Black's Creek (18 page)

‘D
ummy Discovers Dummy,' shouted the headline on page six of the evening newspaper, two days later. The story claimed Dad had lost the plot, and that he was looking for a mysterious girl, only to find a wax dummy: ‘The bigger mystery is why on earth is Sheriff Henderson wasting our hard-earned tax dollars and resources on a wild goose chase? Is he deliberately trying to make the town look like it's full of chawbacon fools? Shouldn't he be out looking for the murderer of Devlin Mantle?'

It made little difference that all the people involved in the search had volunteered their time and equipment, and that the town wasn't out one red cent for the search operation.
No, that particular salient fact of the story wouldn't sell newspapers, so better to disregard it. Better something with a bit more
oomph
.

‘Who do they think they are, writing that garbage?' Mom seethed, barely controlling her anger.

‘Don't let it upset you, Helen. It's just a story to sell newspapers,' Dad said, cleaning out his pipe, ignoring the newspaper glaring up at him from the table. He looked blasé, but I could see it was an act. He was obviously upset about the whole stinking episode – big time. ‘It'll be forgotten by tomorrow.'

‘I've a good mind to go down to their office and punch him right on the nose, that Mister – what's his name?' She grabbed the newspaper, and glanced at the hack's name. ‘Mister Jonathan Pistorious …' Her face flushed. ‘Well … an appropriate name, if I should say so myself.'

Dad burst out laughing. I grinned, even though I didn't really get the joke at first.

For a second, Mom looked uncomfortable at Dad laughing. Then
she
started, laughing like a schoolgirl on a first date. I had never heard her laugh like that. So strange. Then Dad was at it, laughing louder than Mom, like it was a laugh-out-loud competition. I just sat quietly, embarrassed and slightly unnerved by their weird behaviour. Was something deeper happening here? Something my adolescence and spongy brain couldn't absorb?

Mom reached over and touched Dad's hand, tenderly. They looked into each other's eyes, as if meeting for the first time in their lives. My neck became hot.

I was totally invisible to them, so I slipped secretly out, heading for my room. Just as I reached the first stair, the phone rang.

‘Answer that, Tommy!' Dad shouted.

I did. It was Deputy Hillman.

‘Your father there, Tommy?' he said, in an excited voice.

‘Yes. Hold on, I'll get him.'

‘Who is it, Tommy?' Dad said, coming to the phone.

‘Deputy Hillman. Sounds urgent.'

Dad took the phone. He had a short conversation with Deputy Hillman, before hanging the phone up. He went very quiet. Looked at me gravely.

‘What? What'd I do now?' I said.

‘Two locals, ice fishing, have just discovered a body, not too far from where Red and Bob originally dived. It's a young girl.'

T
he unknown girl in the lake quickly became a household name in town. The media began filling pages and airwaves with detail after detail on her tragic life.

Jordan Taylor was only thirteen when a monster decided to torture her young body, sexually and sadistically, and then savagely murder her. Jordan had been placed in an orphanage at age six, before being bounced from foster home to foster home, eventually boomeranging full-circle back to the orphanage at age ten. Three weeks ago, she had ‘simply disappeared', never to be seen alive again. The orphanage, Saint Peter's on the Rock, issued a terse and somewhat impassive statement to the press. Jordan had a habit of absconding from the orphanage, it said, and the ‘excellent and dedicated' staff had done all in their power to prevent her from leaving.

Prevent her from leaving
… a more telling statement than they had intended, I suspected.

From the pictures in the newspapers, Saint Peter's on the Rock looked more like the other infamous Rock, Alcatraz, than a caring institute for orphans. The intimidating gates of the building were cloud-touching in height, crowned with spikes shaped as spearheads. Lethal-looking razorwire snaked over the filthy grey walls, like some prehistoric reptile searching for victims. The creepy place gave me the burning shits, just looking at it. Edgar Allen Poe would have loved to roam its corridors.

Almost a week had now slipped by since the recovery of Jordan's body, but the media were still carrying stories about her – albeit now relegated to the pages of lesser importance. She'd long been moved from the front pages, replaced by some political scandal in Washington.

On Saturday at breakfast, I spotted the photo of Jordan in the morning newspaper. The grainy image, taken the previous year, could have been from fifty years ago. She looked like an old lady. Unsmiling. Haggard. Tormented eyes. I wondered what hell she'd gone through in that terrible place?

