Gated

by Matt Drabble

  Emily’s breath was squeezed out of her as she was bounced. “Easy, easy,” she managed.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Sarah-Jane stepped away, her hands raised to her face in horror. “Oh jeez, my mother always said that I was a klutz.”

  Emily laughed at her friend’s worried and rapidly paling face. “It’s okay, I’m not quite made of glass.”

  “Why is it a secret?” Sarah-Jane whispered, looking around nervously.

  “I told Michael that we wouldn’t tell anyone just yet, at least until the pregnancy is out of the red zone for potential problems, you know.”

  “I won’t tell a soul, I swear,” SJ nodded gravely.

  Emily welled up at her friend’s sincerity and then puzzled at the new and worried expression that SJ was suddenly wearing. She spun around to see the cause. Mrs. Thirlby, the headmistress, framed the open doorway to the lounge. Her usual stern face was a stone mask. Her arms were folded across her spindly bony chest; her bird like fingers were clenched and her knuckles were white. Emily watched as Mrs. Thirlby looked at her deeply; her pale blue eyes were piercing and defense defying. She looked back to Sarah-Jane, whose face was desperately unhappy; she looked scared and nervous at the intrusion.

  “Back to work, ladies,” the headmistress announced sternly, before marching rigidly past.

  ----------

  Michael checked his watch again. His eyes blurred and his vision swam. He felt dizzy and disorientated, and the world around him was full of vibrant colours and strange odors. He looked down at his feet. He was standing on the road, some fifty feet from the woodlands, and he felt that he was missing something. The bike! He looked around frantically; where was his bike? He’d cycled out here from the town, he’d reached the forest, and then…; his brow furrowed as his mind fogged. Had he gone into the woods? He thought that he had, but now he couldn’t remember. He certainly didn’t remember going in or coming out again. His watch told him that over two and a half hours had passed, but that surely wasn’t possible, was it? He stared up at the woods; the trees loomed ominously across the horizon, blocking the sunlight. The dark under the foliage was tangible, threatening, and strangely inviting. Giant spider egg-sized goosebumps formed on his bare arms, and he shivered despite the day’s warmth that was greater from this distance away from the forest. His breath stilled and the world stood silent. He felt sleepy and his limbs hung heavy - one foot lifted and took an involuntary small step back towards the forest.

  “Mr. Torrance?”

  Michael’s heart felt like it actually stopped. His chest hitched violently, and an acidic lump caught in his throat; it was only shock that prevented him from opening his lungs and screaming.

  “Mr. Torrance, are you alright?”

  He turned slowly to face the enquiring voice, not knowing what to expect, but expecting the worst. An Eden Gardens’ deputy stood before him. The man was wearing the uniform brown pants and tan canvas shirt with a star badge shining on his chest. He was a little shorter than Michael, and rather more slender than would be expected in a police officer; his face was gentle with a somewhat feminine grace. His features were delicate, and his hair looked a soft natural blond. His shoulders were narrow and his chest slim. The uniform must have been the smallest that the department had to offer, but it still billowed around him like a sheet.

  “Mr. Torrance?” The deputy’s voice took on a harder, more demanding, edge.

  “Yes, yes, sorry,” Michael managed through a dry throat. “I was just… just miles away I guess.”

  “Yeah, you looked it,” the deputy laughed, still watching carefully.

  “Um, what are we doing here, Officer?” Michael asked, unsure of what exactly was going on in all senses.

  “Well, sir, I found you walking down the centre of the road about a mile away. You said that you’d gotten lost and left a new bike around here somewhere, so I drove you back.”

  Michael suddenly noticed the police car with the Eden crest on the side parked behind him. “Did we find my bike?” was the burning question, considering the price and his frugal nature.

  “Yes, sir, we found it here on the ground,” the deputy said, confused. “I was putting it in the trunk for you, when you suddenly went … well … a little bit weird to be honest, sir. You were suddenly glued to the spot, staring up at the woods, and I couldn’t shake you out of it.”

