I remember the thud, the scrape, the dread.
Looking around the room I see a bloody mark clinging to the low shelf. A thick dark stain encircles Paul’s head.
Panic grips my chest. I’m alone.
Slap, slap, slap.
Who?
Alone at her desk, Theresa scans the few emails in her inbox. There’s not much there, after all it is her first day on the job. Three emails from her boss, the founder of the company, with subject lines that make clear they contain the background information he promised her. She’s anxious to open them and get started on making a good impression but the last email catches her eye; it’s from someone or something called, “
[email protected]”. She groans and smiles at the same time – spam already. She opens it hoping for some levity to relieve those first-day jitters.
“I hate that we can’t meet or talk but I’m sure you’re right, email is safer. I know you can use your IT magic to wipe this email from all systems. I’m sending from a new account because my last one was hacked. I hate internet cafes. I wouldn’t write at all but I found out that she might taste it if you put it in the red wine. Please, if you can, mix the vial into a glass of champagne. The bubbles will disguise the bitterness. I know she loves champagne so it won’t be a problem if you can get a bottle in front of her. Her drinking is just one more thing I hate about her. The world (and my life) will be a better place without the witch.
I’m counting the days until we’ll be free of her and can start the life we deserve. I love you.”
Who in the world is Adonis? Who is “she”, the woman about to be handed a champagne flute containing a vial of what? Is this a joke?
Theresa raises her eyes and peers through the glass wall of her office hoping to catch some of her colleagues staring and laughing. Nothing but a row of oversized monitors attended by young supplicants meets her gaze.
So now what? Call the police? How ridiculous will she sound, a new hire overreacting to a hoax? Maybe she should call the IT department. Tricia, the manager there, wasn’t exactly friendly when she setup Theresa’s laptop but wouldn’t she want to know about this kind of spam?
If it is spam.
If she could be sure it wasn’t, she would definitely call the police.
Theresa looks at her email address:
[email protected]. Could there be another TAW here? She pulls up a staff list. She’s one of five with a last name beginning with W. Three are men so she can rule them out. Or can she? Could Adonis be writing to a man? Why not? A gay man might want to get rid of a woman. His mother, for example, the only thing standing between him and a huge inheritance? A wife he married before coming out? No, she can’t rule anyone out.
None, besides her, has a first name beginning with T but one has a first name beginning with R. That’s a common typo. Could someone named Ronald Wallace be in on a conspiracy to murder? She’d have to try to meet him.
Wait, Patricia, the head of IT, goes by Tricia. It would be an easy mistake to use a T instead of a P for her address. . .
“Come on,” her new boss sticks his head around Theresa’s doorframe, “time to introduce you to the troops.”
After shaking the hands of twelve young, undoubtedly innocent men, Theresa’s introduced to Ron Wallace. He’s wearing a gray hoodie which might be the costume du jour of a murderer, but that impish grin and uncombed forelock couldn’t be.
In the boardroom, she tries to summon the courage to mention the email to her boss who is standing next to her with a bottle of designer beer in one hand and a piece of pizza in the other. She’s met all four W’s on her list but none seem like a murderer to her. Not that she thinks she’d know one if she shook his hand.
Theresa takes a glass of red wine when Tricia offers it. She swallows two large gulps, hoping to gain enough courage to talk to her boss about the email.
A strong bitter taste fills her mouth. Tricia’s smile floats before her eyes long after the rest of the room grows dark.
Blood Oath
“If you don’t swear the blood oath, we’re leaving you behind.” Mike glared at Billy over his sliced palm. Charlie’s bloody hand was extended, ready for the shake that would bind him to his friends forever and beyond.
This oath was a serious one. If Mike’s father, the local parson, found out the boys had ventured into the old coal mine, it would be the strap and a week of bread and water for Mike. His dad was known across the county for his sermons on fire and brimstone and all three boys knew he enjoyed practicing behind the woodpile what he preached from the pulpit. Charlie wouldn’t fare much better with his father whose fists kept his family subdued. Though Billy didn’t fear for his own flesh, he knew he’d have to keep the secret to protect his blood brothers.
