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For Children
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| MockingBird Nights: Interlude | |
| By TomtomKent | ||
| 13 April 2007 | ||
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The third Mocking Bird Nights short. Not a mystery in it's own right, but a chance to expand on the main character and the world they inhabit. This is designed to tie together a few of the threads from the previous two chapters, and start the story line that will run through the rest of the short stories. This is unusual as it is the only one I have planned that is dependant on the other stories, rather than being a stand alone adventure. Three: Interlude. Jack Thunder stood for the initial hearing of his trial on a day that was painted silver by a thin mist floating in to town from the lake. I stood in the public gallery and watched his eyes as he pleaded guilty to breaking my friends leg in three places with a baseball bat. He was refused bail on the advise of the State Police’s official Psychiatrist, and remanded in custody at the state prison until such a time as his trial could begin. The main event of the day had much more fanfare. After Thunder was dragged out of the courtroom a crowd started to grow around me in the gallery. Cheerleaders arrived first, mourning one of their own who hadn’t died, but would not wield a Pom-Pom in anger again. Then the local reporters. Then the national reporters. Then the curious, the neighbours, the friends of the parents and the just plain curious. A lot of people wanted to hear why Hawk Lucky had pushed Natasha Piercer off a roof top. He pleaded guilty to Attempted Murder. He was denied bail. He gazed at the world looking down at him, then he filed out of the courtroom, staring at his feet. His every muscle screamed that he longed for the world to open up and swallow him. He met my eyes, and I gazed into an abyss. I saw the soul of a man who didn’t care what the Judge sentenced him to. A man who believed his slate could never be wiped clean. I sat in the Visitors booth of the state prison and waited until Hawk Lucky sat opposite me. He stared at me, trying to size me up. “Cops say you helped put me here.” He said. “I’m sorry.” I was not sure what else I could say. “Don’t be.” He craned his head back and tried to stretch. The Prison had struggled to find overalls that fitted him. “I didn’t know how to go to police. To tell them what I’d done.” “I didn’t do it to help you.” I admitted. “I did it for friends.” “I wont thank you.” He replied. “But I don’t hate you for what you did.” “I thought you should know why I did it.” I said. “Why I grassed on you.” “Okay.” He admitted. Then he sat back again. “Thanks for visiting. I don’t get many. Just family. So what’s up in your world?” “I can’t remember names.” I said. Quietly. “Not since that week. When one of your team mates hit me on the head.” “Oh.” He replied. He was surprised. So was I. I didn’t know why I had admitted that to him. “I kept thinking Jacks name was Danny. And a few times since. Names blur, or fade, or merge together or attach themselves to the wrong people.” “Ok.” Hawk was looking a little scared now. He thought an insane man had come to pay a visit. “Seen a Doctor yet?” “No.” I shook my head. “I’m going to. But I wanted to see you first. To talk to you. To ask you questions. But now I’m here I can’t. I look at you, and no matter how I ask my questions, how much I want to know the answers, it would just be torturing you. Kicking you while you’re down.” “Why did you want to ask them?” “Because Natasha can’t.” It was the simple truth. He slid a bunch a letters through the slot in the glass to me. They were addressed to Natasha. The bags under his eyes pleaded with me. I took them. I promised to pass them on. “Stress.” Doctor Logan told me. “Exhaustion. You have run your body to breaking point. Your mind too. It can’t focus. So you forget things. Names. Numbers. Maybe even facts or figures.” “Never numbers.” I told him. “Or knots, or addresses, or facts. Just names. Always names.” “I see.” He stroked his chin. “Sleep. Rest. Relax. Watch films. See me again in two weeks if it hasn’t resolved itself. But I think your fine.” I stared into his eyes, watched his mannerisms, his tone, his breathing, his eyes. He was telling the truth as far as he knew. “I have been hit around the head. A lot.” “Yes. I see that on your file. A car crash, a wooden bat, several punches, a moving jeep... I didn’t know there was an apprentice scheme for Stuntmen. But none of those damaged your noggin in the way you think. Trust me. Sleep. Find a nice girl. Stop drinking coffee. You will feel better.” He smiled, brushing imaginary dirt from the silver hair around his prune like face. “Trust me.” I went back to the house I was starting to think of as home. My room is in the basement. It’s not luxury, but it could be worse. I sat at my desk and for the first time since the crash, I couldn’t think