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Authors: Vernon W. Baumann

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BOOK: Daddy Long Legs
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Eight

 

The Mercedes Benz SLK 350 zipped across the hot surface of the NI south as a merciless Northern Cape sun beat down on its palladium silver body. Behind the wheel a very sober Kyle Devlin kept an unwavering focus on the road that whizzed past at more than 200 km/h. The interior of the car was air-conditioned and silent. For once he chose to drive without the distraction of music. Kyle stole a glance at his watch and sighed softly as he depressed the Benz’s accelerator even further. The powerful engine responded immediately and the speedometer climbed up to the 220km/h mark. Kyle engaged the cruise control and lifted his foot from the accelerator.

The previous day, more than a month of mourning and neglect had come to a head in the office of Charles Baker, MD of Davis Corke. After a series of failures and embarrassments, Kyle had finally been called in by the agency’s top dog. Sitting dishevelled and hung-over in the MD’s office, Kyle had been the recipient of Baker’s wisdom – part tongue lashing ... part condescending paternalism, it had been obvious that Baker enjoyed every second of their exchange. Kyle’s blurry inability to defend himself had hardly helped his poor position. And then Baker had dropped the bomb. Kyle was being forced to go on ‘extended leave’ ... pending a disciplinary hearing. It was agency speak for a soft dismissal. And they both knew it. Kyle’s time at the Corke was, so to speak, finished. Kyle also knew that Charles Baker would use his absence to build a solid case against him. And then use the so-called disciplinary hearing to fire him outright. The only thing worse than his present situation was that Kyle didn’t give a damn.

That all changed when Lindsey stopped him afterwards in the marbled hallway of Davis Corke. She had terrible news.

Kyle’s mother had died.

The news stirred up a powerful cocktail of mixed emotions. On the one hand, Kyle had always had a strained and frosty relationship with his mother. It was a bond marked more by detached acknowledgement than love. Yet, on the other hand Kyle felt as if something awesome had ended. And if something else – even more powerful and possibly frightening – was about to take its place. It wasn’t sorrow as much as awe.

Kyle had made a big decision. He was going to return – once more – to the place of his youth. And somehow, from now on, everything would be different.

And yet, now as Kyle stared sightlessly at the dry Northern Cape landscape, he wondered why exactly he was in such a hurry to reach Hope at all. There was nothing waiting for him there. Nothing except a corpse in an
ad hoc
coffin. He had made a few hurried calls in Johannesburg. Final arrangements would be made following his arrival in the town of his youth. The funeral was scheduled for Tuesday. Today was Friday. So yes. Why the hurry? It wasn’t like he was actually looking forward to arriving in the little Northern Cape town. Or that there was anything that needed his urgent attention. Hope – contrary to its name – had only ever been a source of heartache and disappointment. And recrimination. He expected nothing new this time. For the past twenty years Kyle had tried everything in his power to put Hope – and his past – behind him. To bury it in the dismal history that was his childhood. And now, with his mother’s cold corpse resting in a temporary coffin ... that break with his past was final. And irrevocable.

Kyle depressed a button on his steering wheel and the driver-side window slid down soundlessly. He aimed carefully and spat out the worn chewing gum in his mouth. Normally Kyle would never allow himself the luxury of spitting out his window. But right now he didn’t care. While keeping his left hand on the wheel, he foraged in his pocket and extracted a packet of Beechies spearmint gum and flicked a pellet in his mouth. He relished the sharp taste of the mint in his mouth. And inhaled slowly.

He had been sober for two days now. And it felt good. Surprisingly good. He was feeling focused and clear. And proud of himself. The call – and the strange news from Hope – should have been the final straw. It should have sent him hopelessly careening off the edge. Forever into the abyss that he had lately seen as the only possible outcome to his life. And why not? Everyone around him had warned – and prophesied – that he was headed for certain disaster. He was a train wreck, waiting to happen. It wasn’t a rumour anymore. It was a fact, certified by the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Train wreck /treIn rek/
n,
Poor, pathetic Kyle Devlin, drunk and heading for certain disaster. See also
self-pitying bastard.

Kyle thought back to that moment he had received the news. Yes it was true. Upon hearing the news, something within him had changed. He hadn’t snapped. No. He had clicked. In place. And suddenly – just as suddenly as it had begun – it was over.

