The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  He had stumbled down the hallway, trembling with fear and not knowing just what the sheriff had in store for him, but it did not look pleasant.

  His fear was expanding exponentially as the cop had yanked him into the open lounge of the house.

  He’d assumed that he’d be given a ride home and would have to sit through one of his mother's lectures. His opinion was rapidly changing, as the sheriff showed no signs of wishing to conclude their conversation in public, and manhandled him roughly.

  The sheriff had reached into his back pocket and said something about teaching him a lesson. He’d only just won the battle of his bladder when the writer from next door had shown up. Mr. Torrance had yelled at the sheriff and suddenly the cop was all politeness again: just the town welcome wagon mascot, all please and thank you.

  He had almost collapsed with relief at the opportune interruption. Thom was a boy blessed with a quick mind and he had realised that the writer was letting the sheriff know that he would be checking up on Thom later that day.

  The cop still had hold of him at that point, and he’d felt the tension grip tighten as though the sheriff was battling with his own temper.

  Eventually, the grip had eased and he was indeed being given a ride home. The sheriff was instructing him on the consequences of his actions but he’d stopped listening by then.

  Whatever the cop’s intentions had been, they’d been cut off at the knees when he’d been interrupted by Mr. Michael Torrance.

  He turned his attention back to the dusty box of books. Suddenly, he spotted what he was looking for; it was a copy of the one book of Torrance’s that he owned. It was a novel called “Fangsters”. He pulled the book from its hiding place and brushed the dust from the paperback cover. It had been a while since he’d read the novel and he wondered how it had aged.

  For the rest of the afternoon and early evening he sat in the back garden engrossed in the novel, and after a while he even forgot to mentally curse the unbearable constant hot sunshine.

  Thom was a redhead like his father and not naturally predisposed for tanning. He would blister, peel, and then blister all over again.

  He knew that his mother loved the hot weather, but he found it a tiring drag.

  As he read, he realised that the last time he had read the book had been a few years ago. The story now ran deep and thoughtful, whereas before he had grown a little bored at the lack of instant action.

  He began to feel for the characters, appreciating their three-dimensional rounded edges. There was wit and charm to the story and he began to feel as though he was reading through the eyes of a young man, rather than those of an impatient boy.

  It was a little after 8pm when he was shaken from his literary world by his mother returning from some town duties to do with the Woodland Festival.

  “Thom, for heaven’s sake!” she shouted at him, annoyed.

  Thom looked up puzzled. “What?”

  “I’ve been shouting you for hours,” she said exasperated.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Past dinner time; get in here.”

  Thom followed the enticing aroma of fresh steaks and baked potatoes into the house. He looked at the kitchen wall clock and was shocked at the time; the day had passed into dusk around him as he’d read. The book was certainly more engrossing than he remembered it and he made a mental note to seek out some of Torrance’s other work.

  “So how was your day?” his mother asked through a mouthful of sour creamed potato. “Anything exciting happen?”

  Thom feigned boredom, surprised that the sheriff hadn’t been in instant contact with his mother as he’d assumed.

  He had been expecting a grilling from his mother and was not looking forward to it.

  Maybe the big cop had forgotten; maybe for once, something demanding his attention had actually happened in Eden. Whatever the reason was, he was pleased.

  He loved his mother very much and did not want to see her in trouble because he’d taken the unsecured keys from her office and entered the empty house. He rose and walked around to the fridge; he grabbed the orange juice and poured two glasses out, placing one on the table for her.

  “Why thank you, kind sir,” she said teasingly. “And what have you done to feel the need to be so considerate?”

  Thom shrugged. “Nothing, honest,” he lied.

  “Yeah, right” she viewed him suspiciously.

  “I was thinking of having that writer who just moved into town autograph his book for me.”

  “I thought you said that it wasn’t very good when I asked you before?”

  “Well I’m much older and wiser now,” he joked. “I am a man of more refined tastes these days.”

  His mother laughed. “Just don’t go bothering anyone, Thom. Seriously, the new folks are very important people to the town.”

  As he cleaned the table after dinner whilst his mother was going through some paperwork in her small office, it suddenly dawned on him that it was a very strange phrase to use.

  She’d said “important to the town”, not “important in the town”. He went to bed after kissing her goodnight later, still with the same thought rattling around his mind even as his eyes closed and sleep rolled in.

  ----------

  Kurt Stillson patrolled Eden. The night had drawn in around him and his shift, but the town was illuminated by the myriad of powerful streetlights that were run from their solar power sources.

  Eden had to be the greenest town in the country as far as he could tell. They had fully embraced the concept of solar energy and made full use of the constant sunshine.

  He had often wondered at how the greenery of the town maintained its lush condition despite the lack of rain. Tommy Ross - the other deputy on the town’s payroll - had told him that there was a natural underground spring stream that was utilized for irrigation.

  He had wanted to question the effectiveness of this system but did not want to contradict Tommy; as far as he was concerned, Tommy now walked on water.

