I held the coffee cup rigid at my mouth as I read the
morning’s headline: Murder Case To Be Re-opened.
“Tom?” Belinda, my wife, interrupted my thoughts.
“You okay?”
“Heartburn.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” I smiled falsely, returning to the photo in the
newspaper, while thinking back to all those years ago…
Mid-June, the town in a heat wave. I was skinny
dipping in Jackson’s Lake with my two best friends, Paul
Fleming and Charlie Redden. The lake could be decep
tively still at times, but quite crafty in its nature. Police
danger signs were posted everywhere.
I’d just stepped out of the water when I spotted a fig
ure on top of the hill.
“That looks like Joey Maxwell,” I said, pointing.
Paul glanced towards the hill.
“You’re right, Tommy. It’s him.”
“How many times have we told him he can’t hang
with us?” asked Charlie.
Joey was twelve – two years younger than us – so
there was no way we could be seen with a kid. Besides,
the horrible episode from last year was still fresh in our
minds, and even though it wasn’t Joey’s fault, we no
longer felt comfortable when he was anywhere near us.
“Joey! What the hell’re you doing!” shouted Paul.
Joey didn’t reply, inching slowly into the water.
“He’s going for a dip, with his clothes on,” said Char
lie, grinning. “Go on, Joey! You can do it!”
Suddenly, we were all chanting, “Joey! Joey! Joey!”
Every deliciously fear-charged moment of entertain
ment increased, as water moved up to Joey’s neck.
We began counting out the seconds, daring him to
break the all-time record of one minute and ten seconds
for staying under the water.
“One, two, three…”
He was gone.
We continued counting in a drum roll.
“Twenty, twenty-one…”
On and on we counted, our voices rising with each
fading second.
“Fifty-nine, sixtyyyyyyyyy! Sixty-one, sixty two…”
At seventy, our voices slowly filtered out, leaving a
heavy silence.
“Someone’s gotta dive in there, see what that he’s up
to,” said Paul. “Tommy?”
“Why me?”
“You’re the best swimmer.”
I didn’t want to be part of anything that might have
happened under that dirty water, but I had little choice.
For some inexplicable reason, the water felt colder as
my bare feet touched it. Seconds later, I was in, propelling
my body downwards in the murky thickness. Visibility
became nil as I went deeper.
But it wasn’t too long before panic began building up
inside my burning lungs. I needed to resurface. Then, just
as I twisted my body to head upwards, an old wreck of a
car mistily came into view. Ghostly green, its smashed
windows looked like gaping eyes. I wanted to swim away
from it, but its magnetic pull drew me closer.
That was when I spotted Joey, motionless. He seemed
to be gripping the car.
I went torpedoing forward, reached out and took hold
of his arm. He didn’t move, his face expressionless in the godless gloom of watery darkness.
Quickly grabbing the back of his shirt, I began yank
ing as hard as I could.
Nothing. His body resisted.
I pulled some more on the shirt, but my lungs were on
fire. I quickly swam to the surface, empty-handed, gulping
on the beautiful taste of air.
“Get help!” I shouted, before plunging back down.
Under the water, I tried searching for the wreck, but
the water was becoming murkier. I found nothing, other
than a forest of thick weeds. I tried swimming through
them, but suddenly they began entwining themselves on
my legs. It felt like someone trying to hold me down.
Panicking, I kicked out at the weeds, but their grip
became iron. Water began rushing into my mouth.
No! Not like this! I screamed in my head. Don’t die
like this…
I remember Charlie dragging me back to land, but that
was about all I recalled. “He’s… he’s down there,
Charley,” I spluttered, coughing up water.
“Paul’s away to get help. It’ll be okay.” Charlie was
lighting a cigarette. I could tell from the way his hands
were shaking he understood it was anything but okay.
By the time an ambulance arrived in tandem with a
police jeep, I knew it was too late. Joey was gone. I also
knew I was in trouble, as I watched the sheriff emerging
from the jeep, rushing towards me.
“Are you okay, Tommy?” The sheriff quickly bent
down beside me.
“Joey’s down there, Dad.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find him,” said Dad, before run
ning in the direction of police divers.