He had gone home. And taken a cold shower. And just like that. With the cold water seeping into the drain, the last vestiges of the self-pitying, self-deprecating, self-destroying Kyle Devlin had drained from him. Two espressos and five Myprodol capsules later he was almost as good as new.

Strange. That a telephone call that signalled death would result in a new birth. A phoenix rising from the ashes of his mother’s death.

Kyle thought back to that moment, standing in the hallway leading to the executive wing of Davis Corke. Poor Lindsey with her face contorted with pity and compassion for her delinquent boss. And the news. That should have reduced any normal person to tears. If not, at the very least, a kind of numb shock. And yet ...

Kyle searched himself, as he did that evening after the phone call, for something. Anything that looked – or felt – like grief. And yet there was nothing. He wished he could profess mourning. Or sorrow. But he knew that would be dishonest. His mother was dead. And all he felt was a kind of mute resignation. On some level, his mother had been dead to him for a very long time. On some level, where Kyle was truly honest with himself, he knew that this had happened even before he left Hope as an aspirant eighteen-year old kid ... dreaming of a new life in the big city. On a much deeper level – where even his own honesty feared to tread – he knew that
he
had been dead to his mother even longer than that.

He tried to remember the last time he spoke to her. It was hard. Almost impossible. All their conversations, since he left Hope, tended to merge into one. They spoke only once a year. Once a year only. On her birthday. Every year. On her birthday only. It was always an unpleasant affair. The phone calls. Every year, on the date of her birth, he dreaded the inevitable call. He suspected his mother felt the same way. Every year. It was the same thing. Strained and tense. The mono-syllabic conversation. Where he pretended he phoned her out of love and not a begrudging sense of duty. And where she pretended that she cared. Either which way. Whenever he put the phone down, it was always with a bad taste in his mouth. And a dull tension in his chest. For days afterwards he would feel an unfocused anger. And a gnawing resentment. It was always the same. The script never varied.

In a sudden flash of anger, Kyle gunned the SLK’s powerful engine and sped past a slow-moving Corsa. He deliberately cut it close, nearly clipping the smaller car’s side-view mirror. As he passed the Corsa he aggressively thumped the horn and shouted at the dumb-struck driver. For no real reason. The Corsa was simply keeping to the speed limit. Once Kyle moved back into the left lane he kicked the accelerator all the way down, taking the SLK past the 260 km/h mark. Suddenly a lifetime of rage and resentment were aflame in his heart. With a brow furrowed by fury he bit down on his lower lip. Snarling. ‘Shit!’ He howled mad frothing fury and slammed his fist repeatedly into the ceiling of his German luxury car. And then. Like a child, who had just taken a tumble in the playground, he broke into a hysterical fit of crying. Sobbing. And bawling. And howling. Kyle jerked the wheel to the left and came to a shuddering stop on the shoulder of South Africa’s main highway. A few seconds later the surprised Corsa driver came speeding past, ensuring a more than adequate space between him and the stationery madman’s car.

Kyle jumped out and screamed at the sky in absolute rage. He threw his arms into the air and howled until his strength ebbed from him. Drained, he sank onto his knees. Sobbing into the arm of his Armani jacket. More than a few drivers slowed down as they passed him. Rubbernecking. And enthralled by the sight of a grown man crying next to the N1 highway. Eventually Kyle got wearily to his feet. He rubbed the salty tears from his eyes and tried to compose himself. He glanced at the speeding cars, feeling a blushing embarrassment as two little girls waved to him from the back of a passing SUV.

And then. From nowhere. For the first time in such a long time. He thought of his brother. Without thinking he reached into the interior of the SLK and grabbed his phone. The screen indicated 27 missed calls. He selected a name from his contact list and dialled. The phone rang a few times and then was picked up.

‘Hello,’ the voiced said on the other side.

Kyle paused. Uncertain.

‘Hello?’ The voice was more insistent this time.

Kyle paused. For a moment he considered killing the call. But then. ‘Lindsey.’

‘Kyle? Is that you?’

Kyle wavered. Hesitated.

‘Kyle? Is that you? Are you alright, honey?’ Lindsey emitted what sounded – for a brief moment – like a sob. ‘Kyle, please. Please talk to me.’

