The Boy Must Die
THE BOY MUST DIE
JON REDFERN
Copyright © Jon Redfern, 2001
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and
ECW PRESS.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Although the settings are real, names have been added or changed for the sake of the story. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, dead or living, is purely coincidental.
CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Redfern, Jon, 1946
The boy must die
“A misfit book.”
ISBN
1-55022-453-0
I. Title.
PS
8585.
E
34218
B
69 2001
C
8131.6
C
00-933251-0
PR
9199.3.
R
43
B
69 2001
Edited by Michael Holmes / a misFit book
Cover and text design by Tania Craan
Cover image by Tony Stone Images
Author photo by Heidi Meek
Layout by Mary Bowness
Printed by Transcontinental
Distributed in Canada by
General Distribution Services,
325 Humber College Blvd.,
Etobicoke,
ON, M
9
W
7c3
Published by
ECW PRESS
2120 Queen Street East, Suite 200
Toronto, Ontario,
M
4
E
1
E
2
ecwpress.com
This book is set in ATSackers and Minion.
PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA
The publication of
The Boy Must Die
has been generously supported by the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
FOR
C
Y,
G
LADY,
C
ATHY,
J
OAN,
J
OANNA,
AND
S
UE
Many friends and first readers contributed to the making of this novel: Geri Dasgupta, Kathy Eberle, Nicole Gnutzman, Allan Hepburn, Toni Laidlaw, Sue and Jennifer Neimann, and Margaret van Dijk. I owe its genesis to Jack David, who always said I should write about that place in Alberta. I cannot say thank you enough to Lyn Hamilton — novelist and fellow music lover — for her sound pointers and encouragement. Many thanks are also due to Tania Craan for her striking cover design, and to Michael Holmes, sensitive, supportive editor extraordinaire. Dean Cooke was generous with his professional knowledge about contracts, and it was much appreciated. The Sharpe siblings, Ann and Kathleen, never hesitated to praise my strengths. My own sisters, Cathy and Joan, were guiding lights: Cathy, you’re the best plot carpenter; Joan, I’d be nowhere without your keen eye — you can spot a phony character a mile away! Catherine Gildiner made me laugh, but also taught me about getting a book from computer to bookseller.
Penultimately, I owe much to three fellow writers who inspired me to finish the manuscript: Brian Stein, old pal, and avid reader; Bruce Hunter, spirit-guide, and the best damn poet I know; Andrew Podnieks, title composer, the Dominion’s finest sports scribe, and mentor.
Finally, I am grateful to Cecil for telling good stories all those years, and to Gladys for loving mystery and crime (and her first born).
The boy was running. On the deserted moonlit sidewalk, he was a dashing shadow, small even for fourteen years. His appearance might have frightened a younger child: the shaved head, the skinny back, the black denim legs ending in scuffed army boots. His bony hands were full. The right clutched a book with a pentacle on its cover, the left a cloth bag and a portable tape player.
Stopping, Darren Riegert pressed against a stucco wall and checked that no one was following him. He knew he could not rest.
Don’t stay more than a second.
Then he began running again. He had been planning this ever since Cody had gone. For the last three days, he’d prayed and chanted to work up his courage. He knew how far he had to go. The smell of freshly cooked bread from McGavin’s Bakery ten blocks away reminded him of his last bite of food. A Mars bar at lunchtime.
But it don’t matter now.
It was late Friday. The quiet streets of the small city lay spread out along the edges of a vast cut of coulees by the Oldman River. To Darren, Lethbridge was a place of malls, a junior high school, and a broken-down bungalow where he lived with his mom and where her boyfriend Woody came over to drink away welfare cheques. Tonight, at least, Darren had escaped Woody’s mean temper.
Never again.