Once their right hands were smeared with the mixture of their blood, the boys followed Mike through the hole created by last week’s cave in. Mike was the bravest – a hardness forged on the anvil of his father’s arm. He held the lantern in front of him and stooped as he worked his way along a fissure.
Charlie stayed within the ring of light given off by the lantern, near enough to smell the oil. Two paces behind him, Billy tripped over shadows cast beyond the reach of the flickering flame. His lack of real-world demons inflated his fear of horrors lurking in the dark.
A gap opened into one of the main tunnels that led further into total darkness. Mike watched his friends scramble over the last boulder, each placing their bloody palm on the same outcrop to steady themselves. The complete silence of the mine was punctuated by the short breaths of Billy – his fear resonating in gasps. Charlie punched his friend in the shoulder in the way boys everywhere break tension with violence. He turned to their leader, “What d’ya think Mike, left or right?”
Mike twitched his head toward the left. The ground sloped only slightly, but he was sure that way was deeper into the mine. He turned and walked, his only goal to go as far as he could into the darkness he couldn’t see.
As the lamp’s light receded from the edge of the fissure, the spot where the three boys had placed their hands began to glow. The glimmer was too dim for the human eye to see, but the heat that accompanied it and the humming coming from deep within the rock trickled down the mine like blood seeping from a sliced palm.
There was more space to move once they were in the main tunnel but the air grew uncomfortably warm and carried a smell like human blood. Mike quickened his steps and Charlie bit his lip. Billy had stopped thinking of anything beyond keeping Mike in sight. The humming behind him had grown to a pulse and he thought that if he stopped to listen, he’d be able to understand what the walls were saying.
After somewhere between five minutes and an hour, time had become immeasurable to the boys, they reached a junction. Mike set the lantern down and turned to look into his friends’ eyes. He saw terror and courage – neither wanted to be the first to suggest going back. He understood that he’d have to be the one to get them home. He smiled at the thought of fleeing home in fear – it amused him that any place could hold more dread than his own house.
As Mike opened his mouth to make a joke, to tell his friends he was too hungry to keep wandering through a cave like a tramp, the weak flicker of the lantern grew dimmer. Or maybe not dimmer. He turned his back to the flame and saw the walls were growing lighter. The weight of the air pressed on his chest. He struggled to draw in enough breath to speak but before he uttered a sound he realized the thumping roar coming from every stone would drown-out any noise he made.
When Mike reached behind him, he found the clasped hands of his blood brothers. As he wrapped his fist around theirs he made an oath to stand with them forever and beyond.
The Storytellers
I love Tuesdays. Mum works especially late so I get to eat with Gramps, not just hang around his flat killing time until Mum calls like on every other week night. He always makes fried eggs and chips, which is the best meal ever. Mum says he’s destroying my cholesterol, but Gramps insists he’s “doing it wonders.” He always chuckl
es when he says that and Mum always scowls. It’s one of those adult topics. I don’t think kids are supposed to know what cholesterol is.
This visit is turning into one of the better ones ‘cause George is here. George is Gramps’s neighbor. He’s a blackfella. Mum says not to call him that because it’s not polite. She says he’s Gramps’s indigenous neighbor. Gramps says Mum doesn’t know what she’s talking about. George calls himself a blackfella so that’s what we should call him. Gramps asked me, “How would you like to be called ‘white invader’ because some government fella decides that’s what’s right?” I want to be called Graham ‘cause that’s what my mum named me. So now I just call George, George. He doesn’t seem to mind.
When George is around, Gramps always breaks out a bottle of Bundi and I get ginger beer in a little Bundi bottle which is heaps better than lemonade. Ginger beer and eggs with chips: “A little slice of heaven.” That’s one of Gramps’s sayings. He has lots of them and Mum wishes I didn’t copy him so much. She thinks it’s limiting my vocabulary. But it’s not. I only use one of Gramps’s sayings when it fits. I’m pretty careful with my speech. I don’t like getting things wrong and it’s not wrong to call tonight’s tea a little slice of heaven.
