by Sarah Lotz
Even though she is a princess, we have more in common than I thought possible. She has also had a hard time in the past like me. We have the same views on everything: society, music, gaming, even politics. Yeah, we have heavy conversations sometimes!
Even started telling her stuff I haven’t told anyone before.
She helped me find a job at a Lawsons outlet, so I now have some money coming in (not much, but enough to keep me from starving).
This is going to sound lame… but sometimes I have this dream that we are married and living together in an apartment and we never have to go out.
NAME: ANONYMOUS200
Aw. Yr making me jealous here, Orz.
NAME: ANONYMOUS201
Sounds like lurve.
NAME: ANONYMOUS7889
Come on, Orz Man, tell us about Hiro. Have you met his surrabot yet?
NAME: ANONYMOUS1211
What does he think about the Cult of Hiro?
NAME: ORZ MAN
Guys, no offence, but this is a public message board and I can’t talk about this in detail. The princess will freak out if anything I said got into the magazines.
NAME: ANONYMOUS111
U can trust us, Orz, but see yr point.
NAME: ORZ MAN
Let’s just say that a certain person is soothing to be around. Not like anyone I have ever met.
That is all I am going to say.
NAME: ANONYMOUS764
How often do you see the princess?
NAME: ORZ MAN
Almost every night. Her parents are kind of strict, and they wouldn’t approve of her seeing someone like me so we have to sneak around.
There’s a small children’s playground opposite her house and I wait there for her. There’s an apartment block next to it, so sometimes I feel like I’m being watched, but I can stand it.
NAME: ANONYMOUS665
Orz smokes another cigarette, waiting for his princess to come out and join him. He knows he looks cool. Maybe tonight will be the night. Some of the neighbours look out of their windows at him but he knows they won’t mess with him. He flexes his muscles and they disappear.
NAME: ANONYMOUS9883
The ice princess runs out of the door wearing nothing but a short dress that is see thru…
NAME: ANONYMOUS210
The princess falls into his arms and she doesn’t care who is watching her…
[The thread is disrupted by graphic descriptions of a sexual nature]
NAME: ORZ MAN
*blushes*
Can u imagine if she ever read that?
NAME: ANONYMOUS45
Dude, tell us that you did it with her for reals.
NAME: ORZ MAN
I got to go. She’s waiting for me.
NAME: ANONYMOUS887
Orz, don’t leave us out of it. We’re there with u every step of the way. A geek getting a princess? How often does that happen outside of galge?
NAME: ANONYMOUS2008
Yeah Orz u owe it to us to let us know how the story goes.
NAME: ORZ MAN
I know. Knowing u guys are there for us makes all the difference even if you are deranged sex fiends.
It’s good to know we r not alone.
I spoke to graphic artist and Greenpoint resident Neil Mellancamp via Skype in June 2012.
After all those whackos started showing up, no one in the neighbourhood came right out and said they wished Lillian and Bobby would move somewhere else, but you could see most of us were thinking it.
I live a few blocks from Lillian’s place, on the other side of McCarren Park, and the neighbourhood became a circus pretty much day one after they found out where Bobby lived. Whole area was buzzing. First there were the reporters and the guys who wanted a soundbite for one of their blogs or tweets or whatever: ‘What’s it like living so close to the miracle child?’ etc., etc. I always told them to go fuck themselves, although there were lots of guys in the neighbourhood who saw this as a chance for their fifteen minutes. Assholes. Then came the UFO crowd. They were totally mondo bizarro, but you could tell most of them were harmless. They’d hang out outside Bobby’s building shouting shit like, ‘I wanna go with you, Bobby!’ but the cops cleared them out. They weren’t as tenacious as the religious whack-jobs. Those ones came in waves. There were freaking scores of the fuckers when the news broke about Lillian’s husband, a whole contingent who wanted Bobby to heal them–looked to me like they’d hired themselves a bus and driven down especially from Nutsville Carolina or wherever. ‘Bobby! Bobby!’ you could hear them shout, even after it got dark. ‘I got cancer, touch me and heal me.’ Those weren’t anywhere near as bad as the nasty ones, who’d hang around the park and harass people. ‘God hates fags,’ they’d shout, but what that had to do with a six-year-old is anyone’s guess. There were others that looked like they’d fallen straight out of a comic strip: ‘The End is Near,’ and ‘Have YOU been saved?’ on their T-shirts and placards. Soon it felt like I couldn’t step outside the apartment without running into one of them. You know the neighbourhood, right? It’s a mix, like a lot of Brooklyn, you got your arty crowd, hipsters, Hasidics, lots of guys from the Dominican Republic, but the nut-jobs stood out a mile.
