The Goldfish Boy

by Lisa Thompson

  I grabbed a cookie and put it in my bag as Jake surveyed the tray.

  “Have you got any candy?”

  Penny stood upright.

  “No, I don’t, young man. And if you want any of that processed rubbish I suggest you try another house.”

  We both jumped as the door banged shut.

  Jake walked off, his alien tail dragging behind him. He could have perhaps said it better, but I knew he hadn’t meant any harm. His allergies meant he couldn’t eat just anything, and if it was in a packet, his mum could check the label. I joined him on the front step of number three just as Melody opened the door. She was wearing a black cat outfit with little black whiskers painted on her cheeks and two triangular ears poking out of her hair.

  “MIAOWWWWW!” she shouted and pounced like a cat, her hands splayed out toward us.

  “Yeah, yeah, Melody,” said Jake as he shook his booty bag at her.

  Melody huffed and then ducked behind the door, returning with an orange bucket full of brightly wrapped sweets.

  “Miaow,” she said as I took some. The end of her nose was painted black, and when she saw me looking she wriggled it at me.

  Jake took two giant handfuls.

  “MIAOW!” she said and snatched the bucket back. She then pretended to lick her paw and clean her ear as she purred.

  “Melody? You are so weird,” said Jake. She hissed at him and then shut the door.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Jake, looking in his bag. “I’ve barely got anything!”

  We turned and slowly walked back to his house, but Jake stopped at the next gate.

  “Our mums said not to bother Old Nina. Come on,” I said, continuing on, but Jake ran up the path and stood before the door of the Rectory. He lifted the heavy knocker and banged it three times.

  “Jake!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

  I looked at our houses, but there was no outline of our mums anymore. They’d probably seen us making our way home. I quickly ran and joined him just as the large, black door slowly opened.

  “Trick or treat,” said Jake, but he said it quietly this time. The old lady’s face was blank as she studied him.

  “I said trick or treat!” He shook his bag vigorously.

  Old Nina gave a little knowing nod and then went back inside, keeping the door ajar. Jake looked at me and gave me a thumbs-up as I stood staring, openmouthed. He started goofing around, doing a little dance on the step and wiggling his backside toward the house, and then the door suddenly opened again.

  “You’d better come in,” she said and then she went back inside, this time leaving the door wide open.

  We both looked at each other, and then Jake stepped up into the large, dark hallway, taking his alien mask off. I followed. It took a while for my eyes to adjust in the gloom. I was expecting to see cobwebs and peeling wallpaper, but although it was old-fashioned and dark, the place was clean and tidy. Old Nina had disappeared through a doorway at the end of the hallway, and we slowly edged in the same direction. We walked past the door to the living room and I peeked in. Beside a small gas fire was a wing-backed chair and on the windowsill was the orange lamp, glowing warmly. Jake elbowed me in the ribs and I jumped.

  “Look! Who do you think that is?”

  Along the wall was a collection of framed photographs, all of the same boy at different ages. In one he gave a toothless grin as he gripped the pole of a carousel horse, in another he studied a butterfly resting on the back of his hand—he looked about my age in that one. There was a photo of his first day at school, holding up a football trophy, wearing a Santa Claus hat with his eyes crossed, and one of him at a field day wearing a big gold medal around his neck. I took off my werewolf mask and studied the photo closest to me. In this one he was standing on a beach, his arms folded against his bare chest as the sand stretched out for miles around him. It must have been windy, as his sandy hair was sticking up in all directions, his nose splattered with freckles and his eyes half-shut as he grinned back at the camera.

  “Who do you think he is?” said Jake, studying the photos. “Is he her son? There’re no pictures of him grown up. What happened to him?”

  We both looked at each other, and I saw Jake’s throat gulp as we heard Old Nina clattering around in the kitchen.

  “Come in here, you two!”