I knew Dad would have more to say to me, later. He
didn’t agree with my friendship of Paul, whom he regarded as a future felon.
It took the divers forty minutes to locate Joey, but two
hours to bring his body to the surface. He’d handcuffed
himself to the steering wheel of the old wreck – the same
handcuffs his father used as a prison guard for years.
The newspaper headlines suggested Joey’s suicide had
been triggered because of a sexual attack on him. They
also noted, ominously, that his attacker had never been
apprehended, even though police had a suspect but
couldn’t arrest him through lack of evidence.
The papers took a picture of me. They said I was a
hero trying to save a drowning pal.
“That bastard, Not Normal. He killed Joey,” said Paul.
“Shhhh!” I hissed, looking nervously behind my
shoulder. “Only a few people know Not Normal’s a
suspect. If my dad finds out I was listening to his phone
conversations, I’ll be in for it.”
Not Normal – Norman Armstrong – acquired the
moniker after his name being repeatedly pronounced
wrongly by every kid in town, usually when entering the
movie house where the creepy loner worked.
Normal, can you tell us if there’s a cartoon on today?
Will the ice-cream woman be working today, Normal?
Normal, can you tell me—
This went on for months, until one night, he had had
enough. I’m Norman! he screamed, in utter frustration,
making history eternally with the following classic
statement: I’m not fucking Normal!
“They should shoot the perv,” continued Paul, so serious it scared me.
“Yea, in the head,” said Charlie.
“We should make a pact, like they do in the movies,”
continued Paul, who loved nothing better than a good
murder movie. “Are you game, Tommy?”
“For what?”
“Justice for Joey. We take an oath, right here.” He
held out his hand and with the other produced a penknife.
“A blood oath.”
“I…” Even though I believed nothing would come of
this so-called blood oath, the hairs on the back of my neck
suddenly nipped my skin. “Okay…”
Paul held out his thumb, curving the knife inwards.
The skin tore. An inkblot of blood appeared. I would
never forget it. Dirty crimson. Like the bloodshot eye of a
trapped animal.
“Here,” said Paul, handing the knife to me, while hold
ing his bloody thumb outwards.
I took the knife, cut.
“Now you, Charlie,” commanded Paul.
Charlie cut.
“Put all our thumbs together,” said Paul.
We complied.
“Let the oath of blood brothers and secrecy live with
us…” continued Paul, forcing the three thumbs tightly
against each other, allowing the blood to mingle. “Forever.”
For the longest time of my life, I waited to take my
thumb away. It felt on fire.
“Are we finished?” I finally asked. “I’ve got to head
home. I’m still under curfew.”
“Finished,” said Paul. “Give me time to think out a plan.”
There would be no plan, of course, just Paul living out
one of his fantasies.
The next day, I met Paul and Charlie at the bottom of my
street.
“I’ve something I want to show you,” said Paul.
“What?”
“You’ll see. Let’s head over to Blackwood.”
Blackwood was the large forest area surrounding Jack
son’s Lake.
“This’ll do,” said Paul, thirty minutes later, stopping
beside an old uprooted tree badly gone to rot.
I watched him dropping to his knees, digging at the
soil. A few minutes later, he stood, a rag-covered package
in his hand.
“What’s that?” said Charlie.
Paul peeled the rag away, revealing a gun wrapped
protectively in polythene. It stared out at us like a
mummified foetus.
“Whoa! Is it real?” said Charlie.
“As real as your cock,” said Paul, releasing the gun
from the enclosure. “It’s a German Luger.”
I was less impressed, having seen plenty of guns in my
life. By the time I was seven, I had handled my first gun.
Yet, there was something different about this gun
displayed proudly in Paul’s hands. It sent the dual shivers
of fear and weariness up my spine.
“Where’d you get it?” I asked.
“My granddad brought it back from the war.”
This was a new Paul – a Paul with secrets. As friends,
we weren’t supposed to have secrets – at least not of this
magnitude.
“Have you fired it?” asked Charlie.
“Old Mullan’s barn. Almost shot one of his bulls.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Charlie, grinning.
Without warning, Paul cocked the Luger. The sound
made me think of someone’s knuckles cracking. Slowly,
he brought the gun up to Charlie’s face.
