Black's Creek

by Sam Millar

  ‘Why would he question us?’ Brent replied, looking directly at me. ‘Isn’t that right, Tommy?’

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘Of course he won’t,’ Brent responded, as I stumbled to find an answer. ‘We’re just three kids. Who’d suspect us? Plus, don’t forget all the enemies Not Normal has. Remember, someone tried to set fire to his trailer a few weeks back. That will help keep the questions away from us. Right, Tommy?’

  I hesitated before answering. ‘I suppose …’

  From his pocket, Brent magically produced two pairs of latex kitchen gloves.

  ‘Once we’re finished, I’ll burn these. It’s important we leave no prints behind. I saw an episode of ‘Columbo’ where the murderer was caught when Columbo discovered prints inside the fucking gloves. We don’t want any fuck-ups like that, do we?’

  Horseshoe and I nodded, and at that moment – too late – I realised I’d underestimated Brent’s conviction to his harebrained plan.

  ‘Remember: we’re blood-brothers. This secret dies with us in the grave,’ continued Brent, handing me a pair of gloves. ‘If any one of us becomes a rat, may he burn in Hell for all eternity. Say it.’

  ‘May he burn in Hell,’ Horseshoe echoed, his voice a nervous quiver.

  ‘Tommy? You gotta say it too.’

  I licked dry lips before answering. ‘May … he burn in Hell …’

  ‘We’ll meet back here tomorrow night, early,’ Brent said. ‘Best we aren’t seen together before then. And remember, blood-brothers: this is for Joey.’

  As I made my way back home, a murder of crows spread out in a long black stream across the pale blue night sky. They cawed to each other in little sporadic bursts. It sounded like a warning.

  Chapter Seven

  Into the Fiend’s Lair

  He was a ferocious man. He had been ill-made in the making. He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork.

  Jack London, White Fang

  In the strange geometry of night, Armstrong’s trailer had the intimidating structure of a large jail cell, an image reinforced by its barred windows and daunting metal doors. It was parked illegally on contested ground just outside town. In the iron darkness, a faint pencil-thin light filtered from the trailer’s back window.

  For the last hour, the three of us had been doing a stakeout from a derelict hardware store, just across from the trailer. We were like burglars, casing the place to appropriate all necessary information, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

  As Brent had predicted, Armstrong was home. We had watched him arrive less than thirty minutes ago. Deep down inside, I was hoping he wouldn’t appear, praying for a miracle that he’d be hit by a speeding car, or killed by a robber watching him leave the Strand. Anything but this.

  ‘Who the hell did an SBD?’ Brent said, waving away the acrid smell of a nasty fart. ‘Someone shit their pants, by the smell of that.’

  It was mine, but I pinched my nose and quickly pointed an accusing finger at Horseshoe, a notorious dropper of Silent But Deadly farts.

  ‘Wasn’t me!’ Horseshoe protested his innocence. Even in the dull light, I could see his face getting redder by the second. ‘I swear to Jack Kirby and the Fantastic Four, it wasn’t me!’

  ‘Enough!’ Brent said, glaring at Horseshoe. ‘Okay, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Know what to do?’

  Horseshoe nodded. ‘Tap on the door and ask for directions. Tell Armstrong I’m lost and thirsty.’

  ‘It’s important you don’t forget to say you’re thirsty. Understand?’

  I didn’t understand the importance of Horseshoe having to say he was thirsty. Not at that moment. I figured it was just a stalling tactic. By the time I learned the truth, it would be too late – for us all.

  ‘Yes, I understand that part,’ Horseshoe said. ‘But … but what if Armstrong recognises me?’

  ‘Why the hell would he recognise you? He doesn’t even know you.’

  ‘He might remember me from the Strand. I go to a lot of movies.’

  ‘Stop making excuses. Besides, it’s too dark. And anyway, even if he does, it won’t matter.’ Brent grinned, and produced the gun. ‘Dead men tell no tales.’

  ‘Dead men? But … you said we were gonna shoot him in the nuts. You never said anything about killing him.’

  Brent brought his face close to Horseshoe’s. ‘You want him to come looking for us? Is that what you want? Looking over your shoulder for the rest of your sorry life, for him to dick you like he did poor Joey?’