Alongside Jordan's photo was one of me. It was the same photo used by the newspapers when I had tried to rescue Joey. There was an accompanying article by Jonathan Pistorious – the same creep who had done the hatchet job on Dad. Pistorious had tried to give the article an air of mystery, obviously hoping to hook as many readers as possible.

‘I don't want you reading any more about that young girl, and especially anything written by that disgusting man,' Mom said, snapping the newspaper from my fingers, before sitting down for her breakfast. ‘Your father should have brought this rag with him to work, instead of leaving it here.'

Oddly, Dad had left the house just before I came down, even though it was his day off.

‘But I want to know about Jordan, what sort of life she had.'

‘You won't get her real life from newspapers, I can assure you; just the parts they can sell for profit. Now, eat your breakfast. I don't want to hear any more discussion about Jordan Taylor. Her death has cast a dark cloud over this house, and made everyone miserable. Even your father has become quieter than usual since her body was recovered.'

Mom was right about the dark cloud, but wrong about Dad. His mood had changed dramatically, all right, but that change dated from the time he went to pick me up at Jessica Mantle's house, and had that long and whispery discussion with her. Something was gnawing at him, but knowing Dad,
he would never discuss it. Now, most evenings after work, he would go and sit in the hub, in complete silence, not even listening to his music. Mom said to just leave him be, that he'd soon be his old self again, given a bit of time.

As far as I could see, the more time he was given, the darker his mood became. I knew he was drinking in the hub – something he very rarely did. I also knew Mom had had words with him about the drinking, the thin walls of our house being a great conduit for all things private. I had never known why Mom disapproved of alcohol so much, until a few nights ago, when she was having one of her ‘silent' arguments with Dad in their bedroom.

‘Why are you doing this to yourself, and to me, Frank?'

‘I'm only having a drink, Helen. Stop making such a big deal out of nothing.'

‘Big deal out of nothing? How can you say that, Frank Henderson? You know my father died an alcoholic. You know I've always detested it and –'

‘I'm
not a damn alcoholic – though God alone knows how I've never become one, listening to your persistent nagging. And what about your sister? She's a walking – when she
can
walk – advertisement for Jack Daniel's.'

There was a terrible silence after that last statement, then a loud banging of a door. I could hear Mom making her way downstairs, into the kitchen. It was the first time I had ever heard them argue like that. I hoped it was the last.

Over the next couple of days, frostiness quickly developed between them – and it had nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature outside.

‘Stop daydreaming and finish your breakfast,' Mom said, getting up from the table.

‘Where's Dad? Thought he was off today?'

‘After you've finished, go outside and play,' she said, deliberately ignoring my question.

‘But it's freezing out there.'

‘Do something useful then. Get your room sorted out. It's a mess. I'm going to stay with Aunt Katherine for a few days, and I want you to behave yourself while I'm gone. Don't be getting up to any tricks.'

‘Aunt Katherine's? Why?' I said, as if I didn't know about the arguing.

‘She …' Mom looked flustered. ‘She isn't well. I'm going to look after her for a while. That's all. If you didn't have a few more days left in school before the Christmas break, I'd have brought you with me. I know how much you love visiting her.'

‘That's okay,' I said, trying to sound disappointed, all the while hoping she wouldn't see the joy in my eyes. ‘You'll be back before Christmas, though, won't you?'

Christmas? That was a joke. The Christmas tree languishing in the corner, unlit and unloved, was a depressing-looking specimen. The decorations, thrown haphazardly at it, had
anger written all over them. This was the festive season? A wake would have had more festivity.

‘Of course I'll be back for Christmas. What a silly question. I'm only going for a few days. Now, there's lots of food in the fridge. I've frozen plenty of pasta for you and your father, and there's meatloaf for tonight. Now, while I'm away, I don't want you leaving the television on all day. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘Make sure you clean your teeth and wash your face.'

‘Mom, I'm not a kid. I know what important things have to be done.' And cleaning my teeth and washing my face wasn't on the list.

‘Right then, I'm going to clear up here, but before I do I want you to go and tidy your room. I'll be in to have a look.'

‘Okay,' I mumbled, pushing my chair out from the table and heading in the direction of my room. I'd tidy the room up a bit, just enough to keep Mom out of my hair, and then finish off my latest
Green Lantern
comic.