“Think I’m a bullshitter, Charlie?”
Both Charlie and I went rigid. Fear spread through me,
and everything began to tingle in a very bad way. I could
see Paul’s finger tightening on the trigger.
“Paul…” I finally managed to croak, my mouth dry as
cotton.
“Don’t mess with—”
He pulled the trigger.
Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaacckk!
"You should’ve seen the look on your face, Charlie!”
Paul was grinning like a frog. “It wasn’t even loaded.”
Charlie began retching violently.
Instinctively, I grabbed the gun from Paul’s grip, and
pushed him. He landed firmly on his butt.
“Are you fucking mad!” I shouted.
“It… it wasn’t loaded,” he mumbled.
Removing the magazine from the Luger’s heel, I could
see a bullet nestled on top. I slowly removed the bullet,
and held it out.
“Wasn’t fucking loaded! What’s that?”
It was Paul’s turn to look frightened.
“I thought it was empty…” he mumbled.
“Never point a gun at anyone, unless you intend to use
it.” I sounded like Dad in one of his daily lectures. I threw
the gun and single bullet at Paul’s feet, before turning to
Charlie. “You okay?”
“Yes…” He nodded.
Paul stood, wiping dirt from his jeans. “You’re right,
Tommy, I shouldn’t point a gun unless I’m willing to use
it. Well, I’ll be pointing it at Armstrong’s head, once I get
a plan set up.”
It took Paul three days to come up with a plan. It was late
when we sat on a small collection of rocks deep inside
Blackwood.
“Every Thursday night after the movie house shuts, Arm
strong takes porn movies home to watch in that run-down
trailer of his,” said Paul.
“How do you know?” asked Charlie.
“Everyone knows,” said Paul, his voice rising slightly.
From the look on Charlie’s face, he obviously wasn’t
everyone. I guess I wasn’t everyone either, because I had
the same look.
"You’re gonna be the bait, Charlie,” said Paul.
“Bait?” Charlie frowned.
“Something to lure the perv to where we can get him
off-guard.”
“Why me?”
“Would you rather pull the trigger?”
“No…”
Almost immediately I realised I had underestimated
Paul’s conviction to this plan.
“We’ll meet back here tomorrow night,” continued
Paul. “And remember: this is for Joey.”
Armstrong’s trailer was a rust bucket, parked just outside
town. In the iron darkness, a faint light filtered from the
trailer’s back window.
For the last hour, we did a stakeout, just across from
the trailer. As Paul predicted, Armstrong was home.
“You ready, Charlie?” asked Paul.
“Yes…”
“Know what to do?”
Charlie nodded.
“Tap on his door, ask for directions.
Tell him I’m lost and thirsty.”
“It’s important you say you’re thirsty. Understand?”
“Yes.”
I kept wondering when Paul was going to chicken out,
believing his game-plan had to be relying on Charlie or
me backing out first. That way, he would save face and
still be king of the castle.
“We’re gonna have to crawl from here, so he doesn’t
spot us,” whispered Paul, dropping on his belly. “Come on.”
Getting down, we crawled behind him like characters
from an old war movie. A minute later, we reached the
back of the trailer, and stood. Dull sounds were coming
from inside.
Paul edged his face against the back window. “The
perv’s watching a porno. Check it out, Tommy.”
Easing my face partially against the window, I focused
with one eye. It was dark inside, but the luminous light
from the television helped. Armstrong was sitting on a
battered armchair, bottle of beer in one hand, remote
control in the other. He seemed engrossed on whatever
was on the television.
“Okay, Charlie. Make a move for the door,” said Paul.
“You… you won’t let him kill me, will you, Paul?”
“Don’t be stupid. He’s the one who’s gonna be killed.
Now move!”
Slowly, Charlie edged his body along the front of the
trailer. Even in the dull moonlight, I could see the terror
on his face.
What seemed like an eternity passed before Charlie
began rapping timidly on the door.
I quickly glanced in at Armstrong. He hit a button on
the remote, muting the television.
Charlie rapped again.
The door opened, bleaching Charlie in light.
“Yes?” said Armstrong.
“I’m… I’m lost, Mister,” said Charlie. “Could… could
you give me some directions on how to get home… please?”
