The Boy in the Cemetery (11 page)

“We will be safe now.” she said and kissed him on his forehead. The boy couldn’t remember what his father’s face looked like anymore.

Are you there? It asked, Are you there?

“Yes I am here,” the boy replied trying to peer through the darkness. He waited and waited and finally the voice spoke again.

Please if you are there, it asked, knock once for yes, twice for no.

Puzzled the boy took a tiny hand and hit the wood of the head board.

KNOCK

The voice spoke again; there was an excitement to it the boy recognised. It was how he had felt on his fifth birthday or waking up on Christmas morning.

If that was you answering? knock again.

KNOCK,

How old are you? The voice wanted to know.

The boy learning the game quickly became braver, eager.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK AND KNOCK.

A knock for each year of his birth.

Does my voice seem near to you?

The Boy thought for a moment. The first time the voice has called him, it had been far away, echoing and muffled. Now each time the voice had returned and the more the boy had acknowledge its presence, the voice had grown closer. He could now even hear the breath that belonged to voice. He could almost feel it.

Are you in a room?

KNOCK.

Does it sound like I am in the room with you?

KNOCK.

The voice didn’t return and the next evening he was fretful and his thoughts wandered to dark places. The voice had yet to return and he was becoming disheartened that it may never return at all. The darkness seemed to be thicker than usual like when he used too much black crayon on pictures of London being bombed by the bad man. He missed his father and wished he would come home soon. Although while there was a war across the sea, the boy knew his Da's return would be a long time away. Just as he knew his father’s safety was not certain thing. The boy wanted to run to his mother sleeping in the next room but was afraid he would be trapped to the darkness. Besides she always slept deeply and fretted about waking her. Since father had left, she had become very weary. Her face was shallow and she moved slowly with heavy shoulders. Then there were the sirens. The sirens that warned of the bombs that came with fire and screams into the night. He had feared their return since the very first attack, since the very first time his parents had sat him down and explained about the bad man. Why hadn’t the voice returned to him? Had the mysterious lady abandoned him also?

Are you there? Are you there?

No not at all, and with rare happiness the boy Knew how to reply.

KNOCK

Do you know what happened to you?

There was something in the question that instantly sent him to more and more unease. It wasn’t the voice that bothered him, nor was it the darkness. He had been used to it ever since the war had begun. He had gone around the house one day with his mother, covering the windows. Mother had turned it into a game, who could paint the windows the blackest. There had to be no light his mother had explained, or the bombers would find them. Rather than fear darkness, hide in it. It was something else that pulled at the boy’s imagination. It was like a memory that didn’t want to be remembered but came crawling anyway.

Do you know what happened to you?

No the boy didn’t understand at. This game was not fun anymore.

KNOCK, KNOCK no.

Did you know how you died?

The boy suddenly recoiled at the question while at the same time the sirens sounded. As he lept from the safety of his bed with his bear in hand, the boy ran through the dark to his mother’s room. But from behind him the siren wailed a constant deadly whistle mixed with the sounds of planes overhead. The house rocked and dust fell as the first bombs exploded in the not too distant. The cracks in the blacked out windows silhouetted fire orange as the first set of explosions arrived.

He screamed or his mother as he choked on dust and smoke and he crawled as heat hissed at him. Somewhere amongst the noise and the voice was calling to him

Stop, please stop it said Stop

Then as the boy, crawling and tumbling, he managed to feel his way into his mother’s room. Pushing his way through the door, the moment he closed it behind him, the turmoil stopped. No sirens, no fire, no heat, only the darkness as cold as ice. Again the only sound was his heartbeat.

