Black's Creek

by Sam Millar

  Dad flung the newspaper at the far wall.

  ‘If Flynn or the media think I’m going to allow you to be made into a scapegoat, they better get their heads in gear and out of their asses,’ said Mom defiantly.

  I was shocked. The word ‘asses’ sounded so foreign coming from her mouth. It carried a whole new level of crudeness.

  ‘Helen Henderson! What on earth’s gotten into you, talking like that?’ Dad said, smiling.

  ‘When it comes to this family, I’ll be doing more than swearing if someone thinks they’re going to hurt us.’

  Dad reached over and kissed Mom.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, looking directly at him.

  ‘Yes? What is it, Tommy?’

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry for blaming you for Armstrong getting off. I was angry.’

  ‘I didn’t know you blamed me, but that’s okay. I know how you feel about Devlin. I’m just sorry I couldn’t bring her killer to justice … this time.’

  This time? The way he said that and looked directly into my eyes, made my heart tighten. Was Dad sending me a cryptic message of his determination to see justice done? Those two words gave me hope. He hadn’t given up.

  ‘They should have hung the jury, Dad.’

  Dad laughed, and nodded. ‘I can’t argue with the truth, Tommy.’

  ‘Can I be excused, Mom? I’m tired. I think I’ll have an early night.’

  Mom nodded and gave me a reluctant half smile. I think she was pleased at my apology to Dad. She didn’t even insist I eat the broccoli languishing at the side of my plate like some alien creature from outer space.

  From the stairs, I could hear Dad going over the case with Mom, examining where it all went wrong.

  ‘It was Bradford’s endless innuendo about the mother’s lifestyle that muddied the water. That swayed the jury more than any other factor. Bradford didn’t say it, but he more or less hinted that mother and daughter were cut from the same cloth, and that the killer could have been any of the mother’s many clients. It was sickening to listen to, but it worked.’

  ‘Bradford’s a despicable creature, Frank. How on earth he sleeps at night is beyond me.’

  Hate and anger burned in me as I listened. It was hard to decide whether I hated Bradford more than I hated Armstrong. One thing I did know: I wanted to kill both of them. I thought of Brent, also. Would his testimony have sent Armstrong to prison for life? I believed it would, and quickly put Brent down on my list of hate.

  Bone-tired, I began undressing in my room, watching the snow fall outside on the front lawn. It was covering everything with its cleansing beauty, but I knew it was just an illusion that couldn’t be sustained. Eventually the snow would fade, and all the filth and dirt would emerge again, triumphantly.

  I crawled into the refuge of my bed. An arrowhead of moonlight entrenched itself upon the wooden beam directly above my head, as if someone had taken a potshot at me with a crossbow. Quickly pulling the blankets up over my head, I achieved shelter and warmth simultaneously. Before I knew it, sleep touched me on the shoulder, and took me to the land of Nod.

  Just how long I had been permitted to visit the world of sleep, I couldn’t tell. I awoke in the middle of the night with a feeling of trepidation. Probably a bad dream, I reasoned, as I peeped over the roof of the blankets to glance about my room. I thought I’d heard a sound. Something? Nothing. Imagination? Probably.

  Then, just as I closed my eyes, I heard it again. The sound grew and fell and then grew again. It was coming from outside the house. I listened. It was like an enticing hum, like someone blowing on an empty bottle, and the unnatural progression of my thoughts led repeatedly back to it until I could no longer tolerate its torturous whisper.

  The swing …? It sounded like the swing groaning under the pressure of too much weight.

  I got out of bed to investigate, tiptoeing to the window. Pressing my face against its coldness, my breath quickly fogged the glass. I wiped it, and stared out across the snow-covered garden. To my amazement, the swing was moving, but almost imperceptibility, as if being pushed by invisible hands. The wind …?

  I thought of Devlin, laughing on the swing, being pushed by me on a beautiful summer’s afternoon.

  Oh, Devlin …

  I continued looking out the window, scrutinising the snowy scene. In the play of light and shadow, the moon’s luminous glow was pale, yet bright enough to hurt.