“Where the hell’s home, boy?”
“Fair… Fairbanks. I live in Fairbanks,” lied Charlie.
“Fairbanks? You’re a long way out. What’re you doing in this neck of the woods?”
I could detect suspicion in Armstrong’s voice.
“I… I was with a couple of friends, camping in Blackwood, but we split up after a stupid argument,”
replied Charlie.
“Camping’s illegal in Blackwood.”
“You… you’re not going to call the cops, are you?”
“No, so relax. Come in. You look hungry. You hugry, boy?”
“And thirsty…”
Everything went dark as the trailer door slammed.
“What now?” I asked.
“We wait until Armstrong comes to the back of the
trailer. That’s where he keeps his cola.”
Paul eased his face along the window, eyeing the
scene from a corner. I took the other corner.
I could see Charlie standing at the doorway. Arm
strong was talking. Charlie looked petrified.
Suddenly, Armstrong turned, and looked directly at us.
Paul and I ducked down immediately. Above, I could hear
movement approaching, then the sound of a cupboard
opening.
Paul eased his head back up, and peeped into the window.
I followed suit and saw Armstrong taking a bottle of cola from
an overhead cupboard. He eased the cap from the bottle.
A few seconds later, Armstrong poured the cola into a
glass, then, using the opened cupboard door as a shield, he
began adding a touch of clear liquid from a small con
tainer into the glass.
“What the hell’s he doing?” I looked at Paul. He was
gripping the Luger so tightly, his knuckles looked like they
were ready to pop. I watched in horror as he brought the
muzzle of the gun to the window, hands trembling terribly.
He’s really going to shoot, I thought, watching him
take shaky aim.
Without warning, Armstrong eased his face towards
the window. I was certain he had spotted us. I froze. Armstrong continued staring. It wasn’t until later I
realised he wasn’t looking at us, but Charlie’s mirrored
image on the window.
Turning, Armstrong headed back down the trailer to
Charlie.
“Paul? We can’t let him do this to Charlie,” I pleaded.
But Paul didn’t respond. He simply stood there, like an
android, pointing the gun at the window. It was then I
noticed the enormous dark patch in Paul’s washed-out
jeans. He had pissed himself.
“Paul!” I screamed, not caring if Armstrong could hear
us. “Snap out of it!”
“I… I… I…” His lips were barely moving.
“Shit!” I screamed, running towards the front of the
trailer before kicking in the door.
Charlie looked relieved; Armstrong looked shocked.
“Run, Charlie!”
Outside, we ran quickly to the end of the trailer to get
Paul, but he was already running in the opposite direction,
towards Blackwood forest.
It was the last time I would ever see him…
Next day, I waited nervously as Dad returned home from
night duty. I sat, pretending to read my comics.
“Not out enjoying the sun?” he asked.
“I want to finish this.” I held up the copy of Batman.
So far so good. No mention of Armstrong.
“Are you still running about with that Fleming kid?”
My stomach suddenly did a little kick. Had he heard
something, after all? Dad was very good at trapping
people – just ask any of the criminals he had interrogated
over the years before jailing them.
“I… won’t be with him, anymore, Dad. That’s a promise.”
He gave me one of his ten-second stares before replying.
“Make sure you keep that promise. Now, get out into
the fresh air.”
I nodded, and headed for the door, grateful that the
whole sorry Armstrong-episode was over with.
By the time I reached the lake, the sun was baking
down on me. The place was deserted, and the cool calm
water looked totally inviting. Despite warnings from Dad
to stay out of the water, I couldn’t resist. It still had that
magnetic pull on me. Moreover, to overcome Joey’s
death, I knew I had to conquer the water first. It was the
only way to stop the nightmares I was having of Joey’s
face, his skin being peeled and devoured by tiny fish.
Stripping, I began piling my clothes against some rocks,
when suddenly I thought I spotted someone staring at me
from the trees’ shadows, deep beyond the lake’s fringe.
“Paul? Is that you?”
Nothing.
“Who’s there?”
I thought of Joey’s ghost.
To hell with it. I ran naked towards the water’s coolness, diving into its murky underworld. It was exhilarating,
and I went deeper, testing lungs, resolve and nerve.
