Black's Creek (8 page)

‘Can I ask you something, Devlin?'

She looked at me suspiciously. The skin between her eyebrows creased into a small, angry V.

‘What?'

‘Promise you won't get mad.'

‘I don't believe in promises. They're always broken. What?'

I wished now I had let things be.

‘Those … those marks, on your … butt …' I felt my face getting hot.

‘What about them?' Her face was nonchalant, but her voice turned cold. The pupils of her eyes looked like gunshot wounds.

‘What … what are they? They look like burn marks.'

‘If that's what they look like, then let them be just that. Best they be what you think, and best you keep your nose on your face, rather than in my business.'

Had I been an adult, perhaps the corollary of her words would have had meaning, and the summer's sweetness might not have tasted so wickedly good. But it would be a long time before I knew the true meaning of those sinister marks. Too long, and too late.

‘Are you finished questioning me?' she said, pulling on her jeans, zipping them so loudly they sounded like a serrated knife cutting into my bones.

‘Yes.'

‘Good.' She made a movement to go.

‘Can I walk you home?'

‘No. I can make my own way. I don't need you or anyone to walk me home. Been doing it since legs sprouted from my body.'

She was visibly annoyed now, all thanks to my stupid questioning. I felt my throat tightening, as if an invisible hand was slowly squeezing. The thought of her leaving was killing me.

‘When will I see you again, Devlin?'

‘When I decide. Okay?'

No, it wasn't okay. ‘Okay.'

Just as I thought she was going, she turned and stared at me. Her beautiful face had lines of anger. I tried reading her thoughts, wondering what that stare meant. Was it over, our relationship? Was she deciding never to see me again?

‘Follow me. Don't talk. If you talk, I'll hurt you so much you won't even feel the pain, it'll be that painful,' she said, walking briskly ahead, never looking back at me.

I followed quickly behind, like an obedient and happy puppy, uttering not a word, lest my mistress became angry.

We walked for what seemed like hours, going beyond the lake's influence, and entering into Dust Hill territory. Dust Hill was a stretch of struggling land where the poorer people of Black's Creek lived, beyond the outskirts of town, mostly in rusted trailers or homemade shacks. The unfortunates who
lived here were nicknamed ‘dusties', or ‘hillies'. Mom had warned me plenty of times never to go near Dust Hill, as if a fate worse than death awaited anyone foolish enough to venture near it. ‘They never work, but always seem to have money for liquor,' was one of her kinder descriptions of the inhabitants. Dad, outside of Mom's earshot, would say the folks of Dust Hill were just like people everywhere, good and bad.

Just as I began to wonder how much further we had to walk, an isolated farmhouse came into view. The place looked disjointed, like a mirror fractured. A massive barn clung, crab-like, to the side of the house. I could make out rusted machinery, poking from the barn's dilapidated siding. Everything seemed chaotic and unused, as if no human hand had touched it for decades. A battered, rust-covered truck stood silently like a great beached fish, its heavy shadow streaking the heads of wild and rotted wheat.

‘This is where I live,' Devlin said. ‘Come on, but be very quiet. I don't want Ma hearing or seeing us.'

‘Okay,' I said, practically tiptoeing onwards. No sooner had we started than Devlin stopped in her tracks.

‘
Get down!
' she commanded, pulling me quickly down between the skinny necks of wheat.

‘What's wrong?'

‘
Shhhhhhh! Over there
,' she said, pointing. ‘
Listen
.'

I listened, but could hear nothing other than the sound of tree branches rubbing together like stridulating crickets. The
only visible movement came from a pageant of crows swooping in for landing in the haggard-looking field, where a ternary of scarecrows took centre stage. Ignoring the ragged sentinels, the crows rummaged at will, drilling with hardened beaks against the unyielding ground. The scene was like something from an old black-and-white horror movie, and it transfixed me. It was then that I noticed one of the scarecrows moving.

‘That scarecrow just moved,'
I said, pointing.

‘That's Bob McCoy. A rattlesnake. He does mostly odd jobs in some of the farms. People pay him in food. Sometimes, he sells stuff for Ma.'

