The Writer (14 page)

Uh-huh.

Then he considered insisting
that his funeral be a Science Fiction theme. Everyone should be
required to wear a sparkly futuristic outfit and then made to
listen to Zegar and Evans’ weird piece of musical vandalism,
In
the Year 2525
. The people would then be told that Elvis was not
dead, but merely returned to his home planet, somewhere south of
Orion’s nebulae. That was based on an Elvis fan he met one time
during one of his shows, who actually believed that was what had
happened to his hero. Max became a little uncertain about his
audience after that encounter.

Such thoughts amused him
long enough to forget his sorrow. But after a few more hours his
thoughts became darker. Jill hated Elvis. Craigfield probably did
too. He went into the kitchen and looked through the utensils for
the sharpest knife he could find.

After a sleepless night
Susan took one look at the red sky of morning and went outside.
With short but quick steps she walked three houses down the street,
past Old Man Hudson’s place, past the Mongomery’s, to the home of
Andy Handisides. She hammered at the front door and was answered by
his wife Pat. She took one look at Susan and knew why she was
there. The two women understood the agony of losing a child, and
together they confronted Andy. At the small kitchen table,
concentrating in eating his porridge and trying to wake up, he
almost choked when he saw Susan.

He had been out driving
until well after midnight, going all over town in search of the
missing twins. With each passing hour he felt the need to take a
drink to calm his nerves. He ended up passing out in his car
sometime around one o’clock. Not even Pat knew about that. He
managed to wake and get back home before four with the wife being
none the wiser. After no more than two hours of sleep, his head
felt heavy and his eyes hurt every time he moved them. He was in no
mood to be confronted.

“You should know every inch
of this town, Andy,” Susan started on him with a loud voice. Pat
stood behind her with her arms folded, giving her all the support
she needed. “How can anyone go missing here? In Gendry? It’s hardly
big enough to lose a thought! Two exuberant boys running amuck? Who
are you kidding? The whole world could see them coming. But you?
Under your watch they’re nowhere to be seen. That’s under your
watch, Andy. I’m holding you responsible. Anything happens to them,
I’ll have your badge! Yes, I will. I’ll make a better sheriff than
your fat old hide.”

She leaned closer. “Have you
been drinking?”

Andy rubbed his eyes as he
slowly looked up to her. “No offence intended, Susan,” he said with
a croaky voice, “but I should point out, they are your boys and
their safety and guardianship is your responsibility
primarily.”

“Trying to put this on me
now?” she asked with a louder voice. “So I’m the Gendry sheriff, am
I? Since when did that happen? Big surprise to me, thanks for
sharing! When do I get my pay slip? Can’t be much, since I don’t
actually do anything! Except drink!”

“Susan,” Andy said with his
hands raised, “the fact is, since you are their mother, it is up to
you to look after their wellbeing. I’m here to keep the peace and
lock up law breakers. I’m not here to round up every unruly
child.”

He stood up from the table
and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, still keeping his hands
raised to show that he had not finished. “Now, I won’t have you
talking to me like the way you were just then. You do know we are
doing all we can to find the boys, and when we do I will let you
know first thing. Just let us do our job, and find them. The best
you can do is wait at home for them to come back. Wouldn’t be
surprised, they just turn up. You know what they’re like, being
boys.”

He added his trademark big
smile and she grimaced at the sight of those large teeth of
his.

“In case you haven’t
noticed,” she countered, “there’s a murderer running around loose
this town. And you think I’m just going to sit back and
wait—“

“Yes, I do expect that,” he
said more sternly. “I expect you to wait for them to turn up, or
until we have word on where they are. Your girl Sophie tells me
they’ve been playing out in the forest lately, working on another
one of their secret projects or something. They may have just got
lost. But I know them, better than you might think. I know they’re
smart boys. I’m sure they’re able to find their way back into
town.”

“I’ll go right now and
search the whole forest myself. Since you can’t.”

“We have people doing that,
and they’re good people too. I don’t want you going in there and
getting yourself lost, and then we’ll have three missing townfolk
to find. Just help me out by letting us do our job. That’s all I
ask. Can you do that please, Susan?”

She took a big gasp of air,
ready to let him have it, her opinion of exactly how well he was
doing his job, when she realised it would be wasted on him. She
said nothing else, turned and marched out of his house. Pat
remained staring at Andy, her arms folded, just daring him to
protest. He rubbed his face some more and went back to his
porridge. Gendry life had become too busy lately, and it coincided
with Andy beginning to feel his age and wish he could spend his
days out fishing, far away from women like Susan. And Pat too, for
that matter. And their crazy ideas of some murderer running
around.

“It was a hit-and-run,” he
said to his wife. “There’s no murderer running around. City driver
did it; that’s what the city police man said. Could have happened
before, could happen again. Got to watch out, us small town people.
Don’t know who’s going to run us down these days.”

“You’re drinking on the job
again?” Pat asked.

He didn’t answer, which was
usual when she asked that question.

There was a small gap
between Craigfield’s house and his neighbour’s and Max found that
he could stand in it and not be seen from the glare of the
streetlight or passing cars. His crutch was left in his car and a
sharp kitchen knife replaced it. Since he had been punched his foot
had felt a lot better. His face didn’t feel any better, however,
and neither did his memory.

The house was empty and it
was getting late but Max never lost his anger nor let the knife
loosen in his hand. He did not remember the last time he had slept
for more than an hour. Every night seemed to be one of those
toss-and-turn endurances that made him feel worse than not sleeping
at all. But he remained alert and the sound of each approaching car
made his heart race. After seeing it was not Craigfield he felt a
rush of fear, before his anger returned.