I seemed to have been swimming for hours when my head
finally broke through the water’s ceiling. Breathing deeply, I
let a yell of joy scream from my mouth. “I’m alive!”
But the euphoria quickly dissipated when I heard
something enter the water directly behind me.
To my dismay, it was a girl, her dark hair crapped-in
like a pageboy. Her face was a constellation of freckles.
Like me, she was totally naked. Unlike me, she was
beautiful.
I felt my face burn. Had she seen me naked?
“What’s your name?” she asked, nonchalantly, as if
seeing a naked boy was the norm.
I couldn’t speak. The sight of her nipples, poking
above the water line, hypnotised me. It was the first time I
had ever seen a naked girl. It was thrilling and terrifying.
“Are you deaf?” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” I finally managed to mumble, trying desper
ately to look away from her breasts, but failing miserably.
A smile appeared on her face. “I’ve seen you a couple
of times, swimming here with your friends.”
“You watched us, swimming…?” Nude, I wanted to
say, but didn’t.
“Out of sheer boredom, so don’t get the wrong idea.”
The smile widened, making her even more beautiful. “Are
you the one who discovered the dead kid?”
I nodded. “Joey… his name was Joey Maxwell.”
“You must be very brave.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“I wish someone would do that for me.”
“I would,” I said, the two words sounding as if I had
known her all my life.
She laughed loudly, but I detected sadness in the sound.
Suddenly, she disappeared underwater only to reap
pear seconds later beside me. Before I knew what was
happening, she was kissing me full on the mouth. I could
taste her breath, the saltiness of her tongue, the pressure of
her breasts against my chest.
I gasped as I felt her hands began fondling my balls
under the water, as if weighing them. I couldn’t breathe.
Her fingers moved across the shaft of my cock. I jerked
back, as if being prodded by electricity.
“What’s wrong? Haven’t you been with a girl before?”
“Of course,” I lied, feeling my face burn with embarrassment. “Lots.”
She laughed. “I’ve got to go.”
“Now? But…”
“Yes. Now.”
“But…”
She began swimming towards where our clothes lay in
a heap. I watched her easing out of the water, small
buttocks seesawing mischievously.
“Aren’t you coming, Tommy?”
I couldn’t. Too terrified she would see my penis, all
stiff and angry.
“I… no, I’m going to swim for a while.”
“Okay.”
I watched her putting on her clothing, preparing to leave.
“What’s your name!” I shouted.
“Dakota.”
“Will you be here, tomorrow?”
“Perhaps.”
That night, I enjoyed the first good sleep since Joey’s
death. Instead of nightmares of him, I dreamt of a
mysterious girl called Dakota, wondering when – if – I
would see her again.
Next day I ran as fast as I could towards Jackson’s Lake.
Arriving at the exact spot from yesterday. I sat waiting.
But my initial burst of euphoria quickly turned to despon
dency. She wasn’t coming. Not now. Probably not ever.
I’d been a fool to think someone so beautiful would have
an interest in someone as plain and boring as me.
Four hours later, I eventually returned home, defeated.
For days I moped about the house until finally threat
ened by Dad.
“If you don’t get out and go someplace, I’ll be forced
to bring you over to the jail to clean toilets.”
Taking the hint, I left, walking in the direction of the
lake, almost in a trance, hardly hearing Charlie behind me.
“Going for a swim, Tommy?”
“No. Just walking and killing time. What’s happening?”
“Nothing much.” Charlie looked embarrassed, as if he
had been avoiding me. It seemed we were all involved in a
conspiracy of avoidance.
“Seen Paul about?” I asked.
“Yesterday, for a few minutes. We didn’t speak much.
He…” Charlie peered over his shoulder. “He mentioned
Not Normal.”
“Yeah?”
“Said that one day… he’d make him pay.”
“Keep well away from Paul.”
“You’re right.” Charlie nodded. “Sure you don’t want
to go for a swim?”
“Not today. I’ve things to do.”
“Me, too.” Charlie looked relieved. “Well, call me
when you want.”
“Sure.”
At the lake, I could do nothing but stare at the water.
“You weren’t here yesterday,” said a voice behind me.