  ‘What the …?’

  Something had moved. Something was out there, in the winter wonderland. I quickly wiped the fogged window again. Nothing. Just snow playing tricks with my tired eyes. Then I saw him. Armstrong. He was staring up at the window. Partially camouflaged by the falling snow, and totally naked, his luminous and hairless body looked diseased, like a withered funeral candle. In his right hand he held a large knife. The knife’s blade was as long as his massive hand was wide. His whole being radiated something terrifyingly arrogant.

  I quickly ducked beneath the window, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t seen me.

  Easy … steady your nerves. It can’t be him. He wouldn’t have the balls to come here …

  I eased up to the window’s edge, and sneaked a peek. To my horror, he was walking towards the house. I wanted to shout, but the electric shock of fear stunned my mouth. I tried to run, to get Dad, but my feet seemed glued to the carpet. A dark sickness began rising up in me. Armstrong had used his evil powers to make me immobile, and he was coming here, into our home, to kill me, just like he’d killed Devlin, just like he’d promised in the Strand’s toilet.

  I tried to control my breathing while listening to the sounds from within the house: the soft hum of electricity ticking from the basement; the fridge moaning and shuddering; the wind sneaking through cracks and holes.

  A door sounded from downstairs. He’s in. The bastard was in the house. Sneaky footsteps began registering on the stairs.

  Finally freed from Armstrong’s spell, I moved in slow motion for the door. Just as I neared it, the door began slowly to open. I threw my entire weight against it. The door slammed shut.

  ‘Bastard! Get out, you murdering bastard!’ I screamed. ‘Dad! Dad! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!’

  I pushed against the door with all my strength. I could still feel force coming from the other side.

  ‘Tommy? What on earth’s going on? What’s all the shouting about?’ Dad was banging on the door.

  ‘Dad? Dad! Armstrong’s in the house!’ I shouted, opening the door quickly. Dad was in uniform. ‘He was outside, now he’s in.’

  ‘Armstrong? Get back inside.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Now!’ he hissed, pushing me back and slamming the door, just as Mom’s voice said from their bedroom, ‘Frank? What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘Helen!’ shouted Dad. ‘Get back in and lock the door.’

  It all went quiet. After a few moments, I opened the door inch-wide, peering through its spine. Dad was cautiously going down the stairs in the darkness, gun in hand, halting on each step for a second before proceeding. He kept pointing the gun in different directions, just like I’d seen on TV.

  Careful, Dad …

  Minutes crawled by painfully. Not a sound. Then the lights came on in the house, followed by Dad’s distant voice. ‘Come on down. I’ve got him!’

  ‘Frank, what’s going on?’ said Mom, rushing down the stairs in her nightgown. ‘Got who? And why is the back door open, all that snow coming in?’

  ‘Tommy’s intruder, Helen. Out in the back,’ Dad said, pointing the gun towards the back garden.

  ‘An intruder?’

  ‘You got him, Dad?’ I said, rushing down the stairs, almost breaking my neck in the process.

  ‘I’ve got him covered, Son. Don’t worry. I’ve told him to freeze, and take that silly grin off his face.’

  Gingerly, I walked to the door, and looked out.

  ‘That’s your intruder, Tommy.’ Dad was pointing at the Klein’s snowman, languishing smugly in their garden.


  ‘Can someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Mom said, her voice becoming increasingly prickly.

  ‘It’s okay, Helen. False alarm. Tommy thought he saw an intruder.’ Dad started laughing. ‘Mister Snowman.’

  ‘I know what I saw!’ I said angrily. ‘It was Armstrong. I heard him coming into the house.’

  ‘That was me you heard, Tommy. I got called out in an emergency, a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t you. I know what I saw. It was Armstrong. He was naked, and –’

  ‘That’s enough, talking about naked men again!’ said Mom. ‘Frank, close those doors before we become the laughing stock of the neighborhood. Tommy? Get to bed.’

  ‘But I’m telling you –’

  ‘Mister, you’re telling me nothing other than yes Mom, goodnight Mom, three bags full Mom.’