of what to type here, for you. I left the letters for Natasha there, and weighed them down under the mug that I keep pens in. I lay back on my bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. My world was far too quiet. Cherry let herself down into the basement and sat next to me. She put a hand by my cheek. “Mum wants to know why you booked an appointment at the doctors without telling her.” Cherry whispered. “I’m ok.” I assured her. “Apparently I have stress issues.” “Yeah.” She admitted. “I noticed that about your life. This town was so dull until a few weeks ago.” I didn’t have to look to see that a huge grin had planted itself firmly on her face. “Next time you get shot at by kidnappers I want in.” She warned me. “I don’t like loose ends.” I told her. “Loose ends? Like what?” “Loose ends... Loose ends like... Why was I taken from that petrol station? The gunmen thought that a Fred was going to be there. Why? Why did that girl point the finger at me?” I closed my eyes. “Things like that stick in my head and wont shake loose. I can’t let go of them.” “Frank.” Cherry whispered. “They called you Frank. Not Fred.” “That’s why I went to the Doctor.” I said. “I keep getting names wrong.” “Only when people try and kill you.” Cherry giggled. “He was on that bus.” I said quietly. “They were following the bus.” “The police questioned all the kids.” Cherry held my hand. “They questioned me. No one had heard of a boy called Frank.” “They lied.” I was so sure of that. “Or they told a half truth. We assume it was a guy.” “They said it was a guy.” “They hadn’t seen the boy. They didn’t know. He could have been a girl. Frank could be a Francine, or Frances, or.. Or...” “Don’t.” Cherry squeezed my hand tighter. “Don’t make it your problem. I’ll speak to the police.” She promised me. Then she took the letters for Natasha and told me to stay home and relax. She almost managed to hide the fact that she was slightly scared for me. Lawrence found me in the kitchen, an hour later, with the local newspaper opened to the personal ads. I had circled six prospective jobs. Mostly in fast food joints or a supermarket outside of town. One was for the local bookshop. I had circled that three times. Lawrence stopped to look at me for a little while too long as he was pouring himself a beer, and it overflowed out of the glass and over his fingers. “You don’t need to rush about finding a job just yet. When your dads house is sold, the probate will be enough for you take your time and find your feet.” He sat next to me. “Need to talk?” “I don’t need a job for money.” I replied. “I need it for sanity.” “Ah.” He smiled. “The Book Shelf? Good choice.” He passed me his phone. I dialled the number in the advert and waited for the other end to pick up. “Book Shelf.” A tired, male, depressing monotone answered. “Hi. I saw your advert in the local paper and wondered if you could give me more details on the vacancy.” “Oh.” The voiced sucked in breath and spat out an acidic tone. “I’m sorry, we are waiting to give that job to someone old enough to have read a book. A real book. One you can give informed opinions on. And no, I don’t mean anything that comes in a trilogy, features wizards either before or after puberty, or was based on your favourite television show.” He hung up on me. I dialled back and waited for him to pick up again. “Hello.” The voice was now dreading the prospect of human contact. “So, Dickens spent his childhood sitting next to his dad, riding across the Romney Marsh, and he describes the small church near Rye so perfectly you just know that he was recalling every single nook and cranny from memory. But here is the thing, the thing that always nags at the back of your mind. When Pit is in the graveyard, and he helps the Convict, the criminal tells him that he escaped from the Prison Hulk and stumbled across the marsh at low tide. Yeah, there would have been hulks of the coast there, but the fact is plain and simple: There was never a prison ship there. Dickens made it up for Great Expectations.” I remembered to breath. “And for your information just because I like wizards, and read books based on television shows, and ones with super spies or time travel, doesn’t mean I can’t have an informed opinion.” “Ok. So can you make an interview tomorrow afternoon?” The voice sounded a little dazed. “Ask for me, I’m Bill Mason. Er, I’ll be the guy behind the counter in desperate need of staff.” “Will do.” I said, took down some details of salary and perks, then made myself promise not to kick Bill Mason in the teeth when I met him. Lawrence slammed the fridge behind him, and pushed a glass under the Ice Maker. Beer followed by Ice Water, to stop him wanting another Beer when he might have to drive. Funny how you start to notice other people habits. Crushed ice rattled into the glass. My mind swung back into the woods, to the sound of an automatic rifle firing. To the taste of blood and sweat and fear in my mouth. To being cold, and