by Paul Roscoe
Her lips moved, and her eyes sparkled, and Buddy noticed she was rocking on her heels like a little girl.
She thinks this is a game.
Is it?
2
The secretary’s office was a small, narrow room dominated by an enormous Xerox machine. When the boss had dramatically ripped the cellophane wrap off the feeder tray, announcing that this new, improved machine would fulfil all her prospectus printing needs, the photocopier had been shiny white, full of mysterious flaps and the fresh chemical smell of toner. Only the replacement toner had managed to sustain its appeal: what once was white was now grey, and what once was mysterious was now bothersome. Over the years, the machine had grown a crusty skin of Post-It note scales and Sellotape scabs; complementing the Post-Its, the Sellotape had yellowed, and dark, dusty goo gathered in every available corner. Still, cleaning it was the caretaker’s job – and that was Derek Ambry, not Joanna Sturtz.
Joanna was just filling an empty cardboard box with some paperwork when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
The door swung open and two uniformed police officers entered. The first was a scrawny, young man with a long, red nose, suggesting a cold; he was carrying a tray laden with two mugs and a saucer of plain chocolate digestive biscuits. Behind him followed a stocky woman, at least ten years older, carrying a yellow folder. She also had a ruddy complexion, though hers spread to her cheeks and looked like permanent damage of one sort or another. Her eyes were small, blue stones set in a flat, red face that resembled a deflated rugby ball.
Joanna picked up her box in self-defence. Maybe she’d throw it at the guy with the tray, spray scalding tea at the scary woman, and then run like crazy out the door. It was just a thought.
“Sergeant Barker and Officer Jones at your service. How do you do?” Before she knew it, Joanna’s hand was wrenched from the box and briskly shaken. “I believe this room is to be our temporary police station.”
“You’re welcome to it. Any excuse to get some fresh air.” Joanna gathered up a hole punch, a stapler, and a pack of spare staples, then she carefully edged around the side of her desk, her behind pulling memos off the wall as she went. Eventually she emerged in the centre of the room, spilling a stack of paper with her foot and clutching Jones for balance. She offered him an apologetic smile, but he only nodded back, his eyes on the tray and the spillage sustained. Trying hard to avoid further bodily contact, Joanna squeezed past Barker and walked out the door.
Jones set the tray down and Barker made her way to the chair.
“Pass me some of that paper the fat lady kicked over,” Barker said as she sat down.
Jones stooped to collect a handful of sheets and passed them to his superior, who started to mop the spilled tea with them. Rather than absorbing it, the paper simply sloshed the tea around, and after thirty seconds’ grunting and cursing, Barker rescued her mug and pushed the whole sorry mess to one side.
“I’ll just get us some more chairs, Sarge.” Jones stepped out, tapped on the open door of the headmaster’s office, and entered.
“Ah Officer, I was just coming your way. We have your first interviewee of the day.” Jeffrey Makinson, his high forehead beaded with moisture, gestured across his cluttered desk to the boy standing behind the door. “Alex Turner.”
Turner. Already.
Jones peered around and directed his response to the stocky young man with short hair. “They’re just informal conversations, not interviews. Chats, if you will.”
“Well, you might want to be a little more thorough with Alex here,” Makinson said, toying with a small golfing trophy. “He’s the one I told you about.”
Jones internally rolled his eyes. “Follow me, Alex.”
Alex followed Jones into the secretary’s office. It reeked of Miss Sturtz’s perfume: cheap stuff that smelled like air freshener. Paper was attached to every surface, from the photocopier, to the pigeonholes, to the walls, to the desk. Behind the desk was another police officer, drinking tea and grimacing; she set the mug down and considered Alex, eyeing him head to foot.
The police officer introduced herself and her colleague. Shooting Jones a look of utter contempt, she said, “Chairs?”
Jones disappeared and Alex found himself alone with Barker. She twisted the mug on the desk, making a wet circle.
“So you’re the one who played truant with Richard Budden?”
“That’s me.”
“Have you any idea why he killed himself?”
Alex shook his head...then stopped.
Shit.
He couldn’t take it back; he’d just shaken his head where he should have looked shocked.
I know that Buddy’s killed himself…but only because I dreamed of it. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to wash.
Barker leaned forward, her eyes becoming pinpoints. “So you know that he killed himself, at least. And how would you know a thing like that?”
Alex experienced a moment of panic when everything from the old gang to these new dreams just wanted to burst out of him. Words jumbled up inside, skewed bits of narrative colliding with each other. Where to begin? Where to begin?
Then he pictured sitting with his old friend the day before, reunited beside a wonky housing estate sign. He saw himself taking Buddy’s offered Marlboro and drawing on a flame that had been almost invisible in the hot sunlight. And he remembered the feeling that time had unravelled itself, and that he was the same old Alex he used to be.
That same old Alex had always wanted to talk to the police about what had happened, sure, but even that same old Alex would know that all this stuff about dreams – especially last night’s dream about little David – sounds like madness.
He shrugged. “People talk.”
