Cracked Lenses

by L J McIntyre

  In Google again, I search for information around the two men who went missing last year. There’s nothing new about them, who they were, how the investigation finished, if it did in fact finish. I pull up Facebook and search for one of the victims, Jonathan Leyton, but nothing comes back. I switch to Reece Morton, search for someone of that name in the Christchurch area.

  I find him. His profile photo is the same one the police issued when he first went missing. He’s young in that photo, maybe twenty, face as white as illness, eyes dark and deep-set. He looks like the type you never want to encounter at night in a secluded area.

  I click on his profile and read some of the tributes others have written on his wall.

  “Can’t believe it’s been a year. Miss you loads wherever you are,” someone called Leanne Panucci wrote.

  “We nokked some heds togever didnt we eh bro? Not the same wivout ya.” Dikka Upyours wrote.

  “You weren’t the angel they made you out to be on T.V. There’s plenty of us who couldn’t give a shit about you. You don’t deserve the headlines.” Lotte Tomlinson wrote. There are few replies to Lotte’s post, but I skip past them.

  I scour Reece’s profile, look for anything that would give me clues about why Nesgrove might have targeted him. Did they trap him like they’ve trapped me? Was he forced to go into the cabin? What was so special about him?

  I go back to the posts on his wall, take down the names of Lotte Tomlinson and Leanne Panucci, flip up an internet browser and go to an online telephone directory. I search for a Leanne Panucci in Christchurch. Just one result. I save her number to my phone and then search for Lotte Tomlinson but nothing comes up. She might be ex-directory.

  Time is running out. I slip my phone into my pocket, stand up, grab the can of petrol and walk around the back of the factory. To my right is an unkempt field. It looks like it was once a couple of football or rugby pitches, but now the forest has reclaimed much of it, the grass has grown wildly, and tall shrubs and bushes are competing with each other for space. All the way over to the far side of the field, to the right of town, is the back of the petrol station where the garage, ‘Four Wheel Fix’, is located. I might find a crowbar in there.

  I lean over the wire fence separating the factory area from the field, and gently place the petrol on the ground. I put my weight on one of the upright fence supports and jump over the barrier, make a clean landing on the ground. Petrol can now in hand, I stoop down and forge a path through the wild terrain.

  The ground is uneven, the bushes thorny, and every now and then there’s a discarded glass bottle that threatens to turn one of my ankles. To my left, there’s activity in the town, people have started their day, no doubt preparing for the Rebirthing, no doubt discussing plans for my sacrifice. In the garage, too, someone is bent over, working on the engine of a car parked on the forecourt.

  In the middle of the weeds and grass is a recently flattened area. Or perhaps, not that recent, but the grass is shorter here. It’s quite a large space. In front of me, on the ground, is a torn slip of paper with black and elegantly written text, like something written from a time when cursive was a sign of social status. The paper is crumpled, soggy and muddy, but most of the writing is legible:

  Welcome to where you never wished to be, but to where you will forever be, in some state or another, if you fail to escape before the clock strikes midnight. This is the home of the Mar…

  The paper is torn at the last word, ‘Mar’.

  It doesn’t take a big leap of imagination to figure out the missing letters are ‘tyrs’: “This is the home of the Martyrs.”

  I pocket the slip of paper before moving on toward my final destination; the garage. I wade once more through the wild grass. The closer to the garage I get, the closer I am to town; to the watching eyes and occasional passing cars. I stoop lower.

  My foot catches on something, I stumble forward, put my hand down to stop me from falling completely. The petrol can drops onto the ground, lands on its side, and I frantically try to save what I can of the liquid which is spilling furiously out.

  As soon as I lift the can, I feel the weight difference and know I’ve lost a lot of precious petrol. For crying out loud. Please let something work in my favour. Please. I look down into the can: about half the liquid still remains. That could still be enough, I try to reassure myself.

  I sneak up to the edge of the field just behind the garage where a large garbage area is. There’s a row of huge metal bins for different things like recycling and general waste, but they’re bulging and haemorrhaging plastic bags and loose rubbish.

  To the side of the bins is an area of concrete with a Perspex roof, and in that area are bigger household items like a well-used washing machine and a smashed T.V. I navigate through the household scrap and hide behind a large sofa that has been turned upside down.

  I peer over the sofa and watch the mechanic, greasy blue overalls, tightening something in the car’s engine. On the floor around him are bits of the car engine. I’ll have to wait for him to leave before I raid the place for a crowbar. I strain my eyes to see beyond the forecourt and into the garage itself for the crowbar or any other tools that might help me break into the shed. I can’t make anything out.

  I squat down behind the sofa again and glance at my watch: thirty five minutes to get back to the motel room. Something grabs my attention under the upturned sofa, something hiding beneath. I crouch lower to get a better look.

  It’s a hand, an outstretched human hand.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  I put my head down to the concrete floor to get a better view. Someone’s under the sofa, dead or unconscious; a woman maybe, or a man with long hair. They’re lying on their back and facing away from me.

  The hand moves a fraction, then the fingers stretch out. I lean away but keep my eyes on the unconscious person. The rest of her body remains motionless. On the ground by her leg is a syringe. Now I know what to look out for, I notice a belt strapped around her bicep.