  “Oh,” was all Michael could contribute.

  “Maybe I should call the doc out, Mr. Torrance.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Just a little spaced, I guess,” Michael managed, his voice stronger.

  “Well, do you still want that lift home, sir? I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone out here.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’d be for the best.”

  Michael walked unsteadily, following the deputy over to the car and made to get in the back seat.

  “I think up front would be better, Mr. Torrance. You don’t really want to get a ride home in the back of a police car; people talk, you know, especially here.”

  Despite their isolation, Michael noticed that the deputy said the last part in a hushed nervous whisper. They both climbed into the car. Michael had only ridden in a police car once before, the night that an officer had knocked on his door to take him to the hospital where Emily lay unconscious and childless. The interior was typical of Eden, in that it was meticulously clean and spotless and the seats were soft tan leather, and smelt of fresh polish.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Torrance?” the deputy asked again, his voice still loaded with concern.

  “Fine, and its Michael, please.”

  “Michael it is then, at least in here. I’m afraid the sheriff is rather a stickler for formalities in public.”

  “I can imagine,” Michael paused. “I don’t even know your name; I think I must have lost my manners along with my marbles.”

  “Stillson, Kurt Stillson. Say, that’s a funny accent. Where are you from, England?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’ve got an aunt who lives in Manchester. Her name’s Beverley Marsh. Do you know her?”

  Michael felt a genuine laugh rise and he caught it to avoid being rude. The UK had approximately sixty five million residents, but several Americans had already asked him if he personally knew some random citizen. The smile on his face felt real and natural, and it was a relief to sense a normal emotion. His brain still felt a little fried and his thoughts scattered, but the further they drove, the saner he felt.

  “What were you doing out here? If you don’t mind me asking,” Kurt asked.

  “Um, I’m not entirely sure to be honest; I was just looking for a little exercise.”

  “You know that no one from town comes out here; they say that the woods are haunted, you know.”

  Michael wanted to laugh, but his recent experience strangled that thought at birth. “Haunted? Really? What’s the story?”

  “Oh, hey, like you I’m pretty new in town. I’ve only been here about three months, but even I know that those woods are not to be sniffed at. When one of the other deputies was ribbing me about it, I took a ride out here. I got to that trail that leads up into the trees, and that’s about as far as I got. Nothing on earth could have made me go any further,” he laughed unconvincingly.

  “I guess that makes you smarter than me.”

  “Wait a minute … Michael Torrance … the writer?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Hey, I read one of your books on a flight once! not bad … not bad at all.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Hey, a real life celebrity.”

  Michael started to laugh before he realised that the deputy was being sincere. He had only been a moderately successful writer for a number of years now. He made a decent living doing a job that he enjoyed, but he had never even remotely thought of himself as being in any way famous. Simon Day, his agent, had his fan mail filtered, sparing him the attentions of the strange and desperate. His fan base seemed to be larg
ely female, for whatever reason, and they were generally sane and thankfully loyal.

  They rode the rest of the short distance back to his house in silence. He could feel that Deputy Stillson was burning with questions, but mercifully he was keeping them at bay.

  They pulled up to the kerb and both exited; Stillson hefted his bike from the trunk and held it for him on the sidewalk.

  Michael was glad for the exaggerated show of friendliness that the deputy was putting on for the neighbors. He knew that the curtains would be twitching, and he didn’t want his ride home to be misinterpreted. The bike looked relatively unscathed, save for some scratching on the frame. “Thanks for the ride, Kurt.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir; all part of the service.” The deputy smiled.

  “Say, if I wanted to know more about the haunted woods, who’s the best man to ask?”

  “Mr. Christian, I suppose; he knows more about the town than anyone.”

  “And if I didn’t want to go through Casper?”

  Stillson paused, as he evaluated the question. “I sort of know what you mean,” he whispered, keeping his voice lower than ever. “He’s a bit on the creepy side,” he winked. “I suppose you could always talk to Darnell - Kevin Darnell.”