Barker stared at him, waiting to see if that was it. Then she nodded and said, “Yes, yes they do. People talk.”
Jones returned with two chairs. He set them down with a clatter, and set to work at prizing them apart.
“Here,” Alex said, taking the chairs. He gripped the top chair with both hands and slid his shoe in the bottom one, separating them with a practiced lift. He offered one to Jones, who thanked him and started the delicate work of joining his superior in the soon-to-be-cramped space behind the desk.
Alex sat down opposite the two police officers and rested his hands on his legs, palms down.
“So,” Barker said, examining a small notebook, “Alex, how do you know Richard Budden?”
“I’ve known him pretty much all my life, so far as I can remember. We both went to St Lydia’s together, but I’m not even sure if that was the first place we met. He only lives one street down from me.”
Jones looked up from his drink, a half-dipped digestive in his hand.
“Sorry, only lived one street down from me.”
“The two of you were good friends?”
Alex rapped his fingertips on his knees. “Well, seeing as my headmaster recommended me as a prime candidate for this little chat, I guess you know we weren’t. I mean, Buddy had lots of cronies, people like Pete. And there’s his girlfriend too; you might have thought she would be the highest on the totem pole-”
“You aren’t suspected of doing anything, Alex. If you were, we wouldn’t be talking here, we would be interviewing you at the station and your parents would be involved. You have to believe us when we say that this is informal.” Barker spread her hands upon the desk.
“Okay,” Alex said, “but I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“You can tell me what was so important that you felt the urge to play truant with an old friend you hardly knew anymore. The three pupils who committed suicide over the past few days all went to St Lydia’s Primary School, as did you. I presume you all knew each other fairly well back then?”
“We had a gang.”
“Was anyone else in this gang?”
“No. Just me, Buddy, Tom, and Mary.”
“And what did you used to do, as a gang?�
�
“We didn’t form any suicide pacts, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I mean. I merely asked you what you used to do.”
“Just the usual, ride our bikes, kick footballs around, hang out at the schoolyard after teatime.”
“Trespassing, you mean?”
“We never caused any damage. None of us were into graffiti, or vandalism.”
“Okay. So, can you tell me what was so urgent that you felt the need to miss your classes?”
“The same thing I told Mr Makinson. I just wanted to talk with him, right away. It seemed more important than school. And he wanted to talk with me, what with Mary, and then Tom dying. I know we hadn’t talked all that much at St Vincent’s.” Alex shrugged. “But we all used to be really good friends.”
“What did you talk about?”
Alex looked at his hands, willing them to be still.
“I can’t specifically remember. We were just freaked out, and wanted to swap stories.”
Barker pushed back from the desk and realised two things: one, that her chair was not equipped with castors, and therefore would not move without firm effort and noisy protest; and two, Alex Turner was hiding something.
Jones recognised his cue. “What sort of stories?” he asked, setting down his mug.
Barker sat back in her uncomfortable chair, a bemused expression on her face.
Alex only stared, deciding on which lie and how far to run with it. A constant whirring sound filled the silence, as if the walls were gently vibrating; once he had identified the photocopier as its source, he began to talk.
“Stories about the old times, about how we used to hang out at the old Heaton farmhouse, wondering when Old Man Heaton himself would return. Stories about the scrapes we used to get ourselves into.” He glanced up to see how much of this was being taken in, and then planted the one truthful seed that would make the lying easier. “And stories about a lad who went missing at the time.”
“Of course,” Jones nodded, “the Hartman boy.” Barker looked at her colleague and seemed interested for a moment, but then relaxed once more into her distant self. Jones carried on. “I wasn’t a police officer then, but I remember it. Why did you talk about that?”
“It was such a big thing, and it happened right as we were all starting St Vincent’s. We knew David Hartman, you see; he went to St. Lydia’s. The same class and everything.” Alex scratched his head and clasped his hands together. “I guess Mary and Tom dying stirred up some memories. Memories we thought we’d forgotten.”
“I remember it well enough. Those posters had been up for six months by the time they caught the guy that did it.”
Alex nodded in easy agreement…then jumped. Barker raised an eyebrow.
Alex’s mind started to boil.
Mary, then Tom, then Buddy, me next. No doubt about that: it’s starting already.
He searched the room: curling memos stuck everywhere, pigeon holes stuffed with mail and folders, a photocopier that wouldn’t shut up. Everything was grey upon grey, layers of unreality thickening his senses. He looked back at the desk, at the tea, at the officers.
He’d misheard, that’s all.
Still, no harm in making sure.
“What do you mean, ‘the guy that did it’?”
“The man who abducted and murdered David Hartman. It took the police six months to catch him.” Jones sat forward, and Barker, freshly aroused, did so too. “I thought you would remember, especially living on the same street as David’s mother.”
Alex shook his head. He pictured Mrs Hartman in her usual chair, pretending to read the newspaper as she watched breakfast TV. Her hair was short and grey now. He thought of how she would wave as he passed by, how she would peer over her reading glasses.
“Who was it? Who was the killer?” Alex asked, hearing the stark desperation in his own voice.
