Sarah tried to reach out and grab hold of the doorframe, but her fingers passed through it like smoke.
She fell backward from the slowly moving train, hit the ground and rolled. By the time she looked up, she could hear it picking up speed, could feel the breeze of its passing, but she couldn’t see it any more.
The 3:18 had come and gone.
Sarah stared at the place where it had been until even the most distant whistle had disappeared, and all she had left was the memory of it. Somehow she knew that she would never hear the whistle of the 3:18 again.
For what seemed an eternity, she sat and waited to die. And when she did not die, she held her hands up in front of her face and looked at her wrists. The right still bled, though not much, and the other had begun to close already. Blood clotted and dried and crusted over. She had not cut deeply enough.
Sarah screamed, enraged that she still lived.
And then she cried.
So lonely, but alive.
In time she rose, weak and disoriented from blood loss, and followed the train tracks until she found her car. She managed to open the door and slid behind the wheel. Sarah wrapped her jacket tightly around her wrists, tangling herself up to stop any further bleeding, but could do no more. Unconsciousness claimed her.
Some time later, with the sky beginning to lighten in the east, her eyes fluttered open. Her cell phone had been in her jacket pocket, and it was ringing. Freeing one hand, she managed to retrieve it.
Paul.
Sarah opened the phone and fumbled it to her ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘you had me so scared.’
‘I miss Jonah,’ she mumbled.
He cried then, for the first time in a very long time, and Sarah knew that they had both bid farewell to ghosts that night.
Christopher Golden is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood, Of Saints and Shadows, and The Map of Moments (with Tim Lebbon). He has also written books for teens and young adults. Golden frequently collaborates with other writers on books, comics, and scripts, and is also known for his many media tie-in works, including novels, comics, and video games, in the worlds of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hellboy, Angel, and X-Men, among others. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His graphic novel series Cemetery Girl, written in collaboration with Charlaine Harris, is published by Jo Fletcher Books. You can visit him at www.christophergolden.com.
An Imaginary Friend • by Sue Tingey
An Imaginary Friend
by Sue Tingey
Mrs McLuskey couldn’t help but notice little Timmy Anderson when she looked down onto the schoolyard below. As usual he was alone, sitting on the bench under the old oak tree at the edge of the tennis courts.
It was as though he was in his own private exclusion zone. All the other children were a good few yards away, playing in groups and, as usual, ignoring him.
He wasn’t a bad child, but she had to admit, he was strange. The other children knew it and shied away from him at best, or bullied him at worst. Children could be so cruel. They teased him because he had no parents. They teased him because he lived with an elderly aunt who, although well intentioned, dressed him in second hand uniforms two sizes too big. And, most of all, they teased him because he had an imaginary friend who he whispered to unashamedly throughout the day.
The psychiatrist from social services had said Timmy was ‘compensating for the loss of his parents and his loneliness’. She’d said his imaginary friend – Tommy – was a companion who would never hurt him by leaving, or, as in the case of his parents, dying. Timmy shut out anyone who wanted to get close to him in favour of Tommy, because that way he would never be hurt again.
Mrs McLuskey thought the psychiatrist was full of shit, but she had to agree with one thing: Timmy didn’t appear to mind being alone. He never tried to join in with the other kids, preferring his own company and that of Timmy’s.
On several occasions she had tried to gain his trust, but to no avail. He never smiled, nor did he cry, although at times she could have wept for him. She was sure the bigger boys were bullying him, but he would never tell. If asked, he would just shrug and stare at his shoes in silence.
She had spoken to Mr Sykes, the headmaster, about the possible bullying, but he was more interested in the school’s grade averages than a small, strange child who spoke to himself. So, unless Timmy complained, no one could do a single thing about it.
*
Timmy knew he was in deep trouble. The Townsend boys had been watching him all break and he could tell by the smug, mean grins on their faces that they were cooking up something particularly nasty. Their pursuit of him was relentless.
Over the past few weeks they had taken great pleasure in trashing his games kit, pouring ink in his jacket pockets and making him the butt of many more of their pranks. However, these last few days things had taken a disturbing turn for the worse; they had started to get physical – punching him, pushing him and then, only two days ago, they’d followed him into the boy’s cloakroom. Once they had assured themselves that they had him alone, they had pushed him into a cubicle, forced his head down the pan as far as they could and pulled the chain.
The older of the two brothers nodded in Timmy’s direction and muttered something to the other boy, causing him to laugh out loud.
Timmy grimaced. ‘What am I going to do, Tommy?’ he whispered, ‘I wish you could help me.’
The afternoon bell rang and all the kids began filing back to their classrooms for the last few lessons of the day. Timmy got up and jogged across the playground to catch up with the other children. The last thing he wanted was for the Townsend boys to catch him on his own. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, but they were nowhere to be seen.
