Abra-Cadaver

by Matt Drabble

  The trial had been quick and painless for the town. Trotter’s guillotine equipment was examined thoroughly by a supposed expert that Gaines was unable to question. For once his boss, Larry Taylor, had waddled out of his office and taken full control of the investigation and Gaines - despite being the only investigator in the department - found himself frozen out. As far as he was concerned, the trial had been a railroading farce. He had sat in the courtroom and listened to a complete lack of evidence of Trotter’s guilt. He had watched the juror’s faces; men and women who knew Mary, and held a picture of her in their minds from her glory days. The picture painted of her bore little resemblance to what he himself had uncovered. The jury accepted that Mary had been having an affair with an unnamed man, but it was a tale torn from the pages of a Bronte novel; the poor unhappy and possibly abused wife, seeking escape into the arms of true love. The jury had swallowed the whole story hook, line and sinker. Gaines had sat open mouthed when it was agreed that dragging the name of the poor unfortunate man that Mary had been having an affair with into the trial would have ruined more lives than was necessary. When the gavel struck and the guilty verdict was laid bare Trotter had exploded for the first time in the trial. He had promised bloody vengeance on those that had sent him away for the rest of his life as he was dragged kicking and screaming from the courtroom.

  The biggest memory that Gaines had from the trial and his own truncated investigation, was the kids. Five 12 year olds who had been in attendance at the birthday party; two of whom, Dixon and McEwen, he knew personally from their scrapes with the law. He had soon found that their little gang were as close as could be. Peter Joffre was a bullied kid who had been taken in and protected by the others and Gaines could guess just how far his gratitude may stretch. Alison Chambers, a poor kid from all the wrong sides of the tracks, and then there was Tommy Marsh. Tommy’s family were well to do around town and they lived under the expensive and luxurious fruits of their labors. Tommy was a natural leader who others seemed to gravitate towards. It had been Tommy’s birthday and a few discreet questions had revealed young Tommy’s love and interest for the magical arts. The biggest thing that Gaines remembered was the faces of the kids when he turned up at the party after the bloody finale. He had caught sight of them, all huddled together for comfort. Some would see the huddling and downcast eyes as shock and horror at witnessing such a brutal end for poor Mary. Just young children regressing to an even younger state in their amazement and disbelief, clutching each other like babes scrambling for a mother’s arms. But Gaines had been a cop, a real cop, and he had seen that expression on a million faces before. It was guilt.

  His attempts to question the kids had been met with the strongest of resistance. Tommy’s father was a lawyer and he had shut the door hard on any interrogations. As soon as Gaines’ boss had taken the case out of his hands, the whole thing had moved forward quickly and without any speed bumps such as evidence or proper investigating. He had seen Adrian Todd on more than one occasion around the station and his boss always seemed to defer in authority to the large farmer. And so Gaines had to sit on his hands and hope that the trial would be fair and balanced. It was a forlorn hope.

  After the trial and conviction Trotter had disappeared from their lives and the town moved on, but Gaines hadn’t. The case became a crusty scab that he picked at over the next few months. He kept an eye on the kids as his job actually required very little of his attention on a day to day basis. He began to witness all the classic signs of a group turning on each other. Suddenly the closest of friends drifted apart as though they couldn’t even look each other in the eye anymore. In Gaines’ experience it was only the festering truth of a dirty secret that could force people apart this way.

  Peter Joffre had been a bully’s wet dream, but he had been an academic child and his journey to college was preordained. He was the one who would get out of the small town and end up 10 years later employing the captain of the school football to mow his lawn. But Joffre’s grades had slipped, he became sullen and withdrawn and without the protection of the group he once again resumed his position at the bottom of the ladder.

  Dixon and McEwen had both been thorns in the side of the school and their own surrounding neighbors. Two kids with time and mischief on their minds. Parents and teachers had earmarked the pair of them for bad things after graduation. But whilst Dixon had fallen harder and quicker than anyone suspected, the group disbanding seemed to rob him of any moral influence. McEwen had gone the other way. McEwen had become a studier, a perfect student who lost his appetite for trouble and only seemed interested in toeing the line.