  It isn’t surprising in a town like this, a town so socially deprived, that drugs are prevalent. How does this person fit into the grand scheme of the town, I wonder? Is she privy to the plan to trap me here and feed me to the demon? Or, because of her drug use, have the freaks of Nesgrove cast her out of the community, exiled her to the shadows of this sofa?

  I search the refuse area for a better place to hide where I can still watch the garage without the risk of being seen by the prostrate woman. Unsuccessful in my search, I scoot down to the end of the sofa and bunch up against a small metal storage container of some sort.

  The outstretched hand is still visible from this position. What if she’s not just doped up, but actually dying? I should call for help. That would mean I’d compromise my position. The town would know where I was.

  Who am I kidding? If Tamati and Annie were in cahoots back in Tragedy House, then isn’t this whole plan for getting the car wheels back just another game? How can I trust anything Tamati has said?

  But if I’m being honest with myself, I know that, despite these suspicions, I’m standing right where I am because there’s enough doubt in my mind, and no other viable option for me to take, that I have to go along with Tamati’s plan. I mean, what else is there to do? And what if I’m wrong about Annie?

  Nevertheless, there is a possibility that I’m blindly following the town’s directions, that I’m doing exactly as they’ve instructed, and that they’re sitting around having coffee, saying, “Yeah, he’s just hiding in the bins at the minute. I’ll call Greg the mechanic, tell him to leave the garage unattended, so poor little Jack can find his crowbar.”

  So I suppose I should be asking, why are they letting me walk freely around town? If the whole town is against me, then surely they do know I’m sitting here, which wouldn’t make any sense at all. There seems to be no actual gain for them in letting me do what I’m doing. Which could mean there really are a handful of good Samaritans looking out for me, possible distracti
ng the others or throwing them off my scent right now. Wouldn’t that be a better explanation for why I’m allowed to sit here without being confronted by anyone? So, wouldn’t that mean I should follow their advice and retrieve Betsy’s wheels?

  I eye the still liquid in the watering can beside me. Whatever is happening right now, no one knows about this, though. I slide the can between the end of the sofa and the storage container, tuck it out of sight.

  As awful a person as this may make me, I’m not going to help the stranger under the sofa. It’s too complicated. Let me just find a way out of this town first, then I’ll resolve to be a better version of myself when I’ve got the luxury of not having stark-raving nutjobs after me.

  I check my watch. Damn it, I’m not going to have enough time. I pull my phone out, key in a text to Annie: Annie, it’s Jack. I’m going to be delayed. Still at the factory right now. But don’t worry, I’m safe.

  Annie responds almost immediately:

  Please be careful, Jack. And keep me informed. I’m worried about you and don’t feel comfortable here alone. Someone’s been in the room again.

  I pocket my phone and look back at the mechanic who’s still tinkering over the engine

  “Hurry up man; how long does it take to fix a car?” I whisper under my breath.

  To the right of the garage, across the road, is the farm. I can make out the entrance to a barn, next to which the big lumberjack man is standing. He must be the resident farmer. He has a young boy with him, probably about ten years old, looks like it could be his son; similar wide-shouldered build, same dark hair, same long nose.

  They’re moving hefty bags of something, animal feed possibly, from the ground outside into the barn. The lumberjack carries three or four bags at a time, all piled up, while the boy manages to lug just the one.

  The woman under the sofa moves, her hand withdraws from view, and her foot flicks out. She groans, says something I can’t understand. I bend down and look at her. She’s facing me now, eyes closed, dried drool down the side of her mouth, skin so devoid of fat that her cheek bones look like cracked golf balls. Her lips are moving but she isn’t making a sound.

  I look back at the farm, see the boy and lumberjack take in the last of the bags. On their way out, they’re laughing at something, one of those right from the belly type of laughs. The lumberjack has his hand affectionately resting on the boy’s head. The innocence of what I’m seeing jolts me at first.

  The things I’ve witnessed since being here, the strange behaviour—everyone being possessed or behaving as if they’re empty shells—the expressionless faces; it never occurred to me that anyone in the town was capable of laughing with real tenderness.

  Once again, like Maggie in the cemetery, I’m seeing more than I’m supposed to, more than they want me to, I’m guessing. I’m seeing the real people of Nesgrove.

  What about the woman under the sofa? Is she also the real Nesgrove? Or just a dirty little secret? Maybe some people handle the supposed curse of the town by dulling their senses with drugs. Perhaps others, like the lumberjack man, handle it by entrapping visitors and sacrificing them to an evil demon in order to save their loved ones.

  Their laughter sends my blood boiling. Right now, I’m surrounded by unwanted items from an unwanted town, trash my only protection, and I’m sitting by a drug den, terrified, bleeding, close to mental collapse, and just across the road, one of my captors smiles like it’s Christmas.

  The sound of metal clanging against concrete comes from the garage. The mechanic’s dropped something on the floor. He bends down, picks it up, and rests the item on the engine. He reaches for a mug that is sitting on another section of the engine, takes a sip, looks down at the cup contents, shakes his head, and walks around the car and into the back of the garage.