The afternoon flew by. Timmy didn’t hear a word Mrs McLuskey said, he was too churned up inside. The hands on the classroom clock swung relentlessly around its face, getting ever nearer to 3:30 p.m. and the final bell, when he would be easy pickings for the Townsends. His only hope was to make sure he left the building with all of the other kids and then, as soon as he got outside the gates, run like the wind. He may be small but he was also fast. He could just make it.
Three minutes before home time he started to push his books and pencils together into a small pile, ready to scoop into his bag. Two minutes before the final bell he quietly moved his chair back from his desk for a quick getaway. One minute to go and he slid his books and pencil case into his bag. At last the bell clamoured throughout the building announcing the end of the school day. Timmy jumped to his feet.
‘Timmy,’ Miss McLuskey called over the din of scraping chairs and slamming desks. ‘Could you wait a moment please? I need to speak to you.’
Defeated, Timmy dropped back onto his chair. Mrs McLuskey was his favourite teacher. She always gave him a smile and was nice to him. She really seemed to care, but today of all days her well-meant concern was going to get him a beating or probably something worse.
‘Timmy, are you okay?’ she asked, crouching down beside him.
He nodded, eyes downcast.
‘Timmy, look at me.’
He slowly looked up, his eyes meeting hers. Mrs McLuskey tried to gulp down the lump that had appeared in her throat. He looked so vulnerable and so very frightened.
‘Timmy,’ she managed to ask, ‘what’s wrong?’
His eyes dropped back to the desk.
‘Nothin’.’
She stood and looked down over his bent head for a few moments. ‘Okay,’ she said at last, ‘you’d better get home.’
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Timmy grabbed his bag, leaped up from his seat and was out of the classroom door.
She looked after him in
surprise. Something was going on and she just hoped it was nothing more than Timmy wanting to get home for a special occasion, or to watch his favourite television show. Somehow, she doubted it.
*
Timmy flew along the empty corridors, hoping against hope that the Townsends had given up on him.
‘We may make it, Tommy,’ he said as he ran. ‘We’re nearly there.’
He was so close to the main door that he only needed to reach out to touch it, but as soon as he felt the grip of a hand on his collar he knew he was lost. He struggled to pull out of his jacket, but it was too late. He was grabbed by both arms and dragged backwards, away from the door.
‘Don’t call out, you little turd,’ Frank Townsend growled, close to his ear. ‘You do, and next time we give you a bog shampoo I’ll hold you down until you puke up your guts.’
All the fight drained out of Timmy’s spindly frame. He knew he couldn’t best them. Frank was at least two years older than he was and almost three times as big, and although George only had a year on Timmy he was not much smaller than his brother.
Frank forced Timmy’s arm up behind his back and spun him around, frogmarching him down the stairs and into the gym. George followed behind, keeping a watchful eye out for teachers.
Timmy felt a small glimmer of hope. If he could escape in the gym he might just be able to out manoeuvre them. At the very least someone might hear his cries for help. All thoughts of escape died almost immediately as Frank propelled the small boy across the gym and through the double swing doors into the boys’ locker room. There, no one would hear his screams and in the confined space between the rows of lockers he would have no chance to dodge his captors’ kicks and punches.
‘Tommy, I’m dead,’ he said.
‘What’s that, you little freak?’ Frank asked, twisting Timmy’s arm even harder.
‘Nothin’.’ I won’t cry, Tommy. I won’t cry.
‘Well, have we got a surprise for you,’ Frank said. ‘Since you’re all alone in the world we thought we’d set you up with a new friend.’
Frank and George exchanged a nasty smirk, then Frank pushed the small boy away from him and said, ‘Strip.’
Timmy stared at him blankly.
‘I said strip, what don’t you understand?’
Timmy shook his head and backed away as far as the confined space would allow.
‘OK, George, looks like he needs a little help.’
Timmy tried to fight them off, but he stood no chance against the older boys and within a few minutes he was left standing scared and naked against the dressing room wall.
‘Ha, ain’t he sweet?’ said Frank. ‘Come on George, help me get little Timmy ready for his blind date.’
They each grabbed hold of one of Timmy’s scrawny arms and dragged the struggling boy across the changing room to a large, old-fashioned iron radiator. George pulled a pair of stockings out of his pocket and passed one strip of nylon to his older brother.
Frank hooked his right foot behind Timmy’s calves and with a jerk pulled the boy’s feet from under him. Timmy’s head hit the radiator with a crack that made him see stars. By the time he could think straight, each wrist was tied securely to either end of the radiator, his back tight against the warm metal and his buttocks flat against the cold floor. Timmy was scared. Whatever the older boys had in store for him was too awful to imagine.
‘We’ll be leaving you now, but don’t worry, you won’t be lonely for long.’ George sniggered. ‘Oh no, you’ll soon have company.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Timmy, at last finding his voice.
‘Come on, Timmy, don’t be thick. Who looks after the school after hours? Who walks round the school every night before locking up?’
Timmy’s eyes widened.
‘I think he’s getting the idea, George. One more clue. Who likes little boys and tries to sweet talk them into his room in the basement?’
Timmy began to struggle.
