by Stephen Cox
The meadows are a moving-film of smells: hot, dry grasses and herbs, someone burning leaves smells like, ‘Yuck horr-i-ble smoking,’ Cory says, so happy Dad doesn’t smoke now; Mom-Bonnie-Chuck says so bad for people! Dad hates the smell now, even in dreams; he always pulls a face and says, ‘In twenty years, this disgusting habit will be banned in public.’
Cory likes to touch the rough-rough black-grey bark of the cherry and to peel the paper from the birch. He feels with his mind small animals scurrying, he feels things humans don’t.
They play chase and catch and make up stories and Cory flicks from sight whenever anyone comes into sight, other children, adults, even a strange dog.
‘No, Princess Power won’t be captured,’ declares Bonnie. ‘Boys are slow and stupid, capture one of them. Princess Power is far too fast . . . and invisible . . . and she can fly . . .’
‘Let’s play Musketeers,’ Chuck suggests. ‘You can be a queen who uses a sword . . .’
‘Pleeese play with us, Bonnie. Pleeese!’
Chuck gets bored. ‘Last one to the waterhole is a tree-snail,’ he says, starting to run, but Cory trips him and Chuck, laughing, goes flat with a whoof. Bonnie, always serious about winning, is way ahead.
‘Cory, that’s cheating, I don’t play with cheats . . .’ And then he is off again.
There is a fine oak tree with a rope and a plank swing growing over the waterhole. The sun is warm, but the murky water doesn’t entice them; Halloween is a time for telling stories.
‘They say a kid drowned here, years back,’ Chuck says, his voice low and scary. ‘Maybe there’s a ghost!’
‘My friend says a child drowns here every so often. They think the waterhole is cursed.’ Bonnie tosses her head, wanting them to know she wouldn’t think anything that silly.
Cory doesn’t know about ghosts; his people don’t stay around when they die, but maybe humans do haunt places. Or maybe ghosts are the Earth, dreaming of its loss.
There is a sudden flash of light, a little out in the scrubland, and something out there moves. Cory instantly drops into a crouch and hides. Peering through the gap in the trees, he sees two men in dark coats. The taller one has something raised to his face and is pointing it straight at Cory. It glints in the sun.
Cory is really scared he’s been seen; he’s full of bad feelings. As the men start striding towards the waterhole, Cory takes his friends by the hand and hides them all. It is time to slip away, to lose the men in pathways too twisted for adults.
‘Those guys are real creepy,’ Chuck says when they are hidden in their secret hidey-hole deep in the undergrowth.
‘He had binoculars,’ Bonnie points out. ‘They were just birdwatchers.’
Chuck frowns. ‘Maybe we should tell Mrs Myers – they might have seen Cory.’
‘Cory had his hood up – and you hid straight away, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Cory so-so careful. What do?’
‘We should tell a grown-up,’ Chuck repeats.
‘Are you scared, Charles Henderson?’ Bonnie looks smug. ‘Well, tell if you want to. Of course, if we do tell, Mrs Myers will worry and Cory won’t be allowed trick-or-treating.’
Cory feels quivery inside; he has enormous hopes for this Halloweeen with his friends. He wants a dry night for trick-or-treating, he wants Pumpkin Jack to come with his grin of fire and his cloak of fall leaves, scattering live bats and candy. There is so much scaring to be done, so many treats to collect.
And down-on-the-meadow without grown-ups is fun. Will Mom say, no trips to the meadow without a grown-up, and rules, and the whistle . . . ?
After a while, Chuck concedes, ‘Well, I guess people are down here all the time. Cory had his hood up and he hid. It’s no big deal.’
On the way back, they are careful to look before leaving the protection of the bushes. There is a big black car on the track, even though the sign says, No Vehicles, and another man in a dark coat is sitting on the hood, smoking and cleaning something with a cloth. He has a damaged face.
Cory hides them again and they go home the long way around. He decides he will tell his mom if anything else happens; he will be so-so careful.
Halloweeen is coming. Molly says Cory was made for Halloweeen and it was made for Cory.
