The Boy in the Park: The gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by A J Grayson

  ‘Hey, that’s great,’ he says, and is already screwing off the cap. ‘Not bad at all. Good job, hon.’ He nods at his wife as he takes a swig directly from the large bottle.

  ‘It’s from Tom, too,’ she says, smiling at their boy. ‘From the two of us together.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Andy answers, ‘then the not bad goes to both of you.’ Tom beams. He likes hearing his father say nice things about him.

  ‘Go on then,’ Andy continues after another swallow, nudging at Tom with his bare foot. ‘Give your mother hers.’

  Tom is eager to play the deliveryman and rushes his mother’s gift to her lap. She kisses him on the forehead, smiles into his eyes for a moment, then rips into the paper with childlike zest. She flings the scraps of paper into the air just like Andy had done – a new family tradition emerging. Tom giggles again, and bats at some of the scraps as they fall.

  The object beneath Kate’s paper is a rolling pin, wood. New, rather than a hand-me-down. It’s shrink-wrapped in plastic and still has the bright red label on it. Tom looks up at her anxiously, waiting for her reaction.

  She beams with happiness. Not because she particularly wanted or needed the gift – the old rolling pin she has in the kitchen works just fine; they’re not the sort of thing that wears out – but because it’s clearly made Tom happy to watch her open it. That’s more than enough.

  ‘Maybe that’ll increase the chances of getting a good meal out of you more than once or twice a year,’ Andy mutters. He grins. It’s a joke. He’s the only one who laughs, but it’s a joke all the same. Kate wrinkles up her face in a smile.

  ‘I can certainly try.’ She pauses. ‘Thank you, love.’ Then, to Tom. ‘And you to, my little love. Thank you both for my wonderful present.’

  Tom probably hears her thanks, but doesn’t seem to notice. He is waiting, excited, fidgeting like an anxious puppy.

  Can I? Can I now? Can I please?

  ‘Well, go on then, boy!’ Andy finally says. He laughs again, and this time Kate joins him. It’s rare that their son is so obviously excited and filled with visible happiness.

  Tom dives at his gift. He digs his fingertips through the paper, and he feels the soft object beneath before he can see it. Within a few seconds the paper is shredded – he doesn’t have to make a show of tossing it about like his parents had, this happens all of its own accord through the intensity with which he dismantles the wrapping. Then, when the paper is gone, he beams at the gift that he holds up in front of his face.

  It’s exactly what he’d wanted.

  A brand new pair of overalls. The light-blue kind. They’re what he asked for. And I got them! Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d got what he asked for, but this, today, it made up for everything.

  Tom clutches the overalls to his chest, elated, shooting broad-toothed smiles at both his parents. He looks like he might burst with happiness. Then, without missing a beat, he drops his gift to the floor and strips down to his underpants, right there in the middle of the living room. He picks up the overalls and shakes them open, then crawls into them. The metal clasps come together in front of his chest. He adjusts their position until they’re just right, then looks up to his parents.

  He is beaming. They’re a size too large, but he’s a growing boy and overalls don’t have to be just perfect. In any case, Tom wouldn’t notice if he was tripping over the cuffs or if they only came down to his knees. He knows only that he feels genuinely happy, that he got the one gift he truly longed for, and that Christmas is the best day of the whole year.

  He is, for this bright, Christmas moment, a beaming, beautiful little boy.

  THE SCHOOLYARD, 1975

  41

  At School – Two Months Later

  Of all the spots in the world that involve other people, school is one place where Tom feels truly happy. Lee Kragan Elementary is for big boys, and he’s been promoted into the First Grade a full year early, which means he’s bigger than he sometimes thinks. Not size-big, but brains-big. And Mrs Curtis always makes him feel like he’s earned his place in her classroom with the twenty-three other children, all of whom are a solid year older than Tom. ‘You wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t the spot for you, bright and clever as you are,’ she said on his first day in her class, and she’d repeated it more than once since. Mrs Curtis is the kind of teacher who likes to say nice things, and does it effortlessly.

