by Will Carver
Another shake of his tiny, innocent head.
They’d tried more open questions but were met with silence. They had been handling him with care until a doctor checked him over in case there were any signs of abuse but, of course, the doctor found Henry to be perfectly healthy. A little short for his age, but thriving, nonetheless.
I could do nothing but admire the boy.
At what point does this leave you? When does cynicism creep in? When do you start to doubt the world around you? When do you question your parents, teachers, God, the tooth fairy? And would holding on to those beliefs serve you better in the long run?
Would it make you more positive?
Would it make you more accepting?
Would it stop you from turning that doubt towards yourself? An action that leads only to fear and misery and worse.
A THOUGHT ABOUT BEING BETTER
Forget your job, forget your relationship, forget about being the best parent in the world, forget about perfection.
Put in the most work, each day, on yourself.
Be better. Get fitter. Learn more. Do this every single day.
Work the hardest on YOU.
The rest will fall into place.
If more people thought about how they could be better, do better, you may find yourselves in a position to turn this tide of social-media lies and self-loathing and talent shows for people who only want to be famous and don’t care what it’s for.
There could be more good. Therefore, less need for me. And that would be perfect.
One of the policeman loses his cool and slams a hand down on the table. Little Henry Wallace reacts with distress and the other detective apologises for his partner.
I make a note and add him to the scurvy-cheeked man on the train who raised his voice to Henry. They will both get a visit from me when this is over.
Little Henry Wallace is taken away and put in front of the television. The detectives leave and Henry’s shoulders twitch at the sound of the door closing. I look at him. I look into him. I see anxiety. I see worry.
I see a boy who just wants his mum.
Suddenly, little Henry Wallace doesn’t feel so brave.
THE FUTURE MRS TAMBOR
She’d hardly slept. Why would she?
He’d been missing for nearly two days and she was the only one who thought there was something wrong. Nobody was taking her seriously.
Liv Dunham sat forward on the three-seater, tan leather sofa, both of her legs tapping restlessly up and down, wobbling, devoid of anything to do. She did the same thing at her desk when she was daydreaming at work while the kids read. She told herself that she needed more exercise, just a little toning to stop the jiggling, but that night her insecurities took a back seat to the thought of where her fiancé could be.
I’m heading out for a bit.
That’s what he’d said.
Her friends reassured her that he’d be back, that maybe he was going to surprise her, that perhaps he’d needed some time to think. He’s got cold feet. He’s left you. These are the words they did not say, but Liv heard all too clearly.
Liv Dunham, Oz’s girl, the future Mrs Tambor, sat forward on her sofa with bouncing thighs and looked at the plethora of cushions surrounding her. Oz was right, there were too many. She wanted to laugh at that but couldn’t. Instead, she saw herself reflected in the television screen. It was turned off. She didn’t want the white noise. She needed to be alert. The phone might ring. It could be Oz’s mother informing Liv that he was safe and well, and with her. Though she’d just called and May had not answered. Again.
Fear is my greatest tool. It can be used to make a person do almost anything. You can take education, information, motivation and throw it all away, fear is the only thing you require. It is a slow and deadly poison. And it is effective.
Her mind was racing.
What if there was a knock at the door? The police asking if she would come and identify a body?
There’s been an accident.
She looked at the black, smeared-with-fingerprints screen and recalled a news item she’d once seen about a man who went out and never came home. He’d hit his head and forgotten who he was but ended up living a happy life as somebody else. Then every poster for a lost cat or dog jumped from the recesses of her memory. And her mind conjured the image of a hundred faces she had seen with the word ‘missing’ plastered beneath in bold, red capital letters. She picked up the remote control and hit the off button to take away the tableau of false hope, but the television was already off and switched to the news channel she watched all day yesterday, hoping not to see a piece involving her fiancé.
The channel was re-running the same item about a child being shot in a park, and Liv felt awful at her relief that the face on the screen was not Oz.
She switched off the TV and stood up. She couldn’t just sit there and wait for him to come home. She couldn’t just hang around, she’d go insane. Maybe she had already started to.
Liv picked up her telephone and dialled 0734 999.
She held the phone to her ear for less than a second and then hung up.
Pull yourself together, Liv. She stared down at the receiver.
You don’t need to type in an area code when you call the police. And that hasn’t been the area code here for over ten years.
She replaced the receiver, closed her eyes, screwed a ball of her fringe into her hand – just enough to tighten and cause some pain – and cursed. Taking two deep breaths gave her enough opportunity to temporarily collect her thoughts. She took the mobile phone from her pocket and recalled the last webpage she had visited. Then, calmly, she tapped in the number on her screen for the local police station.
It rang four times before Reynolds picked up.
Add frustration to fear to create despair.
