The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  It all began to come together like the pieces of an intricate jigsaw, each one having its very own place on the table. Harry was the Devil, but suffered from some type of multiple personality disorder. I was trying to build the pieces in my head when Steph began screaming at me. I looked and saw her pointing into the cabin again. This time I saw what she had wanted me to see. Lying in his lap, partly hidden by the jacket, was a revolver. Clancy held it in one hand, his finger on the trigger. He had the cylinder open and was flicking it with one finger, sending the cylinder spinning on its pin. Whilst he was doing this, he had resumed singing his song, looking at the bullets as they spun, round and round and round.

  “Ring-around-a-rosie, a pocket full of posies,” he sang, over and over again. He was staring at the cylinder as if he was in a trance. The thunder boomed above us again, the boom rolling across the sky. The rain had eased a little but was still falling in great sheets.

  “Clancy? Clancy, give me the gun. You don’t need it, mate,” I said but he just shook his head, singing, over and over again. Steph also began to bang on the window, but he ignored her. Either he didn’t register her presence, or he didn’t care.

  “Clancy? Clancy, give him the gun,” she yelled, but his singing never stopped. He suddenly flicked the cylinder back into place and cocked the hammer back.

  “CLANCY! CLANCY, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS!” I screamed but he never looked at me, just singing that damn song. Then he grabbed the rusty steering wheel with his free hand and raised the pistol to his head, aiming the barrel at his bad eye. In his final seconds, he turned his head to me and spoke one last time.

  “You can’t beat the Devil, Jim,” he said. I saw his finger begin to flex, but as it did, an explosion suddenly rocked the truck, a brilliant flash blinding me as I was thrown backwards by a force so strong that I flew through the air like a ragdoll. I hit the ground hard, slid a few feet, then came to rest in a large puddle some fifty feet from the truck. My arm throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch and my chest felt like it was going to explode. I couldn’t catch my breath. I looked at the truck and saw that the interior of it was ablaze, a figure sitting in the driver’s seat screaming in agony as it writhed around, flames leaping from the shattered windows. It looked as if Clancy was trying to open the door, his screams so high and loud that it drowned out every other sound, including the rain. And then darkness took hold of me, dragging me beneath its surface.

  5.

  Harry was chasing me again; chasing me through a field of dead weeds, a full moon illuminating the landscape all around me. I was running from him but knew he was gaining. I could hear the voices getting louder and louder with each step. The voices belonged to Steph and Tami, sounding angry as they screamed profanities at me.

  “You killed us, you cunt,” they yelled in thick gurgling voices. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and saw Harry now just 30 yards behind me, a severed head in each hand. In one hand he had a handful of Tami’s beautiful dark hair, her neck looking like it had been torn from her body. In his other hand was the severed head of Steph. Her eyes were missing, dark holes squirming with maggots staring at me.

  “Why did you let me die,” Tami called out, accusation in her tone. “You let him kill me, you piece of shit. You were supposed to protect me.”

  “I didn’t. I tried to protect you,” I call back, but all three begin to howl with laughter. My feet suddenly tangle up, something caught in between them and I go sprawling into the dirt. I look down to see what had tripped me up and see a long bone, bare of flesh. Then I see dozens of bones lying all around me, if not hundreds. Skulls devoid of flesh, their dark sockets staring at me. I jump to my feet and begin to run again, the laughter gaining ground.

  “Isn’t this your bitch?” Harry suddenly yelled at me and I steal another glance, trying not to fall again. He is holding Tami’s head up, her eyes staring at me with their beautiful shine, her trademark Cheshire grin over her face. “I tasted her cunt as she died,” he cried and they all laughed again, howling in glee as I tried to run faster.

  “He tasted me, Jim, tasted my cunt,” Tami yelled after me. I tried to run faster, my feet feeling like they were floating across the ground. I turned to look again and saw that Harry had stopped, holding both heads up high in front of him. Steph had eyes again, wide, horrified eyes.

