It was school holidays and I’d just been given a new cricket bat. Yes, I was a choirboy, but I wasn’t a pansy. I was a decent athlete, not a bad batsman at all. I tried to get them to play with me in the garden, but Miranda kept pointing to the tree-house at the end of the garden, and saying, “Up. I want to go up.” She loved it when we went up there. What I’d do was put one of them on my back, climb up, put her down, and then go back and do the same with the other. I’d stockpiled fun things to eat up there. Chocolate and cans of coke. We’d be up there looking over the garden, as if it were our kingdom. That special place where no grown-ups ever bother you. Miranda always wanted to go up first, and I’d let her because then Amanda could see it was safe. Miranda hopped on my back and I climbed up with her and then when I brought Amanda up, I took my cricket bat with me. I’d just been given it. By my godfather. He came to my trial, by the way. My trial which was not conducted by a jury of my peers. No eleven-year-olds on my jury. Old people. Ancient people who couldn’t remember what it was like to be a child.
Climbing the ladder with a little girl on my back and a cricket bat in my hand wasn’t easy, Henry. But I managed.
Where was Enid during all this? Working. Or hitting the bottle. Or both. She wasn’t watching her twins, that’s for certain. They talk about me, they should talk about her too. She has some responsibility in all this. Handing her daughters over to the care of an eleven-year-old: some people might call that delinquent mothering. I do.
We used to sing songs up there. You know, those nursery-rhyme type of songs: “Incey Wincey Spider.” That kind of song, so they could sing along with me. I had a shit-hot voice. A voice that made mothers weep at Christmas carol services. You know that one, “I’m Walking in the Air?” That Christmas I sang that as a solo.
You know, I wish Holly had heard me sing. I never dared sing again after that day. Holly told me she never answers her phone, her landline; she will never answer it again after she had the calls about her parents. Well, I never sang again. It didn’t seem right.
So “Incey Wincey Spider” was the last song I ever sang. We were all sitting down on the wooden platform of the tree-house, singing it together. But when Amanda asked to sing it again, I said, “No.” I was already getting tired of the choirboy tag. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Because I was tired of being a choirboy, I refused to sing; instead I stood up and started practicing my cricket swings. And the result of that was that I’m forever branded as the Choirboy Killer.
They were sitting there, their legs crossed beneath them, and I swung the bat in a practice drive, showing them how to do it and the bat flew out of my hand. It slipped. It flew. It went straight into Amanda’s head. She toppled over. Like a bowling pin. One second she’s sitting up, sucking her thumb, watching me swing the bat, the next she’s down on the wood, sprawled out, blood pouring from her head. And you know what my first thought was? Is my bat going to be OK? Have I damaged my new bat?
Because I thought she’d get up. I went and knelt beside her and I took off my shirt and wiped the blood off her head and said, “Wake up, wake up, Amanda.” The bat hit her on her birthmark. How strange is that? Right on her birthmark, as if it were a target.
“Wake up,” I said, kind of shaking her and at the same time wiping off more blood, but she didn’t move.
And that’s when Miranda started screaming. Screaming her head off. I had to shut her up. She was screaming so loudly and she wouldn’t stop. It turns out that Enid was hoovering the living room then so she didn’t hear, but I heard, Henry. It was an awful, terrible noise and she wouldn’t stop. I reached out to where the bat had landed and I picked it up. It was the only way I could get her to stop. I wasn’t thinking, I’ll kill her. I swear I wasn’t. I was thinking, I can’t stand this noise. And I was terrified. Amanda wasn’t moving. Her head was a mess.
I don’t remember the rest. I don’t remember actually hitting Miranda. In prison I used to wonder what would have happened if it had been the other way around. If the bat had hit Miranda. I don’t think Amanda would have screamed like that. She was quieter. I don’t think she would have screamed. I think she would have sucked her thumb harder and closed her eyes. And I wouldn’t have hit her. And people would know it was a mistake, an accident. They would have believed me.
Hang on. I need to light another fag . . . OK. I know you think I’m justifying myself and the point is not who was hit by the flying cricket bat and who wasn’t—the fact is that both girls died. What would you say, Henry? Probably, “Worse things don’t happen at sea, Jack.” And you’d be right.
But at the risk of sounding self-pitying, which I know you hate, I have to say I’ve been seriously unlucky. If I hadn’t been given that bat as a present, if it hadn’t been a nice day, if I’d kept singing songs instead of practicing my swing. Well, everything would be different. But all those things happened together and Miranda and Amanda died and I was sitting up in the tree-house crying when Enid came wandering out into the garden calling for the girls. I didn’t answer. I watched her go back in the house. I knew she’d go up to my bedroom and look for them there. And I’m not sure how exactly I did it; I can’t remember. But somehow I carried them down. One after the other. Like always. Miranda first, then Amanda. And I laid them down on the grass. I went into the house and Enid was walking downstairs because obviously she hadn’t found them in my room. I said, “Enid. They’re lying down outside.”