  Carrying on along the hall, we stopped in the kitchen doorway. In the corner was a black range cooker, and crouching down, smoke swirling around her, was Old Nina. Wearing some gray oven mitts, she reached down and lifted out a large tray of cakes, which she placed on a mat on the table.

  “Ah, there you are!” she said. Taking off her oven mitts, she put her head to one side and stared at Jake.

  “Do you know, I think you’ll be just the right size. Just the right size indeed.”

  She walked toward us and Jake gripped my arm, his face deathly white as he stared at Old Nina and then at the open oven behind her.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here, Matty,” he said between gritted teeth. She got closer and closer and then Jake suddenly turned and ran.

  Old Nina stopped in front of me.

  “Where’s he going?”

  I was frozen to the spot. I wanted to run, but I was worried any sudden movement would mean she’d grab me. She was so close I could see two black hairs on her chin as she rubbed her lips together. Her thin, bony hand reached out, and then she moved toward the kitchen door beside me and took something off a hook. She gave it a shake and held it up.

  “No, no, no. It’s no good for you, I’m afraid. Your friend was the perfect size. What a shame he had to rush off.”

  It was a boy’s coat. A smart, knee-length navy blue coat with shiny black buttons up the front. She held the coat close to her, rubbing the fabric with her thumb, and for a moment I think she forgot I was there. Then she sighed before hanging it back up on the door.

  “Anyway. Would you like a cake?” she said.

  As the sun faded on the cul-de-sac, I watched as each front room glowed and flickered simultaneously with the same news report. The same news that I could hear from our TV downstairs.

  “… missing child, Teddy Dawson …”

  I quietly crept downstairs, listening.

  “Today, Teddy’s mother, Melissa Dawson, gave this emotional plea …”

  I sat on the middle step, where I could see the large screen. There was a row of people behind a long, white desk, and sitting in the center was Melissa Dawson. She looked very professional in a smart green dress with her dark hair tied back neatly. Speaking from memory, she looked in turn at each of the journalists sitting in front of her as if she were addressing a conference.

  “On Monday afternoon, my beautiful baby boy, Teddy, went missing from my father’s yard. I urge anyone with any information as to where he is to please call the police. Anything, even the smallest bit of information, could help find him. So please, no matter how trivial you think it might be, please call.”

  She paused for a moment and took a sip of water. Then she looked down at some notes in front of her and began to read, her voice trembling slightly.

  “If there is somebody out there who is holding Teddy, they need to give him back to me. Please. They can drop him off at a safe place—a hospital, a church, somewhere he’d be found …”

  Her voice cracked and her posture slumped a little.

  “He is a very happy, lovely boy. Please … please somebody bring him home to me … He’s only little …”

  And with that she put her hand to her mouth and her face crumbled. The professional woman had gone. The policeman beside her spoke up with details I’d heard a million times before.

  “Teddy was wearing a pull-up style diaper and a T-shirt with an ice-cream cone picture on the front like this one here, and he was possibly carrying a blue security blanket …”

  Mum dropped her head onto Dad’s shoulder as he curled an arm around her and they sat on the sofa, holding each other.

  I c
rept back upstairs to the bathroom and began to wash my hands. I was exhausted and my brain felt cloudy. I concentrated on lathering the soap correctly and covering every patch of skin, but it didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel clean. I rinsed my hands and started again. But after that wash it felt the same. So I started again, and again, and again. Unable to stop, I washed my hands twenty-seven times. I heard the TV switch off downstairs, and I hurried to bed before Mum or Dad could see me.

  The next day, Mum came up first thing to tell me that traces of Teddy’s blood had been found in the fibers of the blue blanket that Claudia Bird had given the police.

  Claudia told the police that she was just going out for a walk with Frankie when the dog became interested in something underneath her car. At first she thought it was an old rag, but when she pulled it out from the wheel arch she realized what it was. She had a vague recollection of driving over something in the road on the afternoon Teddy went missing. It must have been his blanket, which had then become caught up underneath her car. I checked back over my notebook, and her story seemed to add up.

