The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  I arrive back just after nine, hot, crumpled and numb down one side from being crushed against the window by a man who looked as if he played rugby for the Titans (the gods, not the team).

  By the time I get a bus back from the station and walk up to the house I’m feeling tired, edgy and regrettably sober. I push open the gate and walk up the driveway. The house is in darkness. Chloe must have decided to go out. Maybe for the best. I’m not sure I’m ready for the conversation we need to have just yet.

  The first cold finger of unease tickles the back of my neck when I reach the front door and find it’s unlocked. Chloe can be frustratingly flippant but she is not usually irresponsible or forgetful.

  I hover for a moment, like an unwelcome salesman on my own front step, and then I push the door open.

  “Hello?”

  The only reply is the breathless silence of the house and a faint humming from the kitchen. I turn the hallway light on and stand there, clutching my redundant keys.

  “Chloe?”

  I walk into the kitchen, flick on the light and stare around.

  The back door is ajar, and a cool draft washes over me. The countertops are littered with the remnants of dinner preparation: a pizza on the side. Some salad in a bowl. A half-drunk glass of wine on the table. The humming noise I can hear is the oven.

  I bend down and turn it off. The silence immediately seems louder. The only sound I can hear now is the blood thumping in my ears.

  “Chloe?”

  I take a step forward. My foot skids on something on the floor. I look down. My heart goes into arrest. The roaring in my ears increases. Red. Dark red. Blood. A tenuous trail of it leads to the open back door. I walk forward, heart still jitterbugging in my chest. At the back door, I hesitate. It’s almost dark. I retrace my steps, grab a torch from the junk drawer and step outside.

  “Chloe? Are you out here?”

  I walk cautiously around to the back of the house and shine the torch out onto the overgrown wilderness that extends to a small copse of trees. Some of the long grass has been trampled down. Someone has traipsed across the garden recently.

  I follow the rough path. Weeds and nettles snag at my trousers. The torchlight picks out something in the grass. Something red and pink and brown. I bend down and my stomach flips like a Russian gymnast.

  “Shit.”

  A rat. An eviscerated rat. Its stomach has been ripped open and its intestines spill out like a jumbled mass of tiny, uncooked sausages.

  Something rustles to my right. I jump up and spin around. A pair of green discs gleam at me from the long grass. Mittens leaps forward with a guttural hiss.

  I stumble backward, a scream lodged in my throat. “Fuck.”

  Mittens eyes me with amusement—“Scare ya much, Eddie, boy?”—then casually slinks forward, picks up the remains of the rat between his sharp white teeth, and saunters off with it into the night.

  I allow myself a brief burst of hysterical laughter. “Fucking fuck.”

  A rat. That was the blood. Just a rat and the fucking fucker of a cat. Relief floods through me. And then a little voice whispers in my ear:

  “But the cat and the rat don’t explain the open back door, do they, Eddie? Or the unfinished dinner preparation? What’s that all about?”

  I turn back to the house.

  “Chloe!” I shout.

  And then I break into a run. I charge up the stairs and reach her door. I knock once then shove it open, part of me hoping to see a disheveled head shoot up from her bed. But her bed is empty. The room is empty. Impulsively, I pull open her wardrobe. Empty hangers rattle. I yank out the drawers of her chest. Empty. Empty. Empty.

  Chloe has gone.

  1986

  I thought it might be a while before I got a chance to sneak out. As it was, I only had to wait a couple of days, until the weekend.

  Mum got a call and had to rush to the clinic. Dad was supposed to be watching me, but he had a deadline to meet and had locked himself in his study. I saw the note Mum left him: “Make Eddie breakfast. Cereal or toast. NO crisps or chocolate! Love, Marianne.”

  I don’t think Dad even read it. He seemed more distracted than ever. When I went to the cupboard I found that he had put the milk on a shelf inside and the coffee in the fridge. I shook my head, got a bowl out, emptied in a few Rice Krispies and a splash of milk, then left them on the draining board with a spoon resting in the bowl.