Don’t get me wrong, much as it all got old really quickly, I felt sorry for Lillian. Most of us did. My girlfriend reported a couple of the nastier ones for hate speech, but what could the cops do? Those freaks didn’t care if they were arrested. They wanted to be martyrs.
That morning, I was heading to work, and for some reason, I decided to take the L train rather than the bus, which meant I had to walk through the park and on past Lillian’s building. In the early mornings, a lot of what my girlfriend calls the ‘hipster dad gang’ jog through the park while pushing their baby buggies, but the guy I saw hanging around the benches near the sports centre was definitely not a stay-at-home dad who dabbled in pop-up restauranteuring or whatever in his spare time. This dude was just sitting there, but I could tell something was off with him, and not just because of how he was dressed. It was a warm morning–not hot and humid like it sometimes gets–but muggy, and this guy was dressed for winter, long black army-style trenchcoat, a black beanie hat. I nodded at him as I passed by, but he looked straight through me. I tried to shrug it off, but when I reached Lorimer I just got this feeling that I should hang around, check what he was doing in the neighbourhood. For all I knew, he could just be some poor homeless guy or whatever, but something told me to be sure. I looked around for the cops that were sometimes parked outside Lillian’s building, but I couldn’t see them. I’m not a spiritual person or anything, but this voice inside me said, Neil, go get yourself a coffee, check the dude out, and then head to work. So that’s what I did. I grabbed a large black Americano from Orgasmic Organic and started on back to the park.
When I got back to Lillian’s street, I could see the creepy dude heading towards me, walking really slowly. That feeling came back, and I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. The street wasn’t empty, there were lots of people heading out to work, but I focussed on him and sped up my pace. The door to Lillian’s apartment opened, and an old woman with dyed red hair and a kid in a baseball cap stepped out onto the pavement. I knew it was them straight away. Whoever thought up that disguise didn’t use their imagination.
‘Watch out!’ I screamed. The next bit happened fast, but also like in slow motion, if that makes sense. The creepy guy pulled out a gun–I don’t know guns so I couldn’t have told you what it was–and just started crossing the road, ignoring the traffic. I didn’t think twice. I ran straight for him, flipped the lid off the top of my coffee, and threw it right at the fucker. Right in his face. He still got a shot off, but it went wide, hit a Chevrolet that was parked in the street.
Everyone was screaming and yelling, ‘Get down, get the fuck down!’
Next thing I know, this dude came out of nowhere–found out later he was an off-duty cop who’d just gotten off work–and shouted at the gunma
n to ‘drop his fucking weapon’. The freaky dude did as he said, but by then you could see he wasn’t a threat. He was blubbering and rubbing at his eyes and face. That coffee was hot and his skin was bright red. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the road and the cop kicked his gun away and got straight on his radio.
I ran over to Lillian and Bobby. Lillian’s face was ashen, and I was scared she was going to have a heart attack or a stroke or something. But Bobby, I don’t know if it was the shock or whatever, but he’d started giggling. Lillian grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. Seemed like seconds later the street was full of police cars. That freaky dude was hauled to his feet and taken away. I hope the fucker rots in hell.
That cop called me later, said I was a hero. Mayor’s office said I was looking at a civilian medal for bravery. But I did what anyone would’ve done, you know?
