by R. S. Higham
It was not quite six o’ clock in the morning when Stacey headed toward the town. The sun was up as it was late spring but no one was about. It was a chilly morning despite the month but Stacey had hardened to the cold. His clothes were tatters, he’d stolen a pair of brown cloth pants from a washing line two or three years back but they were ripped and heavily soiled. He walked slowly with a limp around the town, a couple of early birds spotted him and pointed and hurried in disgust, he had forgotten the disgust others expressed towards him, in fact he had forgotten he was even human, he had been living like and animal and he had always been treated as such, maybe once he had felt human, when a baby would smile up at him and in that brief moment he would feel acceptance and know that we are not born with hatred, it is fed to us, the child would see him as it sees any other before it would be tainted with horror stories that condemned deformed creatures like himself.
But he had lost all humanity within him now, he was a beast, a savage, he no longer felt like a victim of these people, he felt like a monster that they had created.
He headed towards the police station; he wanted to find Mark Sugden’s address and figured this would be the best place to start. As he stepped through the door a number of officers jumped up, one spilling a paper cup of hot coffee over his lap.
“M…M…MARK S…S…S…SUGDEN.” He spat, no one said a word.
He repeated. “M…MARK SUG-DEN.”
“I think I know what he wants.” A senior officer chirped up. “He wants to know where Mark Sugden is, you know, Tim’s boy.”
“Mark Sugden? Jee I haven’t seen him around here for ten years maybe more. I could tell you where he went, but I don’t know his address.” An even older man said. “He left for Crainsley, it’s about four or five miles down that road over there. Keep following south until you hit a sign reading ‘Taterman’s farm’ then go left and keep going til you hit Crainsley. The road pretty much ends there.” He said. Smiling as best he could.
Stacey turned and left the building.
“You probably shouldn’t have told him where Mark lives, boss. Mark’s the one that pushed him onto that tree branch in the forest; I don’t think Stacey just wants a catch up.” A younger officer warned.
“Well, good on him. That bastard Sugden has it coming. You better just pray he don’t know what this town can be held accountable of or he might burn it to the ground.” The older man barked, and in a moment or two the police station was back to normality.
Stacey slipped behind the farm house where Mr Ellison lives, he remembered as a child Farmer Ellison would chase him and beat him with a stick when he tried to steal a batch of apples or tomatoes shouting “I’ll get you boy, I’ll string you up by your ears!” and he’d be scared, real scared, because he watched Farmer Ellison cut the heads off of chickens. Stacey didn’t know of any difference between himself and a chicken.
Stacey was still scared, he wasn’t aware that Mr Ellison was in his eighties. In Stacey’s mind he was still that burly Farmer who could run twice as fast as you even when carrying a big axe over his shoulder. But Stacey wasn’t after his vegetables he wanted his clothes. A pair of denim dungarees hung by the braces on the washing line. The wind made the blue fabric ripple like the tides, it was a siren; he was hypnotized. He oafishly gripped them with two weathered hands, still wet. And the fabric softener burnt his sensitive nose but they would do nicely. They were hard to pull on but he managed, he clawed at his soiled underwear that had ridden up his gluteal cleft in the struggle, already the blue dye was rubbing off onto his skin. If there had been anyone around to see this they’d have fell about laughing.
After adjusting himself he darted back over the fence quickly in case Ellison heard the ruckus. Thirty years of sitting inches away from a blaring T.V set had damaged Ellison’s eardrums beyond salvation but Stacey didn’t know that.
About one hundred yards up the road he stopped, panting a little, and looked back over to the farm. It was still. He caught his breath and continued down the road that the police officer had told him to take. His feet were wrapped in what looked like the remains of potato sacks, he should have taken a pair of Farmer Ellison’s boots but being a size 15 (Although that too he didn’t know) meant it was difficult to find a good fit, he’d stolen one or two pairs in the past but he couldn’t get them on after half of his foot, and if one eventually squeezed on it rubbed and crushed and ripped his feet to shreds. But the stony road was hard on the soles of his feet; the softer forest floor was kinder.