  I grabbed a packet of crisps and ate them quickly in the living room while I watched Saturday Superstore. Then I left the telly on and tiptoed back upstairs to my bedroom. I slid my chest of drawers to one side, pulled out the shoebox and lifted off the lid.

  The ring nestled inside. It was still a little dirty with muck from the woods, but I didn’t want to clean it. It wouldn’t be hers anymore then; it wouldn’t be special. That was important. If you wanted to hold on to something, you had to hold on to every part of it. To remember its time and place.

  But there was someone else who needed it more. Someone who loved her, who didn’t have anything to remember her by. I mean, he had the paintings. But they weren’t part of her, they hadn’t touched her skin or rested against her as she slowly cooled on the woodland floor.

  I rewrapped the ring in some loo roll and tucked it carefully in my pocket. I don’t think I knew exactly what I intended to do at that point. In my head, I imagined I would go and see Mr. Halloran, tell him how sorry I was, give him the ring, and he would be really grateful, and I would have repaid him for all the things he had done for me. I think that’s what I wanted, anyway.

  I heard movement from next door: a cough, the squeak of Dad’s chair and the rattle and hum of the printer. I slid the chest of drawers back into place and crept down the staircase. I grabbed my thick winter coat and scarf and, just in case Dad came down and was worried, I scribbled a quick note: “Gone round to Hoppo’s. Didn’t want to disturb you. Eddie.”

  I wasn’t normally a disobedient kid. But I was stubborn, obsessive even. Once I had an idea, I wouldn’t be shaken from it. I can’t say I had a moment of doubt or trepidation as I wheeled my bike out of the garage and set off down the road in the direction of Mr. Halloran’s cottage.

  Mr. Halloran should have already left for Cornwall. But the police had asked him not to go because of the investigation. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were very close to deciding whether they had enough evidence to charge him with Waltzer Girl’s murder.

  Actually, they had very little real evidence. Most of it was circumstantial and hearsay. Everyone wanted him to be guilty because that would be nice, neat and understandable. He was an outsider and, not only that, a strange-looking outsider, one who had already proved himself to be a pervert by corrupting a young girl.

  Their theory was that Waltzer Girl had wanted to end the relationship and Mr. Halloran must have flipped and killed her when she told him. This was partially backed up by Waltzer Girl’s mum, who told the police that her daughter had come home in tears the previous day after an argument with Mr. Halloran. Mr. Halloran agreed they had argued but denied they had split up. He even admitted they were supposed to meet in the woods that night (with all the scandal and rumors, they had taken to meeting there in secret) but, after the argument, he hadn’t gone. I’m not altogether sure what the real truth was, and no one could confirm or deny either story, apart from a girl who would never speak again, except in a place where her voice was all muffled with dirt and worms.

  It was quiet for a Saturday morning, but then it was one of those mornings where the day itself doesn’t seem to want to get out of bed, like a sulky teenager, reluctant to throw off the covers of night and pull back the curtains of dawn. At ten o’clock it was still murky and gray, only the odd passing car offering sporadic illumination along my route. Most of the houses were in darkness. Even though it wasn’t long till Christmas, hardly anyone had any decorations up. I guess nobody felt much like celebrating. Dad hadn’t bought a tree yet and I had barely thought about
my birthday.

  The cottage stood out like a white ghost, the edges slightly blurred in the misty light. Mr. Halloran’s car was parked outside. I stopped a short distance away and looked around. The cottage sat on its own, at the end of Amory’s Lane, a small street with only a few other cottages on it. No one seemed to be about. Still, instead of leaving my bike propped outside Mr. Halloran’s, I left it tucked into a hedgerow across the road, where it couldn’t easily be seen. Then I crossed quickly and trotted up the pathway.

  The curtains were open but there were no lights on inside. I raised a hand, knocked on the door and waited. No sound of movement. I tried again. Still silence. Well, not exactly silence. I thought I could hear something. I debated. Maybe he didn’t want to see anyone. Maybe I should just go home. I almost did. But something—I’m still not quite sure what—seemed to nudge me and say: Just try the door.