  Alison meanwhile became the town slut as she fell from the rails in a manner to rival Dixon and little Tommy Marsh, the leader of the gang, upped and moved away.

  Time had moved on and the years had passed. Gaines became his own boss when Larry Taylor, the good old boy swilling beer with his buddy Adrian Todd, retired. Nothing much had changed over the years and Denver Mills continued to see the rising and setting sun. He had long suspected that Adrian Todd’s income was derived from nefarious means. But the man’s influence loomed long and large over the town and there were a thousand road blocks between him and a full investigation. Deep down Gaines knew that he was growing fat and lazy. His instincts were turned down low and he had learned to go with the flow. There were no dead bodies floating to the surface in Denver Mills. There were no high school kids overdosing and no overt signs of criminality from the Todd farm. If Gaines had to guess, then he would have guessed that Adrian Todd was harvesting pot instead of grain. But as long as it was quiet, he had little evidence to take to a judge for anything approaching a search warrant. It was an uneasy peace that he made with himself, but at least it allowed him to sleep at night.

  Gaines was getting close to his own retirement now. He had put in his years and he had a decent pension waiting for him. He planned to move away from the open green fields of Denver Mills and buy a place near the ocean.

  But now they were back together again.

  Tommy Marsh had turned up out of the blue and the five of them had had a little reunion. And just to put the icing on the cake, Arnold Trotter, The Captivating Cosmo X - Master of the Unknown himself might just be loose. It all seemed like a little bit of a coincidence, or maybe it was providence. The one regret that he had in his career was the Trotter case. He had allowed what he considered may very well be an innocent man be railroaded into a jail cell. Perhaps before he sailed off into his own sunset, there might be time to put things right, or at least find the truth.

  So here he sat parked at the end of Russell Dixon’s exclusive road. He couldn’t help but bristle with annoyance at the opulent lifestyle that Dixon seemed to live. The man had certainly come a long way from the punk that he used to be. Whatever Dixon was into now, it was a whole other level from taking lunch money. Gaines knew that only narcotics could have provided the kind of ready cash money that Dixon seemed to spread about. The only problem was that no-one had been able to get anything on the man. From what he knew of Dixon there was no way that he was the brains of the operation. There had to be a silent partner in the background somewhere and Adrian Todd’s name kept popping into his mind.

  The rest of the old gang were in there now; even Tommy Marsh had come back to town. They were no doubt hoisting beers and toasting the old days and Gaines wondered just what they might be toasting to, and just what Arnold Trotter would make of the party.

  ----------

  Tommy watched as Dixon commanded the grill and smoky aromas filled the air as the hot sun beat down. His hangover was receding slowly as the day wore on and he surprised himself by feeling hungry after fearing that he would never eat again. As Dixon stumbled around, PJ was trying to make himself useful and only succeeding in proving a target for Dixon’s jibes. McEwen sat thoughtful and quiet, and Tommy couldn’t get over the difference in the man.

  “So tell me about your career as an artist,” he asked.

  “Ah, it
’s nothing special really,” McEwen said shyly.

  “Bullshit it’s not,” Ally snapped. “Our boy here went off and found fame and fortune.”

  “Whilst you just went off,” Tommy heard Dixon laugh.

  Ally withered Dixon with a contemptuous stare.

  “Well my work kind of caught someone’s attention at a gallery over in Bridge Port. There was some lady who liked to work with unconventional and unknown artists,” McEwen said as though Dixon hadn’t interrupted.

  “She was scouting for talent,” Ally said proudly.

  “More like charity cases,” McEwen shrugged.

  “I have to see some of your pieces,” Tommy said honestly, “What kind of work is it?”

  “Morbid shit,” Dixon called over.

  “Oh that’s right I forgot, there’s one inside isn’t there,” Ally said suddenly remembering. “Come on I’ll show you.”

