Distress Signals

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  It was all a bit strange, but Romain did what he was told.

  He always did, nowadays.

  The two boys dutifully trudged their way to the park. It was only a five-minute walk from their house. Romain got Jean to walk on the inside of the footpath, away from the road, and held his hand the whole way.

  The park was full of kids, and they were all building snowmen. Romain counted nearly twenty of them in the open area just inside the gates. Some had accessories: scarfs, hats, carrots, twigs, coals. The park had been closed the day before and so the snow had had a chance to build up, white and thick. It reminded him of how the garden around the old house used to look during winter.

  Jean had no interest in the snow or snowmen. He just wanted to play with his action figures. Romain suggested that they cut through the park to the shop, buy some sweets and then start back home again. If they walked slowly, it would take the half an hour Papa had insisted they stay out for.

  ‘What about the ice?’ Jean asked.

  ‘What ice?’

  ‘Papa said I could play wrestling on the ice.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Romain looked around. The pond was straight ahead. They could skirt around it to get to the exit by the shop. It would take a little longer, but that would only make Papa pleased. ‘Okay, come on. Just for a minute though. I want to get back.’

  The pond wasn’t frozen, only frozen over. The layer of ice on its surface was thin and translucent, and it was full of cracks and gaps. There was no one around.

  Over the shallow part by the edge, the ice was fairly thick, so Romain told Jean he could put his figures on there.

  ‘You stay on the path, though. Don’t go on the pond. Only the wrestlers can do that, okay?’

  Jean nodded. ‘Okay.’

  He crouched down and started organising the figures on the ice.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ a voice said. ‘You again.’

  It was Bastian Pic, coming towards them along the side of the pond. Alone, but then his stupid henchmen were never too far away.

  ‘Jean,’ Romain said. ‘Sorry, but we have to go.’

  ‘But the referee hasn’t even rung the bell.’

  ‘You can have that match at home. Come on.’

  Bastian was upon them now. He looked down at Jean.

  ‘How many of you retards are there?’

  Jean’s face fell.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Romain said.

  ‘Oh, leave him alone?’ Bastian put on a high-pitched, girly voice. ‘You want me to leave him alone?’ He stepped towards Romain until his face was inches from his. He was close enough that, when he spoke, Romain felt droplets of saliva hit his face. ‘You don’t fucking tell me what to do, okay? Don’t even think about it.’

  In a small voice, Jean said, ‘Romi?’

  ‘We’re going now, Jean. Pick up your toys.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Bastian said. ‘You know I got detention over you, you little shit? I didn’t even do anything. You’re the idiot who fell. When I saw you leave your house a while ago, I thought now was a good time to collect what you owe.’

  Romain said nothing. He thought of the money Papa had given them for sweets. Is that what Bastian meant?

  ‘Romi?’ Jean said again.

  ‘If I’m going to get in trouble,’ Bastian said, ‘for kicking your pathetic ass, I should at least get to kick it.’

  No, he didn’t mean money. He was going to beat Romain up.

  ‘Romi?’ Jean said. ‘Romi, what’s—’

  Bastian suddenly swung around and roared, ‘Will you just shut the fuck up?!’ at the boy.

  Jean’s eyes grew wide with fright, then his face crumpled. He looked at Romain helplessly as a dark stain began to spread between his legs.

  Bastian started laughing.

  ‘No way. Seriously? You’re not toilet-trained e—’

  The elastic snapped.

  That was how Romain would describe it, later. That was the only way he could. It was like everything he’d been keeping in since ­Mikki’s accident, all the times he’d been holding his anger back, all the shit he’d taken from Bastian and the other boys, all the words he’d had to swallow so he could try his best to be good – it had all been bundled up, hidden away, kept back, held tight inside this stretch of elastic.

  And where had it got him?

  Ignored by Mama, practically. Bullied at school – Bastian hadn’t been the first. And now, here was poor Jean, shouted at, frightened and humiliated, all by this dumb, mean shit-smear of a—

  Romain pulled his right arm back and punched Bastian as hard as he could in the face.

  After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  His fist connected with the underside of Bastian’s jaw and kept going, into the soft flesh on the side of his neck.

  Bastian’s eyes widened in surprise and he fell backwards, over the edge of the pond.

  Jean grabbed his action figures just before the thin layer of ice they were on smashed with the force of the impact.

  The rage roared through Romain’s veins like a fire.

  He didn’t feel like himself. It felt like he was standing a few feet away, watching himself from afar.

  He lifted his boots over the edge of the pond and stepped into the shallow water on the other side. He felt like a giant, towering over Bastian. He felt strong, impossibly strong, like he could snap the boy’s neck if he really wanted to.

  Bastian was in water that, in his sitting position, was up to his armpits. He was splashing around, trying to get up, but already the temperature of the water was affecting his breathing. He’d started to pant loudly.

  He looked up at Romain, confused and scared.

  ‘What the hell are you—’

  Romain bent over and pushed Bastian back down, under the surface. Both hands on the boy’s neck. A knee digging into his chest.

  Behind him, on the path, Jean started to wail.

