The Ghost of Robert Brown: A Mystery Novel

by P. Wish

  “How has your day been?” Jane asked, turning to Mr. McEwan, her eyes lingering on his tattoos. They looked like his second skin. Musical notes, guitars and roses combined with gothic letters to create an intricate design.

  “I have dinner late. There’s a lot of work to do,” he said. Jane picked up her handbag from her desk and threw the strap on her shoulder. She reached for her coat that hung in the tall stand. “Are you liking it here?”

  “Yes. It’s wonderful,” Jane said. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Maeda in a while either.”

  “She must be busy with classes,” Mr. McEwan said. “She’s been teaching Mr. Greene’s classes.”

  “That must be an awful lot of work,” Jane said. “I thought Mrs. Wolverhampton was looking for a new maths teacher.”

  “She is, but…there haven’t been any good applications,” Mr. McEwan said. He turned to Jane. “The news of Mr. Greene’s death has affected the school’s reputation.”

  “I met Mrs. Wolverhampton this morning,” Jane said. “The episode stressed her out.”

  “Mrs. Wolverhampton is stressed these days,” Mr. McEwan remarked. “I saw her smoking today.”

  “She doesn’t smoke usually?”

  “She quit a few years ago,” he said. He noticed Jane’s eyes moved across his arm. Backing away from the door, he pointed to his tattoo-covered arm. “They’re from my days as a rock star.”

  “You were in a rock band?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that,” Jane said. “That is…wow. What was the band called?”

  “The Blues. We played gigs around Manchester.” Mr. McEwan stopped and turned back to the door.

  “Were you the singer?”

  “That’s what everybody asks,” he said, tightening the screws. “But no, I was the guitarist.”

  “What happened to the band?” Jane asked, lingering near the desk.

  “Oh, the usual. There was disagreement about the band’s artistic direction. We split up and that was that. I’ve never seen any of them since.”

  “Solo career?”

  “No…I got on with my life,” Mr. McEwan said in a low voice.

  “I would love to hear you play sometime,” Jane said.

  “Nah. It’s been a long time since those days.”

  “You’d rather it remained a memory?”

  “Yes,” he said, standing up. “Well, your door is fixed. If you want to talk about sixties rock, I’m your guy.”

  “Thanks,” Jane said.

  At 7:00 p.m., Jane sat at her desk in her room, grading the last paper of the day. She jerked the drawer open and dug out the exposed layers of papers. At the bottom of them lay a notepad with a spiral binding. She pulled it out. Jane’s fingers traced the edge of the book. She opened the notepad and read the words that ran across the dusty pages in a disjointed, cursive hand.

  Victim name: Herbert Greene

  Time of death: Around 20th March 2002

  Cause of death—Asphyxiation (strangulation-

  She stopped. Her grip loosened. Doubts filled her mind. She threw the pen on the table as if it were on fire. Breathless, Jane stood up and jerked the curtains open. She stared at the pouring rain for a few minutes. She wasn’t a detective anymore. It didn’t matter what had happened to Mr. Greene. Anxiety rose in her heart.

  She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready to be a detective again. Her son’s death constantly reminded her of her failures—as a mother, as a detective and as a human being. Her breathing sped up. Everything reminded her about his death. That fateful day was etched in her mind. It sucked her into a hole of guilt, sorrow and regret from which there was no escape.

  She closed the notebook. Her eyes remained on the closed notebook. He hands itched to write. She turned away and glanced at her clock, which was frozen at 7:45 p.m. Her stomach growled.

  Jane stepped out of her room, inhaling the musty smell of the closed corridor. She locked the door and passed Mr. Greene’s room. Her eyes darted back to the room even as her body moved ahead. She walked down the flight of stairs. Anxious, she walked up and down the stairs until she decided to go to the library next to the teachers’ building.

