Black's Creek

by Sam Millar

  ‘It’s about Armstrong.’

  ‘I don’t care who the hell it’s about, just get off our property – now!’

  ‘It’s about the teeth marks.’

  Brent’s face immediately changed. I swore it turned as pale as the snow along the edge of his windowsill. He stared back at me for a few seconds before disappearing out of sight.

  I waited for what seemed an eternity, wondering if he would come down. When he finally did, he came towards me like a rhino in pre-charge, his face knotted with anger.

  ‘I told you to get off our property.’

  ‘We need to talk first. Then I’ll go.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about – ever.’

  ‘There’s plenty. Let’s start with the teeth marks.’

  ‘What fucking teeth marks?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, Brent. The marks that were on your … butt.’

  I’d accidentally noticed marks on Brent’s butt, almost identical to those on Devlin’s, as we skinny-dipped at the lake two years ago. When he caught me looking, he became angry, calling me a ‘homo’ and a ‘butt watcher’. We didn’t speak to each other for almost a week, until he eventually calmed down, and we were able to laugh about it.

  Brent grunted. ‘You mean the time I caught you looking at my ass, like the little faggot you are? Those weren’t teeth marks. I told you what they were. Bruises.’

  ‘How did you get them?’

  ‘That’s got fuck all to do with you.’

  ‘You can’t remember what you told me, can you?’

  ‘I … I … slipped in my room … the carpet was sticking out … I tripped over it.’

  No, that wasn’t even close. He had told me a story about a raid on Mister Johnson’s apple trees, and a weak branch.

  Lucky I landed on my ass rather than my head, he had laughed, by way of explanation.

  At the time, I thought Brent’s explanation sounded pretty reasonable. Not now.

  ‘You told me you got them falling from a tree in old man Johnson’s yard.’

  He blinked, as if he’d just been slapped. ‘Oh, yeah … right. Now I remember. So? Big deal.’

  ‘We both know they weren’t bruises caused by a fall,’ I said. ‘The were the exact same teeth marks that were on Devlin’s body. They were Armstrong’s teeth marks. The first time I saw them on her, I knew I had seen similar marks, but I just couldn’t remember where. Last night, I finally remembered.’

  Brent looked as if he had been kicked in the balls. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

  I reckoned Brent had been lured to Armstrong’s trailer with the incentive of money – something Brent was always in need of. That must have been how he knew about Armstrong’s comings and goings at the trailer, so inch-perfectly; how he knew about the liquid in the cupboard, which I suspected was some sort of knockout drug. That’s why Brent insisted Horseshoe say he was thirsty, knowing Armstrong would go to the cupboard at the end of the trailer, where Brent waited in the darkness with his gun. I shuddered at the thought of what must have happened to Brent; now I fully understood why he wanted to kill Armstrong, rather than simply blow his nuts off. It all made sense. Brent. Joey. Devlin. But how many other victims had there been, all nameless and as yet unknown? How many more would there be if Armstrong escaped justice now? I couldn’t allow that to happen.

  ‘Brent, you’ve got to tell my dad everything you know about Armstrong, what he did to you. Otherwise, the murdering pervert could walk free and commit another –’

  Without warning, he lunged, pinning my body to the snowy ground.

  ‘Nothing happened, faggot! Nothing!’ he said, trying to wrap his hands around my throat.

  ‘You want Armstrong to escape justice, and continue to do to others what he did to Devlin and Joey? What he did to you!’

  ‘Armstrong did nothing to me! You can’t prove a fucking thing.’

  ‘You’ve got to testify, otherwise he could get off. Dad needs more evidence. You have it.’

  I tried to roll him off, but his anger increased his strength. His features were changing, right before my eyes. It was scary. He was Bruce Banner becoming the Hulk, a sick smirk appearing on his face.

  ‘Twice you got away with making me look like a dick in front of Horseshoe,’ Brent hissed. His spittle showered my face. ‘I’ll not let that happen again – ever.’

  I didn’t see the penknife until it was too late. He plunged it towards my left eye. In slow motion, I saw dried speckles of our blood on the blade. Blood-brothers forever.

