Cracked Lenses

by L J McIntyre

  She puts her elbows on the desk, leans forward close enough for me to smell cigarettes on her breath, and says, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. But lower your voice, thank you.”

  “Okay, sorry, but something’s not right here.”

  “Look, I don’t know about any of that Facebook stuff. And as you can see, my colleague is no longer here. I sent him to check the lake out. He’ll call me as soon as he knows more. As for the car, it’s probably gone for good. This place isn’t exactly wealthy. Chances are, it’s on its way to Queenstown already.”

  “It was an old banger. Only cost me $1,000. Who the hell would want it?”

  “$1,000 goes a long way in a place like this.”

  I shake my head, realise I’m close to crying, and lower my eyes to my lap. “There was rope in the trunk of my car, cut up rope.”

  “What do you mean?” Davidson takes a sip of coffee while eyeing me.

  “Like I said earlier, there were some weirdos in the forest. When I got back to my car after the lake, the driver’s door was open. Then when I got back into town, I checked the trunk of the car and there was a hangman’s noose along with cut up rope which wasn’t there before. I think the people in the forest have set this all up.”

  “Was there anything else in there?”

  “A pair of leather gloves and a metal bar.”

  “Why didn’t you report this earlier?”

  “Because it looked suspicious.”

  She keeps her eyes on me for a few uncomfortable seconds, like a cat weighing up the benefits of toying with an injured mouse before eating it.

  “We’ll be in touch,” she says.

  Standing on the pavement outside the station, no real place to go or help to be solicited, I decide to take things into my own hands and walk the streets in search of Betsy. There are only a couple of dozen roads in the town. If she’s parked up somewhere, I might find her.

  As I hurry along the weed-lined pavements, I look in driveways and back yards large enough to hide a car, and when I see the occasional garage, I wonder what’s hidden inside. The town is quiet, ghostly quiet, like the apocalypse has been and gone and left everything in its proper place apart from the former residents. But the children survived the massacre, clearly, because every now and then kids are playing in front yards, and on one street, three little girls are skipping. On that same street, I finally see an adult—a bulldog of a woman with a full row of missing top teeth sitting on her porch—and when I ask her if she’s seen a rusty blue Ford around here, she ignores me, gazes right through me.

  On the next road I ask a kid, maybe ten years old, who is flicking mud into a gutter, if he’s seen the car. He continues flicking mud as if I were nothing more than a slight breeze, and that’s how I’m beginning to feel right now: invisible and weak.

  I continue walking and walking and finding nothing. Any hope of seeing Betsy’s rusty backside again has pretty much oozed away into the moss-lined gutters of Nesgrove’s streets. I stand on the street corner, cup my face into my hands, and beg for the power to look so pathetic right now that the rotten thief who took my car might find some pity and return her to me. Through my fingers, I see a hint of sunshine filter through the thin clouds. I slump on a patch of dry grass under a large tree.

  Nothing bad has happened to me, to my person, I remind myself. All I need to do is get out of this town. Things could be worse. At least I’m not floating in that lake like the poor girl. They must have found her body by now.

  I look up into the thick foliage of the tree and something shiny on its trunk catches my eye. I get to my feet and start reading a plaque just recently made it would seem or extremely well maintained. The inscription says:

  In nineteen twenty three, the town awoke to find Arthur Dunlovin hanging from the thickest branch of this tree. His father had hanged himself years before on the same branch. Arthur left a suicide note which contained only three words: ‘This fucking town.’

  At the bottom of the plaque, right in the centre, there’s a symbol: a triangle, in the centre of which is the outline of a hand with its fingers spread open. The same symbol I saw on the Nesgrove sign by the highway.

  “Weird little town, eh?” asks a voice from across the street.

  Standing on his patchy lawn, a tall, thin man with a thick head of white hair and a polished smile—a steaming mug in one hand—waves me over to him.

  “Seen you walking around like a lost puppy. You looking for something?” he asks.

  “My car. Someone’s stolen it.”

  “Ah yeah, that’ll be long gone now.”

  “Bollocks.” I scratch the back of my head.

  He extends his hand. I shake it but didn’t expect such a firm grip. His eyes really make contact with mine, kind of penetrating, like he’s trying to connect with me, or get the measure of me.

  “The name’s Gerald,” he says with a wink fitting of the nineteen fifties. His posture is straight up, strong, like a headteacher about to give a speech.

  “Any way to get out of this place other than hanging myself?”

  He laughs and some of his coffee spills over the side of the mug. “Hanging yourself: that’ll keep you here forever. Just ask our beloved Arthur Dunlovin.” He nods toward the hanging tree. “People still see the chap walking these streets, they reckon.”

  The way he talks, it’s different to the other locals I’ve met. They seemed scripted, almost as if they were being watched. But he’s confident, natural, like he isn’t from around here, like he’s the only humanoid in a town of androids.

  “What do you reckon?” I ask him.

  “About the ghost sightings? Load of codswallop, if you ask me.” He takes another sip. “I’ve been here on and off all my life, sixty years, and never seen a thing. Heard plenty of strange stuff, though, especially at night. But that’ll be some of the locals playing silly buggers, I reckon.”