I turned quickly to see Dakota smiling at me, and suddenly my world was okay again.
“I was here a couple of days ago. I couldn’t find you.”
“Can’t find what doesn’t want to be found,” she re
plied, cryptically. “Anyway, we’re both here now. Going
for a swim?”
Before I could answer, she was stripping, her beautiful
naked body emerging from the cocoon-like clothing.
“Stop gawking and strip!” she commanded. “C’mon!”
Away she went, running for the water, leaving me
fumbling at my clothing.
In the water, she splashed while dunking me twice, laugh
ing, throwing her head back with joy. She suddenly seemed
like a kid, not the sophisticated woman I had imagined.
“Isn’t this fun, Tommy?” Her eyes were smiling.
“Yes!” I shouted from the top of my voice.
I wanted this moment to last forever. I no longer
cared about family or friends, life or any of those silly
things.
After an hour of swimming about, she said, “Come
on.”
“You’re going?” I was shattered.
“I’ve things to do.” She began swimming towards
land. “Hurry up and get out.”
I quickly followed, feeling anger and disappointment
boiling in me.
On dry land she scooped up her clothes, but didn’t put
them on.
“This way. Hurry,” she said, smiling, running.
Quickly grabbing my clothes, I followed her into the
wild and camouflaging grass, noticing for the first time the
constellation of miniature horseshoe-shaped bruises on her
buttocks. The marks were frightening to look at, but I
couldn’t take my eyes from them. It wasn’t the first time I
had seen marks like that.
Without warning, she pulled me down onto the grass,
quickly rolling on top of me.
“Squeeze,” she whispered, placing my hand on her left
breast.
Hesitantly, I squeezed. Her breast was warm and
small, like an egg after a hen goes to feed.
“Do you love me, Tommy?”
“Y… yes.”
“Say you love me.”
“I… I love you,” I managed to say, throat sandpaper
dry.
Rolling off, she lay on her back, fully exposed.
“One day, when I think you’re ready, I’ll let you go further than just touching my boobs.”
“Further?” My voice was a croak.
“Yes, but things like that have to be earned. Do you
understand?”
“Yes… but—”
“Shhhhhhhh!” She suddenly placed a finger firmly to
my lips. Her eyes filled with terror. “Someone’s here,
watching”
The sweaty proximity of fear touched me for a second,
making the hairs on the back of my neck tighten. I stopped
breathing. Listening intently, I thought of Charlie. Had he
followed me? Worse. Paul?
We lay there motionless for minutes, when suddenly
there was heavy movement behind me. I wanted to get up
and run, but without warning a hare burst through the long
blades of grass, scampering over our naked bodies, scaring
the shit clean out of me.
Dakota burst out laughing. “Oh, Tommy! Your face!”
“Don’t you talk! You were terrified.”
Suddenly, she stood up and started dressing.
“Why’re you going, Dakota? Angry at me poking fun
at you?”
“Don’t be silly.” She kissed me on the lips. “I’ve got
to go. My mum needs looking after. I can only get out for
a couple of hours each day.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.” Suddenly I was filled with remorse,
and embarrassed by my selfishness.
“It’s okay. I’ve been looking after her for years.”
“Don’t… don’t you have a dad?” I asked, regretting it
the moment my big mouth opened.
“He… died… a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t keep saying sorry.” Her voice suddenly had an edge. “It’s not a word I like. It’s weak.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Promise you won’t get mad.”
“I don’t believe in promises. They’re always broken.”
“Those… those marks, on your… butt…”
“Yes? What about them?” Her face was impassive, but
her voice sounded cautious.
“What… what are they? They look like burn marks.”
“If that’s what they look like, then let them be just
that,” she said, pulling on her jeans, zipping them so
loudly they sounded like a knife cutting into bone. “Are
you finished questioning me?”
“Yes…” I replied sheepishly.
“Good.” She made a movement to go.
“Can I walk you home?”
“No.”
I felt my throat tightening. The thought of her leaving
was killing me.
“When will I see you again?”
“When I decide. Okay?”
No, it wasn’t okay. “Okay.”
I stood watching her leave, thinking of those horrible
marks. It would be much later before I’d discover their
true meaning.