  I managed to move my head slightly, but not enough. The knife sliced into my forehead, just above the eyebrow. Hot blood crawled down the side of my face. I should have screamed with pain, but a combination of cold and adrenaline probably prevented the injury registering in my brain.

  He tried plunging the knife again, but I managed to grab him by the balls, and squeezed for all I was worth. He groaned terribly before slipping off me. Quickly jumping on top of him, I grabbed the knife and held it tight to his throat.

  ‘What’re you gonna do, faggot? You gonna kill me?’ He glared defiantly at me. ‘Go on. I’d rather be dead, anyway.’

  ‘It was never about Joey, that night at Armstrong’s trailer. It was about you getting revenge for yourself, wasn’t it? You didn’t give a damn about Joey. Not then, not now. You’re a coward.’

  ‘If you think I’m gonna tell anyone what Armstrong did to me, you’ve another thing coming. You’re right. I don’t give a fuck about Joey, and I don’t give a fuck about your little whore girl.’

  ‘Don’t talk about Devlin like that.’ Despite the cold, I felt my face flush.

  ‘She was a whore, faggot. Nothing but a little whore. Did you know I fucked her, behind your back? The whole town fucked her, and you couldn’t see it because you were in love. Know something? I’m glad she’s dead. I wish I’d killed her.’

  He began laughing. It was an evil, sandpapery laugh, grinding my skull.

  Mad thoughts began flooding my brain. Something was happening to me; something uncontrollable. I pushed the knife tighter against his neck. A small line of blood appeared under the blade.

  ‘Take back what you said about Devlin, or I’ll kill you,’ I hissed.

  ‘Fuck you! Kill me.’ Tears began pooling in his eyes. ‘I don’t give a shit. I’ve nothing to live for anyway. I’d rather be dead.’

  I believed he really did want me to kill him, now that I knew his terrible secret. He was probably thinking that I’d tell everyone at school about what Armstrong did to him, but that I’d change the story to say Brent loved every second of it; that he was a regular at the rundown trailer, giving and receiving blowjobs. How could he ever show his face again?

  ‘You can’t do it, can you?’ he mocked. ‘Who’s the coward now, faggot?’

  ‘Tommy!’ shouted a voice behind me. ‘What on earth are you doing with that knife? Get off Brent!’

  Mrs Fleming grabbed me from behind, pulling me off Brent. She had the strength of a mother bear protecting her cub, and held me vice-like in a hold.

  ‘Let me go!’ I shouted.

  ‘Not until you drop that knife and tell me what’s going on here. Why were you trying to stab Brent?’ She tightened the grip, her breathing laboured. ‘Tell me right now, otherwise I’ll call your father.’

  For the longest time, Brent and I stared at each other with sheer hatred.

  ‘He said things he shouldn’t have,’ I said, nodding in the direction of Brent.

  ‘Liar!’ Brent shouted. ‘You just don’t like hearing the truth.’

  ‘I know you’re lying about Devlin!’

  ‘Ha! You’re the one lying to yourself. She was dirt. The whole town knows she was dirt.’

  I tried breaking free from Mrs Fleming, but to no avail. I wanted to rip his stinking, ugly face in half, but I was drained of all strength.

  ‘Brent? Get inside – now!’

  Brent mumbled something under his breath about D
evlin, before slowly walking away towards the house. He looked back at me before entering, a greasy smirk on his face.

  Mrs Fleming flung me around. She was no longer beautiful, but ugly with anger and hatred.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I never want to see you near my home again. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Thank yourself lucky I don’t have you charged with trying to kill my son. Now leave. Get away from here before I get really angry and do something to you.’

  I walked slowly away.

  ‘And to think, I thought you were a nice kid …’ Mrs Fleming said, before I was out of earshot.

  Chapter Twenty

  In Stitches and Needled

  The court is obliged to submit the case fairly, but let the jury do the deciding.

  Chekhov

  The cut above my eye needed six stitches, but, as Dad pointed out on the way home from the hospital, it could have been a lot worse.

