by Kitchin, Rob
She glances at the clock on the wall. ‘Oh my God!’ she cries, darting back into the hall. ‘Boys! Hey, boys! Storm? Cyclone?’ She runs up the stairs.
Realization dawns like the sun creeping up over the horizon.
One of her brat step-kids has taken the cap.
Oh God! It’s one thing to put your friends on the line; it’s a completely different thing to add their kids to the mix, including brat kids with stupid names. There’s edging over the line, then there’s taking a running jump into the abyss. I’ve driven at speed over the lip of a cliff into a bottomless crevasse with a coachful of passengers.
* * *
Sally has worked herself up into a hell of a state. After dashing around the house she’s now working her way round the neighbors searching for the two brats. They’ve probably just taken the cap to the local baseball diamond. I’ve tried suggesting as much to her, but she’s convinced they’ve been snatched. And if they haven’t, there are four sets of gangsters out there hunting for that cap.
I’d go out and help her, but with the state of my face, with its cuts, bruises, and guilty expression, I suspect I’d be run off the neighbors’ properties with pitchforks. Instead, I’ve taken the opportunity to change back into my old jeans and sneakers before ringing Annabelle. It’s a heck of a relief to step out of her idiot husband’s shoes; to let my feet spread to their natural shape.
‘Sally?’ Annabelle answers after two rings.
‘Annabelle, it’s Tadhg.’
‘Tadhg! Where the hell are you? Are you okay? Did you give that bitch the blood money?’
‘I’m at Sally’s. I feel like shit warmed up and stamped under foot. And no, I didn’t give that bitch the money.’
‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’
‘Look, I need you to get over here before the police decide to pay the place another visit. It’s about that money. One of Sally’s brat kids has disappeared with it.’
‘Tadhg!’ she yells, as if it is my fault - which, of course, it is. ‘How the …’
‘I didn’t give the little brat the damn cap! He stole it,’ I say, trying to defend myself against the indefensible. ‘Just get over here, will you. She’s lost the plot.’
‘She’s lost the plot? Do you have a vendetta against her or something?’
A vendetta? What the heck is she going on about? I have a bunch of vendettas running at the minute – Pirelli and The Rock, Redneck and Cowboy, Kate and Juan, Barry White – but Sally isn’t one of them. Sure, we manage to get under each other’s skin, but that’s hardly a vendetta.
‘Just get here!’ I thump down the phone. Yeah, I’m to blame for all this crap, but there’s no need to keep reminding me about it. I’ve been doing that to myself all day. I’m the King of Crappola.
The front door opens and slams.
Sally storms into the kitchen. ‘Nobody’s seen them.’
‘Sally, look, calm down. They’re probably at a friend’s house. Or they’re at the park. Where do they usually go after school?’
‘This is your fault,’ she jabs me hard in the chest with a finger. ‘You brought that damn cap here.’
‘I know, but I didn’t know the cap was the thing everyone was after. Do you think I’d have left it here if I did?’
‘I’m ringing the police.’
‘They’re probably on their way here as we speak after the incident in the mall. We’ve been here too long.’
‘Incident! The news channels probably think it was a terrorist attack! They’re ten and eight, Tadhg. Kids! And you’ve put them at the heart of the biggest … disaster in this town’s history.’
‘We’ll find them.’
‘I’ll find them. You’re going nowhere near them.’
‘Sally, look I …’
‘No, you look. You’re like the kiss of death. Everything you touch withers and dies.’
‘I haven’t killed anybody!’
‘You … pffffff.’ She heads back out of the kitchen.
‘Annabelle’s on her way,’ I call after her.
‘Good. You better not be here when I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out to look for those little brats!’ She slams the door shut.
At least she didn’t ring the police. And we agree that her step-kids are brats. However, whilst I’m a lot of things, the kiss of death isn’t one of them. I’m not the one running around with guns and kidnapping people. Shooting at people. I’m more the kiss of mayhem.