wet, and knowing I was being followed. To holding the rifle, and the temptation I felt to turn it on it’s wielder before I pulled the magazine out and threw the horrible thing into the river. When I opened my eyes it was sixteen seconds later, I had dropped my glass of milk, and it had shattered over the newspaper, my post it note and my lap. A shard of glass had sliced my finger tip. I didn’t even notice it until I looked directly at it. Even then it throbbed in time with the noise in my head. Rat a tat tat. Gunfire. Lawrence was staring at me. His mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear the words over my heart beat, over the phantom gunfire. Numbly I put a plaster on my finger, and mopped up the spilt milk. “No use cryin’.” Lawrence remarked, straight faced. I nodded at the joke, as poor as it was, and felt myself running for the kitchen door. I needed fresh air. I needed space. I took six paces into the garden and threw up into the dustbin. Cherry went running that night. For any one else that would mean a jog. For her it was up and down the high street by rooftop, by fire escape, and whoops of blissful joy as she used the mall as a giant climbing frame. Some people laugh in the face of death, Cherry threatened to give the Reaper a slap on the cheeks and a boot in the behind. I followed at the more traditional street level, and tried to keep up. “It was the girl who fed me to the Dealers.” I called up to her. “Uh huh? Why?” She was suddenly at face level, hanging upside down, her legs wrapped over the top of a hanging sign. Like I said: her climbing frame. “Why was she Frank? The police said her name was Elliot Graves.” “Yeah, but her name was Francine, or Frances, or Francesca, or something like that. Or Frank was just a nom de plume, but she was Frank.” “You sure. The camp would have picked up on it?” “Oh yeah. They expect a sixteen year old camp councillor to produce all kinds of I.D. I just bet they do? Or not. Maybe it was just a nickname. But she was Frank. She stole a lot of drugs. The drug dealers couldn’t sell it, which means they couldn’t make money, which means they couldn’t pay back all they owed, so they went looking for the guy who stole it. They got the name, they got told which camp the thief was at. They went after blood.” “Ok.” Cherry nodded, upside down, making me feel air sick again. “They were scared of whoever they owed money to, scared enough to openly raid a police car to get at Frank. If it was Eliot, she assumed tshe got away with it. So what is she going to do?” “Throw the stash away, try and sell it, hide it and see if anyone tries to kill her for it. Who knows, who cares, we tell the cops, let them question her.” “See.” Cherry grinned. “Not your problem.” “Guess not.” I agreed. ”Can you get down here?” “Sure.” She landed cat like on the tips of her feet. She gripped my arm. “Now let it go. Please.” I lay in bed and didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes the bed flipped, or bucked, or span. Then I opened my eyes and the world was normal again. Every time I drifted to the edge of sleep I heard the sounds of gunfire, or breaking glass, or my fathers car being spun of the road in a shower of glass and grinding metal. Or I heard your breathing, the mechanical beat of your lungs being and the beeping of machines counting your heartbeats. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t dream, I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my head. So I read. Then when dawn came I stood under a shower. “It is Stress.” Doctor Logan said, as he shone the little torch in my eyes, and examined my pupils. “Post Traumatic. You have had trauma in your recent past.” “And earlier.” I explained. “Really? What was the first experience you would describe as an unusual trauma?” “When I was five I was locked in a steel tool case by smugglers importing liquor with out paying excise, and a week later we uncovered a group of bank robbers and I was pushed down a well with my sister when her best friend insisted we snooped around a barn looking for the stolen banknotes.” “Oh.” Logan said. “That sounds traumatic.” “Not to mention the time I was six and a gang of conmen disguised as a carnival crew found us reading their print outs of cloned credit card data...” I pointed at my leg. “I broke that one in a life or death chase through the carnival. I was hit by a dodgem.” “I see.” He rubbed his chin. “A stressful childhood then.” “Yeah, my Sister was a genius, but she could be pretty daft. I couldn’t let her get dragged into trouble by her mates.” “And you were six?” “Yes. I had an excuse for being stupid.” I grinned. “I better get to my interview. How do I sleep?” “I’m not prescribing anything yet.” Logan warned me. “So learn to relax.” My mobile phone rang when I got outside. “She was Frank.” Cherry told me. “She’s dead.” “Where are you?” “At the Camp. They found her this morning. Sorry.” “Not our problem. The cops can handle it.” I forced myself to