‘You got it. Irv the Perv. He’ll think all of his birthdays have come at once when he finds you here all ready and waiting.’ Frank slapped his brother across the shoulders. ‘Time for us to go. Give our regards to Irv, won’t you Timmy.’
Timmy was shaking uncontrollably. This was far worse than anything he could possibly have imagined. He had heard all the stories about Irv the Perv, or overheard anyway. None of the kids ever spoke to Timmy except to taunt him. However, it had given him comfort in the past to hear there was someone in the school who the kids hated more.
‘Ah look, George. Little Timmy’s feeling cold. He’s shivering. Perhaps we should warm him up a bit before we go.’ Frank gave his brother a nudge. ‘Come on, I think a visit to the boiler room is in order.’
George looked uncertain. ‘Is that a good idea? What if Irv’s down there in his room?’
‘He won’t be there yet. He always cleans Sykes’ room before he does anything else. Keeps him in the head’s good books.’ Frank slapped his brother on the back again. ‘Come on you wimp, let’s get on.’
George followed after his brother.
Left alone, Timmy was desperate. He struggled and struggled, but he was bound fast. ‘Tommy, help me! You’ve got to help me!’ he cried.
*
Despite his bravado Frank hesitated just outside the boiler room door. ‘You don’t think Irv will be down here yet?’ Frank asked.
‘Hope not.’
Frank took a deep breath, turned the door handle and eased the door open. Peering in, he scanned the room and then, seeing the coast was clear, ducked inside followed by his brother. The room was warm but humid. The damp air smelled of hot oil with an underlying, rather unpleasant mustiness, which neither boy could, or wanted to, identify.
Frank quickly moved across to the boiler, and after peering at the dials and gauges for a few moments, began to twist one wheel then another.
‘What are you doing?’ whispered George.
‘Turning off the heat for the upper floors and turning it up for the gym and cloakroom areas. I’m also turning up the pressure a bit.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Who the fuck cares?’
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ urged George.
Frank didn’t need persuading and, after one final glance at the boiler’s dials, sped out of the room and along the corridor followed by his brother.
*
Timmy’s back was beginning to burn. The radiator was painfully hot and getting hotter by the minute. A sheen of sweat covered his skin. His wrists were bleeding, the nylon cutting into his flesh.
‘Tommy, help me!’ he cried out. ‘Please help me.’
*
Frank and George were just crossing the entrance hall on the way out of the building when Frank skidded to a halt, grabbing his brother by the arm as he did so.
‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Listen.’
They stood still for a moment straining their ears for any sound.
‘There, did you hear that?’
George nodded. He had heard something. A giggle: a child’s giggle. They turned just in time to see, for a fleeting moment, a figure of a small boy disappearing around a corner.
‘I don’t believe it! The little turd must have escaped,’ Frank said. ‘Quick, after him.’
And before George could stop him, Frank was pounding back the way they had come.
*
Timmy stopped his frantic struggling for a few seconds to catch his breath. He was exhausted, but fear drove him on. He tugged harder against the stocking holding his right hand. His wrists were now slick with blood and sweat and stung like mad. He yanked against the stockings as hard as he could.
Whether the nylon had stretched through the heat or his frantic efforts, he didn
’t know, or care, but suddenly his hand slipped free. With one hand loose, he was able to pull at the nylon holding his other hand with his fingers and teeth until at last it gave way. He could have wept with relief, but knowing he didn’t have much time, he pulled on his clothes as quickly as he could.
*
‘Bloody Hell, is he mad or is he winding us up?’ Frank said, coming to a stop. ‘He’s gone into the boiler room.’
‘Oh, Christ!’
‘Come on,’ Frank said.
The boys pushed through the door into the boiler room. The air was hot and steamy. Too hot. The boys’ clothes felt instantly damp against their skin.
‘Where the hell is he?’
‘Irv the Perv’s room,’ George suggested. ‘There’s nowhere else.’
The two boys crept up to the door of the caretaker’s lair, and after a silent count of three Frank threw open the door and jumped in.
‘Caught you, you little . . .’ The words died on Frank’s lips. Timmy wasn’t there, but someone else was waiting for them.
If surprised by their intrusion, Irvin Baker didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned showing missing teeth.
‘Want to join me boys?’ he asked, gesturing to the half bottle of whisky and well-thumbed, grubby magazine on the table by his side.
The boys stared for a moment in stunned silence before coming to their senses and turning to make their escape. In his panic, Frank struggled with the door handle, but before he could get it open there was a terrible screeching sound from the room next door and a noise like a kettle boiling. The room began to shake and there was a loud roaring sound.
Frank’s last coherent thought before the boiler blew was, where the fuck is Timmy?
*
By the time Mrs McLuskey arrived at the school it was past saving. The roof had caved in and the flames were so strong the Fire Brigade were having problems keeping it under control. There were quite a few students and parents standing in small groups at a safe distance, watching the school’s demise, and she could only hope no one had been inside when the school went up.
The Jo Fletcher Books Anthology Page 6
