by N V Peacock
I wait for a moment, then sprint across to the Ghost Train. No one is near this ride; it’s as solitary as a haunted attraction should be. They haven’t locked the back door, so I step inside. Trespassing is far too easy. Part of me is happy about this; it’s made my breaking and entering less breaking and just entering. However, another part of me is pissed it was this easy. If they don’t lock the ride, the skeleton could have easily gotten in and lain in wait for Robin and me. Jumped into our cart to have that first important introduction before stealing my son. Everyone else was far too busy oohing and aahing over glowing paintings of scary creatures to recognise the real danger.
It’s dark, so I get out my mobile and switch on the torch. I stumble my way along the ride, moving around stationary carts, checking for signs of … I’m not sure what I’m even looking for. I’m here because Mariah told me to come. I didn’t listen to her once before and look what happened. I guess I’m here for peace of mind, to prove she’s a good guesser rather than a psychic; however, that would mean what she said about Robin still being alive is false hope. No, he’s alive. If he’d died, it would have been like a cosmic claw across my chest. I would have suddenly crumpled to the floor into a pile of useless flesh and sobs. It hasn’t happened yet, so he must still be alive.
As I move further in, I realise what little attention I paid to the ride the last time I was here. Along the edges of the tracks are various tableaux made up of wax dummies. My torch highlights one of a boy dressed in a bright white T-shirt and dark tracksuit bottoms lying on the ground with blood smeared over his wax lips. When I get closer, I see someone has written Thomas Doncaster on his white T-shirt, and removed his shoes. I gasp and almost drop my phone. What bastard has done this? Do people think it’s funny that a boy was brutally murdered? Trying to wipe the letters off the dummy’s shirt, I rub the material so hard the ink blurs its lines, but the name is still recognisable. I can’t erase the wicked joke.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper to the wax boy, and then carry on walking up the tracks.
As I move, I hear muffled voices coming from around the bend. I inch as close as I can and use my free hand to cover the torch on my phone. Darkness engulfs me, yet it somehow improves my hearing. I make out two male voices. One younger than the other.
‘I don’t want to,’ says the younger one.
‘You’ll love it,’ says the older, deeper voice.
‘I should go home,’ the younger one whines.
‘Don’t be a chicken. No one likes a chicken.’ I hear shuffling.
People talk about a mother’s instincts as if they are some superpower. As my mum was less than instinctual about her care of me, I never believed in them; until Robin was born. Right now, my instincts are flaring like the snout of a bull ready to charge. Something horrible is about to happen – at least I’m here to stop it.
Chapter 30
I rush forward. Round the bend of the track, I see two shadows struggling. The taller of the two slaps the other. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoes through the dark. Sprinting towards them, I body tackle the tall shadow. We topple over and hit the ground at an awkward angle. Looking down, I see his jeans are around his ankles; it’s why he fell so easily.
The smaller shadow – a young boy – cowers against the wall. I shine my torch on him. He’s barely twelve. The one beneath me struggles. Scrambling up, I kick him hard in the stomach. He gulps for air and tries to roll away from me. I turn to the younger boy.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I didn’t want to. He was going to make me.’ Even in the weak light of my mobile, I can see the boy is shivering.
The man on the ground is probably in his late twenties, with a short bushy beard, which makes him look older. He’s hugging his chest and gasping for air.
‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ the young boy whispers.
A surge of anger rides my body. I step forward and kick the man on the floor again, this time in the groin. As my boot connects, he yells out in anguish.
The young boy tugs on the back of my coat. As I turn around, he throws himself into my arms. I hold him and, while patting his back with one hand, I dial 999 on my phone.
‘What’s your emergency?’ the voice on the other end asks. Suddenly, I’m catapulted back to Friday night, to the last time I made a similar call. Shaking my head, my brain clicks into place. I’m about to tell them to send someone to the fair when the boy in my arms shakes himself free.
‘Please, don’t tell. I’ll get in trouble for coming here. I don’t want anyone to know about this.’