  Tom wears his overalls almost every day. It would be absolutely every day without exception if he could, but they had to be washed every so often. Mother was pretty insistent on that. So once a week, or sometimes twice, depending on the intensity of play, he’d appear in jeans and a T-shirt. He felt like a different boy when he had to dress in those old things. But it was only ever a temporary measure. He’d always be back in the overalls the next day.

  This insistence on his favourite outfit isn’t, however, helping fend off the accusations of some of the older boys who like to tease him for being poor. Before, they’d taunt him for not having a better family car, or for the holes in his jeans. Now it’s for his new outfit. Tom considers overalls to be the epitome of class, style and function. They’re the perfect attire: they’re not like trousers that fall down when you’re too active or require a belt. They can be worn with or without a shirt. They’re quick on and quick off. And you can even go through growth spurts – he gets those now and then – and they still fit, since they’re supposed to be a little baggy and loose. Perfect.

  But some of the boys call them ‘country crap’ – employing a word Tom thinks they really shouldn’t use – and like to tease him, especially since he wears them so often. ‘Only set of clothes you got, eh, poor boy?’ they would say. ‘Can’t afford anything else, poor boy?’ And then on the days the overalls were in the wash and he’d wear jeans, ‘What’s wrong, poor boy? Your country crap outfit go missing? Wouldn’t think it’d be hard to find one set of clothes in a house that ain’t got nothin’ else in it.’

  The boys might be mean, but they were also inconsistent. They teased him when he wore his overalls, and they teased him when he didn’t. Tom felt like they should pick one or the other.

  On one occasion, a few days after Christmas when this was all first starting, the taunts bothered him and Tom went home crying. Mother hadn’t been there, and he still had tears on his cheeks when Father got home from work. ‘What’s this all about?’ he’d asked, generally disapproving of tears. Tom explained the situation: the taunts, the insults, the mean words. He’d expected to get a lecture from his father, but he didn’t.

  ‘You need to grow a pair. Those kids are just a bunch of stuck-up shits,’ his father had answered, then left the room.

  Tom didn’t know what the first part was supposed to mean, but he was sure that ‘shits’ was a word he wasn’t supposed to say. However, he liked that it was what his father thought of those boys, and so he thought it too. ‘They’re just a bunch of shits,’ he would say – to himself – whenever the taunts began, and it made them not hurt quite so much.

  The other great benefit of overalls is that they cover so much of your body, which is a useful feature for a child. Tom isn’t quite sure how other boys cover up all the signs of their own corrections, since he’s been told by his father that they are never to be shown in public, and he can’t think of a time he’s seen them on anyone else in school. But Tom always has marks here and there – a bruise, a cut – that come from ‘being shown the difference between right and wrong’. And overalls do a fine job of covering them up. Legs: fully covered. Back and chest: check.

  Only the neck and arms are exposed, and that is just a matter of a T-shirt. Tom has a few of those. The yellow and grey ones are long-sleeved, so work well if he has any marks on his lower arms. The white ones (he has two of those) are short sleeved, so there are some days he can’t wear them. But they’re his favourites. He loves the feel of the wind over his skin; and when he plays, he loves how the grass and dirt and leaves rustle against his wrists and
elbows.

  So he tries to be as good as he can, to keep the corrections to a minimum. And when they come, he’s learned how to position his body so that most of the blows go to his back or his legs. It’s really just a question of how to hold yourself, and you learn some tricks after a while. Lean a little to one side and a blow that would have gone to the arm goes to the shoulder instead – and the shoulder’s okay. T-shirts cover that easy. Even the stomach or chest are okay, though those hurt more and for a longer time. But they’re still better than marks on the arms, which mean long-sleeve shirts and less freedom.

