The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  Look out for the chalk men.

  “What is it?” Hoppo asked.

  “Nothing.” I stood up quickly. “We should go and find Murphy. Now.”

  “David, Eddie. What’s wrong?” Mum and Dad walked up, along with Hoppo’s mum.

  “It’s Murphy,” I said. “He’s…run off.”

  “Oh, no!” Hoppo’s mum raised a hand to her face.

  Hoppo just clenched the leash tighter.

  “Mum, we have to go and look for him,” I said.

  “Eddie—” Mum started to say.

  “Please?” I pleaded.

  I saw her thinking about it. She didn’t look happy. She looked pale and tense. But then, I guess it was a funeral. Dad laid a hand on her arm and gave a small nod.

  “Okay,” Mum said. “You go and look for Murphy. You can meet us at the church hall when you’ve found him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Go on. Off you run.”

  We scuttled off down the road, calling out Murphy’s name, which was probably pointless, because Murphy was pretty deaf.

  “Should we check your house first, just in case?” I asked.

  Hoppo nodded. “I guess.”

  Hoppo lived on the other side of town, on a narrow street of terraced houses. It was the sort of street where men sat on their front steps drinking cans of lager, kids in nappies played on the curb and there was always a dog barking. I never really thought about it at the time, but perhaps that was why we never hung out at Hoppo’s much. The rest of us all lived in pretty okay houses. Mine might have been a bit ramshackle and old-fashioned, but it was still on a nice road with verges and trees and stuff.

  It would be kind to say Hoppo’s was one of the better houses on the street, but it wasn’t. Yellowed net curtains hung in the windows, the paint had all but peeled off the front door and an assortment of broken pots, garden gnomes and an old deckchair cluttered the tiny front yard.

  Inside was just as chaotic. I remember thinking, for a cleaner, Hoppo’s mum didn’t keep their own house very clean. There was stuff piled everywhere, and all in odd places: discount boxes of cereal piled on top of the TV in the living room, loo rolls forming a small mountain in the hall, industrial tubs of bleach and boxes of slug pellets stacked on the kitchen table. It smelled really bad of dog, too. I loved Murphy, but the way he smelled was not his finest point.

  Hoppo ran down the side of the house to the back garden and then out again, shaking his head.

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, let’s check the park. He might have gone there instead.”

  He nodded, but I could see that he was fighting back tears. “He’s never done this before.”

  “It’ll be all right,” I told him, which was a stupid thing to say, because it wasn’t going to be. It was going to be about as far from all right as it could be.

  —

  We found him curled up under a bush, not far from the playground. I guess he must have tried to find some shelter. The rain was coming down really hard now. Hoppo’s hair hung in thick wet tendrils, like seaweed, and my shirt was plastered to my body. My shoes were leaking, too, and I squelched with every step as we ran toward Murphy.

  From a distance, it looked like he was sleeping. It was only when you got closer that you could see the labored rise and fall of his big chest and hear the rough rasp of his breathing. When you got properly close, right next to him, you could see where he had been sick. All around. Not normal sick. It was thick, tarry and black, because of all the blood in it. And poison.

  I still remember the smell, and the look in his huge brown eyes as we knelt beside him. They were so confused. And yet so grateful. Like we were going to make everything all right. But we couldn’t. For the second time that day, I learned that there are some things you can never put right.

  We tried to pick him up and carry him. Hoppo knew where there was a vet’s in town. But Murphy was so heavy and his mass of steaming, wet fur made him heavier. We hadn’t even made it out of the park when he began to cough and retch again. We laid him back down on the wet grass.

  “Maybe I could run to the vet’s, fetch someone back?” I said.

  Hoppo just shook his head and said in a hoarse, choked voice, “No. It’s no good.”

  He buried his face in Murphy’s thick, sodden fur, clinging to that dog like he was trying to stop him from leaving, from falling from this world to the next.

  But of course no one, not even the person who loves you most in the world, can stop that. All we could do was try to comfort him, whisper softly in his floppy ears and try to wish away all the pain. Eventually, that must have been enough, because Murphy took one final hacking breath, and then no more.

  Hoppo sobbed into his still body. I tried to hold back the tears but couldn’t stop them streaming down my face. Later, I would think that we cried more for a dead dog that day than we ever did for Metal Mickey’s brother. And that would come back to bite us, too.

  Finally, we summoned up the strength to try to carry him back to Hoppo’s house. It was the first time I had ever really touched anything dead. He was even heavier than before, I thought. Deadweight. It took us the best part of half an hour, with a few people stopping to watch but none offering to help.

  We laid him down on his bed in the kitchen.

  “What will you do with him?” I asked.

  “Bury him,” Hoppo said, as if this was obvious.

  “Yourself?”

  “He’s my dog.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  “You should get back,” Hoppo said. “To the wake thing.”

  Part of me felt I should offer to stay and help him, but a bigger part just wanted to get away.

  “Okay.”

  I turned.

  “Eddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I find out who did this, I’m going to kill them.”