  Romain could feel Bastian thrashing under the water, trying to come up. His hands were above the surface, smashing it desperately, sending icy droplets flying everywhere, making splashing sounds, tearing at the skin on the back of Romain’s hands.

  Still, Romain held him under. He did it until the thrashing stopped.

  Then, tentatively, he lifted his knee. No movement.

  Released his hands from the boy’s neck. Still none.

  He pulled his hands out of the water and looked down at them, turning them over, studying the palms. They were turning blue with the cold, and the skin on the pads of his fingers was all crinkly. He looked beyond them, into the water.

  Bastian’s grey face was floating beneath the surface, his eyes open wide.

  And Romain was suddenly back, inside his own skin. He wasn’t watching from afar any more. This was happening. This was real.

  He looked at Jean, then back at Bastian, then back at Jean again.

  What had he done now?

  Romain got out of the water, grabbed his brother’s hand and ran the two of them out of the park and all the way home.

  At first, it seemed like the house was empty. Mama had taken Mikki to the hospital for an appointment, Romain knew that. But where was Papa? He called out for him but got no answer. The TV was on in the living room. Papa wouldn’t have gone out without turning it off, would he? So where—

  Romain saw him then, out the window.

  Papa was in the back garden, stringing netting between the poles of a trampoline.

  A new trampoline. That’s why he’d sent them out of the house.

  As he watched Papa prepare a surprise for them, Romain realised that he had ruined everything. Again. He’d let the darkness out, just for a minute, and destroyed everything. Again.

  Jean lifted his hand to knock on the glass, but Romain stopped h
im.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. He put a finger to his lips. ‘Be quiet, okay? We’re going to sneak upstairs. We can’t make any noise though. It’s a game.’

  They went to their room and changed into clean, dry clothes of similar colours, hoping Papa wouldn’t notice the difference. He would notice if their winter boots were missing though, so they stuck their feet into the plastic bags Mama put in the bin in the bathroom before sliding them inside their soaking wet boots again.

  Jean carefully transferred his wrestlers from the pockets of his wet coat into the pockets of the dry one he had on him now.

  ‘Romi,’ he said. ‘Where’s Bret Hart?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bret Hart isn’t here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He’s not here.’ Jean’s voice started to rise. ‘He’s not here!’

  ‘Jean, please. Be quiet. Don’t forget the game. I promise I’ll get you another one, okay?’

  ‘But I want the one I had. Where is he?’

  ‘Maybe you dropped him on the road outside. We’ll go look, okay?’

  Romain put all the wet clothes in his gym bag and stuffed it down the back of the wardrobe.

  Then he went to the window. Papa was still outside. The trampoline was nearly assembled.

  They hurried down the stairs and back out the front door. Walked around the block a couple of times. Came back and rang the doorbell this time.

  ‘Boys!’ Papa said when he pulled back the door. ‘How was the park? Did you have fun? Did you build a snowman?’ Before they could answer, he beckoned them down the hall. ‘I have a little surprise for you. Well, a big one. It’s out in the garden. Papa Noel was supposed to bring it, but it got delayed at Customs, so . . .’

  Behind Papa’s back, Romain and Jean exchanged a glance.

  Romain put a finger to his lips.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Jean nodded his head, just once, in silent agreement.

  ——

  By the next morning, Bastian’s disappearance was all over the news. Policemen were all over the neighbourhood. Parents were getting together, conducting searches. Papa said he wanted to go but Mama stopped him, saying he was needed more at home. Mikki was having A Bad Day. The battery pack on his chair kept beeping and Mama couldn’t figure out why. She was worried that it might go off at any moment. If it did, they’d have to run to the hospital. Papa wasn’t going anywhere.

  Romain sat in the living room with him, watching the TV. The local news channel showed jerky helicopter footage of people walking through the snowy streets, across the school grounds, checking in ditches and drains, rifling through bins. Bastian’s parents stood on their doorstep, holding each other and crying, pleading for information about their son’s whereabouts.

  A heavy block settled in the pit of Romain’s stomach. Dread was seeping out of every pore on his skin. It would only be a matter of time before they found the body. He wondered if he should just run away, but he couldn’t think of a single place to go.

  Why had he done that awful thing? Another one?

  To protect Jean.

  Where was Jean? He’d been avoiding Romain all day, but that was understandable. Although he wasn’t sure whether or not Jean had really understood what he’d seen. Maybe he was scared of him now. Or maybe he was just playing with those damn wrestlers.

  Which reminded him: he had to get another Bret Hart. He’d some pocket-money saved up, so he had enough. He just didn’t know where to get one. He’d have to figure it out.

  The announcement came just after lunch: Bastian Pic’s body had been found in the pond in the park. Police were looking to speak with anyone who had been in or around the park between lunchtime and six o’clock the day before. There had been a large crowd building snowmen. Were you or any of your children one of them? They were particularly interested in speaking to anyone who had lost an American wrestling action figure in or around the area by the pond. Apparently, Bastian had been found with one on his person, even though he didn’t own such a thing himself.

  The TV screen went blank. Papa had turned it off with the remote.