Sighing, I say, ‘Sorry, false alarm.’
‘Are you sure, ma’am?’ comes the operator’s voice.
‘Yes, so sorry. I’ll hang up now.’ I disconnect the call, and put my phone in my pocket. Darkness drapes over us, a darkness broken only with the intermittent glowing, red eyes of a nearby plastic zombie.
I place my palms gently on the boy’s shoulders; smiling I say, ‘It’s okay. You’re okay.’ As I turn away, my smile fades. The bastard on the ground needs to pay for what he tried to do. He could have done it before. No doubt, he’ll do it again. The next boy might not be so lucky. Wait, could this squirming sicko holding his junk be the skeleton from the Ghost Train? Could he be a viler version of Mr Bones, a copycat with an added twist?
Moving forward, I kick him in the face. Warm wetness splashes out into the surrounding dark.
I bend down to whisper in his ear. ‘Did you take my son?’ My voice is unrecognisable. The anger dripping from the words has tainted its tone, as if a demon has possessed me and my head could spin around at any moment.
The man on the floor writhes. Taking out my phone, I highlight his face in its torchlight. He looks scared. Good.
‘Was your son the one that went missing?’ the younger boy asks me.
I look over at him. Although he’s stepped back a few paces, I’m surprised he’s still here, watching. In the dark, I can’t tell whether he’s frozen with fear, or fired with vengeance.
‘Yes, my son is Robin,’ I say. ‘Have you seen him around here?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ He looks down.
‘You should leave now,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t move. Vengeance it is then.
The bastard on the ground is moving too much. He keeps shifting parts of his body out of my spotlight, so I place my boot on his chest to steady him. I press down a little and he groans. He could easily push me off if his hands weren’t protecting his vulnerable boy-bits; fortunately, he doesn’t seem to realise this.
‘What’s this fuckwit’s name?’ I ask the young boy, nodding to my prisoner.
‘Not sure. I only met him last night on the Ferris wheel. He works at the fair. He said he had gin, and he’d share it with me if I met him tonight before the place opened.’
I put more pressure on the would-be rapist’s ribs. His face screws up in pain.
‘You should go now. Get home where it’s safe.’ I look over at the young boy who nods at me.
‘Will you be all right with him, here, in the dark?’ he asks.
‘I’ll be fine. Go home. Now.’
Giving me a weak smile, he walks backwards for a second, then turns around to run up the tracks. I see a flash of light as he reaches the end of the Ghost Train, and escapes into the bright lights of the fair.
At some point, this jackass on the floor will get a hold of his fear and figure out he can overpower me. I’m not a trained assassin, or an enforcer. I have never even taken a self-defence class, yet deep inside the pit of my stomach my instincts have taken over. There’s a primitive knowledge ingrained in me. All I have to do is channel Little Bones.
Slipping my mobile back into my pocket, I bend down to cover his mouth with one hand; with the other, I grab his nose between my thumb and forefinger. The moment I do, he bucks beneath my boot, so I push all my weight down to hold him in place. He’s struggling to breathe. It’s dark, so I can’t see his eyes; the red flashing lights only afford ran
dom snapshots, but I’m betting they’re glassy like a wild animal caught on a busy road.
‘You will tell me where Robin is, and God help you if you’ve hurt him,’ I say.
I let go of the man’s nose and he gasps for air. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go, you crazy bitch!’
‘Oh, I’m not crazy, I’m a mother, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my son. Even if that something involves gifting a timely end to a child sex offender.’
‘I didn’t touch your kid,’ he whines.
I pull out my mobile and shine the torch back onto his face. ‘Why did you dress up like a skeleton? Do you know who I am? Do you want to be the next Mr Bones?’
He gurgles. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you are. I don’t dress up as a skeleton. I don’t even work on this fucking Ghost Train. Who the fuck is Mr Bones?’