  Because if there is one thing that Tom loves, it’s being free. There are plenty of things in his life that don’t feel very free: schoolwork, chores, arguments, punishments. But none of those cancel out the freedom that only a boy can know, when he’s given a few minutes to himself. He’ll grab a stick, a pocketful of stones, and the whole world will fade away. The little shits at school can call him ‘poor kid’ till they’re blue in the face. In those moments Tom is a prince and a king. He’s a knight with a thousand-strong army on horseback behind him. He’s a jouster with an undefeated record. He’s an astronaut with a ray gun and a spaceship and a whole universe at his fingertips.

  And in those moments, Tom knows there is nothing poor about that.

  42

  The Schoolyard

  It’s one of the days with the taunting. The morning had already been hard. Father had been in a foul mood. He’d been drinking even before Tom woke up and had yelled during breakfast. Tom hadn’t said anything. He’d eaten his Cream of Wheat and drunk his glass of milk quickly, then grabbed his paper-bag lunch and gone outside to wait for the bus. He felt mildly bad for leaving Mother to deal with the yelling, but she’d told him before that was the best thing to do on these kinds of mornings, and he tried to do what she said. Mother was a grown-up, and grown-ups know better. Most of them, at any rate.

  But the day hadn’t got any better. At recess a group of five older boys from the second grade – a group Tom knew well from experience – had cornered him near the large, metal slide on the far side of the playground. It was a favoured spot for such encounters, as the teachers patrolling the schoolyard generally concentrated their attention on the paved-in section on the near end, with the swings and jungle gym, where most of the students congregated. This was as far as one could get without going out of bounds and having the whistle blown at you.

  ‘There he is,’ the leader of the little pack had chided. ‘Mister Overalls.’

  Tom wasn’t sure why they called him that. The nickname was an innovation. They seemed to think it was an insult, but he couldn’t understand how.

  ‘Mommy can’t afford any new clothes for you, Mister Overalls?’ The name might be new, but the taunts were familiar.

  Tom knew better than to answer. They used this taunt a lot, and early on he’d actually responded. ‘These are new!’ he’d protested. ‘They were a Christmas present!’ That had only earned him more jeers and a few elbows at his ribcage. Something about getting leftovers for Christmas when other boys got remote-controlled cars and skis.

  So Tom just let them jeer. They did the normal things: threw a few small rocks at his ankles, tried to chase him around the slide. But the best reaction is no reaction. He’d heard that once from Mrs Curtis, and it was good advice. If he didn’t say anything, didn’t react, the boys got bored quick enough and left him alone. And so they did.

  He sits on the bottom of the slide, now. They’ve gone, at last. It hadn’t been a long go of it today. But still, after his morning, and forgetting to do his homework – with a lecture and disapproving look from the teacher in response … it was a crummy day.

  ‘You don’t look so great,’ comes a voice from behind his shoulder. Tom doesn’t have to turn to identify it. He’s only got one real friend, and the sound of his voice always makes him feel content.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he answers as the other boy walks into view. ‘You know, just those boys.’ Anyone who knows Tom knows how he’s treated by the older boys, so there’s no need to explain. If it wasn’t a taunting it was a teasing, and if it wasn’t a teasing it was a bout of name-calling. All very predictable.

  ‘They’re a bunch of fuckers,’ his friend says definitively.

  Tom cringes, then can’t help himself and bursts into an enormous grin. He knows with absolute certainty that they’re not supposed to use words like these, that they’re the kinds of words that can get you detention. But there are no teachers around, and that one always sounds so horrible. It makes him convulse with laughter, and when he realizes he’s laughing and hears the word again in his head, he laughs even harder.

  His friend laughs too, and for a few seconds they just sit there, giggling at the foot of the slide.

  ‘Yeah, I guess that’s what they are,’ Tom finally says when the laughter has died down. The teasing of a few minutes ago doesn’t seem so bad now.

  His friend is pleased to see him smiling and pats him on the shoulder.

  ‘That’s better.’ They pause for a few seconds. Tom looks happier. His friend always has this effect on him. Things get bad, people are mean, but friends make you feel calm inside.