  She found a stack of old books encased in leather jackets sitting on the wooden bookshelf. The room smelled of parchment and wood. The library in the teachers’ building contained many old books. A portrait hung over the fireplace which had been blocked with wooden panels. The walls were covered with ivory wallpaper and the floor was carpeted in emerald green. A small chandelier hung on the ceiling. The library was not used much since St. Anne’s now had a larger one in the main building.

  Dusty wooden bookshelves lined three walls. Books filled the shelves. A collection of thick, glossy silver books labeled “Yearbooks: 1990–2000” sat on the right shelf. Jane sat on the carpet and reached for the book from 1998. On the cover, the year was embossed in ivory. The cover was a mixture of blue and silver. Jane flipped through the yearbook. It began with a note from the principal, Mrs. Warner. A big, round face was stamped on the page. She sat behind her desk, flashing a smile. She wore wine-red lipstick on her reddish face. Her brown eyes were squinting.

  Jane turned the page. Color photos of the class of 1998 were printed on the next page.

  The name Oliver Sharpe was printed below the image. Jane looked at a younger version of Oliver. His spiky blond hair was curly. Freckles spread like flames across his face. His hazel eyes were half-open. From the distance, he looked like an adolescent girl. Now, in contrast, Oliver was a sporty young man with a shadow of a beard and the same spiky blond hair. His newly acquired tan covered up his freckles. A lot had changed in five years.

  Jane flipped the pages. She stopped at a page that had a large image of Robert Brown. His sensitive brown eyes, pale skin and gaunt face with a bright smile covered half the page.

  The title was “Rest in our memories, Robert.” It was written by Mary, one of Robert’s classmates. The article had political and social undertones. It described Robert’s journey at St. Anne’s. He had been selected among one hundred students to receive a full scholarship. His grades had been promising in the first semester, but they had begun to drop. The article went on to explain the boy’s contributions to St. Anne’s. Robert was skilled at poetry and art.

  Images of his paintings ran across the page. The first one was of a diamond-like teardrop in the darkness. Though the portrait was simple, the innovative use of darkness and color evoked a visceral response in her. “Hidden Tears” was written under the image. The other images represented suppressed negative feelings. There was mention of Robert’s writing talent, followed by a poem he had written. The poem was titled “The Mirror and the Stranger.” Jane flipped the pages.

  The mirror asks, “Who are you?”

  I stare at it and say, “A stranger.”

  A stranger who?

  A stranger- somebody I don’t know.

  You don’t know? But it’s you!

  It’s a me I don’t know.

  A me you don’t know?

  Is there a me you know?

  I don’t know.

  You’re a strange stranger.

  I am, aren’t I?

  Well, stranger, what do you see?

  I see eyes, afraid and confused,

  I see lips, quiet but wanting to speak,

  I see a nose, breathing and lifeless,

  I see the me that I’m not,

  I see the me that I’ve become,

  I see the me that I’m becoming.

  And it scares me.

  I don’t know him.

  But I do.

  He’s the stranger in the mirror.

  The article displayed a few more images of Robert and ended with a plea to stop bullying.

  Robert, may you rest in our memories.

  Robert Brown was having an identity crisis. He looked just like the kind of high schooler that people picked on. Horn-rimmed glasses, quiet eyes, freckles, timid, introverted—in oth
er words, somebody who couldn’t fight back. He was the kind who had books for friends and dreams for dinner. Physically, he had a small frame. From the photo, Jane estimated his height to be around five feet four inches. Jane flipped through the pages to the teachers’ page. There, she found a small image of a slightly younger Mrs. Wolverhampton, who was labeled “Senior English Teacher.” Since becoming the principal, she had aged considerably.

  Jane tucked the yearbook into her coat and walked out of the library.

  April 16, 2002

  Jane was making her way back from the library when she heard Gary’s voice and stopped outside the open door.

  “Did you know Robert wrote a diary?” The disturbing words came out of Gary Myers’ lips at 9:10 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Mrs. Wolverhampton’s eyes widened. Her face lost any remaining color. Her pale face looked like a ghost’s against her maroon blouse.