  “Jim? You can’t beat the devil, Jim, Jim, Jim-”

  6.

  “Jim,” the voice cried out as I was shaking from side to side. My eyes slowly opened and I could see a shadow bent over me. It was Steph, her voice distant and afraid. There was a sickening smell in the air and for a moment I had no idea what it was. But as I began to remember where I was, remembered the lightning strike and Clancy caught inside the truck, I recognized the unmistakable smell of cooking flesh.

  I tried to sit up, a stabbing pain almost stealing my breath as it tore through my chest. Steph helped me sit up and I saw that the truck was dark again, the fire fully extinguished. The rain had stopped and I could see stars shining in the sky above us.

  “How long was I out for?” I asked, but she shook her head.

  “I don’t know. My watch was fried,” she said. I looked at my watch, the phosphorescent dial staring back at me, but I couldn’t see the second hand moving and held it up to my ear instead. It was also quiet, the time displayed as 8.04. If there had been a moon, it wouldn’t have helped with the time as it didn’t appear as consistently as the sun, and as there wasn’t one, it didn’t make a difference. It was dark and that meant it was still night time. We would just have to walk to Steph’s car and drive back into town.

  Steph helped me to my feet, an act requiring a lot more effort with broken ribs and whatever other injuries my recent flight left me with. As I gained my balance, I glanced at the distant horizon and saw the unmistakable colour of impending dawn. The sky was beginning to turn a dark purple. I pointed at it and Steph groaned.

  “How long were we out for?” she muttered. I walked towards the truck and felt no heat coming from it. I touched the bonnet and felt its cold rusty metal, any hint of the fire long gone. The charred remains of Clancy were still sitting in the seat, now reduced to just a bunch of springs. One hand was still grasping the wheel. I could smell the remains of his flesh, now just ashes, his eternal grin glaring at me. Steph came and stood beside me, saw the skull then turned away, never looking back at the remains of Clancy Higgins.

  7.

  The walk back to her car took us a lot longer, both of us now hobbling and me still nursing my broken ribs. We rested often, sitting on some fallen down tree or high mound of earth, talking about the information we had heard from Clancy.

  “A split personality,” I said in wonder as I sat on a damp log. I realised that it may well be the reason that Jeremy Winters never saw what he wanted to. Probably because he had spoken to either Eddie or Harry. It suddenly dawned on me that if Levinson had been experimenting on Lightman, and Lightman was actually killing the people of Cider Hill, he was somehow smuggling the serial killer out of the prison, as well. I was about to mention this to Steph when she beat me to the punch.

  “Levinson has been getting him out of that prison to do his dirty work,” she said as she puffed on a cigarette.

  “You think he put Clancy up to spying on the Chief?” She nodded, inhaling a drag.

  “I’d put money on it.” I agreed with her, but still wondering how he was getting him out.

  “Can you believe it? Harry Lightman, 3 different personalities. I wonder if that’s the reason there has been two distinct differences between the killings. You know, the angry one and the controlled one.”

  “All I know is that Lightman is the killer and Levinson has been feeding him. We have to get back to town and tell the Chief,” Steph said, stubbing her cigarette out on the log then getting back to her feet. I did the same and we resumed our walk, the sky now growing brighter as the first hints of orange began seeping around the edges of the dark purple night sky. Dawn would be less than a
n hour away and that meant it was close to 7 in the morning.

  8.

  By the time we reached the edge of the car park, the sun was beginning to break, the first rays striking the trees above our heads. I was walking towards the lonely vehicle sitting at the far end, but saw Steph making a beeline for the small office we had sat in when talking with the mill owner.

  “Steph?” I called out to her.

  “Gonna try the phone,” she called back over her shoulder. When we reached the door and tried the knob, it surprised us both to find it swing open. We walked in and found the phone on the desk beside the door. Steph picked up the receiver, listened, then pushed the cradle buttons a couple of times. She listened a second longer then returned the receiver back to its cradle.