  It had been Tommy that had forced his hand into taking the delectable Ellen Barlow to the town carnival. In the following weeks, their budding romance had begun to blossom slowly.

  They had been on several dates around town for ice-cream, drinks, and meals, and he was enjoying the almost innocent nature of the courtship.

  Ellen was strictly an old-fashioned woman who believed in establishing a firm foundation before any funny business.

  As quaint and cute as the courtship was, the tension was getting unbearable.

  They had indulged in several - what could only be described in Eden as - heavy petting sessions, but these left Kurt with a lapful of stressful lust.

  He was seriously beginning to wonder if they would have to get married before she would share breakfast with him. Although the idea was not unappealing, he was not sure if he could muster the sufficient self-control.

  He wandered around slowly in the warm night; he really had no idea why the sheriff bothered to send anyone out this late.

  The people of Eden were so used to the lack of crime that even his presence seemed unnecessary.

  Normally, just the sight of a uniformed officer was enough to set the local minds at ease, but here his night shift was perfunctory. For whatever reason, the all powerful town council, under Casper Christian’s direction, had deigned that the police department must operate a random and rotating rota. This meant that the three of them - himself, Tommy and Sheriff Quinn - all worked 8 hour shifts that could be any time of the day or night.

  He had yet to uncover a single crime during any of his shifts, and that suited him just fine; he was all for the quiet life.

  He strolled across the town square. His mind drifted back pleasantly to his first date with Ellen; one that had ended in their first feather-light brushed kiss. He checked his watch; it was a little after 2am and the residents of the town were sleeping quietly in their beds. Back in Chicago, he would never have dreamt of drifting through the street
s alone and after dark.

  He was enjoying the peace and solitude, entertained by images of Ellen’s lithe and coy body, when a flash of movement caught his attention. His shift ended at 2.15am but his interest was piqued and he went to investigate.

  Whatever the movement had been, the square was now still. He walked across the immaculate lawns towards the sculpted bushes that bordered the town hall.

  The lighting was bright around the square but faded away behind the attractive town hall building as the street lights did not quite reach all the way into the shadows.

  Kurt did not carry a firearm, only a long metallic sturdy torch that he now hefted for comfort and support.

  He edged his way slowly and silently around the town hall. He ducked low and approached stealthily and he held his breath as he crept forward. Just then he heard a strange dim hissing sound; puzzled, he slunk forward closer to the noise.

  In the dark he could just make out a figure hugging the shadows obscured in the dark corner.

  His heart pounded in the darkness, his lungs protested as he forgot to breathe and his forehead felt clammy despite the warm night air.

  His foot inadvertently landed on a branch lying on the ground. The snap sounded like a cannon going off and shattered the encasing silence.

  He switched the powerful torch on, shining the powerful beam into the blackness. Suddenly, the shape snapped its head around in his direction, caught in the bright light.

  The slender figure was dressed completely in black with its face concealed beneath a balaclava; only small, narrow eyes poked out.

  For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other - eyes locked, peering through the gloom.

  Whoever the person was, they had a backpack slung over their shoulder.

  All of a sudden, a metallic object spun through the air towards him and it smashed into his face with a precision aim and fuelled by adrenaline.

  The metal object exploded pain into his face as it crunched into his nose. Tears welled and flooded his eyesight as the figure sprinted past him.

  He clutched at the runner; his fingers brushed woollen fabric, briefly snagging before losing his weak grip. He sank to his knees as blood flowed from his nose.

  He touched it gingerly; it was already swollen but didn’t feel broken. He pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket, which he carried due to a pollen allergy, and held the makeshift bandage to his wounded face as he attempted to stem the flow.

  He picked up the torch he had dropped when the object had hit him; the beam of light still shone brightly, and it caught the offending item still rolling on the floor. He bent and picked up the metallic cylinder. It was a can of spray paint.

  The green liquid was already congealing around the nozzle and smudged his fingers as he picked it up. He used the torch and illuminated the side of the town hall where the figure had been spraying; in large letters, it spelled two words: “WAKE UP”.

  ----------

  Emily grunted with displeasure in the morning heat. The boxes stared at her challengingly in defiance, daring her to continue, their dark forms wafting dust into the air as particles of allergy were illuminated by the torch light beam.

  She scanned the walls looking for the light switch; she knew that there was electricity pumped into the garage and did not fancy disturbing some unwelcome spiders in the dark.

  The crates had been sitting in the empty garage for just under the six months since they’d moved in.

  Michael had shifted the boxed belongings into the unused spacious double garage, claiming that they were her possessions and not his responsibility.

  They had argued extensively when they’d first moved. Michael was always one for fresh starts and all new property to go with it, whilst she had formed attachments to inanimate objects.

  Her irritation was further exacerbated when, after several months, she found that she had not required any of the items boxed in the garage and she had even forgotten that they were there.