  “Ex—excuse me?”

  “Robert Brown,” Detective Myers said. “The one who drowned five years ago. He used to write a personal diary.”

  “What has this got to do with anything?” she asked, her eyes turning to the document on her desk.

  “Robert’s diary was found in Mr. Greene’s room.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly my feelings,” he said. “I wonder what it was doing there.”

  “Are you sure you found it in Mr. Greene’s room?”

  “Yes,” Detective Myers said. “You said you were his English teacher. Did you know he was writing a diary?”

  “No…ummm…I remember suggesting it to him once, but I didn’t know he actually was writing one,” she said.

  “I don’t know what to make of the diary. It is very… ummm… revealing,” Detective Myers said.

  “Have you found the culprit then?” Mrs. Wolverhampton asked. The nerve on the right side of her forehead twitched.

  “No. Some pages seem to be missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “They were torn off.”

  “Well, I wonder why.”

  “Hmmmm…. He never showed it to you?”

  “I don’t remember…he said he’d let me read it someday but that day never came….”

  “I see. Thank you,” Detective Myers said.

  “Do you want me to look into it for you?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” He said, stepping out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  Secrets are a necessity to protect your heart from what it cannot accept. And to protect the others from what they’re not ready to embrace.

  —Robert Brown

  April 16, 2002 (contd.)

  At 10:55 on in the morning, Jane swung around the end of the fountain, breathing the fresh morning air. There was something different about the air in the countryside. It was devoid of pollution. The air was cool and crisp. Jane could taste the freshness of it dissolving into her taste buds. Students walked around the green grass, staring at her. The skies were grey.

  The marble fountain at the center of the garden poured noisily. Clear blue water ballooned and collapsed into a shallow pool at the foot of the marble statue. Lively chatter brightened up the dull day. Dotting the green grass were many students, catching up between classes. Jane was relieved to see them. The numbers had gone up since last weekend. Students walked around the school dressed in brown-and-beige uniforms. They spoke, dramatic expressions filling their faces. Laughter and playfulness became the song of spring. Jane trotted down the stone path, her ears absorbing the sounds.

  “He asked her out!” one of the girls exclaimed. Jane stopped. She stood next to the main building’s back entrance. The pillars cast shadows on the ground.

  “What did she say?” another asked in a guttural voice.

  “She said yes, of course!” the first girl went on. “He asked her at the lake.”

  Jane stayed behind the pillar, straining her ears to hear what the girls were saying. The ground under her was damp and low. She balanced herself, holding on to the pillar.

  “The lake? Isn’t it closed? After… the incident…I wouldn’t go there,” the girl with the throaty voice continued.

  Jane saw her face. She had raven-black hair which was tied into a curly ponytail. Her eyes were some shade of violet and her skin was slightly tanned. Her chubby legs were wrapped in brown leggings. She brushed her ponytail as she spoke. It was one of the girls in her class. Next to her stood a tall, lanky girl with a blond ponytail and a confident demeanor. Jane didn’t know who she was.

  “He went there anyway,” the girl said. She had straight strawberry-blond hair which fell to her shoulders. Her body was thin as a reed. She rolled her green eyes as she spoke. “He wanted to get it right, obviously.”

  “I don’t believe it. It’s just a silly story,” the raven-haired girl said, crinkling her nose.

  “It’s true.” The blonde girl’s voice rose sharply. “If you ask somebody out at the lake, it’s sealed.”

  “That’s just a story,” her low voice insisted. “Besides, why would you ask someone out near the lake? It’s spooky!”

  “It’s not! It’s romantic,” she said. “The lake is a symbol of eternal love.”

  “Was a symbol of eternal love. Now it’s a symbol of death,” the girl with the black hair said, rolling her eyes.

  “Whatever,” the blonde girl said, snorting.