  It was a line, verbatim, I had read in one of the crime mags. No doubt Brent had practised it, maybe in front of a mirror, before using it. I was still wondering when Brent was going to call it all off. I was sure his game plan was to rely on Horseshoe or me backing out first. That way, he would save face and still be king of his imaginary kingdom. This was why he was upping the stakes to killing, rather than the plain old bullet in the nuts. He knew one of us would call a halt to this madness at any moment. None of us was a murderer, after all. We were kids, for God’s sake.

  ‘Well?’ Brent said. ‘Anyone got any objections?’

  I was still calling his bluff, remaining silent. I knew it was only a matter of time. He’d go on to the very last moment before calling everything off. Then he would be the one to lose face. Not me.

  ‘I need to piss,’ Horseshoe said, moving to the back of the old building.

  ‘Now you need to piss? Hurry the fuck up.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me when to take a piss.’ Horseshoe disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘Just don’t forget and take a shit, while you’re at it,’ Brent smirked.

  ‘Can’t you just shut up for one minute?’ Horseshoe’s annoyed voice came out of the darkness.

  ‘He’s shitting himself, isn’t he?’ Brent said, staring at me.

  It was almost five minutes before Horseshoe reappeared.

  ‘You okay now?’ Brent was grinning. ‘You look a lot thinner than when you went in.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Horseshoe’s petrified face was bone-pale.

  ‘Ready to rock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tommy? Got the gloves on?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, holding up my hands.

  ‘Good. Let’s move out – quietly.’

  I grabbed the half-can of gasoline, easily siphoned from Dad’s police vehicle earlier that night, and followed behind Horseshoe and Brent into the darkness, all three of us first crouching, then crawling on our bellies and elbows. Our shadows hurrying alongside us looked deformed, misshapen.

  Without a word, Brent stood and sprinted towards a family of trees ten yards from the trailer. Once there, he waved us over. We quickly followed suit.

  ‘Leave the can here,’ he whispered, as soon as I reached the trees. ‘We’ll come back for it.’

  I set the can down, awaiting further instructions.

  ‘We’re gonna have to crawl from here, so that he doesn’t spot us.’ Brent immediately went back on belly and elbows. ‘Come on. Follow me.’

  We crawled behind Brent like characters from The Great Escape. A few seconds later, we reached the back of the trailer, and stood. Dull sounds were coming from within. We could feel the presence of the animal, lurking inside his metal box.

  Brent edged his face upwards, glancing furtively in through the back window. ‘The perv’s watching one of his porno movies. Check it out, Tommy.’ His voice was an exaggerated stage whisper, his eyes dancing with excitement.

  I didn’t want to check it out. My heart hadn’t stopped thumping in my head for the last twenty minutes, and now it seemed to have moved up a notch. Bats were flying around inside my stomach. I wanted to throw up.

  Pressing my face partially against the window, I focused my eyes. It was semi-dark inside, but the luminous light from th
e television helped. Armstrong’s skin had the pinkish tone of a healing wound. A trellis of wrinkles covered it in thick lines, guarding eyes as dark as the undersides of decayed leaves.

  His eyes are black as coffee, I thought to myself. They’ve no pupils.

  Armstrong was wearing a pair of ragged jeans and a filthy vest. He was sitting on a battered armchair, bottle of beer in hand, grinning lips slippery and snail-like. His eyes kept flickering with excitement. He seemed engrossed in whatever was on the television screen. I couldn’t tell if it was a porno, but I took Brent’s word for it.

  ‘Did you see him, Tommy?’ Brent said. ‘The disgusting bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw him.’

  It was Horseshoe’s turn to crane his neck up and steal a glance through the window.

  ‘Okay, Horseshoe. Make a move for the door. Don’t forget your story of being lost and thirsty.’

  ‘I … I don’t know if I can do it, Brent. Not Normal looks even creepier sitting in there. What if he has a knife or something?’

  ‘Stop being such a sissy. Anyway, it’s too late to chicken out now. We’ll be right behind you. Don’t worry.’

  But Horseshoe did look worried. He didn’t move.

