Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Logic suggested Oliver’s next move was to head home and do more research. However, recent experience with Angus, his previous hitchhiker, and the subsequent steep increase in his fuel bill, told him that he’d probably only get halfway home before a phone call would turn him back towards the city.

  Digging the piece of paper out of his front pocket, he dialled Mrs Barbara Smith’s number. It rang and rang, then finally clicked onto voicemail. He left a brief message and hung up.

  His stomach growled and he realised breakfast was a few hours ago. Switching on the engine he drove back towards the city and stopped at the supermarket that sat like a shiny new toy amongst the old buildings. One quick trip to the bakery section and he had a bottle of water, a cheese scone, and thanks to constant nagging by Brigid, a cream donut that he would enjoy immensely but which would go straight to his stomach, inside and out.

  He ate the food in the carpark of the supermarket, screwed up the paper bags, used his finger to scrape a splodge of cream from the seat between his legs, and dumped all his rubbish in a nearby bin.

  Then, because he knew that Barbara would ring as soon as he was on the motorway, he used up some time by checking out a couple of local bookshops. The first store had both of his books proudly displayed at eye level, and even had a small blurb talking about the discovery of a magnificent new New Zealand author. He pulled one of his books off the shelf, then put it straight back, embarrassed at the thought of being caught checking out his own book.

  (You’re weird. I wrote a story once, it was about a unicorn called Sparkles that shot fire out its nose. Have you ever written a story like that?)

  I can’t say I have.

  At the second store he had to hunt for his books, finally finding them with the spine facing out, at knee height. Glancing around to check no one was watching, he pulled a book off the shelf and put it flat, with the cover showing, at chest height.

  (Ha, ha, you’re funny.)

  By now it had been an hour since he had left a message for Barbara Smith, and he was getting bored, and he was also aware that there was a load of wet washing in the machine, and yesterday’s crackergeddon that needed to be vacuumed up.

  (What’s a crackerged…that word?)

  That’s the mess you get when children are left unsupervised with the biscuit container.

  He had just reached the car when his phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Mr Atkinson, Barbara Smith here,’ came the crisp voice.

  ‘Thanks for calling me back, Mrs Smith. I had a couple of questions about the Debbie Judkins disappearance and I’ve been given your name.’

  There was a pause, then the voice that came on held a tinge of amusement to it. ‘Hopefully not in relation to her disappearance.’

  ‘No, no. I was talking to Graeme Wilson and he said I should talk to you.’

  ‘How is the old bugger? Still smoking like his death depended on it?’

  ‘Um, I’m not sure. He didn’t smoke while I was there.’

  ‘That’s a miracle,’ she replied. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Would it be possible to meet up sometime today?’

  ‘You think because I’m retired, I’m just sitting around the house waiting for strange men to ask me for a chat.’

  (She still sounds like a teacher.)

  ‘Uh, that’s not…’

  ‘I’m only joking. Can you be here in twenty minutes?’

  ‘I guess that depends where here is,’ Oliver replied.

  Barbara rattled off an address that had Oliver shaking his head.

  ‘Better make it thirty, see you shortly.’ He ended the call and pulled into traffic.

  (Why were you shaking your head?)

  ‘Because she’s living with her daughter in a house four doors down from Debbie Judkins old house. I would have been halfway there already if I’d just gone home.’

  Brigid thought that was hilarious.

  NINE

  If it hadn’t been for the perpetual road works he might have made it in time, but knowing that in three years time this trip was likely to be five minutes faster didn’t stop him from being five minutes late today.

  The Judkins house had a car parked out the front when he went past, but there was no sign of movement inside the house itself.

  Barbara Smith lived four houses away on the opposite side of the road. From the research Oliver had done the day before, it looked like the property was safe from demolition.

  The house was similar to the others in the street, originally made from wood and over the decades patched and added too in a haphazard way that reminded him of his parents’ house. The front yard was immaculate, the sort of place weeds were afraid to tread for fear of a swift and brutal end.

  Oliver stared at the doorbell button for a moment.

  (Do you think she has a scream for a ring? Please press it.)

  He knocked firmly on the solid wooden door and after a few moments it swung open to reveal a tall thin woman in her early sixties.

  ‘Mr Atkinson I presume.’

  ‘Dr Livingstone actually,’ he replied, deciding on a whimsical approach.

  The woman’s face broke into a wide smile and she clapped her hands once. ‘Oh good, I was afraid you were one of those writers.’

  ‘Those writers?’

  ‘Uneducated hacks who rely on autocorrect for their spelling. Come in please.’

  Having apparently passed the test, he followed Barbara down the hallway and into a small dining room, dominated by an old, polished wood table, its surface nicked and scratched and faded with time. He couldn’t help thinking the same about Barbara, then immediately felt guilty when Brigid burst into laughter.

  His host waved for him to sit in a surprisingly uncomfortable chair. The seat was rock hard, and the decorative wooden back was either massaging him or causing severe chiropractic issues. He wriggled around, trying to make it more bearable.

  ‘Don’t bother. The chairs are as old as I am and just as tough. I’d invite you into the lounge but my cat just threw up in there and it smells quite disgusting.’

