by Tom Hoyle
‘You’re the magician,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s grind up a few and slip them in his drink.’ He handed me a paperweight from the desk and popped the pills out of their plastic container for me to crush. After three, I asked how many would be sensible.
‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ said Jack. ‘Here’s two more.’ He tore a page out of a notebook on the desk and brushed the powder inside. ‘Sam and I will distract the others while you drop it in his drink.’
As we turned to go, I noticed that to the right of the door there was an old painting of a man in a Victorian suit. ‘There,’ I said, struck by the picture. ‘He looks the same as your dad.’ I was drawn in by the eyes – dark brown, intense, mesmerizing – the same eyes that The Twins had. There was a little bar underneath: Samuel John Thatcher, Ward of Hintersea.
‘He’s a great-great-grandfather or great-uncle or something,’ said Jack. ‘I think he’s in books about the area. Never mind about him.’
‘Cool in a way, though. Maybe that’s why I thought I recognized your father,’ I said. Ward of Hintersea? It sounded vaguely familiar. I remembered later that there’s reference to it on one of the information boards on the far side of Ward’s Fell.
It was easier to get the Ex-Lax powder into Mark’s drink than I thought. Sam waited until Mark was standing up and then called him out of the room, which meant that he put his beer down on a table by the door, where there were some unopened cans. I hesitated for a second, but then went over and poured in the powder while Jack spoke to the others.
‘We’re going to play Spin-the-Bottle-Challenge,’ he said, setting out the simplest rules of the game with amusing examples; at the same time, I swilled Mark’s beer around with one hand and opened a can for myself with the other.
Seconds later, Sam returned with Mark, who was holding a bottle. The forfeit in the game was to drink some whisky.
I failed in a Challenge (to eat a bar of soap) and was surprised by how much a mouthful burned my insides as I gulped it down. I felt dizzy.
‘My Challenge is for Mark to drink all that beer in one go,’ Sam said, about four Challenges in.
Mark pretended to limber up and then drank it all, including the tablets, while we all chanted, ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’
A few goes later, Jack spun, and the bottle ended up pointing very definitely at me. ‘Ben’s Challenge,’ he said, ‘is to snog the person the bottle points at next time.’ But Jack didn’t even bother spinning the bottle, he just set it down so that it pointed directly at Caroline, who was next to him, and then fell back laughing.
Caroline just raised her eyebrows and smiled wryly.
‘Jack!’ I slurred. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done that.’ I had drunk too much. Either I was moving or the room was, and it felt like both.
‘And it has to be a good five seconds,’ Jack added.
I moved across the floor on my hands and knees, and leaned forward, awkwardly aware (as I’m sure Caroline soon was) that I had never kissed a girl before. I remember our mouths clumsily opening and closing, but never at times that seemed to match. I fell into a giggling heap afterwards, unable even to look at Caroline, let alone speak to her.
As the others laughed at me, I turned to Mark. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I think it was about kissing his girlfriend; perhaps I half had in mind what was in store for him.
‘It’s Caroline you need to apologize to,’ he said with good humour. ‘I’m not worried.’ I hated his easy-going confidence almost as much as the laughter in the room and grinned joylessly for a few seconds.
It was the middle of the night, long after Blake had been collected, that we stood on the gravel at the front of the house and saw the headlights of two taxis slowly rise up the driveway to the house. I had only been in a taxi a couple of times before, but The Twins had insisted on paying, even though it cost extra for the cars to drive all the way from town.
Mark looked back at the house and said he needed the toilet.
‘Hey, just one more second,’ said Sam. ‘Listen to this . . .’
‘No,’ Mark said through clenched teeth, one hand on the seat of his trousers. ‘I’ve really got to . . .’
I even stood in his way. ‘Hold on, mate,’ I said. ‘The cabs are coming.’
He was now wriggling and confused, torn between a polite dash for the toilet inside and an embarrassing rush for bushes.