  The raven-haired girl turned to the door. “It’s almost time for class,” she said, stepping into the building. Jane followed them in quietly.

  “I wonder if they found out anything about Mr. Greene. I’m worried about the whole thing. What if the killer is hanging around at St. Anne’s?”

  “I hope not,” the blond-haired girl said. “That would be terrible.”

  “The detective comes here every day.”

  “Melissa thinks it was the ghost of Robert Brown. I mean, look at it. There are a lot of similarities between the two incidents. But I think the whole idea is ridiculous.”

  “Hmmm…” The girl with dark hair scratched her chin. They two girl disappeared into the corridors. Their voices faded away. Jane backed away from the. The girls walked on, oblivious to her presence.

  Jane stopped near one of the windows and laid one of her fingers on the wooden window frame. The rings in the wood formed patterns in her mind. She turned and saw some boys walking down the path. They were the boys she’d seen torment Jack that night. Her fingers clutched the edge of the door.

  She breathed, trying to drown out the rapid beating of her heart. Her heartbeat escalated and crashed. She didn’t know what was going on. Her head swam, drawing colors into a palette of memories. Before realizing it, she began to hyperventilate. She closed her eyes, and the scene from Charlie’s school began replaying in her mind.

  His school was a flat grey building in Camden. She sat in one of the classrooms, facing his teacher. The room was empty except for the two of them. A concerned expression spread across the middle-aged teacher’s face. Her sharp French-manicured nails curved over her mouth. Her blue eyes were fixed on the table. She leveled her head with Jane’s. Jane sat in the seat opposite her, clutching her bag tightly. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a thick woolen sweater, Jane looked at her. The teacher slid a stack of books towards Jane.

  “Those are his books,” she said. “I’m very sorry for what happened. Charlie was a…he was an excellent student. I’ll miss him.”

  The teacher’s eyes moved to a piece of paper.

  “What happened to Charlie? Why would my son want to…kill himself?” Jane asked the teacher, her cold hands holding on to the woman’s warmer ones. Mrs. Watson blinked. She turned her face away.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her eyes refusing to meet Jane’s.

  “Did he have any issues? Was someone hurting him?”

  The teacher looked up.

  “Please tell me.”

  “He was a little stressed.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. He’d been feeling down for so
me time. I sent him to see the counselor once. She recommended that he consult a psychiatrist. We called you on three occasions to discuss his condition, but there was no response.”

  “I must have been working,” Jane whispered. Her heart constricted. For the first time, she felt the walls closing in on her heart, squeezing her chest. Her breathing grew uneven.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Grey?” Mrs. Watson asked.

  “I’m—I’m fine,” Jane said. “Did you know how he got the medication?”

  “The what—”

  “The pills. He overdosed on depression and sleeping pills.”

  “God—” Mrs. Watson was shocked.

  Jane stood up.

  “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Grey.”

  Jane carried the stack of books out of the room. On her way down the corridor, she bumped into a student and dropped the books.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, bending to pick up the books. The student picked up the first book. Her green eyes fell on Charlie’s name, then turned to Jane, filled with sympathy. She was five-foot-two with short blond hair and a prominent jaw.

  “Charlie?”

  “I’m his mother.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry…about what happened,” she said in a muffled voice. Jane was silent. “I felt bad for him. Someone should’ve stopped…when he was being bullied.”

  Jane’s head jerked up. The violent rhythm of her heart subsided for a moment, “Charlie was bullied. Of course.”

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Grey?”

  “Yes…yes. Tell me, how long was this going on?” she asked, holding the girl’s shoulder. That startled the girl, who backed away instinctively.

  “Ummm…I’m sorry,” Jane said. She was losing her grasp on sanity. “Tell me, why was he being bullied?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Who…who were they?” She sounded crazy.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said before hurrying away. Jane stopped her.

  “Please tell me,” she begged. “Tell me who did this to him.”

  “Are you all right?” the girl asked.