  She pulled his hand and Tommy found himself electrified by her soft touch. She led him into the house through large sliding glass doors.

  The interior of the house was pristine and sumptuous. Clearly no expense had been spared in the design or purchase. The room was large and impractical as far as Tommy could see for a man of Dixon’s lifestyle. The plush leather sofas were a bright white and looked handmade. There was glass and chrome furniture everywhere, adorning the walls and floor. A huge crystal chandelier dominated the room and sparkled in the light as only real diamonds could.

  “It’s a monstrosity isn’t it?” Ally sniggered. “I hated it when he bought it. You’d never believe what it cost either,” she said behind a cupped hand.

  “You…, you both lived here when you were…, you know?” Tommy asked awkwardly.

  Ally looked down embarrassed and Tommy could not explain the uncomfortable gap between them. They had never so much as dated and they hadn’t even known each other after the tentacles of puberty had struck. But there was still an undoubted intimacy that existed.

  “It wasn’t…, it wasn’t a good time in my life Tommy,” she said uneasily. “I didn’t make a lot of good decisions around that time, you know after…” She left the “after” hanging in the air and they both knew what she meant.

  “I’m sorry that I left,” Tommy said with genuine sadness.

  “It wasn’t your fault, your folks split up and your mom moved away and took you with her.”

  “I could have kept in touch?”

  “Really? The world’s first socially conscious 13 year old?” She laughed.

  “Still, I feel bad.”

  “I was never your responsibility,” she said, moving away.

  Tommy felt her grow colder and didn’t want to push it. If she had any blame for him, then it was undoubtedly unjustified, but it probably still existed nevertheless.

  “So where’s this painting?” He asked eager to change the subject.

  “In here,” Ally said pushing open the lounge door which led into a long hallway.

  At the end of the narrow corridor there was a spotlight positioned above a painting. The frame looked antique and the image damn near took Tommy’s breath away. The swirls of black were angry and fierce. There were flicks of redness that shone through and glinting silver. The whole piece was pain incarnate. The brush strokes were violent and destructive, but there was also a strange beauty to it as well. Tommy’s art appreciation was limited, but even his untrained palate could feel the emotion washing over him in long shadowy waves.

  “McEwen did this?” He asked incredulously, trying to associate the bullying boy who liked to set things on fire and drown anthills to the talent before him.

  “Yeah, this was the one that the woman in Bridge Port first saw. It was what brought her here.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tommy marveled. “Why is it here?”

  Ally looked sheepish again, “It was a wedding present from McEwen.”

  “And you were happy to hang it here?”

  “Why not? I know it’s a bit dark, but it has a certain power don’t you think?”

  Tommy knew that it had power all right. Perhaps you had to walk in on the painting from a distance. Perhaps you had to come at it from several decades after, but he could see the picture clearly. It was Arnold Trotter; it was The Captivating Cosmo X - Master of the Unknown in all of his bloody glory. If this was what McEwen saw when he closed his eyes, then maybe the artist had suffered worse than any of them and Tommy did not envy his old friend at all.

  7.

  every journey begins

  with a single death

  Doug Hayes watched as the sun began to set at the end of another long day. The heat was merciless and beat down ferociously on his balding head that was now almost fully cooked. Doug was a pale redhead to whom the solar rays were a constant nemesis.

  He had been left as usual whenever the weather was warm, all by himself to manage the service station. The road was mainly deserted since the bypass had gone through and taken most of their customers with it. The cars were now distant glints that teased on a glassy horizon. Doug’s days were now mainly spent working on a variety of farm machinery that had all seen better days. His job was to keep them running no matter what the condition. His boss, Billy Bostock if you please, and was there ever a more ridiculous name? Was proud of his reputation for taking in any old piece of crap and getting it running again. Billy was a Godsend amongst the poorer struggling farmers, but it was Doug that had hands touched by the angels themselves, not of course that anyone really knew that he even existed. Whenever a vehicle came in, Billy was on hand to promise the earth before Doug got to work his magic. And of course when the owner came into the garage fearing the worst, it was Billy front and centre again to take the credit and Doug was conveniently sent away on errands again.