Suddenly, his hand shoots away from cupping his balls. He grabs my boot resting on his chest, and tries to pull me off balance. In doing so, he’s left a vital piece of anatomy exposed. I step back and out of his weak grasp and take another swing kick at his groin. I feel the impact up through my leg. He doubles over again.
‘Please.’ He dribbles, his hands shooting back to his balls.
Adrenaline builds in my body along with a pleasant, just feeling. I’m about to kick him again when there’s a metallic crunching sound. All around me, the Ghost Train cranks to life. The fair must be open now.
‘Please, let me up. I swear I never touched your son.’
I look down at him. ‘How many young boys have you raped and killed? Did you kill Thomas Doncaster?’
‘No! Fuck, no! You’ve got this all wrong.’ He waves at me. Realising he’s left his groin exposed again, he quickly covers it back up.
‘Bull. Shit.’
I can now hear the fair’s tweeny-bopper pop music, along with the creepy sounds of the Ghost Train. Puffs of dry ice begin to surge around us. Any minute now, there will be a cart full of kids chugging around the bend. And they will see a live action tableau they’ll never forget.
‘Tell me a number. If you’re honest about it, I’ll let you go.’
‘None.’ He splutters and quickly adds, ‘Two, I promise, and they were drunk, but I never killed them. I swear.’
Visions of my son with this asshole jolt across my mind like electric shocks. I scan the nearest gothic diorama for a makeshift weapon. In the dark, I see a hefty-looking shape. Grabbing it, I raise it up over my head, ready to slam it down onto the rapist’s skull.
‘Please, no. I’m sorry I touched them; but I never killed anyone. I’ve never met your son. Please stop.’ He moans.
Mid-swing, I stop and look up to see I’ve picked up a fake headstone. An echo of that bloody children’s rhyme rattles through me, Each night they moan for their own headstones. Dropping my weapon, I carefully place my boot back onto his chest to hold him still. I bend down to stare at him. The snivelling little fucker may be a rapist, but he does not have the attitude, or the eyes, of a killer – I know what they look like.
‘You gave alcohol to minors. That’s your excuse. Did you give alcohol to my son?’
‘No!’
‘Which caravan out there is yours?’
‘It’s the one with the green door.’
‘If you do this again, I’ll know. A psychic told me where to find you, so if you ever even think about hurting another kid, she’ll tell me, and I’ll come back. Only next time I’ll be more prepared with knives and peroxide and …’ My mind clouds as if I’m coming out of a daze. I shake it off and lift my boot off his chest. Shivers rack my body. Stumbling back, I put my hands to my face; my fingers are so cold and numb that they no longer feel like they’re mine anymore. I run for the exit.
As the doors open, I bend over, put my hands on my knees, and puke. A group of teenagers point and laugh at me as if I’m some wimp who can’t handle a Ghost Train.
What did I just do in there? It was like another world; a world where I could get away with torturing a man in the dark.
Scanning the fair, I spot the workers’ caravans. I check each line until I see a green door.
I climb the small unsteady metal stairs and knock. There’s no answer. I reach down to the handle; it’s unlocked.
I open the door.
Chapter 31
The smell of alcohol and old junk food smacks me in the face, making me wince.
‘Robin?’ I yell. ‘Sweetie, are you in here?’
I want to find my son; I just don’t want to find him here.
The caravan has all the essentials: a kitchen, a dining room table, a shower, a toilet, and a large flat-screen TV with a DVD player. There’s even a bookcase labouring beneath hundreds of shamelessly unhidden porn DVDs.
I check everywhere a sick bastard could hide a young boy. Nothing. I sit down on the edge of his bed and close my eyes; when I open them, I feel numb again.
I stagger out of the caravan. I shouldn’t have hurt its owner but perhaps he’ll think twice now, when he looks at another young boy with hungry eyes.
As I walk, I check in all the other caravan windows. No signs of Robin.
Strolling back through the fair, I get a few odd looks. I don’t slink into the shadows, as I should. Instead, I walk, head held high. Carefully, I watch the fair workers to gauge their reaction to my presence. Some of them recognise me. They have the decency to look sad and concerned. After all, Robin went missing on their turf. Some sneer at me, though, as if they realise what I’ve just done.