  ‘An American wrestling action figure,’ he repeated. ‘In the park . . .’ Romain held his breath as his father’s head turned slowly towards him. ‘Romi?’

  It was just one word, but it was soaked in sadness.

  Romain didn’t dare turn to face his father. He couldn’t.

  After Mikki, Papa was the only one who’d stood up for him, who’d defended him to Mama. She wanted to send him away. She wanted him punished. She never wanted to see him again. I knew something was wrong with him. Didn’t I always say it? Didn’t I? And you told me to calm down . . . But Papa had made her see that Romain was just a child, a child just trying to help, copying what he’d seen grown-ups do, not understanding his mistake.

  Papa had understood what had really happened with Mikki. But would he this time?

  Romain could say it was an accident. That Bastian had been saying things to Jean when he’d slipped and fell. What would be Romain’s excuse for not helping him though, for not running to get help? He could say he was scared. He had been. That was the truth.

  ‘Romi?’ Papa said again. ‘Romi, did you—’

  The door to the kitchen swung open.

  Mama stood in the threshold, tears running down her face. She looked angry and scared and sad, all at the same time.

  She was holding the gym bag of wet clothes in her hand.

  Jean was holding her other one.

  He was standing just behind her, against her leg, hiding almost in the folds of her skirt. Sucking his thumb, just like he used to when he was younger.

  He wouldn’t look at Romain.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she said to Romain.

  ‘What?’ Papa stood up. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He knows,’ Mama spat, indicating Romain. ‘You can ask him. And don’t you dare speak to me. I listened to you the last time, and look what’s happened now. He is not a boy, Charlie. I’ve tried time and time again to tell you that. He nearly killed Mikki and now he’s actually killed that boy – and he did it in front of Jean!’

  Papa looked bewildered.

  Romain started to cry.

  Jean tugged on Mama’s hand. ‘Now can we go get a new Bret Hart?’

  Adam

  ‘“I know it’s unlikely,”’ I read aloud, ‘“and my husband said I shouldn’t be bothering you. But she had a Cork accent and said her name was Sarah. She was on her own for dinner, sat next to us – the Pavilion Restaurant only has tables for twelve, and they fill them up as guests arrive. I saw on your post that your Sarah was on a flight from Cork to Barcelona last Sunday, and so were we. I didn’t see her on it though. Then we boarded the Celebrate from Barcelona early Monday morning. Now I might be wrong, God forgive me, but I’m convinced it was the same girl. Her hair was different though – short, like a boy’s. I’m sorry I don’t have any other information for you because we only chatted about the ship – Paul and I had been on the maiden voyage too so we were giving her tips about what to do and where to go, that sort of thing – and then I didn’t see her again. But it’s a huge ship – two thousand passengers, it can take! We stopped in Nice in France and La Spezia in Italy and then went back to Barcelona again. Disembarked Thursday morning. Three nights/four days. You can contact me if you think I could be of any help but, as I said, that’s all I know and maybe I’m wrong. I’ll say a novena for you all anyway. Regards, Mary Maher.”’

  Finished, I looked up from my phone.

  Cusack was sitting on the other side of the conference table with an expression that seemed to say, And . . . ?

  Then she actually said it.

  ‘The logo,’ Maureen reminded me.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ I slid an A4 page across the table. Half of it was taken
up with a photo of a middle-aged couple posing in front of a mural of a large cruise ship. The image was streaked with white lines; my printer was running low on ink. ‘This is Mary and her husband, on the ship.’ I tapped the bottom right-hand corner of the picture where a logo had been superimposed. ‘See that?’ I opened Sarah’s passport to the photo page, where the note was still stuck. I laid it flat on the table, aligned it with the photograph. ‘The squiggly lines – they’re waves. That’s the Blue Wave logo. That’s the company that owns the Celebrate. Sarah must’ve got that paper when she was on the ship.’

  To my left, Jack blew air out of his nose. When I turned to look at him, I saw his lips set in a tight line and his arms folded across his chest.

  He looked like he was annoyed, but with who?

  With Sarah?

  With me?

  ‘So this message,’ Cusack asked me. ‘It came from the Facebook page?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  On Friday night, Moorsey had set up a ‘Help Us Contact Sarah O’Connell’ Facebook page. By Saturday afternoon, a Tipperary woman named Mary Maher had sent a private message to it, saying she’d just returned from a Mediterranean cruise where she’d met a woman whom she thought was Sarah.

  Mary’s Sarah had a Cork accent and very short hair, and the ship – the Celebrate – had made a stop in Nice, from where the passport had been posted.

  But still. A cruise ship? Why would Sarah have gone on one of those?

  The Facebook page’s inbox was quickly filling up with similarly ridiculous claims. The message that had come in just before Mary’s claimed Sarah had been buying a trolley-load of ice in Tesco Mahon Point Thursday morning, while the one after it was from a psychic who told us, hey, bad news, Sarah is dead, but good news, if you cough up two hundred euro in cash, you can communicate with her across the ether.

  But then when Moorsey went and looked at Mary’s Facebook profile, he saw that she’d just updated her cover photo with an image that had been taken aboard the ship. He recognised the logo instantly.