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye, Tommy. Damn lucky. Collecting stitches seems to have become a hobby with you.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Snow was beginning to fall. The windscreen wipers made hypnotic whooshing sounds, making me drowsy. I could feel my eyelids becoming heavier. I wanted to sleep, badly.

  ‘I’m not going to question your explanation about slipping on ice, but that doesn’t mean I believe you. Your mother also suspects something’s going on with you and your friends – chiefly Brent Fleming. She’s talking about sending you down to New Jersey, to stay with Aunt Katherine, if just to get you away from here for a few months.’

  ‘What?’ I was shocked at this revelation, and quickly became alert. ‘Dad, you can’t let that happen. Aunt Katherine drives me nuts. She never tires of saying that New Jersey is home to more scientists and engineers per square mile than anywhere else in the world.’

  Dad tried to hide his smile.

  ‘That’s not a good enough excuse. Jerseyites have little to boast about, but when they do, they sure do boast.’

  ‘I hate her house. It smells of cat pee, and she always tries to make me go to bed early. And she drinks like a sailor, singing for all the neighbours to hear. It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Don’t ever let me hear you talk about Aunt Katherine like that.’ Dad’s tone became serious. ‘She’s a good person. She has gone through hell in her life, and has her reasons for drinking so heavily. Clear?’

  I nodded. ‘Okay, but I’m not going there. Mom can’t make me.’

  ‘Really? You know if your mother says you’re going, you’re going. She doesn’t believe in negotiating. Anyhow, she may be right. Perhaps getting away from here would be good for you.’

  ‘Please, Dad. I won’t be any more trouble. I promise. I really need to be here, to see Armstrong finally get what’s coming to him.’

  Dad stopped to think about this. It was a few seconds before he responded.

  ‘Don’t take it for granted that Armstrong’ll be found guilty. We’ve all got to prepare ourselves for a worst-case scenario, just in case.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What does worst-case scenario mean?’

  ‘Worst-case being he’ll get off, or a mistrial is declared. Even a hung jury.’

  ‘A hung jury? The judge will hang the jury if they don’t get it right?’

  Dad laughed out loud at that. It was good to hear his old laughter back. He hadn’t been himself since the trial began. Everything depended on his evidence, and it was clearly weighing on him.

  ‘No, they don’t hang the jury, Tommy – though God knows, sometimes with the decisions they make, they could do with a good hanging. No, “hung jury” is a legal term, meaning that the jury can’t come up with a unanimous decision.’

  Dad slowly brought the car to a halt at an intersection. I gazed out the window at the leaden sky. The snow was becoming heavier, the winter wind more fierce. I wanted desperately to tell Dad about Brent, about my suspicions – beliefs – but couldn’t. What good would it do anyway? It would be Brent’s word against mine. He’d simply deny it, no matter the strength and skill of Dad’s interrogation. Realistically, there was nothing I could do.

  The moment we walked through the door, Mom shouted to Dad that he needed to get over to the courthouse, straight away. Prosecutor Flynn had been calling for him. The jury had finally reached its verdict. Everyone was waiting for Judge Pickford to arrive. The judge had been delayed by the snow, but would be in her chamber within the hour.

  Dad rushed out to his car. I watched him speeding away, wishing I could be there, if only to see Armstrong’s face.

  Mom looked at the new stitches adorning my face. She looked angry rather than sympathetic. Shook her head.

  ‘When are you going to grow up? We’re tiring of your nonsense. I’m shipping you out of here, the first chance I get.’

  No, you’re not, I wanted to say, but didn’t have the balls.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to see you the rest of the day.’

  Her words didn’t bother me, because it was all coming to an end. The nightmare would be over soon. Armstrong’s fate was now firmly in the hands of twelve men and women.

  Little did I know then, but my fate was also in their hands.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Scapegoats Aplenty

  A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape.

  Proverbs 19:5

  Armstrong’s shock acquittal reverberated through the town and beyond. I sat in the living room, watching the aftermath unfold on live television. Prosecutor Flynn was standing on the snow-covered steps of the courthouse, looking uncertain and drained, giving hesitant responses to the media’s bullet-like questions.