Truck horns blasted as they flew past him and people shouted out of car windows. Not surprisingly, he looked like something out of a horror flick with his large, hunched body barely covered inside his new outfit. But he didn’t flinch or stop or shout back he kept his head low and kept moving his feet, one, two, one, two. When he finally looked up he saw the sign for ‘Taterman’s farm’ but he was on the wrong side of the road. There was very little traffic but those who drove down this road drove fast, he pegged it across during a quiet spell. Next to Taterman’s was a narrow path, vehicles had worn the grass down to dirt strips either side of a green mound. This was the road he was to follow. Five minutes down he heard a beeping behind him, a 4x4 was closing in, there was thick bushes either side of the path and it wasn’t big enough for both of them. Stacey leapt into a bush as the truck bounced passed; the driver was staring back at him in the wing mirror. He was beginning to wish he’d stayed in his dugout.
He picked the thorns out of his body and carried on walking, now a little achier.
When he arrived at Crainsley, a kind old man had confirmed where he was, he looked for Mark, but Crainsley was a bigger town than Foxbridge and Mark would have aged beyond much recognition. His blonde hair would have darkened and his braces came off only six months after the incident, Stacey could remember his face perfectly, if only time had frozen it.
He asked around for Sugden, a name a few said was familiar and he was directed to a small cottage over the North side of town, it was a lovely quaint little thing like something out of a fairy tale, Stacey had never been told a fairy tale. The ivy climbed up to the thatched roof and the walls were painted white. He knocked his hand against the wooden gate and it banged open. The curtains twitched. His steps became slower, what would he do? He didn’t know what to say to him, some divine forgiveness brewed inside of him and it seemed that time had quelled most of the pent up hatred. He gulped, and reached for the doorbell. A sweet chime rang out inside.
“Who is it?” A voice asked through the closed door, they had probably watched him walk up.
“S…S…SUGDEN.” Stacey shouted. “M…MAR-“
“I’m Mark Sugden.” The voice answered as the door creaked open.
Stacey stared, dumbfounded. He had found him, he was about to look the man who caused him so much pain all those years ago in the face.
“Stacey…? Is that really-? How did you-? I thought you were dead!” Mark said.
“N…N…NOT THAT E…EASILY.” Stacey looked at him his expression was dark and cold.
“I thought’ I’d killed you.” Mark sighed, Stacey could see a tear glisten in his eye, he looked down ashamed. “All my life I thought I’d killed you, I didn’t mean to push you on that stick, I didn’t know it was there!”
“I LIVED I…IN A C…C…CAVE.” He yelled. Suddenly his rage came back, he had lived his life thinking he was a murderer? Try living in a wet, cold hovel on a bed of leaves. How dare he act innocent. He deserved to be punished. Stacey stomped forwards until he was nearly treading on the man’s bare toes. He lifted his dirty, blistered hands and placed them on the man’s neck, crushing his muscles until he heard a crunch and a snap. In a matter of seconds Mark’s head turned black and Stacey let his body drop to the floor –.’
10
“Yeah, that’s good, wait ‘til Hopeless reads this! He laughed, and started to print out the pages. “I better fax them over; I’ll ring her first to let her know.”
When the pages were d
one he placed them in the machine and dialled Audrey’s number. She had email, but James respected her old fashioned ways.
“Hello?” She answered after four or five rings.
“Audrey! Got a little surprise for you coming over! Got an exclusive snippet on its way to you, I got a bit carried away writing it but anyway I won’t give much away just read it and let me know what you think.”
“Wow, I’m impressed, and that doesn't happen often. I’ll read it right away and get back to you. She said.
“I feel good, like I’ve got back into the game.” He said.
“Well that’s what I like to hear, talk soon.”
“Yeah, see ya.” He slammed the phone down and swung back in his chair, the last page was sliding through the machine.
He must have nodded off as the phone ringing made him jump.
