d staggered home, his uniform a foul stench of a pungent flu-inspired odour, and he’d ripped open the package half-heartedly, not really caring.
About forty five minutes later, he was sold; the town really appeared to be perfection in a hot climate. As he’d shivered under his virus, and the cold wind howled mercilessly at his crappy apartment, he’d made his decision.
The next morning he’d quit his job, his apartment, and his Chicago life.
He leaned his arm out of the window as he drove. The warm air and hot sun caressed his skin and he couldn’t picture ever being cold again.
The town was indeed perfection for some - those with the financial resources to live in the mansions. For the rest of the townsfolk that had to work for a living, it was only close.
The weather was wonderful and the people were friendly. His salary was fantastic, and even came with accommodation: a beautiful three bedroom house with a large garden and a small pool.
His position of deputy carried a certain level of respect around the town - the kids were well behaved, and the women were beautiful. However, the Sheriff’s department and town regulations were explicitly clear on the fraternization permitted between town employees and residents.
He’d had to endure a month long training program that seemed to mainly deal with his presentation and conduct, rather than his peacekeeping duties.
He didn’t mind the somewhat uptight attitudes, as he had moved here from a position of borderline desperation.
Sheriff Quinn was a ball-breaker, and the town manager, Casper Christian, was more than a little weird, but overall it was a small price to pay for such as a cushy number.
He pulled into the Sheriff’s office parking lot. There were two bikes hooked up to a stand and no other cars.
One of the other joys about living here was that he didn’t have to waste money on an expensive car. The trams crisscrossed the whole town, making cars almost irrelevant. He also had no real desire to leave the town and travel to the world outside, when everything he wanted was here.
He pushed open the glass fronted door, cringing at the overhead bell that jingled; every store in Eden seemed to have these quaint touches.
The office was clean and organised as usual; the counters gleamed, and the chrome edges sparkled.
There had yet to be a single crime since he had arrived and the paperwork was easily manageable.
Most of the duties of the office seemed to consist of management systems for processing permits and alike. It was dictated that the officers were to be visible around town, and ever vigilant for town rule violations.
Just lately, there had been the case of the graffiti artist that had been perplexing the sheriff. Green slashing paint, spraying the words “Wake Up”, had been found in various places around the town, which was driving the sheriff and Casper to fits of purple rage.
As far as Kurt was concerned, if a little paint was the extent of the troubles, then the town should thank its lucky stars for getting off so lightly.
Ellen Barlow was sitting behind the desk when he entered the office; she was twenty nine and strawberry blonde, with green eyes and endless legs, and she was already the love of his life.
He had yet to engage in any kind of meaningful conversation with her, but he already knew that she was perfect.
She glanced up and smiled at him as he entered; it was the briefest of looks, but he melted just the same. He had steeled himself in the car that this would be the day; this would be the day that he charmed and wooed her. Upon closer reflection, he discovered that actually, this wasn’t the day after all.
He slunk past the desk and into the rear offices to change before he went off shift, cursing himself for his lack of courage as he crept past, head bowed, and cheeks blazing.
“Still not pulled the trigger, Kurt?”
Tommy Ross grinned irritatingly at him. Tommy was the town's other deputy; he was broad, athletic, and handsome in every conventional way.
Kurt thanked his lucky stars every day that Tommy was also gay. If they ever had to compete in the same market for dates, then his Friday nights would be long and lonely; well, longer and lonelier than they were at present.
“I’m working on it,” Kurt said sheepishly.
“Man, you need to work faster,” Tommy said, buttoning up his uniform over a bulging chest. His teeth sparkled, and his deep blue eyes shone brightly.
Kurt couldn’t help but grin along with Tommy’s infectious smile. Tommy had the sort of magnetism that Kurt could only dream of, and he was glad all over again that he faced no in-house competition for the fair Ellen’s hand.
“Why don’t you ask her to the carnival a week on Saturday? They set up on the square with rides and booths, the games aren’t rigged and the food’s great. I know that she goes every year with friends. I’m sure that she’d like to go with you.”
“Why?” Kurt asked suddenly, with the pinched pained face of a love-struck teenager. “Did she say something?”
“Oh for...” Tommy strode past him with an exasperated expression. “Hey Ellen,” he shouted, “you wanna go to the carnival with Kurt on Saturday?”
“Sure,” drifted the shy response.
Kurt’s heart skipped more than just the one beat. He peered out around the changing room door and Ellen’s face smiled back at him as he blushed furiously. “Pick you up at seven?” he squeaked.
“Sure,” she blushed back.
“Love's young dream,” Tommy said, smiling and shaking his head.
----------
Emily tramped grumpily to the tram. She was closer on the scale to exhaustion than tired, and she hadn’t even started the day yet.
She cursed Michael under her breath. Lucky sod, she thought, bugger can sleep in all day if he feels like it.
She didn’t like this new morning voice, and she cut it off at the knees. She knew that the only reason that they could ever afford a life like this was from his talent.