The rational part of my brain is telling me to leave. Sally doesn’t want me here and the police are almost certainly on their way.
My conscience is telling me to stay, to wait for Annabelle, and to try and help as best I can.
My gut instinct is telling me to find the kids and get the damn cap back and go and rescue Jason and Paavo.
* * *
After due consideration – the time it takes to down a glass of water – my gut instinct wins out. I head into the garage to get a bike; it’ll be a heck of a lot faster than walking.
The two kid’s bikes are gone.
I stare at the one remaining adult bike.
The two kid’s bikes are gone.
They’ve headed off on their bikes!
They should give me a detective’s badge. I’d give Kojak a run for his money.
I grab Sally’s bike and wheel it through the house and out the front door. Sally is talking to a neighbor at the end of the driveway.
‘Where do they go on their bikes?’ I ask.
‘Are you still here?’ Sally asks. Her face is streaked with tears.
‘Where do they go on their bikes?’ I repeat.
‘All over the place,’ she says facetiously. ‘They’re always riding their bikes.’
I mount the bike and set off towards the exit of the cul-de-sac. In the distance I can hear multiple sirens. It’s becoming the town’s new signature tune. And a good proportion of its playing is to do with my stupidity. As I near the t-junction I try to think of the most likely place to find young kids playing. Somewhere a little bit further than walking distance. I still think the local baseball diamond is worth checking out and I have to start somewhere.
I turn right, cycle one block and turn right again. Who in their right mind lets eight and ten year old kids roam free? I mean, I know I knew every nook and cranny of my neighborhood by aged eight, but who lets an eight year do that these days? Aren’t kids supposed to be on a permanent leash? Tied to a games console or taking part in supervised activities?
I hang a left. I can see the baseball diamond a couple of blocks up on the right, surrounded by mature trees and floodlight poles.
By the time I reach it sweat is pouring off me once again. The parkland is about five or six acres in size, the diamond wedged in one corner, surrounded on two sides by low bleachers. There are a dozen or so young teenagers playing a game, all too old to be Cyclone and Storm. I make my way across the grass to a gawky looking kid placed out in center field.
‘Hey, kid, you haven’t seen two little boys on bikes, have you?’
He looks over at me, eyeing me up and down.
‘What are you a pedo?’
‘A what?’
‘You like little boys, you sicko.’
‘What the …’ I can feel my face flush red with anger. The other kids have halted the game and are staring over at us. I hold my wrath. ‘They’re missing. We’re trying to find them.’
‘Run away from you, did they?’
‘Listen, half pint, I’m searching for two missing kids. They’re mother is distraught. I just want to know if you’ve seen them. If I have to get off this bike, you’ll regret it.’
‘And where’s your army?’
Where’s my army? For a gawky kid he’s got a lot of nerve. All he’s got to do is tell me if he’s seen the damn brats.
The other kids have started to walk towards us. Great. Now I’m about to be set upon by a bunch of thirteen year olds.
&nbs
p; ‘Have you seen them or not?’
‘Not.’
‘Thanks. You were a great help.’ I start pedaling away. Where the hell do kids get their manners these days? I asked him a civil question, all he needed to do was give me a civil answer.
‘Pedo!’ the kid shouts after me. A stone lands on the grass in front of me.
I glance back. Kids are scrabbling in the dried, yellowing grass, looking for anything they can throw. Another stone lands a couple of meters to one side.
They’re all chanting it now. ‘Pedo! Pedo! Pedo!’
I speed up, pumping the pedals furiously. Other kids and parents around the park are staring at me. Great. As well as murder, kidnap, terrorism, dangerous driving, assault and every other offence I’ve committed today they’re going to add pedophile. I wonder what the record is for being charged with multiple, differing offences at one time? By this stage of the afternoon I must be America’s most wanted man.
* * *
I exit the park on the far side and head right. I can still hear the kids’ laughter and cheers. Kids of today: they should bring back corporal punishment followed by conscription. That would sort the little punks out. It was probably a good job I didn’t have my trusty bat with me. That gawky kid’s dentist would have been sending me a Christmas hamper.