“Audrey?” He answered.
“It’s awful.”
“What?”
“It’s awful, James!” She repeated.
“Why?”
“How can you make a story out of that? He’s an inbred Quasimodo, James, and he wants revenge for being bullied at school? What more can you do with it?” Her cold tone wounded him.
“Audrey I can do loads with it, a full backstory about his family and his school life, his life out in the woods, and maybe there could have been a girl he liked at school and when they’d pick on him he’d look at her all red faced and she’d turn away embarrassed. And then Mark could say “the retard fancies … erm… Karen! Hey everyone look he fancies Karen!” and then he runs out into the woods and then they chase him… and then when he goes to his house as an adult Mark has married Karen and when he sees her he like, his rage subsides cause, you know, he loves her.” James’ took a breath, it faltered, Audrey seemed oblivious to his desperation.
“It’s awful.” She, again, repeated.
“STOP SAYING THAT!” He shouted. “I’m trying! Christ sake Audrey I’m trying my best!”
“James, calm down, please. You’re scaring me.”
“Scaring you? Oh you don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t know what I’ve been through these last few days, and all because of this book! And you!” He was screaming down the phone.
“What are you talking about? James stop it!” She pleaded.
“I don’t need you. I’ll get another publisher. And you’ll say “I should have listened to him, I should have listened.”
“I think you need to speak to someone about this, I think the work is getting to you, you’re stressed. I don’t want you having another breakdown.”
“Don’t talk to me like I'm a child! So, you hate it? Right, what now then?”
“I don't know what you want me to say.” Her voice was close to a whisper. “I’m going to hang the phone up now James. But if you need me, when you’ve calmed down, please call me.” And she did. The phone went silent.
11
“Any word yet, Mike?” Officer Barnes said to Sergeant Michael Sullivan.
“Yep, one man was spotted outside the deceased’s apartment building at exactly 11:32 PM, according to a –” he flipped through his notebook – “Mrs Carmichael.” Mike said.
“Has he got a name, Sir?” Asked Queenie Mahmoud, a 4’11”, 20 stone Nigerian community support officer who was asked to assist in the IT department due to three officers calling in sick after a breakout of influenza.
“No, we need to find him first, she gave us a car registration number, can you put that through the machine?” Sullivan asked her. Queenie got to it, feeling extra special today now she was ‘chosen especially’ for her ‘unique skills’ in helping catch a possible killer.
“Mhm, last time it was bought was by a man named Jerry Orville.” She answered.
“Orville!” Said Barnes. “That’s the guy who owns the rental place on Frank Street, I think, Jerry Orville yeah I’m sure of it, the guy musta’ rented it from him.”
“Maybe, let’s go have a chat with him, see if he remembers who hired the Dodge.” Said Sergeant Sullivan as he pulled his padded police anorak over his shoulders.
“Be careful out there.” Queenie called after them, she smirked, enjoying being ‘on the front line’.
The heavens had opened up and the rain was bouncing off of car roofs and off of Barnes’s and Sullivan’s police hats. It drummed in their ears and they had to shout to communicate with each other.
“Get in.” Gregory hollered, his voice straining as his throat hurt. “Brilliant, looks like I’m coming down with the flu” He thought.
When the two men shut the horrible weather out and turned up the car heating they both sighed and sat back with their eyes closed for a moment.
“Awful out there.” Greg said and Mike looked at him as if to say “no freaking way, really?”
“Move back down south then, country boy, big city weather too much for you?” Mike smiled.
“Yeah the women up here wear five layers from January ‘til June then again from September ‘til December, and they’re pale as the snow that falls for four months straight!” He laughed. Mike gave him a blank stare.
“Right, well I can see where your brains are kept, you’re gonna be a big help on this case aren’t you?” He slapped his hand across the back of Greg’s head.
“I was just saying.” Greg winked. He put the car into drive, touched his foot to the accelerator and headed towards Orville’s Car Hire.