  I placed my hand on the door handle and twisted it. The door opened. I stared at the beckoning sliver of darkness.

  “Hello? Mr. Halloran?”

  No reply. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  “Hello?”

  I looked around. Boxes were still piled everywhere, but there was a new addition to the small living room. Bottles. Wine, beer and a couple of chunkier ones that said “Jim Beam.” I frowned. I supposed all adults drank sometimes. But this was a lot of bottles.

  From upstairs I could hear the sound of taps running. That was the faint noise I had heard before. I felt relieved. Mr. Halloran was running a bath. That’s why he hadn’t heard me at the door.

  Of course, it left me in a bit of an awkward position. I couldn’t really shout upstairs. He might be naked or something. Also, he would know I had let myself into his house, uninvited. But I didn’t want to go back outside and wait either, in case someone saw me.

  I debated with myself and then made a decision. I crept into the kitchen, slipped the ring out of my pocket and placed it right in the middle of the table, where it wouldn’t be missed.

  I should have left a note, but I couldn’t see any paper or a pen. I glanced upstairs. There was an odd patch on the ceiling. Darker than the rest. It crossed my mind, briefly, that this was somehow not right, along with the continuously running water. Then a car suddenly backfired out in the street. I jumped, the intrusion of noise reminding me I was in someone else’s house, and also about Mum and Dad’s warning. Dad might have finished working now, and what if Mum had come home? I’d left a note but there was always the chance Mum might be suspicious and call Hoppo’s mum to check.

  Heart pounding, I scuttled out of the cottage and pulled the door closed behind me. Then I raced across the street and grabbed my bike. I cycled back home, as fast as I could, propped my bike by the back door, shed my coat and scarf and threw myself onto the sofa in the living room. Dad came downstairs about twenty minutes later and popped his head in.

  “All right, Eddie? Been out?”

  “Went to call for Hoppo, but he wasn’t there.”

  “You should have let me know.”

  “I left a note. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  He smiled. “You’re a good boy. How about we make some cookies for when Mum comes home?”

  “Okay.”

  I liked baking with Dad. Some boys thought cooking was girly, but it wasn’t when Dad did it. He didn’t really follow any recipes, and he put odd things in. They either tasted great or a bit weird, but it was always an adventure finding out.

  We were just taking the raisin, Marmite and peanut butter cookies out of the oven when Mum came back an hour or so later.

  “We’re in here!” Dad called.

  Mum walked in. Straightaway I knew something was wrong.

  “Everything okay at the clinic?” Dad asked.

  “What? Yes. All sorted. Fine.” But she didn’t look like everything was fine. She looked worried and upset.

  “What’s wrong, Mum?” I asked.

  She glanced at Dad and me and, finally, she said, “I drove past Mr. Halloran’s on the way home.”

  I felt myself tense. Had she seen me? Surely not. I’d been home for ages. Or perhaps someone else had seen me and told her, or perhaps she just knew, because she was my mum and she had a sixth sense about me doing stuff that was wrong.

  But, actually, it wasn’t any of that.

  “There were police outside…and an ambulance.”

  “An ambulance?” Dad said. “Why?”

  She said in a quiet voice, “They were bringing a body out, on a stretcher.”

  —

  Suicide. The police had arrived to arrest Mr. Halloran but instead they found him upstairs in an overflowing bath which was already causing the ceiling below to blister and sag. The water dripping from the ceiling onto the kitchen table was a pale pink. It was darker red in the bath, where Mr. Halloran lay, deep cuts all the way up his arms, from wrist to elbow. Lengthways. Not a cry for help. A scream of goodbye.

  They found the ring. Still crusted with the dirt from the woodland floor. That decided it for the police. It was the firm bit of evidence they needed. Mr. Halloran had killed Waltzer Girl, and then himself.

  I never confessed. I should have, I know. But I was twelve, and scared, and I’m not sure anyone would have believed me anyway. Mum would have thought I was trying to help Mr. Halloran, and the fact was, no one could help him, or Waltzer Girl, now. What good would telling the truth do?