I spent at least an hour arranging and tidying my room. Sort of. After that, I counted my towers of comic books for the umpteenth time, like a miser with a hidden cache of gold. I thought about going over to Horseshoe's, to watch ‘Valley of The Dinosaurs' and see if the Butler family could finally get back home with the help of their caveman friend Gorak. It wasn't the kind of thing I boasted about, watching kids' TV shows, but I enjoyed cartoons. Horseshoe, on the
other hand, couldn't care less what anyone thought about his viewing habits.

‘Tommy?' Mom called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I'm going now.'

‘Okay,' I shouted back.

‘Don't you have a message for Aunt Katherine?'

Yes, but I doubted she'd like to hear it
. ‘Tell her I hope to see her soon.'
When I'm about sixty
.

‘Get to bed early. I'll be checking. And don't forget to clean your teeth at night and in the morning.'

Before I could lie, the front door slammed. Then silence. I listened as the car started up, and slowly eased down the snowy driveway.

I thought again about heading over to Horseshoe's, but instead made my way downstairs. I peeped out the window, just to make sure Mom
was
gone, and not up to some trick, trying to catch me doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing. Like what I was about to do any second now.

I left the window and went directly back upstairs and into the hub. Inside, I glanced about. The place looked unusually cluttered. Dad wasn't a neat freak, but he was tidy. Some of his
National Geographic
magazines had fallen on the floor, and had been left untouched. Worryingly, the Jim Beam bottle was empty, and two others had joined it, each having met the same fate.

Newspaper clippings lay scattered on the desk. I sat down
on his chair and picked a couple up. They were all about killings and deaths: Joey's, Devlin's and now Jordan's, all intermingled in a grisly trilogy. A couple of the clippings showed Armstrong leaving court, trying to hide his smirking face from the cameras. From the grey paper, his penetrating eyes peered up at mine. I shuddered, and looked quickly behind, as if expecting him to be standing there.

Go over to Horseshoe's
, said a voice in my head.
You don't need to be reading these clippings
. But instead of listening, I went to the Bible, retrieved Dad's diary from its stomach, and began flipping through the pages until I found the entry I wanted. It was dated two days after he had picked me up at Mrs Mantle's.

I stood for what seemed an eternity, staring at Dad's words, before turning to leaf through the rest of the pages. I stopped at the very last entry, made three nights ago, obviously in reference to Jordan.

The end of this last entry chilled me:

I sat staring at the page, as if it were a dead thing in my hand. There was little doubt in my mind that Dad was planning to do something to Armstrong. It was only a question of when. He wouldn't get away with it, of course. Dad was a great cop, but a lousy detective. He'd leave telltale clues everywhere, because he wasn't thinking clearly. The alcohol would see to that. He simply didn't have the imagination for what needed to be done – more importantly, to get away with what needed to be done. I pictured him being arrested and hauled off to Sing Sing, where all his enemies waited for him, nursing ancient grudges, shanks in their filthy hands.

An hour went by before I finally decided to go over to Horseshoe's. I decided he would be a good distraction, to help clear my head.

I arrived too late for ‘Valley of The Dinosaurs', but Horseshoe enthusiastically filled me in on all the details, even mimicking the characters' voices in a creepy low droll. Later, Mrs Cooper made pizza, and we all sat around a blazing fire, listening to Horseshoe's dad playing a harmonica and acoustic guitar, just like Bob Dylan – though not as good.

The entire house was one giant aromatic smell of Christmas: cinnamon, cut oranges, cloves, apples, gingerbread cookies, mint candy canes and fallen pine needles from the flawlessly decorated Christmas tree.

I looked at Horseshoe, and then at his parents, thinking how perfect a family they were. For one sad moment, the beautiful scene made me feel terribly alone. I thought of Dad, hiding in a whiskey bottle, and of Mom gone to her sister's, for God knew how long. I thought of our miserable Christmas tree, and a house filled with silence and animosity. I thought of the bastard responsible for it all. Armstrong.

‘Are you okay, Tommy?' a concerned-looking Mrs Cooper said.

‘Huh?'

‘Is everything okay? You … you seem a bit sad.'

‘Sad? No! I'm fine, Mrs Cooper. Really …'

‘Why don't you stay tonight, do a sleepover?' Mrs Cooper looked unconvinced by my answer, as if she knew something
sure as hell was wrong. ‘If you like, I'll give your mom a call, get her permission.'

‘Yeah, Tommy, that'd be great!' Horseshoe enthused. ‘You can even have the top bunk.'