Over the following days, I got up early, running to the
lake. Each time she didn’t appear, misery wormed further
into me.
I would never forget that early morning in bed, hearing
Dad’s voice filtering into my room. He was talking with
Mum, but secretively, in hushed tones.
Sneaking out of my room, I hid on the landing, listening.
“Dreadful…” Mum kept repeating. “And you’ve no idea who the young girl is?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve seen some terrible killings, Maura,
but this was one of the most violent. She’d been raped,
also, poor thing.”
“Dear God…” From the stairway, I could see Mum’s face
cringe. Despite hearing the horrors of Dad’s job every day,
she had never managed to immunize her feelings. “People will
be expecting you to catch this monster – and quickly.”
Dad looked annoyed at Mum. “I’ve never rushed an
investigation, just to calm people’s fears. That’s how
mistakes are made. I won’t be changing my ways just
because of pressure.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you—”
Suddenly, they both looked up in my direction.
“Tommy? What the hell are you doing?” said Dad. He
looked startled. “Were you listening in?”
“The girl, Dad? What… what did she look like?” I was
slowly walking down the stairs.
“You shouldn’t be listening—”
“What did she look like!”
“Tommy! Don’t you dare shout at your father!”
Dad reached and touched Mum’s hand. “It’s okay,
Maura. Sometimes it’s good to shout.” He was looking at me
entirely different to the way Mum was. The cop in him was
quickly kicking in. “Sit down and have breakfast, Tommy.”
“I don’t want breakfast. What… what did she look
like?”
“She had dark hair, crapped page-boy style. Blue eyes.
Her face was covered in—”
“Freckles.”
Dad’s face turned sombre. “Did you know this young
girl, Son?”
“Her name’s Dakota.” I spoke of her in the present
tense.
“Dakota? What’s her second name?”
I couldn’t answer. My voice was quivering, threaten
ing to quit. Suddenly, tears were running down my face.
Everything was spinning.
“It’s okay, Son. It’s okay,” said Dad, leaving the table,
edging towards me.
Of course it would never be okay. Not now. Not ever.
And when I collapsed in front of him, that was the first
blackout I had ever experienced. More would follow, all
the way to adulthood.
That night, the nightmares started all over again. Only
this time, Joey was joined by Dakota.
Over the next few days, details of Dakota’s horrific
murder and equally horrific life began to emerge. Her
father abandoned her at the age of two, leaving her in the
care of a mother hooked on drugs and alcohol. Margaret
McKenzie – Dakota’s mother – earned money for the
drugs through prostitution. It soon became known that
Dakota had been abused by some of her mother’s clients.
I wasn’t in the least bit surprised to hear that one of the
clients had been Armstrong. My gut instinct had told me
from the beginning that it had been Armstrong watching
us in the long grass – not a frightened hare. It was little
wonder Dakota had looked so terrified that day.
Over the next few days, the local newspapers made
Dakota’s brutal murder a cause célèbre, and relentless
pressure was put on Dad to bring the perpetrator to
justice…
Despite this pressure, it was three long weeks before
he was able to accumulate enough evidence to finally
arrest Armstrong. Forensics had matched his teeth with
the marks on Dakota’s buttocks. I shuddered when I
overheard this piece of vile information.
It was only then, for me, that all the parts of the puzzle
began falling into place. I had noticed the almost identical
marks on Paul’s buttocks, months ago as we skinny
dipped. When he caught me looking, he became angry,
accusing me of being a ‘homo’. We didn’t speak to each
other for almost a week, until he eventually calmed down,
and we were able to laugh about it. His explanation for the
marks was a raid on Mister Johnson apple trees, and a
weak branch.
Lucky I landed on my ass rather than my head. I
thought of his explanation and how feasible it sounded
then.
Not now.
I believed Paul had been lured to Armstrong’s trailer
with the incentive of money – something Paul was always
short of. That was how Paul knew all about Armstrong’s
comings and goings at the trailer – knew of the liquid in
the cupboard, which I suspected had some sort of drug in
it. That’s why Paul insisted Charlie say he was thirsty,
knowing Armstrong would go to the cupboard at the end
of the trailer, and where Paul waited in the darkness to
shoot. I shuddered at the thought of what happened to
Paul, and now fully understood why he wanted to kill such
an evil creature. It all made sense. Paul. Joey. Dakota.