I didn’t see Lillian and Bobby around the neighbourhood after that. They went to that safe house, right? That’s what the old lady who lived in their building said. Lillian sent me this really cool email, saying as how she’ll never forget what I did that day. I teared up when I read it. The next time I saw them was on the news.
This is the last email I received from Lillian Small, dated 29 May.
We’re doing the best we can, Elspeth. I’m still shaken, who wouldn’t be after something like that? But I’m trying to be strong for Reuben and Bobby. Bobby is fine–I don’t think he was really aware of what was going on.
I think I’ve given you all you wanted to know. If, in your book, you could please say that we don’t know why Reuben started talking again, but it isn’t anything to do with Bobby. I thought about denying it, after those evil men started saying it was another sign, but Betsy knows the truth and so does Bobby. I don’t want him to read this book and the news reports when he’s old enough and see that his Bubbe is a liar. I believe in my heart that Reuben made one last effort to kick Al out of his consciousness so that he could spend time with his grandson. It was the force of his love that made this possible.
They’re insisting that we move to a safe house now. There isn’t much choice if I want to keep Bobby safe. There’s talk of putting Reuben in a care facility in a different state, but I won’t have that.
No. We’re a family and we’re going to stick together whatever happens.
Transcript of Paul Craddock’s last voice recording, May/June 2012.
14 May, 5.30 a.m.
I can’t get rid of the smell. That fishy smell. The one Stephen leaves when he comes. I’ve tried everything; even resorted to scrubbing the walls with Domestos. The bleach made my eyes burn, but I couldn’t stop.
Jess didn’t take any notice as usual. She sat in the lounge watching The X Factor while her mad uncle flitted through the house with a bucket of toilet cleaner. Couldn’t give a toss, as Geoff would say. I invited Mrs E-B around; I was hoping maybe she had some old-lady wisdom about getting rid of lingering odours (I lied and said that I’d burned Jess’s fish fingers). But she said she couldn’t smell anything, apart from the eye-watering sting of bleach. She took me outside into the garden for a cigarette, patted my hand again, and said that maybe I was trying to do too much, especially with all the pressure from the media. She said I should try to cry more, get my grief out that way instead of bottling it up. Went on and on about how cut up she was when her husband died ten years ago. She said she didn’t think she’d be able to go on, but God helped her find a way.
Hello, God, it’s me, Paul. Why the fuck aren’t you listening?
It’s like I’m split in two. Rational Paul and Going Mental Paul. It’s not like it was before. That was just a depressive episode. More than once I’ve picked up the phone to call Dr K or Darren to beg them to take Jess away from me. But then Shelly’s voice pops into my head, ‘All they need is love, and you’ve got buckets to spare, Paul.’
I can’t let them down.
Could it be Capgras Syndrome? Could it?
I’ve even… God. I even made an excuse to take Jess over to Mrs E-B’s place so that I could see how Mrs E-B’s dog reacted to her. In the movies, animals can always sense if there’s something wrong with someone. If they’re possessed or whatever. But that dog didn’t do anything. It just lay there. Got to take it a day at a time.
Got to.
But the pressure of acting normal when I’m screaming inside… Jesus. The Discovery Channel wants me to do some kind of interview about how I felt when I heard the news about the crash. I can’t. Turned them down flat. And I completely forgot about a Sunday Times photo shoot that Gerry organised weeks ago. When the photographers showed up I slammed the door on them.
Gerry’s tearing his hair out, and he’s no longer buying my ‘I’m still grief-stricken’ card. He says your publishers are going to sue, Mandi. Let them. Fuck, what do I care? It’s all falling apart.
And the pills don’t work.
How the fuck did she know the Dictaphone was in her room?
21 May, 2.30 p.m.
While Jess was at school I did some more Internet research. Googled the crap out of the Pamelists, the alien theorists, even the ones who believe the kids are possessed by demons (there are a lot of these).
Because the kids. The other kids. Bobby Small and Hiro whatshisname. They’re not normal, either, are they? I could tell Lillian was hiding something when I phoned her, and now I know what it was. There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s. Everyone knows that. No. There’s something up with Bobby. And the other one, talking through an android. What the fuck is that all about?