Jones looked at Barker, who shrugged and mumbled something about public knowledge anyway. Jones returned his gaze to Alex.
“The name of the murderer was Derek Ermey. It seemed he had known the victim for some time, albeit in a passing sort of way. He was an avid bird spotter and professional photographer who used to visit primary schools throughout the area, giving talks and selling photographs. Apparently David Hartman was also very keen on birds, and that must have singled him out in some way.” Jones sniffed and rubbed his nose. “If you were in David’s class, Alex, then I’m sorry to say that you’ve actually met Ermey in person. Do you remem-”
“I can’t quite understand how you could have been protected from any of this information, Alex,” Barker interrupted. “This was in all of the papers, local and national. Plus, as Officer Jones rightly pointed out, you live in the same street as the deceased’s family. Your parents probably know his mother.”
Jones looked at his superior and flushed red, waiting for Alex’s response.
Alex watched Barker’s mouth work, but he was no longer listening. He imagined that the rest of the old gang were in the room with him, listening to this. He wondered what they would think of it. Surely they didn’t know either. Surely this so-called public information was kept low-key.
But maybe they all knew, even Buddy. Maybe this is how it ends. Everything gets turned upside down and then I go mad and kill myself.
No.
“Officer-”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant, the truth is that, until today, I thought David’s disappearance was an unsolved mystery. But apparently I’ve been living the last five years in some kind of dream world.” Alex sat back, his elbows searching for armrests that were not there.
Barker looked satisfied.
Jones looked at the desk.
“Or maybe not,” Alex continued. “Maybe you’re deliberately trying to confuse me. Mr Ermey is the Art teacher here. Or at least he was when I did it.”
Jones cocked his head to one side and blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alex.”
“I do.” Barker opened her yellow folder and ran a finger down a list. “The Art teacher here, at St Vincent’s Roman Catholic High School, shares the same surname – Ermey – but I assure you he is not the same person.” She closed the folder. “Why would you think we wanted to trick you, Alex?”
Alex shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m just confused.”
“And that’s it?”
Alex nodded. “For what it’s worth, Buddy didn’t seem suicidal.” Both officers stared at him. “I mean, he was upset, but he didn’t seem depressed. As I said, we just talked about the old days.”
Barker wrote something on a small notepad and gave a nod to Jones.
“Three suicides in such a short space of time is practically unheard of, Alex, especially when the victims are so closely linked.” Jones stood up. “Might I suggest that you go home, take the rest of the day off? You’re a tough one, coming into school today, and I want to thank you for coming to see us. But coping with the deaths of three of your friends – even if they are old friends – must be very hard. I think you should get some rest, yes?”
“If you say so.”
“Very well. Inform the headmaster that I recommended it.”
“Is that it? Am I done?”
“If that’s all you have to tell us.” From behind the desk, Barker’s eyes held him.
“It is.”
“Then that’s it.”
3
“Alex?”
Emerging from the secretary’s office, the boy with the slightly askew tie looked lost.
“Alex.”
He turned to her, non-recognition giving way to surprise. “What? Oh…Angela, I’m, er, I’m sorry about Tom.”
All morning she had mentally rehearsed responding to this very comment, and then had been hurt that none of her friends had either the guts or the maturity to come right out and say it. But here it was. A condolence, simple, honest, and heartfelt. All her carefully worded responses turned their backs, leaving her wit
h a dry lump in her throat. She tried to say something, but only choked.
“He was a good guy,” Alex mumbled, working his hands into his pockets and lowering his eyes.
“I know,” she croaked, swallowing the dry tears. “Thanks.”
She walked over to him and, casting a knowing glance towards the open door, whispered, “I want to talk with you.”
Alex nodded. “Let’s go outside.”
They turned right at the end of the corridor and stepped out of the glass atrium and onto the car park. Angela dropped her bag to the floor and reached into it. Kneeling, she held out the diary and Alex took it automatically. Just like that, the dull, burning sensation in her throat was gone and relief coursed through her body, making her sway slightly as she stood up. “I got this in the post yesterday. It’s from Tom.”
Alex’s eyes grew wide.
“The postmark on the package was Monday. You’re the only person I’ve shown this to. Not even my parents know about this.”
“What is it?”
“He calls it a dream journal. It’s a record of these recurring dreams he was having shortly before he died. He never told me about them because I don’t think he wanted to tell me about the gang you guys used to be in. But then Mary died, and he must have decided to tell me anyway. He mentioned the gang to me on Monday. I guess this was his way of going into more detail.”
“Do you think he would have taken the trouble to post you this even if he wasn’t going to kill himself?”
Angela gasped. “Of course. I don’t even think he meant to kill himself. Just read the opening note, if you don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you.”
“We used to write to each other all the time. Waffle letters, we called them – just pages and pages of nonsense – but we’d take the time to actually mail them to one another. It was fun.”
Alex looked at her and her eyes flickered away for a moment.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t think Buddy wanted to kill himself either,” he said.
“Then maybe Mary didn’t.”
Alex nodded and ran his thumb along the edge of Tom’s dream journal.