  “It’s dead,” she said. She walked into the far office, tried the phone in there and found it to be as useless as the one in here. As we walked out of the office, I saw a tree that had fallen behind the building, a tangle of cables caught within its branches.

  “There’s our problem,” I said, pointing at the tree.

  We walked back to her car and got in. Steph inserted the key, turned it and groaned when the car remained silent. She tried again, then again. She was about to try it a fourth time when I noticed our problem. In our haste to go and find Clancy, neither one of us had noticed that the headlights were still burning and during the night, had completely drained the battery. Steph punched her fist against the steering wheel, screaming.

  “Of all the stupid things to do,” she said when she got herself back under control. We climbed back out, pondering our options. As we were standing there, I heard an approaching car driving along the main road. The car park was mostly hidden from the road by a thick line of trees but the entrance was clear. Without needing me to point it out, Steph began to run towards the entrance, already waving her arms about. The man never turned towards us, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on the road in front. I could see his hat pulled down tight over his ears, both hands on the wheel. As the noise of his engine began to dwindle, Steph launched into a new tirade. I walked towards her, then gave her a squeeze as I walked past, heading for the road. With luck, another car would pass by shortly. But that morning, luck was definitely not on our side.

  9.

  It was almost an hour and a half before another vehicle came slowly ambling up the road behind us. Behind the wheel of the truck sat the oldest man I had ever seen. We had to shout into his face for him to recognize our words. He looked foreign and his words were as alien to us as ours were to him, some foreign tongue neither I nor Steph understood. But he was happy for us to climb into his cabin, his final destination unknown to us. He was however, wearing a wristwatch and when we motioned the universal hand signal for the time to him, he turned his wrist toward Steph.

  “8.52,” she muttered. “How can there be no traffic at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning?” Her question was answered around the following bend, as first the rear end of one car, then another and then another began to show. All up, there was a line of maybe a dozen cars. There was a large gum tree that had been brought down through the night and we could see as many cars on the other side of it, some of which were workers from the mill. Most of the cars were small European ones. They wouldn’t have the power to budge the tree, but if we could somehow find a strong enough rope or cable, we had the vehicle that could do the job.

  Turns out our driver knew exactly what we were thinking. He never slowed down, driving past the line of cars, then turning the truck in an arc and finally reversing it so that it was parked in front of the tree’s lower branches. Another driver approached the truck and as we climbed out, began to shake hands with our driver. We found out his name was Jacob and he was an Italian immigrant. The man followed Jacob to the back of the truck and removed a large chain.

  10.

  What we didn’t know, and what I can tell you thanks to writing this in the future, is that Richard Lovett was living up to his reputation and was about to make the “fuck-up” of his career. A monumental mistake that would cost more lives. The Chief had called him a “pit-bull” and true to his name, wasn’t letting go. For the previous 5 days, Lovett had been busy on the phone, waving his flag about and spreading the word that a free man had been locked away for twenty years. And people were beginning to listen.

  3 days ago, a High Court judge had received a letter from Lovett, detailing the latest developments, the lack of solid evidence in the initial case and the fact that it now appeared that the original perpetrator had returned to his killings. The judge, the Honourable William Pasco, conveyed the letter to four other judges, all of whom agreed to review the case. The five judges had spent the past two days going over every piece of information that had been presented back in 1935. They looked through all the latest evidence provided to them about the latest spate of murders, including the similarities that reappeared at most of the crime scenes. Then, last night they had come together for a late afternoon meeting that continued through until 8pm, right around the time poor Clancy was riding the lightning bolt. A motion was passed that would see the release of one “Harry Lightman” at the prison’s earliest convenience.

  He was going to be freed. The time had been set at 10am, Saturday 12th June. Lovett had ensured that there would be as much publicity as possible, calling every newspaper and radio station he could. He worked for a prestigious law firm in Melbourne and one thing prestigious law firms enjoyed was free publicity, especially when it’s favourable to them.