CHAPTER 25
Halloween
Molly watched a single yellow leaf spiral down to the ground. The kids had gathered in their garden, Cory tick-tick-ticking with excitement at going out with his friends. The robe of red and gold was ‘best-best Halloweeen costume ever Mom!’
‘I’m too tired to go,’ Molly said. ‘You guys have fun; I’ll stay here and hand out candy. And then we’ll have ice-cream later.’
Gene hugged her and said, ‘You okay?’
‘Just tired.’ The sadness had come without warning, but she didn’t have to explain.
No one would notice Cory, just the Halloween costume: the robe, the pirate hat, the fake beard. If he clowned a little, the oddness of his movements would look deliberate. And in any case, he could hide.
Chuck maintained he was Cory’s big brother, and as the official job included teasing, he’d arrived as a purple-faced alien in clothes of torn turkey foil. Bonnie made a pretty little ninja, sporting a red silk flower in her headband, just to make sure no one really thought she was a boy. Molly took seven photos of the children, laughing together under the trees, and gave them one last lecture about the Robertsons’ dog.
She waved them off from the porch: her husband, her son and his best friends. So many feelings crowded in on her: past losses and disappointments, a little tug of anxiety about the trick-or-treating, but now there was also hope. When they were out of sight, something drew her to the last bottle of Scotch, hidden behind the bleach under the kitchen sink. She looked at the bottle while the clock ticked away the minutes, then she made a big drink that was mostly soda. The nagging need was always there; she had fought so long and so well, one day wouldn’t matter.
She went and sat in the porch of her strange old house and watched the street light come on. Her camera sat in her lap, in case she saw that perfect shot. The sky turned itself down another notch. Birds swooped, and out came the first bats of the evening.
She was startled from her reverie by two loud bangs, somewhere very near, sending birds flying upwards in alarm. Teenagers had been setting off firecrackers for the last day or two and the joke was wearing thin.
A small truck sporting the familiar blues and golds of the water company had drawn up and parked outside the Hardesty place; the empty house was up for sale and she didn’t give it much thought, other than to wonder in passing what had brought them out this late.
Two big men in dark coats got out of the truck, followed by a third, shorter man. They strode towards her, walking like someone owed them money.
A little voice inside her woke up, muttering that something was wrong. Water company staff wore uniforms; the one time she’d seen a manager, he’d been in the soberest of suits. Something about the coats, something about the way these men walked, wasn’t right. The tallest man was swinging a toolbox from his left hand, but not as a workman would.
It was as if she were watching a play unfolding.
‘Mrs Myers?’ the short one called. He walked with such a swagger, he reminded her of Napoleon in the movie of Waterloo. He had greased dark hair and unhealthy skin. ‘We’ve had complaints about the water,’ he said. ‘Can we talk?’
The tallest man had dead piggy eyes. It didn’t add up, it was all very wrong. She rose to go inside—
—and then the world tipped over into something else, because Napoleon drew something dark from his coat, trying to hold it so that only Molly could see he was pointing a gun right at her belly.
Her heart hammered and she felt a fist in her throat. Far away a car engine revved, someone made ghost noises and laughed, and here this man w
as threatening her on her own porch, but there was no one else at their private end of their street, no witnesses.
He walked towards her. ‘Mrs Myers, I don’t want anyone to be hurt, least of all the freak, but if you scream or do anything stupid, people are gonna be hurt.’ He paused, waiting for her to take it all in. ‘Where’s the kid?’
Molly had patched gun wounds at the hospital. She had comforted a mother whose son had found his dad’s loaded shotgun. Maybe she should take her chances, scream and see if he did shoot her. But on Halloween in quiet Amber Grove, maybe people would think it was kids messing about.
Her mind was running so slowly: her stupidity was so clear now, but too late. Napoleon was already on the porch, the gun still pointed at her. The tallest man, Mr Big, had followed. Molly looked out into the gloom, desperate to give Gene some warning so he could take the children to safety.