  ‘You … you won’t let him kill me, will you, Brent?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s the one who’s gonna get killed.’ Pulling it out with a flourish from the waistband of his jeans, Brent brandished the Luger, and placed it against Horseshoe’s face. ‘Now, move!’

  Horseshoe edged his body painfully slowly along the front of the trailer. Even in the dull moonlight, I could see the terror on his face. I wanted to scream at him to run, to run like hell, but I was a coward, and kept my mouth shut.

  What seemed like an eternity went by before Horseshoe began rapping timidly on the door.

  I quickly glanced in at Armstrong. He was sipping his beer.

  Horseshoe rapped on the door again.

  Armstrong’s face tightened. He seemed to be straining to listen. He reached over and lowered the volume on the television, before slowly walking to the door, beer in hand.

  The door opened, washing Horseshoe in bleaching white.

  ‘Yeah? What ya want?’ snarled Armstrong.

  Horseshoe looked like a tiny lamb, being sized up at the slaughter house.

  ‘I’m …’

  For the longest seconds, Horseshoe said nothing. I could feel the tension radiating from Brent. I glanced at him, and he was mouthing something inexplicable, as if trying to send secret commands to Horseshoe’s brain.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ said Armstrong. ‘Speak up, boy. What the hell is it you want?’

  ‘I’m … I’m lost, Mister. Could … could you give me some directions on how to get home … please?’

  ‘Home? Where the hell’s home, boy?’

  ‘Fair … Fairbanks. I live in Fairbanks.’

  ‘Fairbanks? You’re a long way out. What’re you doing in this neck of the woods?’

  I could detect suspicion in Armstrong’s voice.

  ‘I … I was with a couple of friends, camping in Black’s Wood, but we split up after a stupid argument,’ Horseshoe said. ‘Now I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home. Will you help me? Please?’

  ‘Camping’s illegal in the woods. Don’t you know that?’

  ‘You … you’re not going to call the cops, are you? Please don’t. My parents would skin me alive.’

  ‘Even if I had a mind to get the cops involved, I don’t have a phone, so you can relax.’

  ‘Thanks …’

  ‘Well, you better come in. I’ll give you directions. You hungry, boy?’

  ‘No, sir, but I’m very thirsty.’

  The trailer door slammed, cutting off the light. The night was dark as ink.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I said in a panic.

  ‘We wait until Armstrong comes to the back of the trailer. That’s where he keeps his cola.’

  Brent eased his face along the window, eyeballing the scene. I took the other corner of the window. I could see Horseshoe standing at the doorway, looking petrified. Armstrong was smiling like a hungry diner reading a menu, with Horseshoe the day’s special.

  Without warning, Armstrong turned, and looked directly at us.

  Shit!

  Brent and I ducked down immediately. My whole body seized up, like a propeller on a boat coming to an abrupt, shuddering halt.

  Above me, I could hear movement approaching in the trailer, then the sound of a cupboard opening.

  Brent stretched his head back up, and peered into the trailer. I reluctantly followed. Armstrong was removing a bottle of cheap cola from an overhead cupboard. Easing the cap from the bottle, he began pouring the cola into a tall glass. Only now did I realise that he was using the open cupboard door as a shield. I almost missed his sleight-of-hand, as he added a little touch of clear liquid from a small bottle into the cola.

  What the hell is Armstrong doing? I swivelled my head around to Brent. He was gripping the Luger so tightly, his knuckles looked like they were ready to pop from their enclosure. I watched in horror as Brent brought the muzzle of the gun up to the window, hands trembling violently.

  He’s going to do it, I thought, sweating prayers as he took his shaky aim. He’s really going to pull the trigger and shoot Armstrong in the head!

  All of a sudden, Armstrong swung his face around towards our window. He was so close I could see age spots running down the side of his face, like tear tattoos on a convict.

  My nerves were tightening like guitar strings. I hadn’t breathed in a long time. I was certain he’d seen us. He continued gazing intently at the window. A stabbing pain shot through my stomach, like my intestines were unravelling. I stifled a surge of nausea, waiting for the pervert to scream at us. He didn’t. It wasn’t until much later that I realised he wasn’t looking at us at all, but at Horseshoe’s mirrored image reflecting on the window.