His writing had made this all possible: the new country, the house, the fresh start. Even the sun that shone warmly down on her face was because of him.
Her moods had begun to swing wildly and were rather disconcerting. She made a mental note to contact Dr Creed to schedule an appointment ahead of their next, just to set her mind at ease. The last thing that she wanted was to start flying off the handle at work. Young children were less understanding than adults, she wagered.
The morning tram rattled around the corner. Ice picks stabbed at her head, with painful knives digging into her brain. Every noise seemed amplified tenfold, and she ground her teeth in annoyance.
“Morning, you two,” Eddie greeted her softly with a wink.
“Morning, Eddie,” she mumbled, eager to sit down.
Only as she entered the tram did she think about what he’d said and puzzle over it.
As she passed the usual crowd, packed into their usual seats, she caught sight of the excited faces that beamed at her.
She had used the service enough to be on smiling, nodding terms with the regular passengers, but now some touched her arm with love as she passed.
She sat in her customary rear seat; her head thumped and she gave serious thought to calling in sick and heading straight home. But her work ethic ran deep and besides, she wasn’t about to drop Sarah-Jane in it at the last minute. Surely people couldn’t know about the pregnancy, could they?
She and Michael had
made a pact not to tell anyone, and after Chris had left, who would Michael tell? She had told Sarah-Jane, but the sweet girl had promised not to tell anyone, and despite her unbridled excitement she was sure that it was a promise kept.
Thirlby, she suddenly thought. Mrs. Olivia Thirlby had been spying on them in the teachers’ lounge. Had she overheard? The headmistress hadn’t mentioned anything to Emily during the rest of the day, but suddenly it made sense. That twisted, miserable, dried up old bitch, she…, Emily suddenly recoiled at the black, angry thoughts that had scuttled through her mind like hairy spider legs.
Even if Mrs. Thirlby had overheard and mentioned it to someone, was it really such a big deal? Maybe after losing their first child she was a little overly sensitive. Her thumping head slowed, and the oppressive pressure that had been building gently eased. She rubbed her temples gently, breathed deeply, and forced a smile at the worried faces around her.
----------
Darnell’s yard was the neatest of its kind that Michael had ever seen before.
It defied every stereotypical thought that he had approached the address with.
There were no rusting cars up on blocks, there were no corroded chain link fences hanging loose and broken, and there was no snarling, drooling, matted coat Cujo to greet him.
The yard was tarmacked and clean and there were three cars all lined up, neatly awaiting treatment in front of a large brick built workshop.
The sign reading “Darnell’s” looked fresh and shone in the sunshine - gold letters curled on a deep red background.
The yard was right on the far side of town and he’d passed through the privileged neighbourhood mansions, through the expensive houses, and passed the town employee homes that were still ten times the home that he had ever lived in.
Darnell lived out past the residential and commercial areas, so far out that the rear of his property actually backed onto the town’s huge wooden walls.
His house was compact and neat; the wooden structure was painted a pristine white, as was every other house in town, and his front lawn was clipped and glowed a healthy green.
The house stood to the left of the hefty sized yard that contained the bulky workshop which stood proudly, its corrugated red roof shining beneath the hot sun.
Michael heard machinery whirling behind the closed double workshop doors. A radio played echoing music that rolled around the air and drifted on the breeze. Michael picked up the strains of Springsteen hoarsely trumpeting just what he and baby were born to do.
Michael walked up to the large wooden doors, expecting to have to hammer loudly, but the smaller door within a door suddenly swung open and Darnell stood before him, his eyes blazing with naked suspicion.
Darnell was a man in his early sixties. He was white haired with a handlebar moustache; he wore stained, grubby blue canvas overalls, and, for all the world, he reminded Michael of the actor, Wilford Brimley.
Darnell shuffled forward with the gait of a long term arthritis sufferer; his left leg dragged with a limp. His left hand was slightly hooked, and his right held a shiny claw hammer.
Michael took an involuntary step backwards from the naked aggression of Darnell’s face. All he had done was to walk up to his door, and the man looked worryingly ready for a fight.
“Whatdaya want?” the handyman growled menacingly, hefting the hammer.
“Hey, easy there, Mr. Darnell. It’s me, Michael Torrance; you helped us move in a while back, up on Fairfax.”
“Torrance?” Darnell stared suspiciously.
“Yes, Michael and Emily.”
“You the English?” Darnell lowered the hammer to a safe level as he considered the information.
“Yes, that’s us.” Michael smiled his friendliest smile.
“Oh yeah, right,” Darnell said through an embarrassed expression. “Sorry,” he said, looking at the hammer that he still clutched. “Get some troublesome kids round here from time to time.”
Michael nodded knowingly, but inside he couldn’t believe that Eden had rowdy kids of any description, let alone all the way out here.