‘I'm certain he's looking over at us.'

‘Just keep still.'

We both did just that, for a tortuously long period of time. Finally, Devlin gave the okay by gently touching my arm.

‘He's moved on. Let's go,' she said. ‘Just be careful.'

Finally reaching the front of the barn, I waited for Devlin to open the doors. Up close and personal, there was something eerily quiet and intimidating about the place.

‘You must never,
ever
come here alone,' Devlin said, ushering me quickly inside. ‘Do you understand? It wouldn't be safe.'

‘Why? What's the big deal?'

‘Because Ma uses McCoy as her eyes and ears. He reports
everything
to her.'

‘I'm not afraid of McCoy,' I said, filled with false bravado.

Her face became very serious. ‘Just do as I say. McCoy isn't the only one you should fear.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

She ignored my question, and flicked on a switch.

The dull light melted, magically revealing an artist's workshop. Paintings rested on a few homemade easels, some shrouded in dustcovers. Paintbrushes lay scattered on a large, paint-stained table, alongside numerous jars of thick paint.

‘Wow! Is this your art studio?' I walked over to the paintings and was immediately mesmerised by how skilfully they were created. ‘You did all these?'

‘Yes,' she said, removing dustcovers from some of the hidden paintings. Despite the gruffness in her voice, I detected pride. A small half-smile appeared on her face, and it delighted me that I should have this wondrous power.

An enormous canvas, titled ‘An Effigy of Calvary', took centre stage. It depicted crucified scarecrows, barking at the moon. Barbed wire squeezed out purple blood from each ragged face, which spilled down to form a puddle, shaped uncannily like the town. The second painting was titled ‘Still Life', and was similarly unnerving: it portrayed a dead baby, painted in painstaking detail, decapitated by a piano string. The child's face was fully developed, its eyes terrifyingly real.

But it was the next painting, beautiful, yet repulsive, which seemed to cast a spell over me. The painting's theme was animals – pigs, to be exact – mating, watched by a goddess,
herself comprised of animal and insect parts. It was a mosaic tapestry of the exotic, titled ‘Guilt of Man', despite the fact that the painting's central character was clearly a woman. The nude's butterfly-wing ears protruded from black, cascading hair, partly covering a field-mouse nose that twitched with delight. The shadowy mound of hair resting between the nude's legs resembled a tarantula wrapped menacingly around a bloody, severed-phallus-shaped mushroom. The spider seemed to stalk the canvas, as if it were ready to leap. The pigs mated in groups in the painting's background, aroused by the nude. Their faces bore grotesque, almost human similitude. A filthy-looking boar, eyes shadowed, stood over a sow, ready for mounting, its large, lance-like penis erect and angry.

I tried to look away, but failed. My heart rattled like a dried pea in a tin can. The pigs seemed to be calling me, whispering my name.
Tommy. Tommy. Tommy
. It sounded like Gregorian chant echoing through my head. They wanted me to join them.
Come and join the fun
, said the ugly boar, winking at me. Eerily, the boar reminded me of someone, but I just couldn't put a name to the horrible face.

‘
Oink oink!
' hissed Devlin into my ear, making me jump, but thankfully breaking the dark, hypnotic spell the painting had put me under.

‘Shit! Don't do that.'

‘My paintings freaking you out? Shocking, aren't they?'

‘Shocking? Ha! Very little shocks me.' I
was
shocked. I wondered what kind of mind could create such nightmarish scenes? More importantly, perhaps, why?

‘I watched your face. My paintings scared you.'

‘They're nothing to what I've seen in real life. I've seen photos of dead people. Some of them murdered.'

‘Such a liar!' She started laughing. It annoyed me.

‘I'm not a liar. My dad's the sheriff. Lots of times he brings his work home. Sometimes he has to examine photos of car crashes, stabbings … even shootings.'

She looked at me for a few seconds, her expression now one of curiosity. ‘You've actually seen photos of dead people?'