  (Gross. I don’t remember her from school.)

  It was forty years ago, I expect she’s changed a little bit.

  ‘Just for formalities’ sake, I’m Barbara Smith, nee Barbara Church, and former teacher at the Raumati South Primary School. Now I understand you’ve already had a cup of tea this morning, would you like another one?’ She smiled at the confused look on his face. ‘After you rang I contacted Graeme Wilson and got the run down on what you were after. It’s the only reason I agreed to talk with you.’ Her hair was short and appeared to contain fewer grey hairs than Oliver’s. Bright eyes, honed by years of catching children doing things they weren’t supposed to, seemed to welcome and mock him at the same time. It made him squirm more.

  Why is everyone reluctant to talk about this case?

  (Maybe it’s you?)

  Gee, thanks.

  (You’re welcome.)

  ‘I appreciate you giving me the time, and no thank you to more tea. I’m usually a one-cup-a-morning sort of man.’

  Barbara nodded, as if it was what she had expected to hear.

  ‘So, what would you like to know, Mr Atkinson?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘It’s Oliver. I’m coming into this story a bit late, so anything you can tell me would be greatly appreciated. Perhaps a little background on the girls?’

  ‘Girls? I understood you were looking into Debbie Judkins’ disappearance. Are you also interested in Brigid O’Shey’s death?’

  ‘From what I’ve been able to glean so far, I don’t think you can talk about one without the other,’ Oliver replied.

  Barbara looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You certainly couldn’t separate them at school. Outside of class anyway. Our principal learned quite quickly that it was safer not to put Debbie and Brigid in the same class, at least not if he wanted his teacher to last the year with their sanity intact.’

  (Ha, ha. We sure had fun.)

/>   ‘They were difficult?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Not by today’s standards. I’ve had way worse since then. Today people whack a label on a child and suddenly it becomes a physical or psychological issue, rather than just a child being a child. But back then those two were hard work.’

  ‘Which one did you have?’

  ‘I was lucky enough to have Debbie. When she wasn’t with her partner in crime she was a sweet, intelligent girl.

  (Ugh.)

  ‘Would you say Brigid was the instigator in most of their mischief?’

  (What does instigator mean?)

  ‘They liked people to think that they were equal partners, and certainly they took equal blame, but we all knew that Brigid was the ringleader.’

  (That’s a lie.)

  ‘It’s not that she was a bad girl, but she had certain issues identifying where the line was,’ Barbara said.

  (Don’t listen to her. She’s old and doesn’t know what she’s talking about. We were the same.)

  Oliver ignored her protests, which he thought were a little too vehement. When Brigid again asked what that word meant he had a sudden realisation that the best way to keep his thoughts private would be to use a wider vocabulary. Unfortunately, as more than half of his conversations were either with his children or his tired wife, he was a little out practice.

  ‘What do you think happened to Debbie?’ he asked.

  Barbara stood up and walked over to the window. Oliver twisted around in his seat.

  ‘I don’t know. Part of me hopes that she was taken by someone. I know that sounds horrible, but it helps to think that she might still be alive somewhere. I know that’s a fool’s hope, but it was devastating to the entire community when she disappeared. And then for Brigid to be killed so soon afterwards…’ She turned to face Oliver and he saw her lip tremble slightly.

  ‘Graeme mentioned a boy that was questioned by the police, Nick Rawlings. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course. It was ridiculous to think he had anything to do with either girl’s deaths. He was a thirteen-year-old boy staying with his grandparents for a year while his parents were working overseas. He was a sensitive, shy boy who had nothing to do with it at all.’ Her tone matched her words and left Oliver feeling like he needed to write lines saying he must not accuse Nick Rawlings of anything, ever.

  ‘There must have been rumours at the time. Like you said, the event was devastating to the entire community, so there must have been talk, innuendo, gossip.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘There was plenty of that, and I’m ashamed to admit that I engaged in it myself. But I was young and straight out of training college, and there wasn’t much to do around here but talk about your neighbours with other neighbours. If you’re asking if there was one person that the community suspected? No. The general theory with Brigid’s death was it was a car passing through. With Debbie though, fingers were pointed, behind closed doors you understand, at her parents. The more vindictive members of the community were sure her father was responsible. The poor man never recovered, either his reputation or his nerves. He died a couple of weeks ago. The battle to save his family home from the roadworks was too much.’

  (Oh.)

  ‘You sound like you knew him quite well,’ Oliver said.

  Barbara waved towards the street. ‘This was my house for twenty years before I sold it to my daughter. It’s hard to live that close to someone for all that time without having an occasional conversation.’

  ‘So what’s your theory?’ Oliver asked.

  She scratched the back of her hand, then drummed the table thoughtfully. Finally she sighed. ‘I don’t want to speculate. It’s been so long. Is it important after all this time?’

  (Yes!)

  ‘Don’t you think the truth is important?’ Oliver asked. ‘I’m sure that was a virtue you taught your students.’

  A troubled expression crossed Barbara’s face. ‘It’s just idle gossip. No I’m sorry, I won’t relay assumptions wrapped up in speculation, not after forty years.’