He had ridden his scuffed, nearly new, bike out here this morning after Emily had left for work. It was starting to take her longer and longer to drag herself up in the mornings and get her engine cranking and he was now rising with her early, in order to give her a push out the door.
“What is it that you want?” Darnell asked. “Problem with the house?”
“Not exactly.”
Darnell’s eyes narrowed, and the suspicion was back on his face in an instant. “What do you want then?” he asked apprehensively.
“The woods.”
“What about them?”
“I understand that they have a history, a story, a legend?”
Darnell stared for what seemed like an age. “Why come to me? Aren’t you better off taking to Casper?”
Michael stared back at him, sensing that this was some kind of test. He was being evaluated by Darnell for some reason, and so he took a shot. “I don’t like the guy,” he said truthfully. “I don’t know what it is about him, but something’s off with that guy. Way off.”
Darnell stared harder at him, his eyes boring in and his forehead furrowed. His body stood rock still, and Michael could almost hear his mind ticking over. “Well then,” he said, seemingly making a decision, “why don’t you come on in? Oh, and Mr. Torrance,” he said, lifting the hammer again and waggling it. “Just be warned, if you’re the next person to tell me that I look like Wilford Brimley, I’m liable to use this.”
The mess inside Darnell’s workshop was somehow reassuring to Michael. He suddenly realised that he was lacking a little chaos in his own life.
Every corner of Eden had seemed like heaven to begin with; every building, every street, every blade of grass looked perfect, but perfection was starting to seem a little plastic.
He was beginning to feel that there was cellophane wrapping over the town and its inhabitants - a wipe easy surface that prevented spoilage. The only trouble was that he was starting to wonder what exactly lay beneath the protective cover.
He could immediately relate to Darnell’s lack of organisation. There were large boards up on the wall with tool outlines in white to identify where everything went.
Almost all of the hooks were empty, and the chalk outlines looked lost and lonely. The tools themselves were scattered around a large table graveyard of discard and neglect.
Despite his best intentions, Emily was always chastising him for leaving things out: books, tools, ingredients - he seemed pathologically destined to leave a mess wherever he went.
The workshop was long and busy. A car ramp and pit dominated the centre. Various bits of machinery sat on benches all along the walls on three sides.
A table saw and several drills were in various states of age and battering. This felt like the first piece of reality that he had found within the town walls, and he realised that he’d missed that kind of anchor.
“So what is it that you want to know, Mr. Torrance?” Darnell asked gruffly.
“Please, it’s Michael, and it’s about the woods at the back of town.”
“That’s not somewhere that a nice man such as yourself wants to be going, Michael.”
“What’s wrong there?”
“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?” Darnell smiled grimly.
Michael watched as Darnell walked over to a wall cabinet and pulled out a corroded and battered old coffee tin. He looked around furtively despite them being alone and pulled out a small metal flask.
He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink from it, his face grimacing. He looked back at Michael and, with a look of slight regret, offered the flask. Michael accepted the hospitality and took a small sip. He immediately began coughing and spluttering as the harsh liquid exploded in his throat.
“What the hell is that?” he stammered.
“Old family recipe,” Darnell laughed as he pounded Michael on the back.
I
nitiation passed, Michael pressed on, once he’d regained his breath, “Is there something wrong with this town?” he asked, deliberately abruptly.
Darnell stared at him, his face hard and impossible to read. “Eden is perfect. Heaven on earth and twice as nice,” he recited in a neutral tone, his eyes flint but watchful.
Michael stared hard back at him. “I’m just looking for some answers here. I’m not looking to make any waves; honestly, I’m not.”
Darnell suddenly grabbed him hard by the thin polo shirt that he wore. The old hands, augmented by years of manual labour, pinched the skin painfully as Michael was driven backwards, his arms cartwheeling wildly against the sudden, violent movement.
“Who sent you?” Darnell snarled, his face inches away. “You tell Casper that I’ve done nothing wrong; you tell that fat pig, Quinn, as well.”
“Easy, easy,” Michael panted against the older man’s surprising strength. “Nobody sent me, certainly not Casper or the sheriff.”
Darnell’s grip didn’t loosen. “So why are you out here testing me, boy? Why the questions about the woods, of all places?”
“Alright, two things,” Michael snapped, his anger rising fast after his initial shock. “Firstly, nobody, I repeat nobody, sent me, and secondly, get your fucking hands off me.” His own eyes were hard now; his temper was typical of those slow to rise. He was mainly a mild-mannered man and most things simply washed over him whilst Emily fretted, but once his slow burning temper cranked up, you would be wise to get off the runway.
Darnell released him warily; he stepped backwards without ever breaking the eye contact that crackled between them. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, then.”
----------
“Back in the early 1800’s…” Darnell began, as they sat in his kitchen across the stained and marked wooden table some ten minutes later. A six pack of beer bottles was opened for Michael, whilst Darnell stuck to his flask, “…the Christian family came to this neck of the woods, so the story goes.”