Couldn’t find much on Kenneth Oduah apart from what I was expecting–a shedload of hysterical religious sites (The Final Proof We Need!), several satirical articles, and some bumf about him being kept at a safe house in Lagos ‘for his own safety’.
What if they are the horsemen? I know, I know. Mel especially would freak if she heard me talking like this. But just hear me out. Sane Paul won’t even take this on board, but I think we need to keep an open mind. There’s definitely something wrong with Jess. And weird shit is happening around the other two. Or three. Who the fuck knows what gubbins the other one is up to?
Aliens, horsemen or demons–oh my!
(starts sobbing)
Should I call Lillian again? I just don’t know.
28 May, 10.30 p.m.
I know I should feel sorry for Bobby after being attacked like that, but I only feel sorry for Lillian.
It’s all over the news of course. Every bloody channel. In the old days I’d try to stop Jess watching it. Keep her away from it, but why bother? It doesn’t seem to affect her either way.
On the Sky report they had a collage of photographs of the crashes and giant blown up pics of The Three. I found Jess sitting inches from the screen, her My Little Ponies littered around her, watching as Sky did a ‘timeline’ of events and brought pundits in to discuss it ad nauseam.
I made myself approach her. ‘Do you want to talk about this, Jess?’
‘Talk about what, Uncle Paul?’
‘Why that little boy is on the news. Why your photograph is on the news.’
‘No thanks.’
I hovered around for a few more seconds, then ran outside for a fag.
Darren says it’s likely that the police will be keeping a close eye on the house, just in case the religious nutters decide to jump across the Atlantic and target Jess.
Tonight after she has gone to bed, I’m going to try one last time to get Stephen to talk to me. ‘How could you let that thing in here?’ He has to mean Jess, right?
I should have done it ages ago.
I’m going to stay up all night, drink enough coffee to fell a horse, and when Stephen comes I’m going to make him talk to me.
30 May, 4.00 a.m.
I must’ve dropped off. Because when I woke up, there he was. All the lights were on, but he looked like he was in the dark. Sitting in shadow. Couldn’t see his face.
He shifted his position, and the smell was so strong I gagged.
‘What do you want? Please tell me,’ I begged him. ‘Please!’
I reached out to grab him, but there was nothing there.
I ran into Jess’s room, shook her, thrust a photo of Polly in her face. ‘This is your sister! Why don’t you fucking care?’
She turned over, stretched, and smiled at me. ‘Uncle Paul, I need to sleep. I’ve got school in the morning.’
Jesus. Could it be that she’s the rational one?
God help me.
1 June, 6.30 p.m.
A couple of cops came to see me today, showed up this morning before I was even dressed. Actually, they’re not police, but Special Branch. Sane Paul, the me before all this fucked-up shit happened, was squeeing inside. Calvin and Mason, they’re called. Calvin and Mason! Like the title of a butch cop show. Calvin’s black, speaks with a public school accent, and has shoulders like a prop forward. Totally Sane Paul’s type. Mason is older, a silver fox.
I made them tea, apologised for the lingering bleach smell (after Mrs E-B’s reaction I’ve learned not to mention the fishy rotten stench). They wanted to know if I’d had any threatening phone calls lately, like the ones we got right at the beginning when Jess first came home. I said no. Told them the truth. That the only hassle we were getting these days was from the press.
Jess was on its best behaviour of course. Smiling and laughing and acting like a charming little celebrity. Hot they may be, but I don’t think much of Mason and Calvin’s detection skills. They fell for it, of course. Hook, line and sinker. Mason even had the gall to ask if he could have a photo with her to show to his daughter.
They said they’d be keeping an eye on the house, and to give them a call if I was worried about anything. I almost said, ‘Would you mind giving my brother a warning, and telling him to leave me the fuck alone?’ My dead brother! And IT, of course. Imagine how that would have gone down.
Must stop calling Jess ‘it’. Not right, just feeds the monster.
When they left, I tried to call Lillian again. No answer.