I’m probably so careful with my speech ‘cause of Gramps and George. They’re both storytellers and they say that words matter. They’re not wrong. I could listen to them all day. I’m sure it would be better than listening to Miss Anderson. She’s my teacher and is always going on about grammar and punctuation and stuff, but she never says anything that’s interesting. Gramps is full of real interesting stories about the wars. He was in that one in Europe where Churchill was the hero. He says it was the last just war, that anyone who didn’t fight the Nazis was a Nazi hisself. Mum doesn’t like him talking about Nazis so he calls them fascists when she’s around.
Gramps knows a lot of Churchill’s speeches by heart. I think Gramps could have made better ones but he was a foot soldier then, so no one listened to him. Then he came home and was a plumber all his life and still never made speeches. He’s shy around strangers he says, but not around me and George. Around us, he’s full of speeches, but he calls ‘em stories. I’m not sure of the difference, but I think maybe Churchill should have told stories instead of speeches if he wanted ‘em listened to more.
George tells stories too, but his are different than Gramps’s. Gramps’s stories are about wars and heroes and jungles and such. George tells stories about rocks and whales and stuff. His are more about nature, but I think Gramps’s are more exciting. Gramps laughs when I say that, ‘cause he thinks nature is more exciting than bullets and airplanes. Maybe when I’m ancient—like my gramps—and have fought in a just war, I’ll agree. Either way, this is a great night because I get both kinds of stories. Tonight, George even tells a new one that I’ve never heard before. That doesn’t happen much these days ‘cause I’ve known George since I was little and that’s a lot of years of hearing his stories.
~ * ~
Miss Anderson gave us homework today. I don’t even want to think about it. We have to write an essay about a person--two whole pages. She says we can pick anyone, but we have to research them before we write about them. William is doing his on Ricky Ponting. I wish I’d of thought of that first. He’d be dead easy to write even three pages about. He’s the best cricketer ever.
It’s Friday, so I don’t get to eat with Gramps, but I ride my bike over anyway until my mum calls and says she’s home. I take a long time to ride over thinking about who my essay can be about. But there are lots of people walking around and so I get all distracted and stuff. Mum says I get too easily distracted. Gramps says I have an inquisitive mind and that’s a good thing.
When I get to Gramps’s, I’ve almost forgotten my essay, but then he asks me how school was. It’s like I ate a stone. I tell him about my two-page essay and how scared it makes me. He laughs. He’s always doing that, laughing when I think something’s awful. Sometimes it makes me feel stupid and sometimes he explains it to me and gets me laughing too. I hope he explains my homework in a way that I can laugh so I’ll want to write an essay.
“You have nothing to be scared of, you silly goat. An essay is just a story told in writing. Two pages is nothing for a story.” Gramps has a big smile, but I still don’t think it’s funny.
“But this essay has to be someone you research, like a historical person. William is doing Ricky Ponting, which would be the easiest thing ever.”
“Why don’t you write a story about George? He’s an interesting fella. He’s one of the stolen generation and that’s a popular topic these days. Though in my day it was something no one talked too much about.”
“Is George on the internet? How can I research him?”
“Did Miss Anderson say your research had to be done on the internet?”
I shake my head.
“Well, that’s a relief. I worry about your generation. These silly computers seem to have taken over everyone’s head. How about interviews? That’s research and you sure could interview George.”
I think about it. I guess interviewing might be research. I could ask Miss Anderson on Monday. But I don’t really think writing about George is what I want to do. And I don’t think he’d like it. He’s always saying how his stories aren’t written down because they’re meant to be told, not read. He says stories read don’t mean much, because you can’t hear the voice of the ancestors in them. And I don’t want to write a sad story. I don’t know a lot about the stolen generation, but I know the Prime Minister had to say sorry and I know some people cried—even George. So I don’t think it’s a happy thing. I want my essay to be a happy one. It would have been if I’d written about Ricky Ponting.