  Dad ruffled my hair.

  ‘Go on, Son. Get some sleep. You’re overtired. We’re all going straight to bed.’

  ‘I know what I saw …’ I mumbled, heading back up the stairs. ‘It was Armstrong.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Beneath the Icy World

  For believe me: the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is – to live dangerously.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  As days turned to weeks, Devlin’s murder slowly faded to the back of the town’s consciousness. The economy was in turmoil, and people had more pressing things to think about, such as jobs and livelihoods. Only those who cared about Devlin kept her memory alive. I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  It was Saturday afternoon. The snow had fallen persistently for three days, and was causing major power failures. Many homes – including ours – had no electricity. No electricity meant zero television, my main source of entertainment on Saturday afternoons. I was going stir crazy. I was driving Mom crazy also, so she did what she was good at: stirring.

  ‘That driveway could do with some shovelling,’ she suggested, meaning get off your lazy ass and get the snow cleared, pronto.

  ‘What’s the point? A whiteout’s been forecast for later in the day. It’ll only cover it up again. Can’t I just read some comics in my room?’

  ‘When you’re finished shovelling the snow away, I’ve a couple of other chores in mind,’ Mom said, ignoring my feeble attempt at negotiation. As usual, there was no reasoning with her. It was either her way or the driveway – and make sure you have a snow shovel in hand.

  ‘Some Saturday this has turned out to be! I’d rather be at school,’ I said, angrily grabbing my hooded coat and gloves, and heading out the door.

  The second the shovel touched the ground, the falling snow became serious, laughing at my futile attempt to keep the driveway clear. Thick flakes parachuted from the sky with a vengeance, like an invading army. I endured the humiliating shovelling for about twenty more minutes, before finally deciding I’d had enough of the pointless task. I speared the shovel into a mound of snow, but instead of going back indoors to face Mom’s wrath, I headed in the direction of Black’s Wood.

  Despite the snow adding to the difficulty, I believed I could conjure up a mental map of the exact spot where Devlin’s body had been found. Perhaps she would speak to me, help me unearth a clue missed by Dad and the rest of the investigators? Maybe tell me something not yet known about Armstrong? I knew it sounded mad, but stranger things had happened. I was desperate, and more than willing to take desperate action. I had let her down in life, but now I’d rectify that by helping to bring Armstrong to justice, one way or another.

  When I finally arrived at Black’s Wood, it resembled a frozen lunar landscape left behind from a million years ago. Eerily quiet and beautiful to behold, it took my breath away, literally. My icy breath streamed out each time I opened my mouth, and then paddled right back, as if seeking shelter where it had just been evicted from.

  It had taken me over an hour to reach the woods, but it took less than five minutes to realise I would never realistically locate the spot where Devlin’s body had been discovered. Despite this, I trudged aimlessly in different directions.

  Hours filtered away before I finally admitted I was lost. Everything was too blindingly white. There was texture, but no shape. Tree branches besieged with ice created a picture of an elevated Edgar Allan Poe boneyard to my over-stimulated imagination. Every once in a while, I could hear a tree branch groaning under the strain of so much snow, and the soft hollow thud of snow falling to the ground from up high in the trees.

  Ominously, a stark moon had slowly replaced the weak sun. Nerves began setting in. I stopped for a few seconds, and began surveying the snow-enveloped landscape, desperately trying to figure out my best way of getting home.

  The forest was becoming darker. I wished the dirty-grey sky was clear, so that I could see the stars – the stars that had stopped Mom with a sharp intake of breath on a frosty night not so long ago, leaving her motionless, speechless and utterly still. I remembered how she stood in the back garden, her mouth agape with awe and wonder, as if she had seen a UFO.

  What is it, Mom? I asked her.

  God, she replied solemnly. When you think things have become too dark in your life, always remember, that only when it’s dark enough, do we get to see the brilliance of the stars.

  Just as I was about to make a move, I heard a sound, like a rough whisper.

  ‘Who … who’s there?’ I listened intently. The whisper was gone, replaced by the stretching tremor of wind skimming over the hardened surface of iced snow.