  ‘We’ve only got a few minutes of recess left,’ his friend suddenly says. ‘You want to go play?’ He points towards a grassy spot on the north side of the playground where they often go to act out the next instalment of their long-standing Knights and Warriors game.

  Tom grins again. Even the worst days can get better.

  ‘That sounds great, Joseph,’ he answers. ‘But today, I get to be the warrior.’

  43

  The Boy in the Park, Stanza 6

  Then comes the play,

  The light returns:

  Day is not forever hid.

  There comes the voice, touch is felt

  In tender caresses to

  Too-torn flesh

  And a heart that cries, that

  Mourns its burial within.

  PART THREE

  REDDING

  44

  Thursday – Nightfall

  Joseph and I have been running deeper into the woods for the past ten minutes. Once we at last left that godforsaken house we simply aimed at the forest and ran. Ran as fast as either of our legs would carry us. Mine are larger than his, so my strides are longer; but Joseph is younger and far more fit. I’m straining to keep up. My body is tortured with pain, though I can’t determine whether it’s from the run or the horror of what we just experienced. That much shock, delivered to the system all at once, will do things to the body that cannot be explained.

  These ten minutes of motion feel like hours. I’m certain every step is going to be the last I manage before I collapse, and finally I can go no further. My heart is mere seconds from exploding in my chest. And the most repugnant thing is that, having seen what I’ve just seen, that thought is more realistic and vivid than I’d ever have imagined it could be.

  ‘Joseph!’ I cry out. ‘Stop! I can’t go on. I need to catch my breath.’

  My feet are already slowing, gasps of air interjecting themselves between my words. A horrible reality comes with the act. Though I’m physically no longer able to keep running, slowing down is causing the images of what we’re fleeing to become more vivid. Our flight had kept them at bay, the sheer movement of it; but as my feet lose their pace the farmhouse seems closer than when they were in motion. When I stop it feels like it’s almost on top of me, that all this running has only brought us full circle and if I angle my head slightly I’ll be confronted with the horror all over again. I know this can’t be so – that we’ve been running in a straight line and putting more and more distance between us and that place. But I can’t analyse the feeling now. I’m too short of breath and my mind is filled with too much horror.

  ‘Joseph!’ I cry out again. He hasn’t seemed to hear and I’m afraid I might lose him out here in the middle of nowhere, but there’s no longer any option except that I draw to a halt.
The body has its limitations, and even adrenalin can only extend them so far. Once my feet are finally still I slump down to support my palms on my knees and draw in the most air possible with each wheeze. I’ve never undergone such exertion before. I don’t know if Joseph is even aware I’m not behind him, but in this spot it’s quite possible my frail life is ending.

  A few seconds later, though, between my wheezing, I hear his footsteps on the crunching groundcover, backtracking to my position.

  ‘You all right, old man?’ he asks. He’s out of breath as well, I can hear him panting above me. But there’s a thrill to his voice, too. An excitement coming across through the exertion. His emotions are still on fire.

  I’m not sure what to say to him, and for an instant I’m grateful that my heaving breath makes it hard to speak. I’m not sure what my first words should be. I want to shout at him. I want to scream. I want to demand an explanation, because more than anything else I simply don’t understand what happened between our crouch on the hillside and our arrival here. I’m alternately horrified and outraged. But I’m also confused, because in the mix of my indignation I have to admit that there is something else. Something of the same excitement I hear in Joseph’s voice. A giddiness that is entirely inappropriate to our circumstances.

  One should not feel giddy when he’s just stained his hands with death.

  ‘You just going to crouch around here all night?’ Joseph asks, his voice in motion as he darts around my position. My eyes are still on the ground, my breath finally slowing to a controllable level. I notice the decomposing twigs and leaves of the forest floor. A beetle scurries out from beneath the tip of one of my bloodstained shoes and darts for cover beneath a brown oak leaf.