  She kicked a box viciously; her anger rose and rumbled uneasily in her stomach.

  She breathed deeply and tried to relax. She knew that it was the pregnancy talking, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  She felt close to tears, suddenly, at the thought of poor Michael suffering her mood swings, before that was quickly replaced by annoyance at his complaining as though he was actually in the room with her.

  Their initial thoughts had been to purchase at least one vehicle when they’d arrived. However, the town’s small circumference, the excellent public transport, and the weather made for perfect walking or cycling conditions, making the car’s acquisition redundant. As a result, the large and spacious double garage sat empty, save for storage.

  The detached building was perfect for Michael’s workshop - as soon as he found the time - as it was connected to the mains’ electricity and plumbing.

  There was a small apartment-sized space upstairs accessible via a metallic staircase on the outside of the building leading to a door.

  She had dabbled with the idea of using the room for her own hobby area but the house itself was simply too large with too many rooms to require the extra space outside.

  She began slicing the packing tape on the sealed boxes with a sharp pair of scissors and pulling through the contents.

  She started searching for anything of any use and wondering just why she had brought so many useless items.

  There were magazines that she did not want, books that she would not read again, and albums that she would not listen to again. There were items of clothing that she would never wear again and she was glad that Michael was not here to smile and tell her that he told her so.

  She was around four and a half months pregnant at this time, and the large package that she carried internally was starting to grow a little uncomfortable. But she was determined not to be burdened any more than absolutely necessary.

  She knew that Michael would go mad if he saw her hefting boxes up staircases, but she also knew that she wasn’t made of glass and wasn’t about to act as if she was.

  The crates were relatively light and easy to lift and she made the decision to carry the boxes up into the room above. At least if they were out of sight, Michael was likely to forget about them and wouldn’t have the opportunity to gloat.

  She carried the first box on her shoulder up the outside stairs and was relieved to find the door unlocked; she dipped, pushed the handle down and stepped inside.

  The room was the same size as the garage level and without any dividing walls. The air was oppressive and hot and the two large windows on either side were firmly closed.

  She put the box down and opened the closest window, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool breeze floated in and began cooling the room.

  The large space was empty as far as she could see in the gloom. She plucked the small torch from her pocket and shone it around, looking for a light switch; she found it and flicked it on.

  She tensed as the illumination instantly flooded the room and she listened intently for the telltale sounds of scampering claws on the hard floor as rent-free tenants fled for cover. Luckily, the room was silent.

  She crossed the room to the second window to open that one as well.

  As she crossed the floor, her foot suddenly dipped unexpectedly and she did well not to turn her ankle.

  She bent down to examine the uneven spot. The flooring was hardwood strips that were joined by tongue and groove. They were a dark oak colour, and where it was uneven the piece sank slightly into the space between the floor and ceiling below.

  She knelt and carefully pried up the loose board, taking care not to damage the joint. She shone the torch into the dark gap; she could just make out that there was something secreted underneath.

  Growing impatient, she yanked the board up hard. She grimaced as the wood splintered under her pressure. Figuring now that the damage was done, she pulled the board all the way out without finesse. A small book lay in the space; she pulled the
paperback up and into the light. Her heart skipped with excitement; whatever the book was, it had been hidden carefully away from prying eyes.

  ----------

  Michael was mowing the lawns; the large green expanse at the rear of the house seemed to grow beautifully all on its own.

  There were no intruding weed invasions, there was no discoloration, and no fading.

  The grass was lush and green and smelled sweetly of summer as he mowed.

  Ever since Janet’s dalliance with the imported gardener, the street was waiting for Casper to provide an alternative.

  Michael, however, felt uneasy at employing others to do the work that he was more than capable of undertaking. Besides, he had a new toy to play with: an MTD Gold riding lawn mower.

  He was driving up and down the lawns enjoying himself immensely and paying little attention to his cutting lines.

  He was wearing an MP3 player and the earphones were secreted under large, cushioned ear protector muffs.

  The combination of the blaring Metallica under the muffs made him oblivious to the world around him; so much so, that he very nearly ran right over a skinny kid who was waving his arms frantically to attract his attention.

  He only saw him at the last minute and it was close. He jerked the wheel violently to the left and the mower leant dangerously on two wheels for what seemed like an age. Michael’s writer's imagination flashed visions of him falling and his legs disappearing under the vicious whirling blades as they sliced through flesh and shattered bone under a red mist. Fortunately, this was real life and the mower merely lurched a little before responding and steadying. He switched off the ignition, filing the murderous rage of a ride on mower in his mind for later professional retrieval.

  The boy stood before him with a sheepish grin on his face. Michael immediately recognised Thom as the boy who’d escaped the dubious sheriff’s clutches.

  Thom wore camouflage combat shorts and a red checked shirt that, despite its small size, still hung from his bony shoulders. His grin was infectious and Michael noticed that he held a worn copy of his novel “Fangsters” gripped nervously in his sweaty hand.