The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  He was a man still very much haunted and scarred by his less than affluent upbringing. She would know him to take a larger candy bar than necessary, or even two, due to the nature of his childhood. His family were careful and frugal because of necessity; it was a hangover that had lasted throughout his adulthood.

  The little luxuries in life that he could now comfortably afford were always painfully dragged from his imagination and wallet.

  She moved back into the kitchen and switched the kettle on again. Unlike her, Michael had no taste for coffee, and still stuck to the most English of morning rituals, a mug of tea to start the day. She made the pot and waited for his shuffling footsteps to enter. They had been here several months now, and she was still a little intimidated by the amount of space that they had at their disposal.

  She did not look back fondly on their cramped apartment back in England, and she didn’t posses a pair of rose-tinted glasses that allowed her to alter the past.

  There was no “best of times” bullshit about their past life; their home was tiny and insufficient, commuting was a major chore, and they’d left no real friends behind when they’d emigrated. She’d already found more friends and acquaintances since the months following the move than she had in the years previous. Janet’s suicide was the first negative experience that they’d suffered since their arrival, and she deeply promised herself that she would not allow it to affect them now.

  She checked the clock again and decided to get showered and dressed. She passed Michael in the hallway as he entered the kitchen. “You look rough,” she greeted him.

  He grinned through bed-head hair that was getting long. She’d nagged him to get it cut, but he was persisting with what he described as an early mid-life rebellion.

  “Thanks a lot,” he yawned as he walked to the teapot brewing.

  “And get a haircut, you hippy,” she called back to him, smiling as she ascended to a steamy shower, one to help both wake and steel her for the dark day ahead.

  ----------

  The churchyard was packed to bursting, and it seemed to Emily that pretty much everyone in town was here.

  She scanned the crowd, noting the familiar faces; Justin Gaunt the butcher, Morgan from the deli, and Eddie the tram driver. Even the school had closed for the day, and her fellow teacher, Sarah-Jane, as well as the headmistress Olivia Thirlby, were in attendance. Casper Christian was holding court with the handyman, Kevin Darnell, and the sheriff, Gerry Quinn, who were both paying close attention to whatever it was he was saying.

  Emily wore a full length black dress that had been packed away in the attic, unused and not needed due to the weather.

  It was a little fusty and she was glad this morning that she had somehow managed to avoid the dreaded morning sickness.

  She’d felt a brief stab of selfishness when having to pull on the heavy garment on such a warm day, but she pushed it aside quickly, appalled at her own thoughts.

  Michael stood beside her, squirming uncomfortably in a suit and tie. Despite his handsome appearance, she knew that he hated to dress in such a manner. She flashed him a soothing smile that he reciprocated.

  She watched the parade of townsfolk, heads bowed and faces blank, terrified of portraying life within death’s setting.

  She had often thought that funerals should be tales of remembrance, happy stories sprung from memories past and aired in public for smiles and laughter.

  Death was not always the end, she thought soulfully. Those that we love live on and linger in our minds and prayers.

  She had not been raised with a particularly religious hand. Her family had attended church services as a matter of appearance within the small community in which they held sway.

  Her parents had never expressed their own beliefs as far as the existence of a god was concerned.

  Her own faith was limited at best. After the accident that had robbed them of a child, it was easy to believe that there was no one looking over their shoulders and standing protectively with wide encompassing arms. It was often said that God moved in mysterious ways, but she was damned if she could figure that move out.

  ----------

  The service inside the church had been blissfully short as the interior was hot, humid and unfortunately not air-conditioned.

  The long wooden pews were jammed full of townsfolk paying their respects beneath high ceilings and tall windows.

  Emily noticed that the interior was simple and elegant; there were no expensive grand gestures aimed at praising an insecure God.

  The church was immaculately maintained and cleaned, a gentle apple blossom perfume hung in the air, and the wood gleamed with effort and polish.

  Michael had never been particularly religious; they had not attended a church back in England, save for the occasional Christmas Eve service that seemed more magical than religion-based. Both of them had been concerned about America’s reputation for right wing religious fervour, but they had yet to experience any sign of it in Eden.

  The church was near the outskirts of town and not on either of their regular routes, and before the funeral, they had yet to meet the local deacon.

  The grandly named Landon Sheldon-Wilkes was a thin, reedy man somewhere in his late sixties. He looked healthy and hearty with a friendly white-bearded face and crystal blue eyes.

  Emily had thought that many a woman must have gotten lost in the eyes of a younger Landon. He had greeted her and Michael warmly with a firm handshake, and the other hand placed on their shoulders in a comforting gesture.

  “Emily, Michael,” he greeted them. “It’s wonderful to meet you both, but unfortunate that it’s under such sad circumstances,” he commiserated. “I’m Landon, Landon Sheldon-Wilkes, if you please, but don’t hold a silly name against me,” he whispered.

  “Did you know Janet well?” Emily asked.

  “Not as well as I would have liked, I’m afraid,” he said unhappily. “Perhaps I would have been able to help the poor woman; so young and such a tragic waste.”

  “Have you seen Chris?” Michael suddenly interjected, looking around.