‘Yes, I've seen them. All in gruesome colour. If you don't believe me, I can show you one or two, the next time Dad brings them home.'

‘Perhaps I could paint them, bring them back to life …?'

‘Paint them? I don't think that would be a nice thing to do, Devlin. Not the dead.'

‘Why wouldn't it? They're dead, aren't they? The way I see it, they aren't gonna be complaining too much.'

‘I was always told to respect the dead, not make fun of them.'

‘I'm tired listening to you, sounding like some old preacher from the mountains,' she said, pushing by me. ‘Time for you to go.'

‘Go? But … I only got here.'

She walked to the barn door. Opened it.

‘You can find your own way back.' The mischievous smile was back with a vengeance. ‘Unless of course you're scared of meeting someone dead on your way home?'

‘Will I … will I be able to see you tomorrow?' I said, walking reluctantly towards the opening. ‘Will you be at the lake?'

‘No, not tomorrow. In a few days. Perhaps a week.'

‘A week? But why do I have to wait a week to –'

‘
Just go
!' she shouted, practically pushing me out. ‘I'm sick listening to your whining voice.'

‘Okay, okay, I'm going! No need to push!'

‘Remember what I told you: never come here uninvited. Ma's got … mood swings, when she doesn't take her medicine. She would gobble up a little boy like you, turn you into something you wouldn't like.'

‘She a witch?' I smirked.

‘Oh, she's far worse than a witch,' said Devlin. ‘She's a monster.' The barn door was slammed in my face, leaving me staring at the decaying wood.

‘W
here've you been?' Mom challenged, as I approached the porch on my return from Devlin's barn. Mom was sitting with a copy of
Life
magazine, opened near the middle spread. Dad was reading one of the many comic strips in the newspaper, and smoking his pipe.

‘Just walking about.' I wasn't in the mood for one of Mom's interrogations. Devlin and her gruesome paintings were still seared into my mind. ‘Now that I'm only allowed to run about with Horseshoe, I don't have too many choices.'

‘Stop with the martyr complex, Tommy. No one said you could only have one friend. That's a decision you've made. What about David Klein, across the road? He seems a nice enough boy. You could become friends with him. I always see him playing basketball with his little sister.'

‘It's
because
he has no friends that he plays with his little sister,' I said, a snide smirk forming on my face. ‘We asked him once, last year, to play football with us. The sissy almost fainted.'

‘
Don't
talk like that in this house, calling any person a sissy.'

‘I'm not in the house. I'm outside it.'

I instantly regretted trying to be smart with Mom. It was not very smart.

Mom's war face came on. She let the magazine slip down the side of her legs, as if she were going for a gun or stiletto blade. ‘For your information, smart mouth, David Klein's father died in Vietnam. You should be grateful you
have
a father to teach you football.'

So far, Dad had remained neutral, not getting himself involved in the argument. Now he said, quite calmly and to no one in particular, ‘
Peanuts
.'

Both Mom and I looked at him quizzically.

‘What? What about
Peanuts
?' I said.

‘You enjoy reading
Peanuts
, don't you?'

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It's okay.' I loved
Peanuts
, the whole motley crew. But I wasn't going to admit that to Dad or anyone else.

‘The Klein kid across the road. A bit like Charlie Brown. Meek, nervous, lacks self-confidence. Probably can't fly a kite and never won a baseball game in his life, never mind trying to kick a football. Doesn't make him a bad guy, does it?'

I shrugged my shoulders again. ‘I guess not …'

‘Who knows, then? Maybe some time you'll get the chance to show him how to kick a football or throw a mean curve ball, the way I've seen you throw?'

‘Maybe …'

‘Good. That's that sorted. After dinner, we're going to see
Diamonds Are Forever
. That okay with you?'

‘
Diamonds Are Forever
! You bet it's okay!'

Dad smiled, popped the pipe back in his mouth and went back to reading his newspaper. He wore a pleased little smile, having successfully prevented war with his worldly words of wisdom. Mom went back to reading
Life
magazine, looking equally pleased at having just won the battle. I smiled too, went inside and up to my room, whistling the theme to James Bond.