  “Last night some people were outside my room at the motel, looking through the curtains. I thought it was in my mind—”

  “Wasn’t in your mind, son. Like I said, silly buggers.” He glances around, leans in. “But you should probably leave town as soon as you can.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The way he says it with that deep, intense stare, the hair on my arms stands up on end.

  “Am I in danger?” I ask.

  “Hopefully not, but I can’t speak for everyone around here, and let’s be honest, you look like a pink flamingo strolling around in vulture territory, know what I mean?”

  I don’t know what he means. “I know what you mean. Do you have any idea what they were doing outside my window last night?”

  “I’m the wrong man to ask, I’m afraid.”

  “You said you’ve been here all your life—”

  “On and off. Spent almost all my adult life in Auckland where I was a lecturer at university. Moved back here last year when my job ended. Used to come back regularly, though, to see the folks, but not regularly enough to be part of the town. Christ knows why the locals do what they do, but this town gets to people, and it’s got a strange past.”

  “The hanging?”

  “That, yeah, and a couple of unrelated murders. A fella killed his family, and some backpackers were murdered in the eighties, buried near the lake. Turned out it was the mayor. He killed himself, too, in the end. Like I say,” he shakes his head. “A strange past.”

  “Why move back here?”

  He takes a sip of coffee and looks toward the tree. “Well, you know, sometimes there really is no place like home. And, I suppose after my wife died, I didn’t really have a reason to stay in the city, and this property was empty—this was my folk’s place. It’s not worth anything so there was no point selling it. I sold up in Auckland and retired out here where my savings could go a lot further, you know. I still work part-time teaching at the school to keep me on my toes.”

  “How do I get out of this place, then? Without a car, I mean.”

 
“That’s the tricky part. I’d take you but I got rid of my car months ago. Look around. Most people here don’t own one. And no public transport comes this way, you see. Used to be a bus twice a week from Queenstown but not anymore. Deliveries come once or twice a week, but I think one just came yesterday.”

  “Are there any taxis?”

  “Nope, no taxis. In the next town, maybe. But that’s an hour’s drive away and they won’t come all the way here, that much is sure. Your best bet is to wait here a few days, but keep yourself to yourself, and hitch a ride on the next delivery truck. Ask Ben at the convenience store when the next one’s due.”

  “I supposed I could hike out of town until the main road, hitch a ride from there.”

  The man purses his lips, “Just doesn’t seem that safe to me, but then again I was never much of a daredevil. You know, now that I’m thinking about it, you could always go out to the forest, not far from the lake, and visit Tamati’s place. He’s a nice guy. Not from around here. He’s got a truck and sometimes taxis people to Queenstown for some extra cash. Might be happy to drive you for a fee.”

  “Can I call him?”

  “No phone. He’s off the grid, so to speak. Tries to live like an authentic Maori shaman, part of nature. You know the trail that takes you to the lake? Well, when you get to the end of that, don’t go down to the lake. Look to your right until you see a pile of stones that marks the beginning of another trail. Just follow along that and you’ll get to Tamati’s.”

  “Thank you so much for your advice. I appreciate it.”

  “Happy to help.”

  Painfully, I give up searching for Betsy and head to the motel. Crossing the main street, the same silver Mustang from last night is sitting in the motel car park.

  As I go to the steps, the window winds down and a voice hisses from inside, “You, get over here.”

  I near the open window, but not too close, and bend down, look in. The driver, the long-faced skinhead, is leaning over the gearstick toward me. “You, dick head.” His left eye twitches slightly. He licks and puckers his lips like he’s just eaten an extra bitter lemon.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “I know what you’re up to.” His eyes dart left and right, one of those required movements for any standard tough guy. He leans forward a bit more. “Don’t play the prick with me. I’ll cut you next time I see you, know what I’m saying?”

  He didn’t say that last bit like it was a question. I straighten my spine and start walking toward the steps of the motel. I don’t look back, and try not to appear scared. The car engine revs a couple of times before the car screeches out of the car park.

  That guy, I get the impression he’s every bit as awful as he’s trying to make out. He’s one of those filter-less thugs, who, unlike the rest of us, acts on impulse, doesn’t think twice about hurting someone, and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt when he does. I’ve met people like him before. I hurt one of them once, and unlike this arsehole, I still feel guilty about it.

  I need to get out of Nesgrove. Screw the police. I can deal with them in Queenstown. Just need to figure out a way to leave.

  I collect my bags from my room and head down to reception.

  “Here’s the key,” I hand the key to Maggie.

  She regards it without moving.

  “Umm…sorry, you’ve missed the checkout time. If you want to leave, you’ll have to pay for another night’s stay.”

  “Checkout time? It’s just past nine in the morning.”

  “Checkout is at nine.”

  “That’s insane. Checkout is never that early.”

  “Umm, well, it is here.”

  “Regardless, I checked out earlier, before nine.”

  “Nope, you just gave me the money for last night. You officially check out once you hand me the key.”

  “I’m not paying.”

  She points to the phone. “Well, the police are thirty seconds away, young man.”

  The last thing I need is the police being told I’m trying to leave town.