And she smiled and went outside and then she started screaming. I sat down and turned the television on. You can imagine how that played out afterward. The Monster Choirboy is so callous he turns on the TV after he has murdered two innocent little girls. But I don’t remember doing it—no, that’s a lie, I remember doing it. What I don’t remember is why I did it. I never watched television. My father didn’t approve of it. So why did I turn it on? I don’t know.
You don’t need to hear the rest in any detail. I became notorious. I was tried. I went to prison. I was quote rehabilitated unquote. That’s such an American word—rehabilitated. Are people ever habilitated, I wonder?
The way I’ve been telling you this sounds glib, doesn’t it? Emotionless? Believe me, that was never the case. I loved those girls. I loved them so much I was sure after what I’d done I’d never be able to love again. When I came to America as Jack Dane, I kept myself to myself, Henry. There was no way I was ever going to get involved with someone. I could talk to women, even flirt with them if I wanted to, but I never let myself get close to anyone.
I wish I knew what it was exactly about Holly that changed everything. I knew no one could help me but I thought I could help her. Maybe that was part of it.
And then there was this moment—out in the car park of the Lobster Pot. I threw her a T-shirt I’d bought her. And her face, the look of pure pleasure mixed with bewilderment on it. Before that, even—the way she told me about her parents, the sadness in her voice. I recognized that sadness. I wanted to help. I wanted to save her. I wanted to give her a normal life and in the giving of it get a normal life for myself in return.
And then, of course, there is Katy.
When I first found out about her, I thought, No. The last thing I wanted in my life was a little girl. I told Holly I couldn’t see her again and I meant it. And then there she was, running up to me on your porch. She looks like them and she doesn’t look like them. She’s older, obviously. As soon as she ran up to me like that, I knew I couldn’t leave her, ever. I wanted to be a part of her life. To play games with her and not hurt her. You have no idea what it was like for me to play a game with Katy and have her still be alive at the end of it.
I know the last thought you had was Katy. I heard you say her name at the end. I’m so sorry you had to die like that. But what were you thinking, Henry? Honestly? Did you really believe I could tell Holly? What would happen then? She’d kick me out. She’d banish me from her life. And if I tried to see Katy, she’d take a restraining order out on me. How was I supposed to never see Katy again? My
princess? You were taking the piss, Henry. I had to stop you.
Oh, right. I could have knocked you unconscious, couldn’t I? Then walked back home and not said a word and left the way we planned to. But how long would you have been unconscious for? Long enough to give us a decent head start? How could I be sure how long you’d be out for? I suppose I could have tied you up and gagged you—but I didn’t think of that, did I? The second I saw you hunched over that computer, I knew I was in trouble. I tried to talk you out of it. I thought I had. But you insisted on coming with me. Like I said, a big mistake.
When you saw the knife in my hand, you looked incredulous. That’s a good word. Incredulous. Holly would like that.
There’s so much in life that’s ironic, isn’t there? You were the one who made me comfortable using a knife. You finally convinced me I could help clean the fish, you taught me how to use it.
You left me no choice, Henry. I know—this wasn’t an accident. I know what death is all about now and I know I killed you. It’s not like before. This wasn’t an accident, but it was self-defense. If you told Holly about me, I wouldn’t have a life. I wouldn’t have Katy. I’d be effectively dead. Katy wouldn’t have a father. She wouldn’t have me.
You can’t say you believe in the law, in the justice system, and then turn around and say, “Not when it comes to my granddaughter. You’re not allowed to have a life, Jack, to be a normal person again, because you married my granddaughter.” That’s hypocritical, Henry. Wrong. Either you believe in the justice system and redemption, or you don’t.
I’m every parent’s worst nightmare, aren’t I? Wake up one morning and discover that nice man your daughter—or granddaughter in your case—married is actually a child killer. Do you tell her or do you let her live happily ever after? Because that’s the way it would have been, Henry. Your blood wouldn’t be all over the hall floor. I wouldn’t have had to get a sheet from your bed and wrap you in it and then pick you up and carry you up here to your bed and lay you down so you looked peaceful. It’s lucky I became so fit in jail. That was not easy, Henry. A dead body like yours is, well, it’s deadweight.
But I hated how sad, how distraught you looked downstairs. So I had to make you comfortable.
No. If you’d only let us live happily ever after, we would have. No problem. We were all about happy endings.
We like, seriously, like totally, were.
Chapter 27
When Holly opened her eyes, she saw Jack sitting beside her, looking down at her, smiling.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. I just got back from fishing with Henry.”
“Is Katy up?”
“Mmm. She’s in the kitchen, eating some cereal.”
Holly sat up, put her hand on Jack’s arm. “Your jacket’s all bloody. Were there a lot of fish?”
“We caught eight, can you believe it? The boat was a mess, and getting all the hooks out, then cleaning them all, we got splattered. I’m going to take a shower in a second. But first I wanted to tell you some good news.”
“What? What good news?”
“We’re not leaving. We’re staying here.”
“You’re kidding! Jack! Why? What made you change your mind?”
“I decided you were right. No one is going to shop me. Henry helped convince me too.”
“This is so great.” She kissed him. “Whoa—you’ve been smoking. It’s early for a cigarette, isn’t it?”