  Monday, July 28th. Office/nursery. Very hot.

  2:39 p.m.—Claudia waves to Mr. Charles from her car as she drives off.

  “It doesn’t look good, Matthew. That poor mum,” said Mum.

  She dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a tissue, used it to blow her nose, then squeezed it in her hands like one of those squishy stress balls. I had been about to go and wash my hands, but she was now blocking my doorway.

  “Have the police searched the Rectory?” I asked.

  “Old Nina? She wouldn’t hurt a fly, Matthew. Why would they want to search her house? She’s staying in that posh hotel in town. You know the one? With the huge baths and the free dressing gowns.”

  “Who? Old Nina?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, not Old Nina! Melissa Dawson!” My mum does this a lot—she flits from subject to subject. I think it’s from following so many conversations at once in the salon.

  “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it? You’d think she’d want her family around her at a time like this, or at least to stay close in case he turns up. Penny said yesterday that she probably blames Mr. Charles for not looking after Teddy properly. She likely can’t bear to be anywhere near him.”

  I wondered if it had more to do with her being so used to hotels, what with all the business traveling she must do. They probably felt like home to her.

  My hand wash was becoming urgent now. A deadly disease could easily have been spreading from my wrists up toward my elbows, and from there it wasn’t far to my shoulders, my neck, and then my mouth. And once they’d gotten inside your mouth … Well, that was pretty much it, really. There was no hope then.

  I could hear Dad clattering around downstairs doing something in the conservatory. Mum showed no sign of leaving and leaned toward me. I quickly took a step back, my heart pounding. A low growl rumbled from the Wallpaper Lion in the corner of my room.

  “There’s no father around, apparently.”

  My breaths were coming in short bursts and I was practically panting.

  “Are you all right, Matthew? You really need to get a bit of sun, you know. You’re fading away up here.”

  I could hear “The Macarena” playing somewhere in the distance. Mum frowned at me as we both tried to place where the music was coming from, and then Dad bellowed up the stairs.

  “Sheila! It’s your phone again!”

  Mum’s face lit up.

  “That’s probably Penny. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Back in my room after washing my hands, I watched Dad from the window. There was a tower of old cans of paint on the grass, and he stumbled out of the shed holding an old roller and a dirty, black plastic tray. Grabbing a can from the top of the pile, he headed indoors.

  I remembered then—decorating was Dad’s way of keeping busy when he felt helpless. After Callum died he took two weeks off of work and painted the kitchen, lounge, hallway, and their bedroom. Mum’s way of coping back then was to sort through the attic. She spent hours up there, rummaging away as I stared up from the bottom of the ladder. Once or twice she’d gone up there but didn’t make any noise and kept the light turned off. I think she’d finished sorting and just wanted to sit there quietly in the darkness for a bit.

  A lawn mower fired up next door. Mr. Charles had cleared all of Teddy’s and Casey’s toys off the grass and had piled them like rubbish in a heap beside the shed. He stood on the edge of the patio and then set off, pushing the orange machine at arm’s length as a light green stripe appeared behind him. When he turned back toward the house, he raised one liver-spotted arm at me and waved. There was a smile on his face.

  Wednesday, July 30th. Bedroom. Very hot. Cloudy.

  9:35 a.m.—Mr. Charles is mowing his lawn. Appears almost happy … Is this normal behavior?

  The mower turned on and off as Mr. Charles carefully cut around the edge of the fishpond. He dipped the blades up and down, trying to avoid damaging any of the plants. Two more strips and he was returning back to the patio for the last time, expertly turning the mower off just as he reached the end. Stretching his arms behind him, he looked back up at me, a strange grin on his face. He held up a finger as if to say, Wait there just a second, young man before he dashed off to the kitchen, leaving the mower clicking and popping as it cooled down. My stomach churned a little. Something didn’t seem right. He emerged back into the sunshine holding a glass of something clear and fizzy in each hand. It looked like lemonade. My heart was racing. He walked toward the fence between our gardens and stretched an arm upward, the sun glinting on the glass. Did he think I could just reach down and take it? I stared back at him and shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know what to do. He put one of the glasses down on the patio table and beckoned for me to join him. His other arm held the lemonade high, as if it were some ridiculous trophy waiting to be presented to me.