‘Oh hell . . .’ He swore again. There was nowhere close enough for him to hide. The taxis had arrived at the top of the drive, blazing their headlights towards us – the house was lit – the garage was still open, lights on – as if we were on a stage. The forest was at the far end of the garden, a short dash earlier in the evening, but Mark was now in no condition to run.
Caroline was fairly sympathetic at first. ‘Just hurry up, Mark,’ she said. ‘It’s time for us to get going.’
There was a ripping sound as wind came first, and then Mark started to limp towards the forest, his hands covering his backside as brown liquid seeped through his trousers. He moved more slowly, struggling on. Then, as he turned the corner to head along the lit path, some liquid dribbled down from the bottom of his trousers on to his socks and shoes.
There were cries of disgust from the onlookers. ‘Can’t he control himself better than that?’ someone said. From where we were, even though we were outside, we could smell it.
‘Mark – this is gross. Not a good end to the party,’ spat Caroline, hands on her hips.
Mark had turned the corner, but we could hear the sounds of violent, overwhelming diarrhoea.
‘That idiot’s not coming in my car!’ shouted one of the taxi drivers, casting a huge shadow as he stood in front of his car’s headlights. ‘The bloody drunken yob!’
‘He doesn’t sound well,’ said Sam. ‘Let’s be brave and see if we can help.’
Caroline didn’t move at first, but was encouraged forward. ‘I told him to stop drinking,’ she sighed – especially beautiful, I thought, in her anger.
‘He was knocking back that whisky,’ said Jack. ‘I guess it’s hard to know your limits.’ He looked at Caroline and pushed his lips together in apparent sympathy.
Mark had hidden round the back of the garage, behind the first trees, but The Twins led us to him. Our appearance added humiliation to injury. Mark had lowered his trousers and his boxer shorts were covered in mess.
‘We’ll leave you to it and come back in a bit,’ said Jack. ‘Come on, guys, it’s not right for us to see Mark like this.’
‘Thanks,’ groaned Mark, trying to hide what he could.
‘And I thought you were different to the others!’ Caroline said, before being beaten back by the stench and storming off to a taxi.
As he walked me over to the car that Caroline was in, Sam pulled me close and breathed in deeply.
‘The sweet smell of revenge,’ he said. ‘The sweet smell of a completed Challenge.’
FIVE DAYS TO GO
Draft Email
To:
Cc:
Subject: The Past
Someone else has to know the whole truth.
‘Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday,’ he said. Then I watched him disappear into the woodland. With anyone else, they’d be empty words.
It was so far in the future I thought we’d never get here.
I came close to telling you everything when we went to Compton for Gran’s funeral. You mentioned the view from the houses in Compton across Lake Hintersea and how it must be full of memories. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Just Yeah – not I can remember what we did as if it was yesterday. Not I can remember the faces of those who died.
Someone else has to know the truth in case it all goes wrong.
I’m not sure when it all started to change. Maybe that night at the party. It was the first time I’d set out to hurt someone else.
Now you see |
Attachment
OCTOBER 2011
AUTUMN LEAVES
The next morning, Saturday, I
was woken by the grumble of the postman’s van outside. I strode down the stairs in pyjamas feeling like a different, bolder, more significant person. ‘Hi, Gran,’ I said. ‘I’m up. Just getting a bowl of cereal.’
‘You’ve only just got back,’ she said from the front room. ‘I heard you arrive about four a.m. I was worried sick!’
I flicked through the letters on the mat with my bare toes. Immediately, the world was spinning around my feet: I could see the words ‘Benny (Private)’. No surname.
My gran could easily have got there first; had it arrived on a weekday when I was at school, she certainly would have. After glancing to make sure my gran couldn’t see, I quietly ran my finger between the seal and the envelope, opening it with terrifying ease. It was written on the same type of card as before; the handwriting was Will’s. My chest ached. Energy faded out of me.
I’m still fine. Don’t worry.
Im actully writing because I want us to be friends.