  11.

  The guards later told me that Harry sat in his cell patiently waiting for one of them to come and escort him to the front of the prison. His belongings, half a dozen books as well as his toothbrush, sat in a box on the floor next to the door. He kept looking at the box, almost meditative and when the guard watching him asked how he felt, he mumbled something about thinking just how little a person truly needed to live in this world. Not survive as such, but rather just to live. He said he didn’t need the clothes he had accumulated as they were mostly prison uniforms. His artwork he had given to one of the other prisoners, together with his paints and brushes. He certainly wasn’t going to need them anymore. Once out in the real world, he’d be able to attain some proper supplies for his art. Proper brushes, paints that had actual brand names and canvases that were purer than white. Ralph said he also asked him how his monetary situation was and Harry gave him a big grin, saying his finances were especially plump, thanks to “a rich uncle”. And as the minutes ticked by, Harry just sat on his bed, hands in his lap and eyes staring at the floor, that grin never leaving his face.

  12.

  Jacob was attaching the chain to his truck while Charlie was trying to push the other end under the branches of the tree. The men on the other side of it pulled the chain through then swung it back across the top. Charlie pulled the chain tight and tightened it around the trunk, pulling smaller branches this way and that to make sure it sat snug. When it looked like it was ready to go, Jacob hobbled back to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  I hadn’t noticed her leave but Steph had spotted a car on the other side of the tree. The driver was June Trapnell, the fifth-grade teacher from Cider Hill Primary and Steph grabbed the opportunity. She climbed a fence on the side of the road, rounded the big gum tree then climbed the fence on the other side of it. As Jacob was starting to crank the truck over, I heard my name being called somewhere from the other side of the tree. I peered over the branches and saw Steph yelling my name, madly waving her arms.

  I followed the path Steph took, ripping my jacket on the barbed wire as I tried to climb through, then hurried toward the two women looking at me.

  “Jim, this is June. She’s offered to drive us to the prison,” she said as I neared them. She seemed more than impatient as she held the door open for me.

  “Wait, the prison? Why the pr-” I began, but she slammed the door closed before I could finish. I was getting ready to ask her again as she climbed in but she spo
ke first.

  “Jim, they’re letting him go,” she said, as June climbed in and fired the engine up.

  “WHAT?” was all I could ask, my mind bursting with shock.

  “It’s been all over the radio, and the morning paper had it on the front page,” June said as she sprayed gravel behind us, the tyres squealing a little as she turned the car around.

  “Why would they let him go?” I asked.

  “The lawyer, some guy named Lovett had sent a letter to a judge in Melbourne and that judge showed it to a bunch of other judges,” June said, trying to convey what little information she had.

  “DAM IT!” I screamed, punching my arm on the door. “I’m sorry,” I said to June, my face burning, unsure of whether I was embarrassed at hitting her car, or angry at what was about to happen. “Did they happen to mention a time?” I asked.

  “The radio said 10 o’clock this morning.” She gripped the wheel tightly as she sped us along, her Mini rattling and bouncing with each pot hole it hit. Steph lent in to look at June’s wristwatch.

  “It’s 9.24. Should only take 10 minutes to get there. Let’s hope,” Steph said. I was considering stopping at one of the farm houses we were passing but then more thoughts jumped out. Not everyone had a phone and what if we chose one that didn’t. We’d be wasting more time. And what if it did work, who would we call? The new Chief? Even if we could convince him over the phone, which I doubted considering our lack of history, then he would still need to make the call to the prison. And if we called the prison direct, we’d have to wait to be put in touch with the warden, and after our last interaction, I knew that his cooperation would be minimal, if at all. No, we would have to do this one on our own. Ten minutes. June was doing good time, her foot a lot heavier than mine or Steph’s. It was our only blessing that morning.