The third man, with savage scars on his jaw, stayed off the porch keeping watch. Grinning, he pulled back his coat to show her the gun in his waistband.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s not here,’ Molly said. Fool, fool, fool! You should’ve spotted the danger.
‘So we wait. Inside.’ The two of them bustled her into her house, while Scarface watched from the doorway. Napoleon was close enough that she could smell his mouthwash. Something hard touched the small of her back.
She could run to the back door and try to get into the woods. And Napoleon might shoot her, in the leg or the body.
‘Find somewhere to sit and we’ll talk, all cosy,’ the boss said.
Molly stood at the kitchen door while Mr Big ripped the phone cord in two with a savage knife. She couldn’t think what to do. She went into the kitchen, flicking on the light like a sleepwalker, and sat, cold with fright. Napoleon lounged across the table from her, the gun under one hand. Mr Big stood behind him. She heard the front door slam. Now all three strangers were in the house.
These two looked at all the crockery from her aunt, the stuff that hadn’t been smashed on Meteor Day, and Cory’s drawings on the fridge. The blue and white enamel coffee pot was on the side, the bottle of Scotch she’d left out on the table.
She ought to have known something was wrong with that truck. She could’ve been inside the house before a gun was drawn . . . She had to focus, and she had to have a plan.
‘Nice house,’ Napoleon said. ‘Make yourself a drink while you’re waiting.’ He yanked the picture off the fridge and peered at it. ‘What kinda weird nonsense is this?’ he said, his mouth pulled down like it tasted bad.
Molly was Mamma Grizzly; she had to protect her cubs. ‘I demand you tell me what this is about.’ Her voice sounded high and weak.
‘Just business,’ said Napoleon. ‘We’re guessing Uncle Sam will pay great money to have the freak, so no reason to harm it if you play along. One of you’ll come along, be sure it gets what it needs, food and stuff. It’s much more valuable alive.’
Could she reason with them? Appeal to their better nature? ‘He’s a he, not a freak. His name is Cory and I’m his mother.’ A stupid mother who got careless and now needed to put it right.
All three men snorted.
There was no way out. Sooner or later, Gene and Cory would be coming in the front door, expecting her to welcome them with kisses and hugs. Gene, her tall bookworm, the man who rescued spiders from the bath, the man who massaged her feet, could do nothing against guns. She needed to focus.
‘How did you find out?’ she said. Knowing more might help.
Napoleon laughed. ‘Ah, it kinda fell into our laps. We were collecting a debt and we brought his new girlfriend along for leverage, geddit?’ He licked his lips. ‘Pretty girl. Name of Jane Hooton.’
The nurse who’d turned against Cory, the fool who’d told Pfeiffer. She tried not to give the thug the satisfaction of reacting, but he smiled anyway. ‘Her man couldn’t pay and it was gonna end pretty badly – well, for him – till she started crying her heart out and turned out, whaddya know, the two of them had this plan to come back to Amber Grove. She figured out you lied about how many freak bodies there were. So boy, did we ever win the jackpot.’
Molly felt sick. She didn’t even dare ask if the woman she so disliked had come to some horrible end.
‘We reckon a million dollars,’ Napoleon said, grinning. ‘Not bad for a few days’ work. When’s the kid due back?’
‘I don’t know.’ She had nothing to bargain with.
The doorbell rang, but of course it wouldn’t be Gene and Cory.
Napoleon looked at her, levelling his weapon. ‘On your feet,’ he said. ‘One of us’ll stand by the door. Open it, but don’t step out. Put all the candy out so people can just take it. Then you won’t have to answer the door again.’ He smirked; he thought he was such a genius.
She imagined who might be standing on the doorstep: trick-or-treaters out looking for candy – but these Halloween monsters might grab a kid as a hostage. If she went to the door and screamed, she might put them in danger.
Molly’s desperate plan came together, but she had to act fast. The back door was unlocked. She picked up the bowl of candy.
Napoleon walked out of the kitchen and stood to one side, ready to escort her. Scarface was already by the front door – and, yes, here was her break. Mr Big was staying in the kitchen, helping himself to her Scotch. Their first real mistake.