  I never forgot the look in his eyes when he said that. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell him about the chalk man and dog. Or about the fact that I never saw Metal Mickey come back after he ran out of the church.

  2016

  I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. In the same way that I don’t consider myself a hoarder. I am a man who enjoys a drink, and who collects things.

  I don’t drink every day and I do not, usually, turn up to school smelling of booze. Although it has happened. Thankfully, it did not get back to our head, but it did warrant a friendly word from a fellow teacher:

  “Ed, go home, have a shower and buy some mouthwash. And in the future, stick to weekend benders.”

  In truth, I drink more than I should, more often than I should. Today, I feel the urge. A tightness in my throat. A dryness on my lips that no amount of licking will dispel. I don’t just need a drink. I need to drink. A subtle tic of grammar. A huge difference of intention.

  I call into the supermarket and select a couple of sturdy reds from the wine aisle. Then I pick up a bottle of good bourbon and wheel my trolley to the self-checkout. I make some small talk with the woman supervising the tills and deposit the bottles in my car. I arrive back home just after six, select some old vinyls I haven’t played for a while and pour my first glass of wine.

  That’s when the front door slams, hard enough to cause the candlesticks on the mantelpiece to shudder and my full drink to wobble precariously on the table.

  “Chloe?”

  I presume it must be. I locked the doors, and no one else has a key. But Chloe doesn’t normally slam doors. If anything, Chloe slinks in like a cat, or some kind of supernatural mist.

  I look longingly at my glass of wine and then, with a resentful sigh, I stand and walk into the kitchen, where I can now hear her noisily opening and closing the fridge, and clinking glasses. There’s another sound, too. One I’m not so familiar with.

  It takes me a moment, and then it sinks in. Chloe is crying.

  I’m not good with crying. I don’t do it much myself. Not even at my dad’s funeral. I don’
t like the mess, the snot, the noise. No one looks attractive crying. Even worse, if a woman is crying, then she will almost certainly need comforting. I’m not good at comforting either.

  I hesitate at the kitchen door. Then I hear Chloe say: “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ed. Yes, I’m crying. Either come in and deal with it, or fuck off.”

  I push the door open. Chloe sits at the kitchen table. A bottle of gin and a large tumbler sit in front of her. No tonic. Her hair is more disheveled than usual and black mascara streaks her cheeks.

  “I won’t bother asking if you’re all right…”

  “Good. I might just ram this gin bottle up your arse.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.” I hover by the table. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Sit down and have a drink.”

  While that has been my intention all along tonight, gin isn’t really my drink of choice, but I sense the offer is non-negotiable. I take a glass out of the cupboard and let Chloe pour me a large measure.

  She shoves it across the table, unsteadily. I’m guessing this drink is not her first, or second, or third. This is unusual. Chloe likes to go out. Chloe likes a drink. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen her really drunk.

  “So,” she says, slurring slightly. “How was your day?”

  “Well, I tried to report my friend missing to the police.”

  “And?”

  “Despite the fact that he didn’t return to his hotel last night, hasn’t got his wallet or bank cards and isn’t answering his phone, apparently he can’t be officially declared missing until no one has seen him for twenty-four hours.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yes shit.”

  “You think something’s happened to him?”

  She sounds genuinely concerned.

  I take a gulp of gin. “I don’t know—”

  “Maybe he went home.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I suppose I have to go back to the police station tomorrow.”

  She stares into her glass. “Friends, eh? More trouble than they’re worth. Although not as bad as family.”

  “I suppose,” I say cautiously.

  “Oh, trust me. Friends, you can cut loose. Family, you never lose. They’re always there, in the background, screwing with your mind.”

  She throws back the gin and pours another.

  Chloe has never talked about her personal life before and I’ve never asked. It’s like with kids. If they want to tell you something, they’ll tell you. If you have to ask, you’ll send them scuttling back inside their shell.

  Of course, I have wondered. For a while, I thought her presence in my home might be something to do with a boyfriend, a bad break-up. After all, there are plenty of house-shares in Anderbury, with people closer to her age and outlook. You do not choose the big, spooky old house with the strange, single man unless you have a reason for wanting solitude and privacy.

  But Chloe has never told, so I’ve never pushed it, scared perhaps that I might drive her away. Finding a lodger to fill my spare room is one thing. Finding a companion to fill my loneliness is quite another.

  I take a second sip of gin, but the desire to drink is fading fast. There’s nothing like dealing with a drunk to put you off the idea of getting wasted yourself.

  “Well,” I say. “Both family and friendships can be difficult…”

  “Am I your friend, Ed?”

  The question throws me. Chloe stares at me with an earnest, unfocused stare, facial muscles a little lazy, lips parted.

  I swallow. “I hope so.”

  She smiles. “Good. Because I would never do anything to hurt you. I want you to know that.”

  “I know,” I say, even though I don’t. Not really. People can hurt you without even realizing they’re doing it. Chloe hurts me a little bit every day just by existing. And that’s okay.