He had never considered
himself to be a violent man. All through his school days he was
small and defenceless and suffered bullying. That was when he
learned to mimic people, and such humour made him popular with the
kids who used to hit him. From there he moved on to mimicking
Elvis. Whenever he belted out songs like
Blue Suede Shoes
he
always remembered his miserable school days. No matter how many
times he tried to move on, his Elvis act always gave him a little
bit of sadness. That was a story he had never told any other living
soul.

People thought he was a
happy man; people who didn’t know him. And most people didn’t know
that he was one of those deep-down tender-hearted people who didn’t
even like the thought of killing a common household spider—the type
that you can hardly see, or a small fly that never wants to go away
and just flirts with your ears and eyes. He would open a window and
hope the fly finds its freedom, or chase it around the house until
it does. He would ignore the spider and hope it doesn’t turn up
again, and if it does then repeat the same until it either goes
away or grows too big for its own good. Jill was the one who could
mercilessly destroy bugs like a born assassin. He didn’t even want
to know when she got one, since the thought of it would upset
him.

But now things had changed
for Max. He was no longer that frightened child or timid pacifist,
or emotional bug-freer. He had been driven too far, pushed to his
limit, and he wanted this wife-stealer to suffer. There was no
plan, and if there were then he would think about it too much and
start to fret. If he didn’t get him today then he would come back
tomorrow. Simple as that. After he got him, he would just leave. He
didn’t care if he got blood on his clothes, or walked in it and got
it on his shoes and in his car, or if Craigfield didn’t go down
easily and Max was wounded in return. He didn’t care if he also had
to suffer in order to make this man suffer. He didn’t care if he
was caught and tried for murder, and convicted and sentenced to
life in prison in a small cell with a lonely cell jockey named
Bubba or Wendy. He just wanted revenge and the knowledge that this
man was no longer able to seduce the Jills of this
world.

During his time as a
journalist he had written about crimes of passion and he had tried
to imagine what drove people to such acts. His imagination could
not conceive of what it took and he had assumed it was the result
of madness. Now he realised how wrong he was. One in such a
position never takes time to sit back and muse about how to get
away with it, to organise the perfect crime, analyse the pros and
cons and put it into play with perfection. This was nothing like
stealing a painting with no one seeing, or planning extortion so he
could get away with the money. The payoff was the act itself, not
in whatever happens after that. All that needed to be planned was
in how to get the man alone and with what to kill him
with.

When the front door opened
it startled Max. Someone came out and walked the short distance to
the gate. He tried to get out of his mind the realisation that the
house had been occupied the entire time he was there. The fact that
he had not been spotted made him feel confident enough to carry
on.

He carefully peered around
the side of the house and his heart raced when he saw that it was
Craigfield. All he was wearing was briefs, despite the coolness in
the air. He was leaning against the front gate, still as a statue.
Max thought he might be looking for an intruder and he fought back
his fear. Then he noticed that Craigfield was more interested in
the night sky than anything out on the street, or in dark gaps near
his house. He wondered if he was doing nothing more unusual than
getting some fresh air. Max looked at his knife and the sharpness
of the edge and it made him feel powerful.

Craigfield moved back a step
from the gate again and made a loud noise like a cough, or a snort.
He then turned to face Max, who froze with sudden fear before he
realised that Craigfield had not seem him. Then Craigfield turned
back to the gate and his hands tried to open the latch but fumbled.
It took about a minute for him to open the latch, but all he did
then was open and shut the gate again and then turn back to the
house. He walked to his front steps but then stopped, looking down
at the ground.

Max readied his knife, even
though it had been ready for a while. He now realised that his
target was sleepwalking and he knew that he would have no trouble
in getting to him and quickly finishing him. Craigfield had even
made it easy for him in not wearing a shirt. Max had a choice of a
large, muscular torso to stab and he had no excuse for not doing
it. He moved closer and raised the knife. The deep sleeping
Craigfield was trying to negotiate the front steps; a foot went up
and tapped the step before going down and then the other had a try.
He might as well have a target painted on his back. There was no
one around; not even a car in sight.

Max knew that he would never
again be presented with a better opportunity. But he backed off and
just watched the sight of his nemesis acting so vulnerable and
weak, and allowed him to go. Craigfield eventually walked up the
steps and returned inside his house, even locking the door behind
him. Max stared at the door and tried to comprehend what just
happened. He knew that he didn’t have it. Whatever it was that made
men kill, he didn’t have it. What he did have were tears and they
filled his eyes. His foot began to hurt and he had difficulty
getting back to his car without his crutch, and he almost
accidentally cut himself with the knife.

Kerry and Jerry had no idea
that it would be just before nightfall when the train arrived in
the city. They began to panic at the thought of being lost there.
It did not help that everyone around them looked unfriendly. The
other commuters sat in silence and minded their own business, all
making an effort to not make eye contact with anyone else. With
each stop more people joined them, and aside from short glares, the
twins were ignored. They did not belong and everyone knew it. To
make it worse, they only had the window to look at and their view
was dull. They had nothing to read or listen to, unlike everyone
else. With either a paper or a computer device to read, the other
passengers were away in their own world. Every second person wore
small headsets or earpieces and the twins could not help but stare
when someone flipped at their flashy controls. When they arrived at
the final stop the carriage was full of such people.

Between the two of them they
could not conclude that their best option would be to wait for the
next train to take them back home. To do that they would not have
to leave the station and they would probably be ignored. Clouding
such thoughts was their youthful keenness to keep following
Craigfield, to keep to their plan, to not let Sophie down. Nothing
would be worse than letting Sophie down. No matter where Craigfield
was going, he was the only person they knew in the city, and with
him was their sense of safety. They knew they must not let him out
of their sight, but when the train stopped and everyone stood up to
leave, they realised they had a problem.