~ * ~
I talk to Mum about my essay on the weekend and about what Gramps said. She can see I’m worried about it and says maybe if Miss Anderson says it’s okay, I could write about Gramps. Since I see him every day after school, I’d have plenty of time to interview him. And he has great stories that would make it easy to fill two pages. I think she’s right. I think Gramps’s story might make a good essay.
~ * ~
We only get two weeks to write this essay and mine is going to be the best ever. Ricky Ponting is a boring topic compared to Gramps. I’ve been interviewing him every night and I know where he was born and where he went to school and what his favorite vegetable is. I need to start writing though and that’s the scariest thing ever.
It’s a Friday, so I’m going to ask Gramps some more stuff about his life. Mum says I should ask about his feelings: love and stuff. I’m not so sure. Then on the weekend I’m going to start writing. I can get Gramps to read it next week and he can fix anything I’ve got wrong before I have to hand it in to Miss Anderson. I ride real quick over to Gramps’s flat to do my interviewing and the door is open and George is sitting on the sofa. I don’t see Gramps, so I shout as I walk in, in case he’s in the bathroom and doesn’t know I’m here. “Hi, Gramps, I’m here.”
George pats the sofa next to him and tells me, “Come here boy. Sit down next to me.”
I stand still. I’m staring into George’s eyes. They’re real dark. His eyes are always dark brown, but there’s something even darker in them today. “What?” My voice kind of cracks and it embarrasses me a little.
“Just sit with me a while. Your mum is with your gramps and will be back for you shortly.”
I know something’s wrong. Mum has to be at work right now, which is why I’m supposed to be with Gramps, not George. If Mum’s not at work, something really bad must have happened. “What?” This time my question is more of a whisper than a crack.
“Just sit with me a while.” George won’t say anything and now he won’t even look at me.
Something is very wrong. I know it. I drop my bag with my interviewing notebook in it and sit on the floor staring at my shoes. George doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I don’t think about anything. I wonder if Gramps would sti
ll think I have an inquisitive mind. I wonder where Gramps is.
I hear footsteps at the door. I know it’s still open, ‘cause I never closed it and George hasn’t moved. I turn my head to see my mum and her face is red and puffy and I know she’s been crying and Gramps isn’t with her and I know it’s bad. I curl up and tuck my head between my knees. I can’t breathe.
Mum squats down next to me and I hear her voice, but I can’t understand a single word. I don’t know what she’s saying. Then I hear the word “gone” through her sobs. I don’t uncurl. She rubs my back. George sits. Gramps is gone.
I know I’m crying, because I feel water dripping down my cheek. But my eyes are squeezed shut and my ears are as closed as I can make them without putting my fingers in them. My arms are wrapped around my knees and I think I’m going to be sick. Mum is still talking and I still can’t hear her. George picks me up and carries me to the sofa. Mum sits next to me and wraps her arms around me. I feel her sob deep in her chest. Noise comes from the kitchen and I think George is making tea. He doesn’t like tea and neither do I, but it’s what you have at a time like this. I really just want my gramps.
~ * ~
I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s Sunday and Saturday is lost somewhere. My gramps is dead and I don’t want to think about it. Mum gives me ginger beer and fried egg with chips. She doesn’t make it as good as gramps does– did– but I eat it ‘cause she’s been crying and I want her to stop. I see my interview notes and think of my essay about Gramps. I didn’t want to write a sad story, but this is the saddest ever. I cry so much, ginger beer comes out of my nose. Mum holds me close and I feel the sobs in her chest. They match the sobs in my chest.
~ * ~
I wake up and it’s dark. My digital clock tells me it’s 3:14. Gramps used to get up at 4:30 when he was in the army and he said that was earlier than the birds, so it was just silly to not be sleeping then. I wish he could laugh at me and make me laugh too. He always knew how to make people happy—at least me and Mum and George. And that’s all he ever had to worry about.
I get out of bed and put my interview notes on my desk. This was my gramps. His least favorite color was purple and he hated the way pumpkin was all squishy. I like purple but I won’t like it any more. I never liked pumpkin, so that’s okay.