“Mummy,” he whimpered with sadness too upset to express but felt the pain of wailing

And there she was standing over him but at the same time next to him as he watched himself holding his mother’s hand. Her beautiful face was blackened and gone. Her clothes burnt and bloodied. Her skin cooked and smeared in grey ash. He looked back from himself and the boy turned to the darkness and suddenly saw himself staring back.. His eyes were a socket and his entire left hand side was missing replaced by char. His dead self-smiled but the smile was a twisted grin through missing and bruised lips. Although he stood upright, his left side was gone, replaced by blackened charcoal. And the boy in the bed staring remembered what he already knew…The first night the planes came was the last night for the boy and his mother.

Chapter Twelve

The story continued as Francesca insisted she had befriended the dead boy and their friendship continued all of the girl’s life until she died in nineteen seventy-two. Of course Francesca’s story had been dismissed as fantasy. Carrie Anne knew it to be fact.

She had been at the library for most of the day and soon school would be ending. To carry on the illusion of being at school for the day, she would have to leave for home. She was beginning to feel hungry having had nothing to eat all day. She left the library and went into the darkening afternoon and began to head for home. Still unsure of her new surroundings, she traced her steps the best she could. She walked by a local news crew. A cameraman was filming a journalist in a grey suit and tie. Carrie Anne recognised him from the five o’clock news. He was asking people as they passed if they could give their opinion on the missing teenagers. She rushed past as fast as she could and nearly walked into the detective who had previously visited her house.

“Hello Carrie Anne,” she said with a pleasant yet serious smile. “No school today?”

Carrie Anne, withdrawn, shook her head and walked by. But the detective kept pace with her, hands in the pockets of her long overcoat.

“You’re wearing a uniform, so I presume you’ve been to school?”

“I’ve been to the library.”

“The library, I used to love the library when I was your age. Reading anything good?”

Carrie Anne stopped walking and turned to the detective.

“Please, please leave me alone. I have to go home,” she pleaded.

Detective Howe stared at Carrie Anne. There was no malice in her voice at what she said next, but it left Carrie Anne with no illusions of the detective’s intent.

“I know life is hard for you; I can tell. But if there is anything you want to tell me, I promise you I will help you. You may feel alone but you are not. Wherever you are right now, I can bring you out of it but you need to be honest with me. I know you knew the Millers, I know they were bad to you and if they hurt you, if they put you in that hospital then it will be made public what they did. However, if you know what happened to them, if you know they have been hurt by someone close to you, your father maybe, you have to tell me.”

Carrie Anne paused; maybe there was hope for her after all, maybe.

“I don’t know who hurt me; I don’t remember.”

There is no hope.

The detective sighed as Carrie Anne’s trust slipped from her grasp.

“OK. If that’s how it’s going to be. You know tomorrow we will be looking at the old cemetery. Seeing what we can find. That’s right next to your home, all the way to your back garden. I may see you and your family tomorrow. Can I give you a ride home?”

Carrie Anne, under the detective’s gaze, reluctantly accepted the detective’s offer. She was scared that Detective Howe would have techniques akin to mindreading and dig out Carrie Anne’s secrets. For now though she had to think. The police searching the cemetery would certainly uncover Carrie Anne’s secret. She wasn’t sure if the Miller cousins were there or elsewhere; however, the dead boy was certainly there amongst the catacombs and decomposition. Her ribs ached and her stitches made her feel nauseous as she limped to the detective’s car. The afternoon darkened as another storm clouded the sky. She wanted to stop and lie on the pavement, curled into a ball, and never get back up again. She wanted to scream and pull out her hair and scratch her face until she bled. She wanted a release from fear and frustration. She owed it to the boy in the cemetery not to do these things. To somehow protect him as he had protected her. The drive lasted all of five minutes but it felt like hours. The detective was of course friendly enough, but that was her job. Why would she be anything else?

“I have a son about your age,” Howe said, while concentrating on the road. The car had a new smell to it that gave Carrie Anne a stale headache. “He gets into all sorts of trouble, just normal trouble, nothing too unhealthy, forgets to do homework, that sort of thing. I firmly believe that teens your age should be allowed a certain amount of trouble. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she replied in discomfort that she made every effort to hide.