‘Lindsey.’

‘Kyle, please tell me you’re okay. Please.’

Silence. ‘I’m okay.’

This time Lindsey openly sobbed. In the background he heard someone talk. ‘Is that Kyle?’ It was Thabo. ‘Lemme speak to him.’

‘Wait,’ Lindsey said. ‘Kyle, how are you doing, baby?’ She tried to get her emotions under control. ‘You’re ... you’re not ... doing something stupid are you, Kyle? Please don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Lemme speak to him.’ There was a sound of fumbling as Thabo grabbed the phone from Lindsey. ‘Kyle! Don’t be an idiot.’ Kyle heard something in Thabo’s voice he had never observed before. Fear. ‘Tell me where you are. I’ll get the ambulance there in no time at all. Just hang on. For God’s sake, just hang on.’

Despite the tears that ran across his face, Kyle found himself laughing. ‘Jesus, Thabo. What are you guys on about?’ He shifted the phone in his hand. ‘I’m standing next to the N1. I just pulled off for a moment. What the hell did you guys think I was doing?’

Thabo sighed laboriously. ‘Nevermind. Just as long as you’re okay.’ He paused. ‘Lindsey wants to speak to you.’ There was a momentary clatter as Lindsey came back onto the phone.

‘Kyle?’

‘Yes, Linds.’

‘You’re okay, right? Really okay. You’re not just saying that?’

Kyle paused. ‘Lindsey.’

‘Yes?’

‘I want to tell you something.’

‘Of course. You know you can tell me anything. Anything in the whole world.’

‘Yes. I know.’ Kyle sat down on the SLK’s driver seat, facing towards the highway. ‘You know ... I ...’

‘What is it, baby?’

‘I haven’t told this to anybody. Ever.’

‘Yes?’ Lindsey sounded confused.

‘I mean ... nobody, Lindsey. Ever.’ Kyle wiped remaining tears from his cheeks. ‘Not even Angelique. I didn’t even tell her, you understand.’

‘Yes,’ Lindsey said uncertainly.

Kyle waited as a huge eighteen-wheeler thundered past. ‘I mean, I don’t know why ... why I never told her. If anybody should have known ... it should have been her. I just never did. Tell her. Now I know why.’

‘Okay. You know you can talk to me, honey.’

‘Something happened, Lindsey ... something happened when I was young. In the little town that I grew up in. Remember, I told you about it often. The little town, I mean.’ Suddenly Kyle felt like a drink again. ‘There was a killer, in my hometown, when I was young. Not just any killer. He was a serial killer.’

Lindsey gasped audibly. ‘Oh my God. Are you serious?’

‘Yes. So ... there was this serial killer. Some twisted sicko, I don’t know. The local kids gave him this ... stupid name ... Daddy Long Legs.’

‘Oh my God, Kyle. I’ve heard of him. That guy in the 80’s.’

‘Yes, that’s him.’ Kyle swallowed hard a few times, wishing for a bottle of bourbon in his hand. ‘He killed ... and did terrible things ... he killed ... a couple of boys in this little town. I can’t remember, I think about nine boys or something like that.’ Kyle paused, unable to continue.

‘I don’t understand, baby. What does this ...’

‘He killed my brother, Lindsey.’

Lindsey began sobbing. When she spoke, Kyle could hear her hand over mouth. ‘No, Kyle. No ...’

‘He took my brother. And he killed him. And I never saw him again. And ... and ...’

‘Oh my God, baby, I am so sorry.’

‘He took my brother and killed him ... and then the killer disappeared. Forever. And nobody solved the murders ... and he just disappeared. And my brother was his last victim.’

Lindsey was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Please come home. Please. I mean, after the funeral and everything. Please come home. When everything’s done. Please come home. I will take care of you. You know I will. I will take care of you and never let anyone or anything hurt you ever again.’

In the background Kyle heard Thabo shouting. ‘What’s wrong? What the hell is wrong?’

‘Please come home, baby. I will never hurt you. Not like that bitch.’ Lindsey gasped sharply at her own outburst. Kyle realised he had never heard her swear before. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ Lindsey said with genuine contrition. ‘I’m sorry, Kyle, I didn’t mean that. She’s not a – ’

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