He was glad to be out in the dark. Nobody cared if he went missing. A car passed. His breath tightened, as if he were in school again, in the hall with Mr. Barnes yelling at him for breaking a window. The same cold fear. The same sadness because Cody was gone. Darren’s
closest friend had taught him to steal, given him the sacred text,
Thanatopsis
, brought him to Satan House. Only three blocks away now, the old mansion made Darren feel wanted. He liked the room he crashed in. He liked Sheree, too. She always left the back door open because, she said, “You kids are welcome here.” One time she’d helped Cody come down from a bad acid trip, though she didn’t allow drugs in the house. “This is a clean place,” she’d said. “A place to rest your spirits.”
Darren hurried on, his thighs aching. The sharp corner of the book dug into his wrist. Crossing Baroness, Darren didn’t notice the verandas and the trimmed lawns. Instead, he thought about his mom, her stomach hanging over the tops of her jeans. “Once,” Sharon Riegert bragged, “I was good lookin’.” Darren wondered when that was. He also thought about his Gran, about the time he spit on her grave. Now, more than ever, he wanted to tell her he was sorry.
The glaring moon brightened the gnarled cottonwoods along Ashmead as Darren paused to take a breath. A cat leapt into a hedge. A city bus turned the corner, headlights forcing Darren to squint. He was in full stride again when a siren whined in the distance.
They’ll be comin’ for me like that.
Darren glanced at his beloved army boots.
Cody took his off.
He wanted to hold onto his, to have them with him. Panting, he told himself it was okay.
Remember, you promised Cody.
Memories of that night still made him want to cry.
Don’t lose it!
He clenched his teeth and blinked his eyes hard.
Get ready now.
Satan House rose out of the shadows, pointed dormers like two giant witches’ hats.
Come, come to me.
All its windows were dark. Cody had named it, that night on acid, as he lay on its warped floor and cried “Satan, our master, is among us!” The back door was always open to them; the large rooms and thick walls reminded Darren of the haunted castle ride at the summer fair.
Careful, go easy.
He stopped at the edge of the dirt yard. The old tree stump was weathered as white as bone. He knew now he must go ahead. He did not hesitate though his heart raced. Up the rough gravel of the driveway, he passed the garage’s caved-in
door, its bank of broken windows like jagged teeth. He scurried through the yard, the elms and weeping willows hiding the door at the top of three wooden steps. There he stood and calmed himself. He looked at the fence hemming in the overgrown garden and laughed.
Is that a voice calling out?
There was movement in the garden. A black shape like a cat slouched, then wove its way through the brown grasses.
A sign.
Darren grabbed the doorknob, and like always the old door slid open, welcoming him.
Quiet, quiet.
Cody had always said to sneak in. “They can’t hear ya,” he’d said, “they’re sound asleep upstairs.” But Darren wanted to be sure, especially tonight. He found his way to the top of the basement stairwell. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. He waited and listened.
If Sheree’s upstairs in her bedroom, I’ll make sure she won’t hear me.
He liked Sheree’s room, its dark curtains and its candle guarded by a chimney of red glass.
Maybe she’s at her boyfriend’s place. The professor. It doesn’t matter.
Following the rail, Darren soon found himself in the shadowy black of the musty-smelling basement. He set down his book, his boom box, and the cloth bag. He pulled a pack of matches from his pocket. The flare created instant shapes — a broom, a bicycle. Holding up the flame, he gathered his things and walked around the corner.
The tiny room he entered smelled of piss. A rustling noise made him jump back so fast the flame blew out.
Someone there?
He tore off another match. His hand shook, and he had to strike it a second time. Tiny eyes caught the fire and flashed like red pinpoints as grey bodies fled into corners. Dried mouse turds crunched on the pebbled concrete floor. “Something’s wrong.” The rasp of his own voice alarmed him.
Don’t fuck it!
“Cody, help me,” he whispered. But then Darren remembered. Cody had always said to trust the power of the sacred text. Sweaty-palmed, he lifted the thick book towards his chest and embraced it.
You’ve got to believe.
Ahead of him, in the corner stood another small doorway. Moonlight seeped through to make a square on the floor. Another match flared. Darren crept into the second room and saw the dryer, the sink, and the window. For the first time this evening in the silence, he
felt truly alone. A shape passed in the garden outside, throwing its shadow into the blue dimness.