I’mve had to have some secrets from you. I’ll send one more letter soon.
Then everything will make sense.
I’m much closer than you think.
I’m even trusting you now. Please please please keep this a secret.
Will
I swore through gritted teeth.
‘Benny, what’s going on?’ said my gran from the front room.
I screwed up my face and ran taut fingers through my hair. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, searching for a lie. ‘I just whacked my toe on the . . . step. I don’t think I want breakfast any more.’ I did feel a bit queasy.
‘You should have been more careful last night,’ she said. ‘Being out that late isn’t good for you.’ Then a mutter: ‘I hope you weren’t drinking alcohol.’
As before, I took the card upstairs. But this time I didn’t cry.
Even with The Twins, I still missed Will so much that it hurt.
I’mve had to have some secrets from you.
Will hadn’t been the same in the month before he was killed.
We had discovered the world together and had no secrets. Then something changed. He would go off in his boat or on his bike without telling me. I sometimes found him deep in thought, doodling. He fell asleep in a lesson.
‘Will, what’s going on?’ I asked more than once. ‘Wassup, mate?’
He was evasive: ‘Nothing to worry your little head about . . .’; or: ‘Benny, you’re not my mother, stop nagging, give it a rest . . .’
The police listened at the start, then gradually lost interest. No one else had noticed it; but I was sure that I knew Will better than anyone.
I read the letter again and told myself to think logically. What if Will was alive? That would be incredible – the biggest story in the history of the world – and totally impossible. He was put in a coffin and lowered into the ground: I was there, just behind his parents, in the cemetery in Lancaster.
It was possible, in theory, that the notes were written by Will in the time between his abduction and death – but these didn’t read like letters sent from the dank den of an evil sicko. And they couldn’t have been ‘caught up in the post’ (my gran’s explanation for anything that was slow to arrive from Royal Mail): that was a mad idea – though not as mad as the idea that he was alive. And why not email? Will always emailed or sent a text.
Who the hell was posting the letters?
And why shouldn’t I go to the police? Surely if Will was asking for help he would be desperate for police involvement? The warning about not telling anyone – that didn’t sound like Will. Why didn’t he just come out and tell me who had taken him?
There were only two people I could trust: The Twins. They didn’t count as people who were not to be told.
‘Benny,’ my gran called from downstairs. ‘Are you going to come in and see me?’
‘I’m just getting dressed,’ I half lied as I dropped the second note into Will’s Box and searched for something to wear.
My gran could tell that something was wrong, but suspected a hangover. ‘Are you sure everything is OK?’ she said softly. ‘Maybe you’re learning a lesson after last night’s party?’
‘I think I’m a bit tired,’ I said. ‘Late night.’
I tried to keep the letter out of my head, but it kept welling up: Im actully writing because I want us to be friends . . . I’m much closer than you think . . . Please please please keep this a secret. Round and round it went.
‘Too tired to take the church newsletter round?’ she asked. It was the last Saturday of the month again. ‘You could do with some fresh air.’ The sun streamed in through the net curtains.
For once, walking around the village seemed appealing. It would remind me of real life and real death, rather than the stupid (fake) notes from Will.
I started with Mike Haconby’s house, partly because I could see that his van was out. Bullseye barked aggressively as I wandered up the path. As soon as I put the newsletter through the door there was a snarl and it was ripped from my hand. ‘Bullseye! Shut up, you stupid dog!’ I said, kicking the door slightly. ‘Shut up!’ I swore at him.
I paused outside the churchyard and remembered the ambulance taking Will’s body away on the morning after he was found. He lay there all night on the shore of the Lake under the white tents as experts picked around him with tweezer-like detail. ‘Did you see anything? Did you hear anything? Anything at all?’ the policeman had asked. It was under 400 yards from my gate to Will’s body.
It was a million-to-one chance that the body had been washed up a few steps from where Will had left his bike.