“I don’t punish him too badly, just enough to keep him on the straight and narrow. I don’t believe people like my son, or like you, should have to live in fear of punishment.”

Carrie Annie did not reply. She just concentrated as hard as she could not to react, not to give anything away.

The detective pulled the car over a few doors down from Carrie Anne’s house. She looked at her with a serious stare. Not sinister or threatening, just serious.

“ The marks on your arms Carrie Anne, how did you get them?”

For a moment Carrie Anne could not reply, she just stared, mouth gaping unsure what to say and suddenly feeling flustered.

“I, I, I,” she stuttered, “ I have to go.”

Carrie Anne fumbled for the seat belt and the door handle, momentarily trapping herself before finally escaping to the waiting cold. The detective watched her leave until Carrie Anne was out of view.

“I will save you,” she thought to herself, “ Even if you do not want to be saved.”

Chapter Thirteen

She arrived back at the house that was hidden by trees. She let herself in with her key and went straight upstairs to her room. She threw her coat on a new bed and paced up and down. From her window she looked into the cemetery and she knew that the boy was looking back at her. Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother; who had wandered in behind her.

“How was your day; did you learn things?” she asked with a slight awkwardness.

“Yes it was fine; I read a lot. I’m just very tired.”

“Well, wash your hands and come to dinner.”

Carrie Anne did so. She sat at the table. The lights were dim and the window blinds drawn.

Mother dished out plates of chicken and potatoes. Father sat at the end of the table. He was mouthing to himself and agitated. Carrie Anne and her mother had seen these moods before. They would usually follow regret and apologies, but they always began with annoyance at the world.

“Are you OK, dear?” his wife asked.

“Rats,” he replied. “There are fricking rats in the basement. I’ve put traps down but they keep coming; something is driving them here, I swear.”

“Horrible things, horrible things,” Mother said.

“You—” his attention turned to Carrie Anne “—what have you got to say?”

“I’m not sure,” Carrie Anne replied, barely louder than a whisper.

“I cannot say I’m surprised. Did you try at school? Did you try to be normal?”

“Yes.”

There was silence and her father continued to mutter to himself. After dinner they watched television in more silence and when the sun finally went down and offered darkness its place, Carrie Anne made her excuses and went to bed.

“My head hurts. Can I go to bed, please?”

Mother looked at Father, who replied, “Why not, you may as well not be here.”

She had no intention of sleeping, however. As soon as she was in her room she opened her window and called out into the night. Not loudly by any means, but the strange shout that was also a whisper when signalling and avoiding detection.

“Boy,” she called. “Boy.”

But only the wind rushing away from the oncoming storm called back. Her eyes tried to pierce the dark but only shadows of the stones and dark grass and weeds looked back.

She called and called, in hopes of attracting her friend and saviour. But nothing but the lights surrounding the cemetery shone back. Carrie Anne felt her old friend panic returning to her once again. Soon the police would find the boy and everyone would know of his existence and she would be alone once more. She heard her parents climbing up the stairs. Carrie Anne, still in her school uniform, quickly dove into bed and pulled her quilt above her shoulders. She pretended to be asleep and closed her eyes tight. One of her parents opened her door; she heard it scrape against the wooden floor. After a moment it was closed again and she breathed easy. Another hour or so passed by. She lay frozen with fear that her parents would realise she was awake. She stayed perfectly still as she heard them banging their headboard and grunting. She felt queasy and wondered how her mother could let him touch her. She thought it was to protect Carrie Anne from her father’s unnatural desire. But Carrie Anne knew her mother did it to protect herself and her own sanity. It was a mercy when they eventually were silent. Carrie Anne waited in the dark; it would best to lock her father in the cellar with the rats, let them have their feast snarling and blooding his flesh,. The rats, the rats. The rats! Big fat juicy rats: that was the answer. Carrie Anne sat up and climbed from her bed. She crept down the stairs, again slowly, scared of discovery yet excited about the solution that presented itself to her.