“Celebratory one. Sorry.”
“One day I’ll get you to stop. But right now you can do anything and I won’t mind. I can’t believe it. This is amazing. You’ve made me so happy, Jack. I promise nothing bad will happen. We’ll be fine. I’m sure.”
“So am I. You look like you’re still tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Sorry—my fault.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything. I can’t believe we’re staying! I can go have coffee with Henry as usual. And I thought I might never see him again. I can’t believe it.”
She made a move to get out of bed, but Jack gently pushed her back.
“You should get more sleep. You don’t have to worry now. And Henry’s gone into town anyway. He said to tell you he’s sorry to miss coffee, but he has to pick Bones up from the vet and then he has a load of errands he has to do. He’ll be out for a long time. You’ve had a bad night. Go back to sleep. I’ll have a quick shower and then I’ll take Katy into town. You can have total peace and quiet. Bask in it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“OK. I am tired. Even though I’m excited. Another hour or so in bed would be great.”
“You’ve got it.” He stood up, made a move to leave, turned back and sat down on the foot of her bed. “What do you think Katy will be like as a teenager?”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
“I don’t want her to be like those girls sitting in front of us on the bus.”
“Neither do I. I don’t think she will.”
“But innocence is so fragile now. What happens when she wants to wear make-up? When she hangs out at the mall with girls her age who corrupt her?”
Jack looked so serious, so worried, sitting there in his fish-bloodstained jacket. Holly imagined him waiting for Katy to come back from her first date, pacing the floor with paternal anxiety, and had to suppress a smile.
“I honestly don’t think we’ll have to worry about that. Katy has a strong personality and she’ll have a stable, loving family. She won’t let herself be corrupted.”
“Life corrupts. It taints people. We start off as innocent, sweet children and life taints us. I couldn’t stand to see that happen to Katy.”
“If we have any problems with her, we’ll deal with them, Jack. We can deal with whatever life throws at us as long as we’re together.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “As usual.”
Standing up, he came over to her and kissed her on the forehead.
“Goodbye, Holly Barrett Dane.”
“Bye.” She curled into the sheets, pulled the pillow under her head. “See you later. I guess we’ll be having fish for lunch.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m so unbelievably happy we’re staying. And thanks for taking Katy and letting me sleep. It’s really sweet of you.”
“No problem. I’m here to serve.”
Holly smiled, closed her eyes.
My third and final present from you, Mom and Dad—we get to stay, we get to live happily ever after in Birch Point. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Eric Haffner drove down the Birch Point Road, wishing he could have lived there himself. It was such a secluded spot and so beautiful, even in the drizzle. If he’d gone into a different kind of medicine, if he hadn’t been a vet, he might have been able to afford a house there. But then he wouldn’t be doing what he felt called to do in this life: taking care of animals.
Henry Barrett would be pleased to see Bones safe and healthy. Bones had quite a few good years left in him, Eric reckoned. He was a good dog and he had an owner who loved him. Bones would stick around for a while. The little stomach upset he’d had was over and he was ready to go home. Eric liked having a personal relationship with the owners of the animals he treated; he particularly liked Henry—an old codger who spoke his mind, had a keen sense of humor and a sharp tongue. Eric was looking forward to delivering Bones to him and sitting on that porch of Henry’s shooting the breeze and having a cup of coffee. He’d left Jacob in charge of the surgery; he could take at least a half-hour break before he went back.
When he reached Henry’s house at the end of the Point, he was pleased to see Henry’s car parked at the side. He hadn’t bothered to call before to say he was coming, assuming Henry would be in. And he’d assumed right. Parking beside the red Audi, Eric got out, let Bones out of the back. As soon as he climbed out, Bones wagged his tail.
“Yes, Bones. You’re home. Come on, let
’s go see Henry and scrounge a cup of coffee.”
He walked up the porch steps and knocked at the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again, louder. And waited. But Henry didn’t come to the door.
He’s probably taking a walk, Eric thought. Damn. But my bet is he leaves the door unlocked.
Opening the screen door, he then turned the door handle of the main door and pushed. Unlocked. Sticking his head inside, he called out, “Henry!”—no response.
“OK, Bones, I’ll leave you here. He’ll be back soon. And he’ll find you waiting for him.”
Bones padded inside. Eric Haffner shut the front door after him and returned to his car. He hadn’t looked down. He didn’t see the blood on the hall floor.
Billy Madison had barely slept. Something was wrong about Jack’s Mafia story. In fact, everything was wrong about the Mafia story, but he couldn’t say why he was so convinced it was a lie. And yes, Jack’s story about his sister dying was a sad one; it might have explained why he felt so close to Katy, but it didn’t excuse that late-night drive.
At eight-thirty he got out of bed, made himself a cup of coffee, and tried to take his mind off it all by turning on the television. But he couldn’t concentrate on any program—he kept flipping the channels, searching, hoping something would distract him. He was tired of thinking about Jack Dane, or whatever the guy’s real name was. The whole point of coming back to Birch Point had been to connect with Katy. Instead he’d spent his time obsessing over some English dude who had muscled in on his daughter.
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