  Turning, Armstrong headed back down the trailer towards Horseshoe.

  ‘Shit!’ I said, releasing all the trapped air from my lungs. ‘Brent? We can’t let Armstrong do this to Horseshoe. That was probably poison he was pouring into the glass. He’ll kill Horseshoe. Brent …?’

  But Brent didn’t respond. He simply stood there, zombiel-ike, pointing the gun at the window, his face as white and stark as the moon now washing over us. It was then I noticed the enormous dark patch in Brent’s washed-out jeans. He’d pissed himself.

  ‘Brent!’ I shouted, not caring any more whether Armstrong could hear us. ‘Snap the hell out of it! We’ve gotta do something – now!’

  ‘I … I … I …’ His lips were barely moving.

  ‘C’mon!’ I ran around to the front of the trailer. Not stopping to think, I kicked in the door and leaped inside.

  Horseshoe’s look of relief was matched by Armstrong’s look of shock, as he spilled the cola all over his filthy vest and the floor.

  ‘Run! Run like hell!’ I shouted.

  Horseshoe didn’t need to be told twice. He was past me and out of there like his ass was on fire. I was right behind, picturing Armstrong breathing down my neck, ready to grab and strangle me.

  We ran quickly to the end of the trailer to get Brent, but he was already running in the opposite direction, towards Black’s Wood.

  A hand roughly grabbed my arm, squeezing down on it.

  ‘You little bastard!’ Armstrong hissed. ‘I’ll kill you for this.’

  ‘Keep off me!’ I tried pushing away from his filthy body, but his grip was like a bear trap.

  ‘Scream all you want. Ain’t no ears hearing.’ Armstrong tightened his grip. ‘I’m gonna teach you a lesson you’ll not forget in a hurry.’

  Just as I thought I was finished, I heard a voice in the darkness, shouting, ‘Leave him alone, you filthy pervert!’

  It should have been big tough guy Brent doing all the shouting, but it wasn’t. In a blur, I remember watching Horseshoe run towards Armstrong, a great piece of branch woo
d in his hands. He swung the branch in a wide arc, whacking Armstrong across the front of the head. I’ll never forget how Armstrong’s head recoiled back, as if attached to an invisible elastic band.

  Armstrong screamed, releasing his grip on me. He staggered back, like a drunk in the night.

  ‘Run!’ Horseshoe shouted.

  We ran and ran, not knowing if we were running in the right direction, not caring.

  ‘Run all you want, little girlies. I’m a-coming for you!’ Armstrong’s voice screamed, somewhere in the darkness.

  Somehow, in all the confusing madness, Horseshoe and I eventually found our way home. Outside my house, we both hid in the shadows of overgrown bushes, avoiding the lights.

  ‘That took balls, Horseshoe, what you did back there, rescuing me from Armstrong,’ I whispered.

  ‘What else could I do? You got me out of his trailer, and that took balls. Now we’re balls even,’ Horseshoe said, grinning with pride. ‘What happened to Brent? Where’d he vanish to?’

  I thought of all the cheap bravado pouring from Brent’s mouth; how he had almost gotten Horseshoe poisoned – or worse. I thought of the accusing piss stain on his jeans. That stain would never erase from memory, and he would never forgive me for seeing it.

  ‘I don’t know and don’t care what happened to him, Horseshoe. Just make sure you don’t say a word about this to anyone, ever, otherwise we’ll all be in the shit.’

  Horseshoe looked nervous. ‘Do you … do you think Armstrong recognised us?’

  ‘Naw. Not a hope,’ I said, believing the opposite. ‘It was too dark. Besides, it was all over in a minute. He hadn’t time to recognise any of us.’

  ‘Then he won’t be coming to kill us while we’re in bed, in the darkness?’

  ‘Don’t talk silly. Get home and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Horseshoe walked away, glancing nervily in all directions like a fox. I watched him for a few seconds, before taking a few deep breaths and going inside, praying to be undetected by Mom.

  Sneaking upstairs, I practically fell into bed. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, waiting for Armstrong to come and kill me in the darkness.