‘Look. I know him. He wouldn’t just disappear. He left yesterday morning and he didn’t come home. He hasn’t called me or his friends, I can’t get hold of his mother, I’ve been trying all day. Doesn’t that strike you as weird?’ Liv’s agitation seemingly boosted her level of coherence. ‘I was told yesterday to stay here in case he returns.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, I’ve stayed here and he hasn’t returned. What happens next?’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Dunham, but there is nothing we can do for you at this time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was shrill with disbelief.
‘Mr Tambor is an adult, and it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since you last saw him.’
‘What has it been? Forty-one? Forty-one and a half?’ Her sarcasm tried to mask the frustration she felt.
‘Ms Dunham, I understand—’
‘What do you understand? That I’ve called a few hours early? He’s missing. I know it. This isn’t like him. There’s a gunman on the loose. Oz could be lying in a ditch somewhere while you sit there and do nothing. Something’s not right in this town and I’m not going to stay here and wait around.’
‘Ms Dunham. I would advise that that is exactly what you do. I assure you that I have seen this before. Wait for him. If he is not back by the morning then please either call back or come in to the station. We take every call seriously, Ms Dunham.’
‘Sure you do.’ She mumbled her words at no one while replacing the phone. She would have liked to have said something wittier.
Then she walked out into the hallway, grabbed her coat from the hook beside the front door and checked her pale face in the mirror once before exiting to look God-knows-where for Oz.
Out of habit, Liv double-locked the door. Then she paused and unlocked one of the bolts. Just in case he comes back.
Inside, the phone began to ring.
A TEACHER HE CAN TRUST
She dropped her keys. Twice.
‘Fuck.’ She cursed her own ineptitude the second time they fell to the ground with a graceless jangle.
Stay at home, she’d been told.
It hadn’t even be
en forty-eight hours.
Liv finally pushed through the doorway, after more panicked fumbling for the keyhole, leaving it wide open for anybody, anything, to come in behind her.
I don’t need a door. I am anywhere I want to be.
She threw her bag against the left wall of her hallway, took the first door on the right at speed and barged through the lounge into the dining room where the telephone was rattling on a shelf. She caught her hip on the corner of the dining table; wood crunched against bone and she shrieked in agony as it knocked her off balance. It bruised almost instantly.
‘Hello?’ She grabbed the phone receiver with her left hand and rested her back against the wall momentarily to take the weight off her injured hip. ‘Hello?’ she said again hysterically, not really giving the person at the other end a chance to respond. Her right hand rubbed against her bruise, not making a single bit of difference to the pain.
Nobody answered Liv Dunham.
But there was somebody there.
‘Can you hear me?’ she asked. ‘This isn’t funny, you know.’
With the phone pressed tightly to her ear, Liv tried to make out the sound at the other end of the line. Was there traffic? There were still a few pay phones left in Hinton Hollow; if the call was coming from one of them, background noise might give an indication of location.
‘Are you trying to scare me?’
The sound was not heavy breathing; it was more of a hiss, like three people were whispering at the same time. It could have been wind blowing against the mouthpiece of a mobile phone, she thought.
It wasn’t.
I wasn’t with Liv; I was at the other end of the line.
I was one of the whispers.
‘Because you’re not. You’re just pissing me off.’
Liv was scared. Everything was happening at once. May Tambor was not answering her phone. Poor Jacob Brady had been killed. Constable Reynolds had dismissed her as delusional. And the man she was due to marry in a few days had not returned home after saying I’m heading out for a bit.
A bit.
Now this. Some crank call. She started to wonder who it could be, running through likely candidates in Hinton Hollow. Male teachers at the school, perhaps one of her students sporting a pre-pubescent crush, one of the local drinkers from The Arboreal, even Father Salis jumped to her mind. Or that creep, Ablett.
‘Look, if you’re not going to say anything, I’m just going to hang up,’ she barked, regaining a little composure.
Still, a hushed purr from the other end.
‘Bring him back,’ Liv eventually pleaded, her voice a little lower, unsure where the words or realisation had come from. She believed that she was in a one-way conversation with the man who had taken her partner, maybe even the same person who had shot Jacob Brady. ‘Bring Oz back.’
She sounded pathetic, she knew that, but she didn’t know what else to do.
There was no change at the other end. No laughing or tormenting words.
A nothingness that was so indicative of the social malaise that had swept across the town that week.
Then, another notion that seemed as peculiar as the thought that the local priest was calling her to tease.
‘Oz?’
The call cut off.
Then a rock flew through her lounge window.
LONG WHITE WINGS AND A HALO
A baby taking its first breath. Foreign aid. Billie Holliday’s voice.
C h a r i t y.
Cures. See also: vaccinations, considered commentary, veganism.
Guide dogs for the blind. Recycling. Documentaries.
A seventeen-year-old girl from Pakistan being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her advocacy of human rights in education for women and children.
Honesty.
L i e s. See: little white, preserving someone’s feelings.
Some other ways that Good presents itself:
Laughter. Hummus. Allowing one person to pledge their life to another person regardless of race or gender.