  Doug wiped his filthy hands on his overalls that had once been blue in the dim and distant past he seemed to remember. He’d spent the day underneath a tractor that really wanted taking out the back and shooting, desperately trying to spark her into life again; a zombified and stumbling machine that could lurch around the fields once more to mindlessly plough.

  There was a pressure point by the fuel pumps that rang out whenever the rare occasion of a car pulling up for petrol. There were still a few people left in the nearby vicinity and sometimes travelers got themselves lost from the main road. He hadn’t heard a sound from the bell all day whilst he’d toiled. Now he was more than ready to shut up shop and find himself a cool corner in which to nurse a cold beer.

  Suddenly the bell rang and he cursed his luck. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was 5:02pm; two minutes past quitting time. Eventually his good nature won out and he shuffled out and around to the pumps, figuring that it couldn’t do any harm to do a good turn.

  The car sitting there seemed empty and he looked around for the driver, but couldn’t see anyone. The car was a largish SUV with some children’s toys on the seat in the back. The service station used to have a bathroom for customers but since the bypass it had fallen to rack and ruin. If someone was using it, then they would have to be very desperate indeed.

  He moved around to the side of the vehicle and found that the petrol cap required a key to open the flap. He shrugged and waited for the driver to return, cursing his own good nature.

  Just then he heard a movement from inside the garage and he turned towards the noise. The garage was a dangerous place at the best of times. There was always farmyard machinery in various states of repair parked or raised on ramps and they all had vicious jagged teeth on the lookout for soft flesh to chew upon. Thinking of the child seat in the car, Doug suddenly had horrible visions of a small child wandering around in there alone.

  “Hello?” He called as he ran to the garage. “HELLO?”

  There was no answer and he couldn’t help but fear the worst. There were so many sharp implements in there for an adult to catch themselves on, let alone a small child.

  He ran in carefully. The corrugated door was raised only a little and he was s
ure that he had pulled it down fully when he’d left. Perhaps he had left it ajar when he’d heard the pump bell, but the fact that it was only raised just enough for a very small person to creep under chilled his bones.

  “Hello?” He tried again as he slithered under the door on his belly sucking in air. The power should be off and the door was electric. He didn’t want to waste time turning the switch on at the rear in order to open the roller door up.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” he called out as he squeezed himself around a quad bike that was in for an engine overhaul.

  “Your mommy won’t be happy.”

  He heard something fall at the rear of the garage and moved as quickly as he could towards the noise.

  The garage was a purpose built construction that was large enough to house any kind of farmyard machinery. At present there was the quad bike, 2 4x4, the tractor and a combine harvester that dominated the space.

  Doug moved slowly around the combine harvester. The front was all sharp teeth and whirling blades that he never trusted. He knew that he was being silly as it was only a harmless machine after all. But some nights he dreamed of the cab looking down on him with cruel eyes as he fell into its hungry glinting mouth.

  The cab door swung open and he tried to stare up and through the glass, but the garage light was gloomy and he couldn’t make out anyone. He anxiously checked his pockets with desperation to make sure that the keys were safely tucked away. For a moment there was no reassuring jingle in his pocket and he feared the worst. Then he found them and sighed with relief. He pulled the keys out and clutched them gratefully.

  Suddenly the cab lights blazed into life with powerful beams that scorched his eyes. He stood rock still and stared down incredulously at his hand still holding the keys. There was no way that the machinery could spark into life without the keys. His heart near exploded with fear as the engine turned over with a rusty whine as if by magic. He had yet to test the machine since he had been working on it yesterday and he prayed that his miraculous touch had for once deserted him, it hadn’t. A diesel throat coughed and spluttered into roaring life and the blades before him began to wake and twirl with hypnotic hunger.