How many others?
As the weeks went by, Armstrong at first denied
knowing Dakota, but finally admitted having what he
called paid ‘consensual’ sex. The bite marks were part of
the sexual act he enjoyed. She was sixteen, and there was
no law against having sex with a consenting adult. Dad
suspected the abuse of Dakota by Armstrong had started
many years ago, but suspecting and proving were two
different matters entirely.
After being held in the county jail for three months, Armstrong was eventually released through lack of
substantial evidence.
As days turned to weeks, Dakota’s murder slipped
down the list of priorities. The economy was in turmoil
and people had more pressing things to think about such
as jobs and livelihoods.
It was late December, when the town learned the news
of Armstrong’s body being found at his trailer. He had
been shot, once in the head. I’ll never forget the look of
relief on Dad’s face, when he told Mum the news.
“I only hoped he suffered,” said Mum.
The newspapers held the same sentiments as Mum, but
displayed them in a more professional manner, stating that
sometimes justice takes a while, but once that while has
come, it sure as hell takes. Someone said Christmas had
come early for the town.
Three days after Armstrong’s death I ran into Charlie.
“He did it, Tommy. Paul went and shot the perv. He
really did it.” Charlie looked terrified as well as excited.
“Don’t talk about it. Understand? No one knows any
thing. If word gets out, he’ll be arrested. You wouldn’t
want that, would you?”
“No… of course not. We… we’re blood brothers,
aren’t we?”
“Forever, Charlie.”
“Are… are you going to talk to Paul?”
“No. Best that we aren’t seen together.”
“Of course! I get it. They might be watching. Right?”
I nodded. “Best play it safe.”
Charlie nodded, also, and then hit me with his news.
“I’m leaving here, Tommy. Dad got a promotion. We’re
moving to Hastings.”
Before I met Dakota, Charlie’s news would have dev
astated me. But I had changed.
“That’s great, Charlie.”
“I’ll probably come back, every now and again.”
He was lying, of course. He had no intention of ever
coming back. He was glad to be out of here, away from
Paul, away from this town of monsters and bogeymen.
We shook hands, and I watched him walk away.
“Tom? Are you sure you’re okay?” Belinda’s voice
brought me back from the abyss.
“Yes… really, love. I’m fine. Just need some fresh air.
I’ll be back in a minute.”
I went out to the garden, taking the newspaper with
me. A cool breeze swept through me, and I stood in it,
feeling every pore of my hot body cooling down. The
breeze immediately reminded me of the evening I dumped
Paul’s gun in the lake. When I went back to where he had
hid it, I expected it to have been gone. But no, it was still
there, in all its horrible glory, waiting for me.
When I went to Armstrong’s trailer, I had no plan,
only determination. That smile on his face was there,
permanently etched like a guilty clown. When I shot him,
he crumbled like a pile of dirty clothes.
I walked back to the lake, and threw the gun as far as I
could, hoping it would rest where Joey’s body had once
been. Over the next few days, I waited to be arrested, but
there was little interest shown by Dad or any of his
colleagues.
Armstrong had so many enemies, it would have been
impossible to even know where to begin, he told Mum.
Besides, the town is saying Armstrong got what he
deserved, and they don’t want valuable resources being
used up to find his killer or killers. Everyone is relieved.
Now, re-reading the newspaper article, I wondered
how many would still be relieved?
Find your copy of the book here
About the author
Sam Millar is a best-selling crime writer and playwright from
Belfast, Northern Ireland, UK. He has won numerous literary
awards and his books have all been critically praised. He is the
recipient of the Aisling Award for Art and Culture, the Martin
Healy Short Story Award, the Brian Moore Award for Short
Stories and Cork Literary Review Writer’s Competition. He has
also had his work performed by the BBC, and published in over
thirty literary journals throughout the world, including the
USA, Australia, Europe and Africa.
Sam’s work has appeared in best-selling anthologies, and he has
written a number of crime novels. To find out more visit his
website: www.millarcrime.com
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