  And the award for “Removing Oneself from One’s Bedroom Goes to …”

  Mr. Charles’s grin began to wobble. I shook my head and stepped away from the window. Then I saw it. He dropped his gaze, and his face contorted into a sinister snarl as he said something under his breath. I’d never seen his face like that before, all twisted and nasty. I quickly pulled the curtains.

  “Did you see that, Lion? Did you see his face?”

  I glanced up at the Wallpaper Lion. His eye was directed toward my window, and I knew immediately what I’d done wrong—I’d pulled the curtains too fast and now death and disease were escaping from the folds of fabric and swarming everywhere. If I did nothing then before long the whole room would need to be decontaminated. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the germs, but I could hear the scurrying of their dirty feet as they ran across the walls and ceiling. I sat up, wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and reached down for my cleaning things.

  There were two emails in my inbox, both from my old best friend, Tom.

  To: Party Crowd

  From: Thomas Allen

  Subject: Invitation

  Venue: My House

  Event: Barbecue!!!

  When: Saturday, August 9th at 3 p.m.

  Reason: Summer!

  RSVP to TOM!

  (BRING A FRIEND)

  Along the bottom of the email there was a row of yellow emojis all doing random things like blowing raspberries, winking, or spinning around. I clicked on his other email.

  To: Matthew Corbin

  From: Thomas Allen

  Re: Invitation

  Hey bud! How’s it going? Haven’t seen you in ages! I heard about that little kid next door to you going missing. That’s awful! [Here he had inserted a sad emoji with a tear running down its face.] I hope they find him soon!

  I’m happy it’s summer vacation. How great is that!? Hope you can make the BBQ!! I know things have been a bit weird, but get in touch if you want to go out or something!!!!!

  Tom

  I cringed. It appeared that he had developed an afflictio
n for overuse of exclamation marks. Next to the word weird he’d inserted another smiley face that looked like it was straining to go to the toilet. It was obvious that I’d missed far too much school and my best friend had become an idiot.

  To: Thomas Allen

  From: Matthew Corbin

  Re: Invitation

  Hi Tom,

  Thanks for the invite—it sounds amazing!

  (I allowed myself one exclamation mark to make him feel comfortable.)

  I don’t think I’ll be able to make it unfortunately. Things have been pretty crazy around here after Teddy went missing. There’s police everywhere. The woman across the street found his blanket, and this morning they said they found some of his blood

  I stopped. I suddenly had a thought. I looked down from the window and saw Officer Campen standing outside next door. He was rocking onto his toes and then back onto his heels like he was on some kind of invisible swing. I quickly ran downstairs and opened the front door. The step looked too filthy for my bare feet, so I held onto the doorframe with my fingertips and leaned forward.

  “Officer Campen!”

  The policeman was staring across the street vacantly as he stifled a yawn.

  “Hey! Officer Campen!”

  He looked around, frowning.

  “I need to tell you something. It’s about Teddy!”

  The policeman darted over to the fence between our front gardens.

  “What is it? You saw someone, didn’t you? I knew it …”

  My fingers hurt as I dangled around the doorframe at an awkward angle.

  “No, no I didn’t, but it’s about the blood. The blood they found on the blanket? Teddy scratched himself when he was picking the petals off the roses. I remembered just now—I didn’t write it down for some reason.”

  The policeman kept turning behind him, making sure no one was venturing near the house.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because I was watching him. He was picking petals and caught his arm on a thorn and he dabbed at the bloody scratch with his blanket. Get it? The blood they found doesn’t mean he’s been hurt.”