  (Why did she say she would talk to us if she wasn’t going to tell us anything?)

  Oliver decided to switch tactics. ‘I met Beth Judkins yesterday.’

  Barbara’s face brightened. ‘She’s wonderful isn’t she?’

  Not the word I’d use.

  ‘She was always a smart cookie. Even at an early age she had this organic sense of justice. I never had her in my class, but she won the school speech competition at just seven years old. She was up against students four or five years older than her and she destroyed them all. Such a confident girl.’

  ‘Did she and Debbie get on?’

  ‘Like a house on fire.’

  ‘So, well then?’

  ‘No, like an actual house on fire, screaming, breaking things, and doors slamming as they tried to lock the other one out of the house. Drove their poor mother crazy.’

  (It wasn’t that bad! From what Debbie said.)

  Oliver and Barbara chatted a little longer, but she didn’t have much further to add, so eventually he said his goodbyes and returned to his car.

  (What now?)

  Oliver stared out the windscreen at the quiet street, as he ordered the things he’d been told during the day. He’d been trying hard not to focus on the nagging feeling he had, but something Barbara said had confirmed it and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it hidden from his hitchhiker much longer. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘Now you tell me the truth.’

  (What do you mean?)

  ‘You know what I mean. You can read my thoughts. You told me your teacher was the worst.’

  (She was.)

  ‘But according to her she never taught Brigid.’ He waited for her to comment but there was only silence.

  ‘And the other thing that’s been bothering me. You haven’t once asked to see your old house, or tried to find out if your parents or sister are still alive. I don’t know much about the mind of a young girl, but I’d think that would be pretty important. Don’t you, Debbie?’

  There was a drawn out silence and he began to wonder if he’d been wrong.

  (Busted.)

  TEN

  ‘Why did you lie about who you were?’

  (I don’t know who you are. Besides Brigid and I used to do it all the time to new people. It’s fun.)

  ‘Not to the people you’re tricking’, he muttered. ‘Okay, putting that part aside, there are some other things that don’t add up. Like you didn’t seem that excited to see your sister, or be back in your house, and how did you know the earring was buried in the garden, and why are you back? If it was your earring and you knew it was there then it doesn’t explain why you came back. And why say you’re nine when you’re eight?’

  (Whoa, that’s a lot of questions.)

  Oliver waited but no answers came. ‘Well?’

  (Alright. Beth and I never got on. Besides that old lady wasn’t Beth, she was…was...)

  ‘Yes, old, I get it.’

  (And Mum and Dad weren’t in the house so that wasn’t really home. I didn’t know the earring was buried there, but that’s where Brigid and I used to hide all our treasures and I knew, well I was hoping, that she had put something in the tin. And I’m almost nine, in a few days. And I’m here to…)

  Oliver eyed the darkening sky and hoped it was just the changing weather patterns and not an omen.

  (Like the movie?)

  ‘Huh?’

  (The Omen. Do you think the sky is like the movie?)

  ‘Not The Omen, an omen.’

  (What’s the difference?)

  ‘Depends. Is your name Damian?’

  (No, it’s Debbie.)

  ‘Then we’re good. So that whole story about taking the earring from Debbie’s bag was a lie?’

  (She didn’t have anything to do with me going missing. I didn’t want you to think she did.)

  Oliver sighed. Even though he understood the sort of loyalty kids had towards
each other, it made things a bit trickier. ‘So you’re back to find out who killed you.’

  (I’m back because I want you to find out what happened to Brigid.)

  ‘She was killed by a car?’ Oliver said gently.

  (I know that, I’m not stupid.)

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  (I know what you meant!)

  The tone of her voice was eerily similar to his children when they were annoyed, and he figured the rest of the trip home would go one of two ways. Either she was like Reed, and would take three seconds to sulk before moving on to the next subject. Or she was like Rose, and the journey home would be spent in silence with Oliver feeling guilty but not really sure why.

  It was the latter.

  In fact Debbie didn’t speak again until Oliver walked into the school to pick his children up. Then all sulking was forgotten as she marvelled at the size of the school, the number of buildings and students. He was content to let her ramble on, although he had to be quite firm about the fact he wasn’t going to play on the playground while they waited for the bell to ring. That almost set off another chilly silence, but thankfully just then the children erupted from their classrooms with the energy and enthusiasm only seen at the end of the school day, or when ice cream was promised.

  He said hi to a few of the other children he knew through his own, then his two converged from different directions.

  ‘Dad, guess what we did today? We had popcorn and watched a movie,’ Reed told him.

  ‘Aww, you told him,’ Rose said with a grumpy expression.

  ‘Let me guess, you had popcorn and a movie as well?’ Oliver said.

  Rose’s face brightened. ‘Yep.’

  (Is this what they do at school every day?)

  Sometimes I wonder. No, there’s only a week left before they break for the summer holidays, so they don’t do a lot of learning.

  (I wish our school had been like that. We had a writing test on the last day of each term.)

  ‘Can Brigid and I play in my room?’ Rose asked.