say it. “Why I wanted you to hear it from me.” Cherry sighed. “Loose ends all tied up here.” She hung up. I forced myself to repeat the mantra. “Not my problem, not my case. The police will solve it.” I got the job at The book Shelf. Mostly because I wasn’t scared of Bill Mason swearing at me. My training consisted of being shown the till, the stock list on the computer there. I stocked shelves, and waited to greet customers and took their money. Hidden behind the counter were a bag of sweets, the price gun, some books that had been reserved for customers, and the two books Bill was reading. Catcher in the Rye was book marked on page twenty two. A Star Trek novel was book marked on page one hundred and eighteen. It’s spine had been broken into submission by multiple readings. So much for his Book-Snob nature. Around the middle of my first shift he decided to leave me on my own. I served customers, stopped a kid from shop lifting a Judy Bloom, then I found a pad of sticky notes and a pen. I made a list of things to do: Help Hawk Lucky reform. Look after you. Look after Cherry. Learn to make Pumpkin Pies. Survive College. Be less nosey. I peeled the note off the pad, folded into a third of its size, and slipped it into my wallet. My little promise of good intentions. Bill came back, looked around, realised I hadn’t stolen, vandalised, or abused anything of his, and told me the job was mine, pending the correct paper work. Not a problem, mum was on top of the Visa issue. I was financially solvent. My phone rang again. Cherry was on the other end of the line. Her voice a shrill cry of excitement. “They arrested him.” She screamed. “Who?” “The guy who killed Frank. It was bikers!” “What? Bikers? What did Bikers do?” “A biker gang had a hang out in the woods. They were making drugs there, you know, growing the plants. Frank found the plants, stole a load of the bits you use for drugs, tried to sell them. Those three who hunted you down? Bikers! They guys who killed Frank? Bikers! The FBI are down there now. A whole bunch of people are being arrested. It’s awesome.” There was a laugh. “They did it without us.” “Yeah. The police are good like that.” I told her. “I’m not one of the Spies anymore. I’m not running off to find mysteries anymore.” “Good for you.” Cherry giggled again, then seemed to pause for thought. “But you... I dunno... Maybe.. Teach me how to do it?” There was a muffled exclamation from the other end of the phone. “Us. Teach us how to do it. Joe wants in.” “I’ll think about it.” I grudgingly conceded, and turned the phone off as she squealed with joy. She was talking in her tone of voice where you could tell she was mentally dotting every “i” with a smiley face. I wasn’t going to sleep, so I came to sit with you. I sat with Natasha first, and we talked for a long while about an awful lot of things. I can’t remember what, I was just nodding and talking on auto pilot. Exhaustion had ravaged my every fibre by that point. But the conversation with Natasha was like sitting close to a log fire, I could feel a warmth there that was instinctively like home. Then I came and sat by your bed and told you all about her, and my job, and how good I was doing at being a normal teenager. Normality lasted until the sun had sunken bellow the horizon and a full moon was being reflected in the lake. I had fallen asleep, and for the first time in many nights I didn’t lay there hearing gunfire and car crashes in my head. I was awoken by a knock on the door. I assumed it was a nurse trying to get me to go home. I stood up and stretched away the kinks from muscles. The door was open. A ghost was standing in the doorway. A ghost somewhere between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, with a rake thin frame, a bob of short rusty blonde hair, glasses, a slim nose, a tee shirt that didn’t cover her belly button and low cut jeans, nails painted bright colours, with primary coloured flowers painted on the thumb nails. A ghost with freckles and a gap toothed smile that was very much the girl next door, the picture of innocence and a very naughty cheer leader. “Hi.” The ghost said in a home town accent. “My name is Elliot. Elliot Graves.” “I know.” I said. “You’re dead.” “A lot of people have been telling me that.” There was a desperation behind her eyes. A hint of fear, a touch of apprehension. “People say you help others. You solve mysteries.” “I’m not a private eye.” I said. “And you are dead.” “Please?” She held my arms, begging. “I can pay.” “Good. You can hire a detective.” I smiled. “Did I mention you were dead?” “Please.” “No.” “Please!” “No.” “Please!” “No. Dear god no. No. No. No. You are dead. And you sent me to be killed. You. Sent. Me. To. Be. Killed!” “Please?” She whimpered. Her body became a dead weight. She collapsed to the floor crying. I brushed past her to the corridor, and found the phone at the nurses station. I began to dial for the police.
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