This was what summer was all about.

‘We're gonna be late!' I kept shouting up the stairs to Mom and Dad. There was panic in my voice. ‘We'll not get good seats.'

‘Stop shouting!' Mom shouted. ‘There's plenty of time.'

She was right, but I was impatient to see James Bond do his thing, and to check out all the fantastic, futuristic gadgetry he got to play with. Plus, there was always a beautiful girl to be
rescued, like Ursula Andress. Or, as Horseshoe liked to call her, Ursula Undress.

We arrived with plenty of time to spare, but like a sardine can, the place was packed to the gills. Thankfully, being sheriff brought a few perks for Dad, and we were allocated prime seating, right at the front of the balcony.

‘Boy, am I gonna enjoy this,' I said.

Not if Mom had anything to do with it. ‘Going to. Not
gonna
,' she said.

I stood up.

‘What're you doing now?' asked Mom irritably.

‘I need to
go
.'

‘Go?'

‘To the john.'

Even in the dull light, I could see Mom cringe at the word
john
. ‘I warned you not to be drinking so much Coke. You were asked if you needed to go to the
bathroom
before we left the house.'

‘I didn't need to go back at the house,' I said, easing myself out of the row of seats. My bladder was ready to explode. If I continued to have a pissing contest with Mom, I would end up pissing myself.

‘Make sure you wash your hands,' Mom said, getting the last word in as usual.

The Strand's restroom was tiny, outdated and dank, but it did the job – which wasn't saying much, considering what
the job was. A naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling like a hangman's noose, giving off a chalky greyness. The bulb looked to be on its last legs, crackling and spitting.

Unzipping my jeans, I leaned into the urinal and did what came naturally. My bladder slowly deflated like a pierced balloon.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Lovely,' I sighed with relief.

Just as I came to the end of my task, the door creaked, and then closed very quietly. Almost immediately, the ambience of the confined space changed dramatically. The damn bulb died and the room was thrown into absolute pitch blackness.

‘Shit!'

I quickly re-zipped. No hand washing. I needed to get the hell out of there. I fumbled desperately in the dark for the door handle, but failed to find it.

‘Thought you liked fucking about in the dark?'
whispered a voice close to my ear, scaring the shit clean out of me. The voice had its own pungent smell. ‘
Not so brave without your two pals, are you, boy?

My eyes began acclimatising. I could just about make out the shadowy figure, now standing in the far corner. Tall. Skinny. Hairless. Armstrong.

‘You … you don't scare me. I know … I know who you are.'

‘More importantly, I know who
you
are, boy. Took me a bit of time to figure out where I'd seen you before, when you
attacked my trailer that night.' He sniggered the answer. ‘In the newspapers. Pictures of you. Trying to save your little pal, Joey Woey.'

‘Any second now, my Dad's gonna come through that door, and blow your stinking hairless head off, you filthy bastard!'

‘Your daddy? Your daddy's sitting down there with your mama, all nice and snug. He's eating popcorn, and she's eating his tiny fat dick.'

Blood rushed to my head. I took a run at him, arms swinging wildly. ‘Don't talk about my mom like that, you filthy –!'

He stuck out his leg and I went crashing against the door, banging my head. I was dazed. The blackness in the room changed to blue and red.

‘You got balls, I'll say that for you, boy. Bigger than your daddy's – though that ain't saying much.' He leaned down into my face. I could smell chewing tobacco and whiskey on his breath. ‘That was mighty nice of you, to come and visit me in my trailer. Well, I'm gonna return the favour. I'm gonna come visiting you, when you're tucked up in bed, give you something really nice, and it sure as hell ain't small and fat.'

‘You … you better keep away from me. I … I'm warning you. My Dad'll kill you if you –'

‘Bye-bye, sweetie pie, see you in a little while.' He groped my balls, before kissing me full on the mouth.

I heard the door close. Then silence. Only the sound of my heart banging against my chest. It went on forever. Then stopped. I tilted my head to the side, and vomited all over the floor.