  ‘Prosecutor Flynn, what on earth happened?’ a local hack asked, notepad in hand. ‘You kept telling everyone this was an open-and-shut case. Looks more open now than it did at the beginning. What went wrong?’

  Despite the freezing temperature and falling snow, Flynn’s face was greasy with sweat. ‘I wouldn’t characterise it as anything gone wrong. It’s the nature of the system.’

  ‘Would you not agree that perhaps someone with more experience with murder trials should have been in charge of this one?’

  ‘I have plenty of experience with murder trials.’ Flynn’s face constricted. ‘I felt there was sufficient evidence to get this case before a jury. That’s my duty. Don’t forget, Mr Armstrong may have been acquitted, but the jury didn’t say he was innocent, or that –’

  As Flynn tried to finish his sentence, behind him a beaming Bradford could be seen, exiting the courthouse. The media swarmed towards him as one, leaving a relieved-looking Flynn to hurriedly disappear down the snowy courthouse steps and out of sight.

  ‘Mr Bradford! Mr Bradford! How does your client feel, now that he’s a free man?’

  Bradford gave his best Hollywood smile before answering.

  ‘Mr Armstrong feels as good as any innocent man feels after being vindicated and released from a nightmare. His good name has been restored to him by the clear-thinking men and women of the jury. All he asks now is to be left alone to try and pick up the pieces of his life, a life possibly irrevocably damaged by vindictive law enforcement officials and their despicable gung-ho attitude. Arresting someone simply because they live alone and do not follow the norms of society, cannot go unchallenged.’

  ‘There’s talk your client will be suing the county for wrongful imprisonment. Is that true?’

  Bradford’s smile disappeared. ‘The travesty of imprisoning the innocent should never be permitted. Nor should we passively accept what the system tries to impose upon us when the system is clearly wrong. More than likely, the killer of young Devlin Mantle was a drifter. Rather than pick on Norman Armstrong, the police should have been out looking for the real killer. They wasted time. They wasted taxpayers’ money. Worse, they allowed the real killer to slip through th
e net and escape justice and –’

  Mom appeared out of nowhere and clicked the television off.

  ‘That’s enough of that windbag spewing out his nonsense,’ she said angrily. ‘Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to see you the rest of the day?’

  ‘I wanted to see if Dad was going to be on television.’

  ‘Well, he’s not. Now, go to your room and clear up all those comic books scattered about the floor. I’m tired looking at them.’

  She was upset, and I should have simply done what she wanted. But I had to go and open my big mouth instead, by saying, ‘Armstrong got off. How could Dad let that happen?’

  For a second, Mom looked at me as if I were a slithering worm she had almost stepped on. Then she turned on me like a hungry tiger, her eyes tightening like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western.

  ‘I ever hear you say anything like that again about your father, I guarantee you won’t sit down for a week.’ She pushed her face up against mine. Our noses touched. ‘Your bare butt isn’t too old to escape my handprint all over it, Mister. Now, get out of my sight and into your room – pronto!’

  ‘They’re saying I arrested Armstrong too soon, Helen,’ Dad said, holding up the newspaper later that evening. ‘God the night! When can it be too soon to arrest a monster like Armstrong? After he kills again?’

  ‘Stop crucifying yourself, Frank. There’s enough Judases in this town with hammers in their dirty hands. You did the best you could with what little you had.’

  ‘Well, according to the newspapers, my best wasn’t good enough.’ Dad began reading from the evening newspaper he had brought back with him.

  Justice is only as good as the case that can be made. Unfortunately, in the case of the Armstrong trial, the case wasn’t very good. Prosecutors claim they did their best with what they had, but it wasn’t enough. Many important questions remain about the murder of young Devlin Mantle, not least of which are the identity and whereabouts of her killer. Sheriff Henderson plans to continue pursuing answers. That’s commendable but not very reassuring, if this farce of a trail was anything to go by. Unless there is new and substantially stronger evidence, the killer, whoever he is, might just get away with murder.