Quickly, I look around the Carousel and the Ferris wheel, yet find nothing. Mariah is wrong. There’s no evidence Robin is here now, or even that he was ever here with me on Friday night.
By the time I get back to the car, my legs hurt, and my body has used up all its adrenaline. I fall into the driver’s seat, but can’t force my feet to put any pressure on the pedals. I want to cry. Nothing comes out. With shaky hands, I scoop up my mobile. I text Leo where I am and ask for help. I’m not even sure he’ll come. While I wait, I text Patricia that a man in a green caravan at the fair is hurting young boys, that they should investigate. I expect her to text back and ask if I’ve done something silly, but she doesn’t. Instead I get an, Okay, we’ll look into it. It’s a risk; the rapist could easily tell them of my attack, but my conscience can’t leave him free to hurt any more young boys. Never will I make that mistake again.
Twenty minutes later, Leo is tapping on the window. He opens the car door. I slide out.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘You know what I’m doing here.’
Silently, he manoeuvres me into the passenger seat. We drive home in silence.
I open my front door to the smell of chips.
‘Thought you’d be home straight after seeing your dad, so they’re cold now,’ Leo says.
I follow my nose to the Drunken Schooner bag. I open it and stuff a handful of greasy goodness into my mouth. My boyfriend watches me fill my cheeks with cold chips like a chipmunk.
‘I’m suing Jai Patel,’ he blurts out.
‘Really?’
Leo motions for us to sit at the dining room table.
‘I tried to get the police involved. Robin’s disappearance is an open case; this The Flesh on the Bones thing jeopardises our son’s safety. However, apparently, there are no regulations for podcasts. He can say whatever he wants, so I contacted a solicitor who Mum plays golf with at her club. He says we have a case.’
‘Will that work?’ I grab another fistful of chips and ram them into my mouth. Even cold, they taste great; the salt, vinegar and beef dripping are all congealed and clinging to the fat slices of potato.
‘Probably not. I’m just hoping the threat will stop Jai. After all, he is sort of telling the truth.’
I stop mid-chew to let the contents of my mouth fall out onto the table so I can speak. ‘What did you say?’
‘He’s just going over your dad’s case. I mean he was convicted and has bee
n in prison for quite some time now.’
‘He’s talking about my mum and me too. He accuses me of hurting Robin in the latest episode!’
My boyfriend takes a huge bite of fishcake. After an impossibly long time he looks up, into my eyes. ‘Last night, I dreamt about you again,’ he says, shifting the subject.
‘Was it like the last dream when I tried to kill you with a pillow?’
‘No, Robin was in it. We were on the beach playing in the sand, but we couldn’t make the sand stick together to make castles. We’d fill a bucket, turn it over, and the bloody stuff would just keep falling out. You then turned your red buckets on me and buried me up to my neck. This time the sand held together like cement. Mum says it’s just my frustration about you losing Robin manifesting.’
‘Your mum the psychologist eh? Tell me, did she get her degree at the country club?’ I say popping a cold chip into my mouth.
‘She’s just trying to help, Cherrie.’ Leo huffs and looks away from me.
How is throwing out wild theories villainising me helping? ‘You know, that’s the second dream you’ve told me about in a week.’
‘Huh? What? I can’t tell you my dreams?’
‘You never have before. I don’t remember you ever telling me about your dreams. In the first, I’m smothering you with a pillow from our bed. In the second, I’m building a sandcastle around you up to your neck. It’s odd, that’s all.’
‘Maybe I’m just annoyed you’re not doing what you said. You told me you’d fix this, that you’d find Robin.’
‘I’m trying, but I don’t have all the clues. Have the police said anything to you?’
‘Not really. Patricia is supposed to update us on everything, but I’ve barely seen her since she swanned off to another case. They’ve only told me stuff when I’ve pushed for it.’