  This is my window of opportunity. I’ve got the time it takes to make a hot drink to raid that garage as quietly as possible, and prey the mechanic doesn’t arrive sooner.

  Chapter Forty: Three Years Earlier

  Jack Coulson: Session Six

  “Photography isn’t the solution, Jack,” Paul said as I handed him the camera and took my usual seat.

  “But you said it would help to reduce my anxiety and it has.”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “It can be used in your recovery but it is only one small part of a much larger whole.”

  “Paul.” I sat forward, opened my palms to him. “Just look at the photos I took.”

  He turned the camera on and looked at the back screen. “There’s three thousand on here.”

  “Exactly,” I said, smiling. “Two weeks ago I could barely get out of bed. I wanted to be locked up in a mental asylum, and look at me now.”

  “I understand you’re excited and I’m happy for you. But we’re not done here—”

  “But talking about all of this has really helped me.”

  “Jack, we’ve only just started. Opening up about your past does not mean the anxiety and the struggles you’ve had are gone. We still have a lot of work to do. We haven’t gone over the attack.”

  “But I feel good. I even took your advice. I stood my ground at work. Someone tried to change my holiday dates and I flat out refused. I would never have done that before. Never.”

  “That’s fantastic. Good for you. You’re going in the right direction, and I’m happy for you—”

  “Paul, I’m better now. I really am. Look at the photos.”

  Paul put the screen up to his face and started scrolling through the images. “Lake District?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He lowered the camera to his lap. “They are very good indeed. You’re a natural.”

  “I went over there by myself. Stayed at a B&B, shot sunrise, sunset. I shot everything.”

  “You’re going a mile a minute here, Jack. Let’s calm down and talk about creating a sustainable strategy for managing anxiety.”

  “I think I’ve found it. The photography, it really helped. I put some images up on Facebook and people actually liked them. They liked my photos.”

  He crossed his legs, knotted his brows. “You should keep photography and social media separate for the time being, just until we’ve finished our work together.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re looking to others for validation, for them to tell you that your photos are good, when really photography, like any creative act, should be an extremely personal process. After a while, you’ll start creating photos based on what will give you more Likes, rather than what you take more satisfaction from. You’ll lose sight of the photographic journey, why you started it in the first place. And what happens when that one person who’s had a bad day, goes on Facebook, sees your photo and decides to take his bad mood out on you, tells you your photo is crap? How will you handle that without the right coping mechanisms?”

  I looked down and picked at my thumbnail.

  Paul leaned in. “We’ve made some fantastic progress here. Let’s keep going.”

  “I don’t want to keep going. I’m on the right track. You helped me get there.”

  “Jack, you’re pushing me away.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ll be back. I promise. I just want some time to figure things out.”

  “And what about the medication?”

  I looked at him. “What about it?”

  “You can’t keep taking it. You’ll develop a dependency. We need to wean you off it sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll just stop taking it.”

  “Going cold turkey could produce strong side effects.”

  “Like what?”

  “Heightened anxiety. Headaches. Fever.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “And if there are any other underlying issues, stopping the medication abruptly on your own could be traumatic, could lead to side effects that aren’t mentioned on the label. This is a delicate balance.”

  I stood up, walked to the door, turned and faced him. “You’ve been amazing, Pau
l. Really. I will be back to see you.”

  “Just do one thing for me, Jack.” He took his glasses off, wiped them on his sleeve. “Try not to look back too much. Don’t fixate so much on your past and what your dad did. He doesn’t define you. It’s fine to reflect a little on what has happened but more importantly, spend some time acknowledging yourself. Find out who Jack really is.”

  I nodded and walked out of his office for the final time.

  Chapter Forty One

  I bolt out of the refuse area and into the garage. The first thing I see, sitting on a shelf, is a pack of cigarettes and some matches. I pocket the matches and start frantically searching through metal cabinets, wooden cupboards, tool boxes on the floor. I go through each one and find nothing close to a crowbar. I don’t even find a hammer.

  A glass clinks from the back of the garage where a door leads to a smaller room, a kitchen, I think. I hear a cupboard slam and a packet rustling. He’s probably getting biscuits. The drink must be just about ready.

  I drop to the ground, see if there’s anything stashed out of sight under the car. Nothing there. I spring to my feet and go around all of the shelves and drawers again. I’m spinning around like the Tasmanian devil, hopping and jumping here and there. I look back at the kitchen. He’s still in there. I think I hear a teaspoon jingling on porcelain. Jesus Christ, he’s already stirring.

  I search frantically around. And I see it. A crowbar. It was in front of me the whole time, hanging up on the wall by a hook, along with other longer tools. I sprint, grab the crowbar, and just as I go to leave, I feel the crowbar tugging at something else. A hacksaw. It’s been pulled to a hair’s width of falling off its hook.

  I gently lower the crowbar back to the wall, use my fingers to untangle the two tools, and then I sprint like an Olympian back to the refuse area. Just as I throw myself to the ground, taking cover once more behind the sofa, the mechanic walks out of the kitchen with a steaming mug in his hand while munching on something.