  “From what I understand from Casper, he would appear to be too distraught to attend the service today,” Landon replied.

  “Casper told you that? Has he spoken to Chris? Because I haven’t been able to contact him since…” Michael struggled to articulate, “…since that night,” he concluded.

  “Mr. Christian,” the deacon said formally, “tends to matters of the town, all kinds of matters,” he added somewhat mysteriously. “You’ll have to excuse me, I have my own matters to attend to, as I’m sure you understand.”

  Emily watched as Landon looked over Michael’s shoulder and nervously exited the conversation. She turned to see what had spooked the deacon, but all she could see was Casper standing serenely and showing sympathy with the townsfolk.

  The service started soon after, and Emily sat as waves of comforting platitudes washed across the gathered congregation. Landon spoke clearly and concisely; his tones were pleasant and comforting. His rhetoric was soft and warm, nonjudgmental and gentle.

  Before they were all too uncomfortable, the service ended and everyone trooped gratefully outside into the cooling breeze. Emily linked hands with Michael as they stood beyond the church's entrance. The townsfolk all began to slowly shuffle towards the rear of the grounds to where Janet would be laid to rest.

  The church was a small, quaint, white wooden building, with a steeple top protruding through the roof.

  There was a porch jutting out of the front with an overhanging pitched roof and a pristine picket fence.

  The grounds were beautifully maintained as she’d come to expect with every inch of Eden. The grass was lush and a deep green, and, not for the first time, she marvelled at the horticultural skills involved in sustaining such greenery in such hot and dry weather.

  The graveyard was lined with immaculate white marble headstones, all standing to attention in perfect formation.

  She glan
ced at the engravings as they slow-walked from the church. Most of the dates covered extraordinarily long lives: 98 years here, 102 years there.

  Before they’d emigrated, she’d morbidly looked up the average life expectancy in the US, and found that it was worryingly only around 78 years. The people of Eden were beating those odds out of sight according to their headstones.

  The burial was short and to the point. Emily did not know if any of Janet’s family from outside of Eden was present.

  She knew many of the town’s residents, but she could not possibly recognise everyone.

  As soon as the casket was lowered, people seemed to thin, as couples drifted away at the first opportunity.

  Emily and Michael shuffled with the crowd out towards the main road, following the crowd. It had seemed like an insufficient goodbye, but then she questioned what exactly would be?

  As with all of Eden’s major facilities there was a tram stop right outside, and they lined up with several other grievers.

  Emily hadn’t been to a funeral before, but the tone amongst the people seemed a little light. Perhaps it was the hot and sunny days that appeared to demand happier dispositions.

  She gave a mental shrug. Janet had seemed nice enough, and she’d had visions of forming a close friendship with her new neighbour, but Janet’s matrimonial betrayal had effectively ended that plan.

  She had watched her mother eaten away by her father’s constant wanderings and broken promises. If Janet was so unhappy, then she should have just left Chris. Her betrayal was unavoidable and unforgivable in her eyes.

  She knew that Michael would miss Chris if he didn’t come back and she felt badly for him. Michael didn’t make friends easily; she’d watched him struggle throughout their time together, failing to make any sort of meaningful connection with other human beings.

  She suddenly hugged him fiercely and kissed him hard. He smiled back at her. The love between them was palpable, and the other queue members looked shyly at them with warm pleasure.

  Their family would have to be enough friends to go around; she and the new baby would suffice, judging by the events of the day. They were indeed truly blessed.

  ----------

  Michael cruised along the smooth, flat road. The day stretched out before him, a welcome warm embrace full of cooling breeze and a little gentle exercise.

  There were large banners strung from telegraph poles beside the road proclaiming the Woodland Festival’s near arrival. Throughout the town, the talk seemed to be all about the festival. Michael was unsure as to just why such an annual show would take such precedence in people’s minds. There were massive posters and signs dotted around the town, and every store was abuzz with chatter.

  The funeral yesterday had been a dark day, but it had not taken away from Emily’s joy with their new home, and for that, he was eternally grateful.

  The morning had dawned, beautiful and blue as always, and Emily had woken him in the nicest possible manner.

  It was always said that death and sex were inextricably linked. He’d forgone his usual routine of sitting outside in the rear garden.

  Chris had still not returned, and the house next door was a sad, empty shell, devoid of life. He thought that maybe he should attempt to track Chris down, but he’d tried his cell on numerous occasions to no avail. If anyone would know anything, then it would be Casper, but he felt a strange reluctance to contact the town manager.

  Everything in the town seemed to flow through Casper and Michael felt the need for a little distance. Perhaps that was also what Chris would have wanted: a little distance, a little privacy, and who was Michael to intrude?

  He could only imagine how his own world would collapse if anything ever happened to Emily. When the car had smashed into her and taken their baby, he’d sat in an ICU ward not knowing the extent of his wife’s injuries - it had been a two hour eternity.

  The subsequent police investigation had turned up nothing but an abandoned car about a half mile away.

  The car had been apparently reported stolen earlier that evening, and the police were eagerly writing the incident off as joyriding kids losing control of an unfamiliar vehicle. Joyriding! Was there ever a more inappropriate phrase?