  “The handyman?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “He helped us move in the first day, but I thought that he was close with Casper?”

  “Strictly between you and me, he can’t stand the guy, but you know Casper; nobody in this town makes a living without his say so.”

  Michael watched and waved the deputy off as he drove away; he pushed the bike around the side of the house and opened the large double garage door. He leant the bike up against the wall of the empty space and checked his watch again. Emily would be home any minute, and he was thankful that she had not been here to witness his return in a police car and the awkward questions that would have followed. He closed the door on the bike and headed into the house. Tomorrow, he would track down Darnell and start looking at the town with a serious eye. Perhaps it was just his imagination running away with him. He was writing a book about a town like Eden, where sinister intent lay behind friendly eyes. It didn’t take a genius to surmise that parts of his story would filter into how he saw his surroundings, but today hadn’t been a figment. The trip to the woods had been real, and his loss of time had been real. He was a writer without delusions of being a journalist, but tomorrow he would start to find out the who, the what, and the why.

  Kurt Stillson drove back into town buzzing. He’d never met a celebrity before, and Michael Torrance had seemed pretty nice, not like some of the other jerks you read about.

  Kurt had made the move to Eden after applying online. He’d been working as a security guard at the Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, Chicago. The days had been long and the pay lousy. The job had mainly consisted of chasing off poorly-educated youths from hassling store owners, whilst they hurled insults over skinny shoulders. He was twenty six and the job had only ever meant to be temporary, but he had woken up one morning to discover - to his horror - that three years had scarily slipped by without him noticing. The weather seemed to be always cold and wet in Chicago and he longed for action and excitement, but without the dangerous aspect that real police work would entail. It wasn’t that he was cowardly; it was just that he was smart.

  He’d been scanning the internet for police jobs in small, safe towns and it felt like he’d checked out every small town in America. He’d studied crime statistics, populations, and educational tables. Eventually, after about three months of painstaking research, an anonymous message had dropped into his email box from some small town out west called Eden Gardens. To his knowledge he had never contacted the town, or even come across it, but the advert had been small and classy. The text was minimal, but one phrase was hokey enough to catch his eye: “Heaven on earth and twice as nice”.

  He had replied to gain more information, not thinking too much about it, but around a week later he had received a clandestine package in the mail. He’d opened the large manila envelope, after a day of being chastised for sipping from a bottle of water in order to swallow a couple of aspirin to keep a fever at bay as he sweated profusely at his post. He’d staggered home, his uniform a foul stench of a pungent flu-inspired odour, and he’d ripped open the package half-heartedly, not really caring. About forty five minutes later, he was sold; the town really appeared to be perfection in a hot climate. As he’d shivered under his virus, and the cold wind howled mercilessly at his crappy apartment, he’d made his decision. The next morning he’d quit his job, his apartment, and his Chicago life.

  He leaned his arm out of the window as he drove. The warm air and hot sun caressed his skin and he couldn’t picture ever being cold again. The town was indeed perfection for some - those with the financial resources to live in the mansions. For the rest of the townsfolk that had to work for a living, it was only close. The weather was wonderful and the people were friendly. His salary was fantastic, and even came with accommodation: a beautiful three bedroom house with a large garden and a small pool.

  His position of deputy carried a certain level of respect around the town - the kids were well behaved, and the women were beautiful. However, the Sheriff’s department and town regulations were explicitly clear on the fraternization permitted between town employees and residents. He’d had to endure a month long training program that seemed to mainly deal with his presentation and conduct, rather than his peacekeeping duties. He didn’t mind the somewhat uptight attitudes, as he had moved here from a position of borderline desperation. Sheriff Quinn was a ball-breaker, and the town manager, Casper Christian, was more than a little weird, but overall it was a small price to pay for such as a cushy number.