  There were no more messages. No more chalk men. No more terrible accidents or awful murders. I think the worst thing that happened in Anderbury over the next few years was some gypsies stealing the lead from the church roof. Oh, and when Mickey crashed his car into a tree, almost killing himself and Gav of course.

  That’s not to say people instantly forgot. The murder, and all the other stuff that happened, gave Anderbury a grim notoriety. The local newspapers wallowed in it for weeks.

  “They’ll be giving free chalks with the weekend editions soon,” I heard Mum mutter one evening.

  Fat Gav told me that his dad had thought about changing the name of the pub to The Chalk Man but his mum had talked him out of it.

  “Too soon,” she said.

  For a while afterward, you’d see groups of strangers in town. They wore anoraks and sensible shoes and came with cameras and notebooks. They filed into the church and traipsed through the woods.

  “Rubberneckers,” my dad called them.

  I had to ask him what that meant.

  “People who like to look at something terrible, or visit the place where something terrible happened. Also known as morbid death hounds.”

  I think I preferred the second description better. Death hounds. That’s what the people looked like, with their lank hair, droopy faces and the way they always seemed to have their noses pressed to windows or bent close to the ground, clicking away with their cameras.

  Sometimes you would hear them ask questions, too: Where was the cottage where the Chalk Man lived? Did anyone know him personally? Had anyone got any of his drawings?

  They never asked about Waltzer Girl. No one did. Her mum gave one interview to the newspapers. She talked about how Elisa had loved music, how she had wanted to be a nurse to help people who got hurt, like her, and how brave she had been after the accident. But it was only a small article. It was almost like people wanted to forget her. Like remembering she was a real person who died spoiled the story.

  Eventually, even the death hounds drifted back to their kennels. Other terrible events took their turn on the front pages. Occasionally, the murder was mentioned in a magazine article, or rehashed on some true-crime program on TV.

  There were loose ends, yes. Odd things that didn’t quite make sense. Everyone assumed that Mr. Halloran had attacked Reverend Martin and drawn the pictures in the church, but no one could explain why. They never found the ax he used to chop up the body…

  And, of course, they never found Waltzer Girl’s head.

  Still, I suppose, although none of us could ever a
gree on the beginning, we all believed that the day Mr. Halloran died was the day it ended.

  2016

  My dad’s funeral was, in a way, several years too late. The man I knew had died a long time before. What remained was an empty husk. All the things that made him who he was—his compassion, humor, warmth, even his bloody weather forecasts—had gone. His memories, too. And perhaps that was the worst. For who are we if not the sum of our experiences, the things that we gather and collect in life? Once you strip those away we become just a mass of flesh, bone and blood vessels.

  If there is such a thing as a soul—and I am yet to be convinced—then my dad’s had departed way before pneumonia eventually took him in a sterile, white hospital bed, moaning and delirious; a shrunken, skeletal version of the tall, vital father I had known all my life. I didn’t recognize that shell of a human being. I’m ashamed to say that when they told me he had gone it was not grief I felt first but relief.

  The funeral was small and held at the crematorium. Just my mum and me, a few friends from the magazines Dad wrote for, Hoppo and his mum, Fat Gav and his family. I didn’t mind. I don’t think you can judge the worth of a person by how many people turn up when they’re dead. Most people have too many friends. And I use the term “friends” loosely. Online “friends” are not real friends. Real friends are something different. Real friends are there, no matter what. Real friends are people you love and hate in equal measure but who are as much a part of you as yourself.

  After the service we all went back to our house. Mum had made sandwiches and snacks but, mostly, people just drank. Even though Dad had been looked after in the care home for over a year before his death, and even though the house was more full of people than it had ever been, I don’t think it ever felt emptier than it did that day.

  Mum and I visit the crematorium together every year on the anniversary of his death. Mum may go more often. There are always fresh flowers by the small plaque that bears his name and a line or two in the Book of Remembrance.