  Mindless thugs had stolen his unborn child and nearly taken his wife as well into the bargain. There was sure as hell no joy involved.

  The mountain bike beneath him cushioned his increasing weight comfortably.

  The front shocks eased up and down, but were barely required due to the immaculate road.

  He had finally gotten around to purchasing the bike from a recommendation, as per usual, from Casper.

  Despite his reticence over the man, the town manager knew every corner of his small kingdom, and could always be relied upon to steer anyone in the right direction.

  Due to the nature of the town layout, bikes were always a useful addition to have. The roads were flat and perfect, and everywhere that you needed to get to was only ever a short pleasant ride away.

  “Killians” was a small bike shop off of the square. The large display window held hanging bikes of all shapes and sizes on display. A purple awning that matched all the others in size, material, and shape hung outside.

  A cute black logo of a family cycling, along with the store's name, was embossed upon it.

  Michael had entered the store with a soft jingling bell that announced his arrival.

  He’d stepped into the air-conditioning cooled interior and paused, smiling and waiting for an assistant to spring forward as they always did. This man was in fact the owner.

  He wore a long white apron over a short-sleeved red checked shirt and stone collared shorts. His stocky boots looked fit for hiking and he wore long socks rolled down. He had long, bushy blond hair and a full heavy beard, and his face was tanned and lightly lined by the sun. Michael guessed his age at early thirties. He was fit and athletic looking with broad shoulders and toned legs, and obviously he practiced what he preached.

  “Jack Killian,” the man announced with a broad smile and an outstretched hand.

  “Michael Torrance.”

  “So what can I do for you today, Mikey? We have the finest selection of bikes in Eden. Of course, it’s the only selection in Eden,” he laughed.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Michael was taken through a rigorous matching process that he thought would never end.

  He was measured, weighed, and his legs were checked for muscle tone and strength.

  Jack paired him with several models, each time standing back and stroking his chin thoughtfully before retiring into the back of the store and trying another model.

  Eventually, as Michael’s patience was wearing thin, Jack finally settled on an Airborne Cross Country Goblin in Coolaid Green.

  It was a hardtail 29er with a hydroformed frame, RockShox Reba RL lockout fork, full SRAM X7 2x10 drivetrain, ELIXIR R hydraulics and a WTB wheel set.

  Michael had no idea what any of that meant, but the bike looked pretty damn cool. He forked over his credit card, his mood not even spoiled by the hefty - slightly over a thousand dollar - price tag.

  “That’s the one, my man,” Jack pronounced as Michael sat aboard the bike. “That baby will get you around town or anywhere else that you want to go.”

  “Feels great,” Michael said, swaying from side to side, feeling the easy balance, and weight.

  “So where are you thinking of heading for?” Jack asked.

  The question sounded natural and friendly enough, but ever since the sheriff outside of Janet’s house the night that she died, Michael couldn’t help but feel a little suspicious.

  Ever since they had moved to Eden, the welcome had been warm, and their new neighbours had been involving, but all of a sudden Michael found his imagination clocking in and starting work.

  He knew enough about himself to realise that his new novel - where a once welcoming town suddenly devolved into one with sinister overtones - was bound to influence his overworked mind.


  He knew this in a theoretical sense, but he could still not quite shake the feeling that all eyes were on him and Emily. The looks in some of the stores felt a little too long, and the questions seemed a little too intrusive.

  Michael was working hard so as not to spoil their new home. He was always looking for the other shoe to drop and he did desperately want to be happy, but he still didn’t want to answer as many questions as he was getting, friendly or otherwise.

  “Oh, just around town, you know.” He patted his expanding middle. “Got to work some of your hospitality off,” he laughed good-naturedly, if a little forced.

  As Michael was leaving the store, he suddenly noticed faded green paint on the side of the bike shop. “Hey, Jack, what’s that?” he asked, pointing to the markings.

  “Just a couple of kids with too much time on their hands, I guess,” Jack replied nonchalantly. “Sheriff Quinn will get them soon enough, I’m sure.”

  Michael stared closer at the washed and faded paint. He could just about make out the fading words “Wake Up” - a strange epitaph. Perhaps it was a new band or pop culture reference that he was unaware of.

  He had soon been on his way with a wave and a smile. He’d woven his way a touch drunkenly down the main street.

  He had been a keen advocate of cycling in his youth, mainly down to the lack of any other transport, but it had been years since he had last owned a bike.

  He discovered that the old saying was true as he began to straighten his path and his momentum steadied.

  Soon he was cruising casually, not quite daring to take one hand off the bars to acknowledge the friendly catcalls as he passed people that he now knew. Ten minutes later he was out of the residential areas and headed back towards his home.

  The view out of his writing room had long since tantalized him. The long, straight deserted road ploughed a path through lush green fields and stretched off to the forest horizon.

  He’d always planned to explore this picture perfect view, but for some reason he just didn’t want to divulge those details to Jack Killian, or anyone else for that matter.

  Eden could be a touch smothering, he was beginning to find, and Janet’s similar words returned to haunt him as she’d used that same word - smother.