  He pulled into the Sheriff’s office parking lot. There were two bikes hooked up to a stand and no other cars. One of the other joys about living here was that he didn’t have to waste money on an expensive car. The trams crisscrossed the whole town, making cars almost irrelevant. He also had no real desire to leave the town and travel to the world outside, when everything he wanted was here.

  He pushed open the glass fronted door, cringing at the overhead bell that jingled; every store in Eden seemed to have these quaint touches. The office was clean and organised as usual; the counters gleamed, and the chrome edges sparkled. There had yet to be a single crime since he had arrived and the paperwork was easily manageable. Most of the duties of the office seemed to consist of management systems for processing permits and alike. It was dictated that the officers were to be visible around town, and ever vigilant for town rule violations. Just lately, there had been the case of the graffiti artist that had been perplexing the sheriff. Green slashing paint, spraying the words “Wake Up”, had been found in various places around the town, which was driving the sheriff and Casper to fits of purple rage. As far as Kurt was concerned, if a little paint was the extent of the troubles, then the town should thank its lucky stars for getting off so lightly.

  Ellen Barlow was sitting behind the desk when he entered the office; she was twenty nine and strawberry blonde, with green eyes and endless legs, and she was already the love of his life. He had yet to engage in any kind of meaningful conversation with her, but he already knew that she was perfect.

  She glanced up and smiled at him as he entered; it was the briefest of looks, but he melted just the same. He had steeled himself in the car that this would be the day; this would be the day that he charmed and wooed her. Upon closer reflection, he discovered that actually, this wasn’t the day after all.

  He slunk past the desk and into the rear offices to change before he went off shift, cursing himself for his lack of courage as he crept past, head bowed, and cheeks blazing.

  “Still not pulled the trigger, Kurt?”

  Tommy Ross grinned irritatingly at him. Tommy was the town's other deputy; he was broad, athletic, and handsome in every conventional way. Kurt thanked his lucky stars every day that Tommy
was also gay. If they ever had to compete in the same market for dates, then his Friday nights would be long and lonely; well, longer and lonelier than they were at present.

  “I’m working on it,” Kurt said sheepishly.

  “Man, you need to work faster,” Tommy said, buttoning up his uniform over a bulging chest. His teeth sparkled, and his deep blue eyes shone brightly.

  Kurt couldn’t help but grin along with Tommy’s infectious smile. Tommy had the sort of magnetism that Kurt could only dream of, and he was glad all over again that he faced no in-house competition for the fair Ellen’s hand.

  “Why don’t you ask her to the carnival a week on Saturday? They set up on the square with rides and booths, the games aren’t rigged and the food’s great. I know that she goes every year with friends. I’m sure that she’d like to go with you.”

  “Why?” Kurt asked suddenly, with the pinched pained face of a love-struck teenager. “Did she say something?”

  “Oh for...” Tommy strode past him with an exasperated expression. “Hey Ellen,” he shouted, “you wanna go to the carnival with Kurt on Saturday?”

  “Sure,” drifted the shy response.

  Kurt’s heart skipped more than just the one beat. He peered out around the changing room door and Ellen’s face smiled back at him as he blushed furiously. “Pick you up at seven?” he squeaked.

  “Sure,” she blushed back.

  “Love's young dream,” Tommy said, smiling and shaking his head.

  ----------

  Emily tramped grumpily to the tram. She was closer on the scale to exhaustion than tired, and she hadn’t even started the day yet. She cursed Michael under her breath. Lucky sod, she thought, bugger can sleep in all day if he feels like it. She didn’t like this new morning voice, and she cut it off at the knees. She knew that the only reason that they could ever afford a life like this was from his talent. His writing had made this all possible: the new country, the house, the fresh start. Even the sun that shone warmly down on her face was because of him. Her moods had begun to swing wildly and were rather disconcerting. She made a mental note to contact Dr Creed to schedule an appointment ahead of their next, just to set her mind at ease. The last thing that she wanted was to start flying off the handle at work. Young children were less understanding than adults, she wagered.