Her heart pounding, she hit Napoleon with the heavy earthenware bowl, aiming for his head, but his reflexes were too fast; he was already raising his arm and she got his shoulder instead.
‘Shit,’ he said, grabbing at her as the bowl shattered on the floor. She stamped on his foot and then his hand was over her mouth, so she bit him till her jaw hurt and shoved him away. She was free and down the back corridor, shouting, ‘Help! Help—!’ Her hand was on the back door handle—
—but who would hear? Mr Forster over the road would already be close to the bottom of the first bottle; he might not notice a couple of Russian tanks if they ran over his lawn. Where to run? She had to warn whoever was at the front of the house.
Someone turned her radio up as loud as it went, and then someone else rammed into her back. The stench of cheap cologne overwhelmed her as her head slammed into the door and nothing was quite clear after that.
Scarface snarled ‘Shut up, bitch!’ in her ear and she felt his body pressed against her as he yanked one arm behind her.
‘I only need one of you,’ Napoleon said.
Although her head was ringing she could see the boss’ hand was bleeding. ‘I oughtta cut your fucking nose off.’
They dragged her back into the kitchen and shoved a dirty handkerchief in her mouth, then Napoleon bound her hands behind her and taped her mouth shut.
There she sat, biting the foul-tasting cloth to keep herself together. Napoleon took a drink, fury in his eyes, and rummaged in the freezer for ice, which he wrapped in a tea towel and held to his wound. Mr Big, a slow mover, held his gun on her.
‘If she causes any trouble, Ed, you blow her leg off, like you did that laundry guy.’
How rich with love these months with Cory had been, but the dark clouds were always waiting; she’d always known everything could end right there. The drink made you careless. It’s your fault.
The kitchen clock ticked, ten silent minutes, fifteen.
Then she heard the rap at the door: shave and a haircut, two bits. She sat up. The men rose and Napoleon put a mocking finger to his lips. Molly could hear Gene and Cory laughing on the porch, one low chuckle and one high, with no effort to be quiet, which told her the rest of the street was deserted.
‘Ho-ho-ho Dad. Don’t teeese!’
Mr Big loped out to join Scarface in the hall. Napoleon stuck his gun in Molly’s side and said, ‘Sister, one noise and you’re dead or bleeding in the basement and taking a day to die. I only need one of yo
u alive.’
Her head pounding, Molly stepped into the hall, still trying to figure if there was anything she could do. Block Napoleon’s gun, perhaps. She might be able to save Cory, but not herself, as Cory’s first mother had. She heard the key in the lock and the door swung open.
To her dismay, in came Cory at a run. ‘Mom Mom Mom such good trick-or-treat—’ He held up his robe, his beard poking from a pocket and his sack of loot in his free hand. He skidded to a halt, dropping the candy, and screeched.
Gene, stepping through the door, gasped when he saw Mr Big and the gun.
‘Do what we say, and no one will be hurt,’ Napoleon said, showing himself as Scarface slammed the door behind Gene.
Cory’s outer tentacles splayed out; the delicate inner ones retracted. His ears went right down, but he didn’t move. Molly trembled. Lord help him, he’s too scared to act. If he’d been behind Gene, maybe he could’ve got away . . . Hide, Cory, hide!
‘Get the freak – take him through there,’ Napoleon ordered. ‘Nobody has to get hurt in this. Play along and we’ll all—’
‘Bad Men!’ squeaked Cory.
There was a ripple of tentacles, a shiver that filled the hall, and suddenly there was no Cory.
‘Get out of here!’ Gene cried. ‘Run, Cory, run!’
The three men pivoted, trying to see where Cory had gone.
‘Where’d he go?’ cried Mr Big, the first words she’d heard him say.
‘G-g-go to hell,’ Gene said.
Molly could see his body shaking.
‘You okay, Molly?’
‘Quit yakking. Where’s the freak?’ Napoleon waved at Mr Big, ‘Look in that room, then the kitchen. Make sure the back door’s locked.’ To Gene and Molly, ‘Stand there. If you move an inch, I’ll shoot.’