  “For Christ’s sake. Fine. I’ll pay for another night. But I can’t wait to get out of this place.”

  “It’s $40—”

  “I know, I know, $40 a night.” I feel like I’m starting to lose what little control I have over myself. I’m getting angry with a little old lady. “Sorry, I’m just a bit stressed,” I say to her before I leave.

  What was I thinking? Where could I go? Hike to the highway twenty kilometres away with forty kilograms of gear on my back?

  I drop my bags off at my room and head to the café for more coffee and a place to plan my next steps. The girl from the motel’s there, her backpack on the floor, and she’s sipping a drink. She looks up at me, and her smile and wide eyes almost reach out to me, invite me to sit next to her. She’s worried about something or scared or I’m imagining it because that’s how I feel.

  “Coffee, please,” I say to the young guy.

  I take a seat not far from the girl and contemplate talking to her but my thoughts are fractured and moving too quickly. There’s every chance I’d break out in gibberish if I opened my mouth right now. No, I need to think things through, try to figure out what’s happening, and more importantly, how to get out of this place.

  I look outside the window at the empty street, at the motel across the road, at the wild and spindly fingers of green that cut between, and sometimes straight through large paving slabs. And someone in bare feet walks across the pavement. Bare feet?

  It’s a woman, mid-thirties, wearing what looks like a cream-colour nightgown. Her face, it takes a moment to register in my mind, is pale blue, cut and beaten, thick blood caked to her forehead, cheek and down her neck. She stops at the window, turns and gazes at me.

  “What the…?” I say out loud and look around at the others in the café—at the young employee and three customers, including the girl. Their eyes collectively move toward the window and then back to me.

  No one’s responding, not shocked, not running to the door to help, nothing.

  She puts the tips of her fingers against the window and holds her brown eyes on me. I look back at the others, and still nothing, and now I’m swimming in confusion and worry for the woman.

  Just as I stand up, ready to go outside, I swivel my eyes back to the empty street. Empty? The woman’s gone. I lower myself back down onto my seat.

  “Didn’t anyone see that?” I ask out loud. They all ignore me as if I’m the crazy one. That’s friggin’ rich coming from this lot. Maybe I am going insane. My hand has been trembling non-stop since this morning.

  “Excuse me,” a voice pulls me from my thoughts. The backpacker girl is smiling at me, and I attempt a smile back. She casts a subtle glance around the room while asking, “Would you like to join me?”

  I hesitate for a moment.

  She pats the seat opposite her.

  I move over to her table.

  “I’m Annie.”

  “Jack, nice to meet you.” I try to focus my mind on her.

  The young guy brings my coffee to the table and I take a sip. Annie finishes the last of her toast.

  “Are you okay?” she asks me.

  Her eyes are such a deep blue that they seem to reach out at me, grab me by the collar, make me stare into them. They help to pull my spinning mind toward a single direction.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just, you seemed worried about something outside.”

  “No, forget it. I thought I saw something.” I hold up my mug and offer a fake grin. “Too much caffeine this morning, I think. How was the toast?”

  “Nice and goldeny. Are you travelling alone?” She smiles as she talks but her knee is tapping rapidly and her fingernail is picking at the side of her mug. She wants to communicate something else to me, but I’ll be dammed if I can figure out what it is.

  Her smile slopes noticeably, high on the right, low on the left. It’s very distinctive and endearing, almost as if she can’t quit
e let herself smile fully.

  “Yeah, I’m a travel photographer. You?”

  “Cool. I’m just backpacking around New Zealand, see what’s happening.”

  “You a Kiwi?”

  “Yep, from New Plymouth. You from England?”

  All of these questions, the way we’re sitting, even the tones of our voices, none of it feels real somehow. She bites her lip, her eyes dart left and right.

  “Yeah, Newcastle.”

  “Really? My uncle is from Whitley Bay.”

  “I used to work in Whitley Bay.”

  Under the table, she places her foot on top of mine and presses down. What is she trying to say? She subtly points her eyes toward the door.

  “It’s a small world,” she says.

  I gulp most of the coffee down. “Fancy a stroll?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me take that.” I pick up her backpack. “We can drop it off in my room if you’ve already checked out.”

  “Sure, yeah, you’re at the motel, too, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but not through choice,” I say as we leave the café.

  Once we’re outside, she looks up at me and whispers, “This place is fucked up.”

  Chapter Thirteen: Three Years Earlier

  Jack Coulson: Session Three

  Paul leaned in, rested his elbows on his knees and asked, “Did anything happen to you in the build-up to the incident? Anything that might have caused you to check out?”

  I walked around his room, looking at various photos and educational certificates hanging up. One of the photos was of his little girl, Dotty. I kept my back to him, pretended to read one of his certificates. “My girlfriend cheated on me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I shrugged.

  “And what is your relationship with her now?” he asked.

  “Over.” I turned around. “I saw a message flash up on her phone one night from a guy.”

  “And did you confront her about it.”

  “Confrontation isn’t my style.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  I looked up and saw he was smiling. I sat down opposite him on the sofa and crossed my arms. “She came clean about the whole thing a few days later. Suddenly found a guilty conscience.”