An elderly couple holding hands.
Orgasms. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Telling somebody that you love them. Being told that you are loved.
Somebody who chooses to listen when they could be talking.
All fruit, with the exception of the durian.
Jacob Brady.
Michael Brady.
Little Henry Wallace.
SELFISHLY SELFLESS
And her husband hadn’t known what to do.
Owen ploughed through the locked door, splintering the wooden frame and saw the still water, his wife submerged, not breathing. He was too panicked to notice that her face was holding a smile for the first time since the incident. Not happiness, though. A sinister relief.
He plunged his arms into the blood-addled, floral-scented water, like reaching through sin, and grabbed hold of anything solid. His left hand gripped a clump of hair; his right fell between his wife’s legs and he heaved her out.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he said to himself before she slipped from his grasp.
I’m sorry. This time an unheard murmur.
‘You stupid fucking bitch.’ He was shouting now and pushing down on her chest fifteen times. He blew forcefully into her mouth twice, tasting her anguish. She was so lost.
He continued trying to resuscitate her, cursing with each verse of the heart massage, feeling futile with every chorus of air he tried to fill her lungs with. But she had been under the water for nearly an hour.
It was better for her, this way. Nobody would know what she did. It was for the best.
Selfishly selfless.
Owen Brady collapsed backward, his shoulder blades smashing against the bathtub, but he felt no physical pain. The smirk had been wiped from his dead wife’s face; he never saw that haunting grin. The one that signified the abatement of Faith Brady’s guilt.
He stared at the broken woman, crumpled on the tiles in front of him, and asked, ‘What have you done, Faith? What about Michael? What am I going to tell Michael?’
Owen cried. But not for the woman on the floor. And, still, he’d had no time to cry for himself.
NO GOOD. NO CHANCE.
I had left Owen while he was drinking so that I could be with Faith Brady.
She, too, was drunk. Muttering to herself.
I love Michael more than anything. That’s why I have to do this.
Whatever I look like to you, however you see me, whichever way I appear, imagine me rolling my eyes at this.
She declared those words to the tiles beneath her feet before stepping into the water. Then, looking down in the direction of the kitchen table on the floor below, where her saddened and frustrated husband was trying to drink away his hopelessness, she mumbled again.
I leave him with you. And take everything else with me. The evil. The things you do not need to know. The crap. I take it. You stay here with everything that is good and innocent and right.
So dramatic.
A THOUGHT FOR THE PEOPLE
Life is happening for you,
not to you.
I watched her do everything. Not once did I get involved. Same as the park. And she did not take Evil anywhere. People do not have control over me. That’s not how it works. I can’t be controlled, only affected. And here’s the warped mathematics of it all, the less good people are, the more evil I have to be. If you are better to each other then my impact never has to reach a level higher than a stiff breeze. Let me be lazy. You work hard, instead.
The problem I see more now is that people, even in a town like Hinton Hollow, have stopped being good to themselves. Without that, your species is doomed.
No good.
No chance.
Owen Brady felt fairly sure there was no heaven. He still feels that way. But, if there was, he knew for certain that his wife was not going there. And he would never lie to Michael about that. She was not allowed anywhere near Jacob.
He stepped over his wife’s body and walked into the room th
ey’d shared two nights before, when he thought he knew her. When they still had two sons. The phone was on her side of the bed.
She didn’t have a side of the bed any more.
He dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance, though he knew he was wasting time with the latter. The operator asked him to stay on the phone but he threw the receiver on the bed, leaving the woman talking to a corpse in the adjacent bathroom.
And Owen walked down the hall to lie down next to the boy on the bottom bunk with the pillow in his arms.
I got what I wanted.
Hinton Hollow had taken another.
EVERYBODY WALKED
Hinton Hollow had very little traffic, even during rush hour, but it was eerily quiet on the night that Detective Sergeant Pace visited the Brady home.
He tried to concentrate on the case while walking but it was all happening too quickly and the tempo of life in Hinton Hollow was more relaxed than his urban existence. The team at the station was small but they had known he was coming, and still it was taking days to sort Pace out with a vehicle. It took them a little longer to react. To everything.
He left one of the constables to deal with sourcing his car and went ahead to the Brady’s alone, his mind wandering to the reasons he had returned and whether it had been the right thing to do. Then his phone vibrated. He knew without looking that it was Maeve, trying to contact him. Concerned. He’d have to face up to that at some point. I had to nudge him to stop him from doing it at that moment.
The town was united in its condemnation of the man who had killed the innocent boy, Jacob. Yet they seemed torn about where their minds should focus. The family would need support, of course, but so would Mrs Beaufort. She was recovering quickly, but her attack had scared a lot of people. And who was more likely to be at the Good Shepherd on Sunday. He rolled his eyes at that thought.
A streetlamp flickered as his shadow passed through it and Pace could smell cinnamon.