  “Good.” She squeezes my hand, and I’m alarmed to see her eyes fill with tears again. She wipes at her face. “Christ, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

  She takes another swig of her drink, and then says, “I should tell you something…”

  I don’t like those words. Nothing good ever comes of a sentence that starts that way. Just like, “We should talk…”

  “Chloe,” I say.

  But I am saved, quite literally, by the bell. Someone is at the front door. I don’t get many visitors, and certainly not ones who arrive unannounced.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Chloe says with her customary warmth and good cheer.

  “I don’t know.”

  I shuffle wearily to the front door and open it. Two men in gray suits stand outside. I know, even before they open their mouths, that they are police. There’s just something about them. The tired faces. The bad haircuts. The cheap shoes.

  “Mr. Adams?” the taller, dark-haired one asks.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m DI Furniss. This is Sergeant Danks. You came to the station this afternoon to file a missing person’s report for a friend of yours, Mick Cooper?”

  “I tried. I was told he wasn’t officially missing.”

  “Right. We’re sorry about that,” the shorter, bald one says. “Could we come in?”

  I want to ask why, but as they will end up coming in anyway it doesn’t seem worth it. I stand aside. “Of course.”

  They walk past me into the hallway and I shut the door. “Just through here.”

  Out of habit, I take them into the kitchen. As soon as I see Chloe, I realize this might have been a mistake. She is still in her “going out” clothes. These consist of a skintight black vest decorated with skulls, a tiny Lycra miniskirt, fishnet tights and Doc Martens.

  She glances up at the policemen. “Ooh, company, how nice.”

  “This is Chloe, my lodger. And friend.”

  The pair are too professional even to raise an eyebrow, but I’m sure I know what they’re thinking. Older man with a pretty young thing living in his house. I’m either sleeping with her, or I am just an old lech. Sadly, it is the latter.

  “Can I get you anything?” I say. “Tea, coffee?”

  “Gin?” Chloe holds up the bottle.

  “Afraid we’re on duty, miss,” Furniss says.

  “Okay,” I say. “Err, well, please, have a seat.”

  They glance at each other.

  “Actually, Mr. Adams, it might be better if we spoke to you alone.”

  I glance at Chloe. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Well, excuse me.” She grabs the bottle and the glass. “I’ll be next door, if you need me.”

  She gives the two police officers a dark look and slinks from the room.

  They sit, chairs scraping, and I perch awkwardly at the head of the table. “So can I ask what this is about, exactly? I told the duty sergeant everything I could earlier.”

  “I know it probably feels like you’re repeating yourself, but if you could just tell us everything again, in detail?”

  Danks takes out his pen.

  “Well, Mickey left here yesterday evening.”

  “Sorry, could you go back a little further? Why was he here? I understand he lives in Oxford?”

  “Well, he’s an old friend and he was coming back to Anderbury and wanted to meet up.”

  “How old?”

  “We were childhood friends.”

  “And you’ve kept in touch?”

  “Not really. But sometimes it’s nice to catch up.”

  They both nod.

  “Anyway, he came round for dinner.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “He arrived at about seven fifteen.”

  “He drove?”

  “No, he walked. The hotel he’s staying in isn’t far and I suppose he thought he’d have a drink.”

  “How much would you say he drank?”

  “Well”—I think back to the empty beer bottles in the recyclin
g—“you know how it is. You’re eating, talking…maybe six or seven beers.”

  “A fair amount, then.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So what sort of state would you say he was in when he left?”

  “Well, he wasn’t falling over and slurring, but he was quite drunk.”

  “And you let him walk back to the hotel?”

  “I offered to call him a taxi, but he said the walk would help sober him up.”

  “Right. And what time would you say this was?”

  “About ten, ten thirty. Not that late.”

  “And that was the last time you saw him that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You handed his wallet in to the duty sergeant?”

  With some bloody difficulty. She wanted me to keep hold of it, but I was insistent.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you come to be in possession of it?”

  “Mickey must have forgotten it when he left my house.”

  “And you didn’t try to give it back to him last night?”

  “I didn’t realize until today. Chloe found it and called me.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “Around lunchtime. I tried to call Mickey to let him know he’d left his wallet, but he didn’t reply.”

  More scribbling.

  “So that was when you went to the hotel to see if your friend was okay?”

  “Yes. And they told me he hadn’t come back last night. That’s when I decided to go to the police.”

  More nods. Then Furniss asks, “How would you say your friend seemed last night?”

  “Fine…erm, okay.”

  “He was in good spirits?”

  “Well, I suppose so.”

  “What was the purpose of his visit?”

  “Can I ask if that’s relevant?”

  “Well, all those years with no contact, then a visit out of the blue. It’s a bit strange.”

  “People are strange, as Jim Morrison might say.”

  They look at me blankly. Not classic rock fans.

  “Look,” I say, “it was a social call. We talked about a lot of things—what we were both up to. Work. Nothing of any real significance. Now, can I please ask what all these questions are about? Has something happened to Mickey?”