  ‘I said, who’s there?’ Despite the sound of my voice granting me a little bit of assurance, I was freaked out. A crafty little breeze began turning the resting snow into quivering white sails, like invisible mice running over the ground.

  I decided to head in the direction of Ferguson’s Bend, at the eastern end of the woods. It took me almost twenty minutes to complete what normally would have taken five, emerging just where the lake began. The lake had completely frozen over and looked like a plate of solid steel. I stopped momentarily, gazing in awe at the strength of Nature to silence and tame the restless water. It was a clean freeze. No ripple lines scarring the surface. A mist danced across the icy surface.

  As my eyes lingered on the lake, I spotted something stuck in its centre. From the safety of the lake’s lip I strained my eyes to see. The moon reflected blindingly across the hardened surface, conspiring with the mist to make visibility difficult.

  ‘Looks like a wounded bird …’ I spoke out loud to give myself company.

  Easing closer to a group of trees, I now wished I had Dad’s binoculars for a clearer view, though in all honesty they would afford me little help at this time of night. The mist was less heavy out from under the trees, so I could see just a little bit clearer.

  ‘A seagull or a swan. Got to be some sort of bird, trapped in the ice. What else can it be?’ I needled my eyes along the surface, trying to gauge the ice’s thickness. ‘Might still be alive. Shit, I can’t just leave it like that, in pain.’

  Cautiously placing my right boot on the ice, I began springing my knee slightly, testing the ice’s integrity. It seemed okay. Pretty solid. Delicately standing with one half of my body-weight resting atop the icy surface, I brought the rest of my body on board, breathing a sigh of relief when I didn’t go crashing through.

  I waited a few seconds before bringing my right boot forward, followed slowly by the left. I tested the ice again, slightly forcing my weight upon it. If I fell through at this stage, it wouldn’t be too bad. The water would barely reach my waist.

  ‘Easy … easy …’ I moved gradually along the frozen surface, gaining confidence and momentum with each step. Something was tickling my stomach. Adrenaline coupled with nerves. Creeping closer, I now realised it wasn’t a trapped bird. Wrong shape. Wrong everything.

  My eyes were playing tricks, making the middle of the lake wobble and warp. Cramps were beginning to plant themselves in the calves of my legs,
but I willed myself on, knowing I would be within touching distance of the object in a moment.

  ‘Oh, shit …’ I almost fell backwards, slipping on my ass. Looking up at me from beneath the ice was the face of a girl. Pitiful. Young. Her skin had a purplish hue, but it was the penetrating eyes I was forced to focus on. Dark blue. They looked like bluebottle flies, fat and greasy, feasting on her face. Her hand stuck up out of the ice, as though trying to grab hold of the air and pull herself free.

  I stood still, hardly daring to breathe. I wanted to be away from this hellish place, but fear immobilised all movement. The girl’s face was bobbing slightly against the ice beneath me, her lips in a perpetual ‘o’ as if caught by surprise. Or terror.

  Without warning, the ice started making a whispery sound. Beneath me, tiny cracks began emerging, slowly webbing out in competing directions. A sickening feeling was rapidly entering my gut. The tension in my neck began trafficking all the way down to my spine, forcing muscles to stiffen like dry clay.

  ‘Oh … no …’

  I quickly stepped back, but not before reaching instinctively for the arm, pulling on it forcefully in the hope of keeping my balance. No such luck. Instead, I skidded, slip-sliding backwards before crashing downwards onto the icy surface, force opening a new, gaping wound – a wound large enough to pull me in and under. In an instant, I was inverted beneath the ice, totally disorientated. Freezing water rushed into every cavity in my body. I began pushing frantically at the iced ceiling. I groped in the darkness for the entrance wound I had caused, but found nothing but iced resistance.

  Don’t panic. There has to be a way out …

  Without warning, the dead girl’s arm attached itself my clothes. Then her face rubbed up against mine. The face looked spongy, the eyes full of pain. She had died horribly, but all I could think about was pushing her away from me, with all the force I could muster.