It wasn’t a long drive from the police station to the rental place, the rain had turned to drizzle to the quiet relief of the police officers but the car had stopped over a great big puddle on Sergeant Sullivan’s passenger side.
“Thanks a bunch for that, bud.” He grunted.
The car heating and their thick coats had formed a layer of salty sweat over their bodies, the icy wind that was circling New Hatton like a hurricane bit into their cheeks but from the neck down they were boiling. It was, as Gregory Barnes had noted, an awful night. The lights inside the car hire flickered a garish yellow; they illuminated a squat, little man with round spectacles and just a handful of hair scarcely covering a bright red cranium. He was cleaning a dirty vehicle with an even dirtier black cloth. The two men started towards him.
“Hey!” Greg called out. Mike delivered a hard elbow to his ribs. “Ha-ha, what I do?” Greg laughed.
“Excuse me, Sir?” Mike shouted. “We’re from the police department, may we ask you a few questions? It won’t take long.”
The man led them inside the shelter and wiped his glasses down with the rag and replaced them on his nose.
“Whatta ya want?” He barked, both his voice and appearance akin to some villainous cartoon character. ‘The Little Man’ from The Pink Panther catoons came to Mike’s mind.
“We have reason to believe a car hired from this shop was involved in a crime last night, we’d like to know if you can identify the man who purchased it.” Mike answered.
“Go on.” The man said unfazed by the news. He scratched his arm and yawned. The Sergeant handed the man a picture of the Ford and the license plate. He rubbed a greasy hand on his forehead and sighed.
“Yep, I know who rented dat, only used it for one night. I have his name and address here in my book.” The man scurried over to the other side of the car he was working on and was momentarily out of view, the two men flashed each other a goofy look that nearly sent officer Barnes into a giggling fit. Although Mike was more concerned with whomever it was only hiring a car for one night, “suspicious as Hell.”
“Okay, here you go.” The man said as he came back into view. “James Jones, that’s the guy, ‘bout 6’4 nearly made me fall on my ass looking at his face but most guys do these days, fink dere’s something in the water makes um grow so big.” He joked, although it might not have been a joke, he looked deadly serious.
“Much appreciated, have a nice night Mr –?”
“Jerry, Jerry Orville, call me Jerry.” Jerry replied.
“Have a nice night Jerry.” Mike said,
and the two police officers made their way back to the cruiser.
“He was a right creep!” Greg laughed. “Like a mad scientist’s assistant.”
“Igor.” Mike smiled.
“Yeah, ha-ha!” Greg fell about with another spurt of laughter. “We going for this James tonight?” He asked. “Cause I got a ton of stuff to do.”
“A ton of stuff to do?” Mike asked.
“I have a bad throat.” Greg turned his bottom lip down like a sad kid.
“Well, fine, I’ll drop you off at your place, but this is the first and last favour I’m doing for you.”
Mike was in the driving seat now, they had a system that one would drive there and the other would drive back, both to avoid dozing off at the wheel on late night call-outs and because they both suffered from extreme road rage. The men turned left down Frank Street and took a right at the traffic lights leading into St Mary’s Road. They headed to James Jones’s apartment.
“You know it’s called Ocean Apartments, right Boss?” Gregory said. “Don’t cha think it’s funny that there’s no Ocean but it’s called Ocean Apartments?”
“The place is a dump.”
“How do you know?”
“I know the guy who runs it, I’ve arrested him two dozen times but he keeps getting let off easy.” Mike said; his driving becoming progressively worse each time he spoke. Gregory noticed and shut up for a minute, but it was short lived.
He toyed with the idea of saying something until he finally squeaked. “Remember to drop me off.”
“Dammit!” Mike hissed.
“Did you forget?”.
“Yep. You really gonna leave me to do this alone? “ Mike asked.
“Fine, I’ll wait in the car.”
Mike stopped the car outside the building. He put his wet coat on and checked his teeth for bits of food before getting out, the rain had come back, not as heavy but enough to soak through his hat.