In my dreams. He probably would have kicked my ass.
Well, the little brats aren’t at the baseball diamond. But they have to be somewhere. Carrick Springs isn’t that large a town but, given its 35,000 inhabitants, it isn’t small either. There’re plenty of places they could be hanging out, including the mall.
They could be anywhere.
I cycle on for a bit and then just stand on the pedals and glide along.
This is it. The wall.
The point at which we finally become unstuck. Without the cap, we’re lost. And those damn brat kids are in serious danger.
I start to pedal again. I’m going to find those little fuckers if it’s the last thing I do.
A red Volkswagen Beetle – the modern version – coasts up next to me.
I glance across at its occupants.
‘Hello, honey,’ Denise says, pointing a pistol at me from an open window.
Shit!
‘We’ve been looking for you.’
My bowels knot and shift. Welcome to the last thing I do.
Denise has managed to flatten her straightened hair, but her face looks tired and stressed. Beyond her a younger version of Barry White stares over, his dark eyes smoldering. Leroy Taylor seems to be making this a family affair.
I do the first thing which pops into my head, which is to grab both brake leavers hard. The bike skids to a stop and I almost take off over the handlebars.
Young Barry and Denise continue on a few yards before grinding to a screeching halt.
I flip the bike round and set off as fast I can.
Behind me the Volkswagen is reversing at speed.
I jump up onto the sidewalk.
There’s a loud squealing noise as tires fight to grip tarmac. I glance over my shoulder. The Beetle is now facing towards me.
Damn! The guy must boost and race cars for a living.
A garbage bag through the window is not going to help. It won’t be a stop and search, it’ll be a stop and shot.
I’m heading back towards the baseball park. As much as I’d like to scare those kids half to death, the Taylor family on the rampage should be strictly limited to adults.
I swing down a driveway cutting across the front of the on-coming Beetle and head back the other way. Behind me the Volkswagen stops and starts reversing again. We could probably do this a few times, but at some point the car will come to a halt and the shooting will start.
I hang a left, my legs pumping as fast as I can make them.
The Beetle draws up alongside again.
‘Do you want me to pop you in the ass, you dumb motherfucker?’ Denise asks, pointing the pistol at me.
Is that a rhetorical question? Does anybody want to be shot in the ass?
‘Stop the Goddamn bike,’ she orders.
Not a chance in hell. Does she think I have a death wish? That I’m going to willingly surrender to the psychotic Taylor family?
I gently squeeze the brakes, then jump off the sidewalk swerving behind the Beetle taking a right hand turn. The car overshoots, braking hard.
I put my head down, my legs pumping for all they are worth. I can hear the Volkswagen reversing at speed. I look up to see a police car coming straight towards me.
You couldn’t make this up. Nobody would believe you. If there’s a God, he’s obviously decided to conduct an experiment into determining how much crap you can throw at one person before he cracks.
I hop back up onto the sidewalk and keep pedaling like crazy, zipping past the police car. Behind me there is a screech of tires. I glance over my shoulder to see the Beetle accelerate forward on its original course, the police car flipping on its lights and siren, giving pursuit.
Maybe God isn’t such a callous deity after all.
I stop pedaling and coast for a while. Up ahead I can hear the shouts of a soccer match.
* * *
Being chased and scared half to death by Denise and Young Barry at least has a silver lining. There must be over fifty kids under the age of eleven and two dozen adults spread across two pitches. Soccer practice. Her damn kids went to soccer practice. Probably like they did every Goddamn week. Talk about over-reacting. I mean, it wasn’t like there was a bunch of deranged criminals looking for them.
Well, not yet anyway.
I scan the kids looking for a Crusaders Cap. I circle a pitch and eventually spot one of Sally’s two brats playing in the centre of defense for a team wearing yellow bibs. He’s wearing the cap backwards so he can still head the ball.