For a time, I had hovered on the edge of being a suspect. Maybe we had had a fight? There had been an argument, after all. Maybe a game went wrong? My clothes were taken away for forensic analysis.
(It was Will’s mother’s testimony that proved I had nothing to do with it. The Caplings’ kitchen was on the Lane side of their house, so that their sitting room had the view of the Lake. ‘I was standing at the sink,’ Mrs Capling said, ‘and saw Benny come out of his house and call for my dear William.’ She broke down in tears after almost every sentence. ‘William wasn’t there. He was cycling round in circles the way that he always did. And then I looked up and my boy wasn’t there.’)
I stared at the church; an old, natural-stone building with a tower, the graveyard on its left. For the first time in a year, I put my hand on the gate to the church and pushed it open. Will must have done this, I thought. He went through this gate. Just like this. He must have been pushing his bike, or maybe he nudged the gate and cycled through.
There were gravestones on either side of the path, and I glanced at them as I walked in.
Edward Turnbull, beloved husband of . . .
Catherine Walker (1881–1963) . . .
Rest in Peace . . .
With the Lord . . .
Each step took me nearer.
There were fresh flowers and a small wooden cross in the distance, close to where Will’s body was found, and I walked down towards the Lake. The Winters’ jetty and the rowing boat came into view. I looked across the Lake, past Cormorant Holm, all the way to Timberline on the other side. Lakeside House peered down on me.
‘Will, why did you write those letters?’ I muttered, looking at the simple wooden cross. ‘Why did you come here?’ The flowers, wild ones that I’d seen a thousand times in the nearby fields, were fresh and neat. I wonder who . . .
I looked up in shock as Mrs Winter came into my peripheral vision, about twenty yards away. ‘Sorry,’ I said, my voice a little high and unsteady as I stood bolt upright. ‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Hello, my darling,’ she said as she slipped closer. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
Over her shoulder I could see a break in the hedge: there was a gate from the churchyard into her garden. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘This is the first time I’ve been able to get myself in here.’ I looked around at the gravestones – death all around, most of it old, but some of it in new black mar
ble.
‘I think about young William often. He was such a dear, dear darling.’ Mrs Winter looked down at the flowers. ‘He’s remembered by those who held him dear. He’s not far away from us.’
‘I think about him every day,’ I said. I immediately wanted to leave. There was nothing more to say.
‘He still cares for you as well,’ she said, her pale green, unblinking, watery eyes glaring at me. ‘Just as your mother does.’
It was the sort of thing that people had been saying. ‘I’m sure he does, yes.’ I exhaled once, to hint at an ‘Oh dear’ conclusion, and held out the penultimate newsletter from my pocket.
‘He has not settled yet, you know,’ she continued, her eyes still staring, but unfocused. ‘He still reaches out to you.’
I encountered some of this nonsense soon after Will died. Even in a sensible part of the world there are cranks who pester the police with theories and messages. ‘Do you mean from the spirit world?’ I asked. My eyebrows were raised, mildly mocking; all I could think of was the letter.
‘My darling, the spirit world and this world are not separated like night and day – we are in twilight. He had to have some secrets from you, but soon everything will make sense.’ Mrs Winter blinked and looked down at the flowers.
I’mve had to have some secrets from you . . . Then everything will make sense.
‘What did you just say?’ I blurted.
‘Just what I’ve heard,’ said Mrs Winter. ‘I hear things.’
What the hell? It must have been a coincidence. I couldn’t believe I was saying: ‘Mrs Winter, he is dead, isn’t he?’
She laughed loudly. ‘What do you mean by “dead”? He isn’t settled, if that’s what you mean. But he wants to be settled. Maybe he needs your help?’ Her voice was ghostly and thin, and I wondered if she was going to go into a trance.
Bonkers after all, I thought. I feared I was also going slightly mad, seeing connections where there were none. ‘Anyway,’ I said, making to move on. ‘Thank you for putting the flowers here. That was very nice of you.’