Bingo!
I wait until the ball has been cleared up field then shout from the sideline: ‘Hey, Storm.’
The kid looks over at me and frowns.
‘Storm, over here.’ I wave my arms.
The kid checks that ball is still at the other end of the pitch and drifts a bit closer.
‘Your mom’s looking for you. Your dad is coming home early from work. Given the weather they’re going to head up to the lake. Go kayaking and swimming. She wants you to head home.’
‘I’m Cyclone.’
‘She still wants you to head home, buddy. She sent me to fetch you.’
‘She’s not my mom, she’s my step-mom.’
Great, a pedantic brat.
‘Well, your step-mom wants you to go home.’
‘But we’re winning 3-1.’ He glances back at the game to make sure he isn’t going to be called into action in the next few seconds.
‘I’m sure the team will cope without you for the rest of the game.’
‘I guess,’ he mutters. ‘Who are you, in any case?’
I smile at the parent a few feet away, trying to reassure him that I’m not trying to kidnap the damn brat, nor that I’m trying to prevent others from kidnapping him.
‘Me? Tadhg. Your mother’s friend. Annabelle’s friend.’
‘Oh yeah, the idiot.’
I glance across at the parent and shrug. The guy’s wearing a huge smile, enjoying the show.
‘My step-mom thinks you’re a moron,’ Cyclone continues.
‘Well, I’m the moron sent to make sure you get home, okay?’
‘I need to tell Coach Wilson we’re leaving.’ The kid sprints to the far touch line where he talks to a grey-haired man in shorts and a vest.
‘You look like you’ve been in a war,’ the parent says.
‘You don’t know the half of it. War is a damn sight easier than the crap I’ve been going through. At least in a war there are gaps between the battles.’
He won’t be smiling when he gets home and sees my photo on the news. And I guess I’m just about to add kiddie-snatcher to my list of crimes.
Cyclone arrives back minus his yello
w bib. His place on the pitch has been taken by a kid half his size. The coach is going to have to re-arrange his defense unless he wants the penalty area peppered with high crosses.
We start to head to the other pitch to find his brother.
‘I’ll take your cap, so you can put on your bike helmet,’ I offer.
Cyclone looks at me skeptically, as if I’m conning him out of a million dollars, and hands it over reluctantly. I re-adjust the strap and pop it on. Finally something seems to be going right. I have the kids safe and sound and the million dollars.
This thing might work out okay after all.
* * *
I know there’s something wrong as we near the entrance to the cul-de-sac. I can see red and blue lights swirling between the houses and trees. The police have arrived at Sally’s house.
For damnation’s sake! I take one step forward and two back. It seems that it’s never so bad that it can't get worse. No doubt Sally and Annabelle are now in custody. I bust a gut to get both of them released and almost immediately they’re re-ensnared. Talk about rough justice.
And I’ve no idea how to even begin to plan a jail break.
‘Wait up, boys,’ I say to Storm and Cyclone, slowing to a halt.
‘What’s wrong, Tad?’ Cyclone says, stopping next to me.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Has there been an accident?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
Now what the hell am I meant to do? I guess I should allow the kids go on and let the police look after them; cut my losses here and see if I can get Jason and Paavo released. At least I now have the cap and the million dollars to bargain with. Perhaps I can persuade Pirelli to help me take on the Taylor family? It would be foolish to try and tackle them on my own and I’m all out of friends that I’d be prepared to put on the line; or would be happy to put themselves on the line.
A pink van glides to a halt next to us, Annabelle’s Delights painted on the side in purple script. The window slides down, the door on the far side opening.
‘Where the hell have you three been?’ Annabelle says from behind the steering wheel. ‘We’ve been looking all over for you.’
Sally clears the front of the vehicle and smothers the two kids, who try to shy away from the affection.
Annabelle and Sally obviously left before the police arrived and have been driving around the neighborhood looking for the two brats. Maybe justice isn’t so rough after all.