The Chalk Man Read online

  Eventually, I reached the bottom. I crossed the hall, into the kitchen. The back door hung open. I stepped outside. The night air nipped at my skin through the thin cotton of my pajamas; a faint breeze teased my hair. I could smell something damp and sour and rotten.

  “Stop sniffing the air like a fucking dog, Shitface.”

  I jumped, turned. Sean Cooper was standing right in front of me. Up close he looked worse than he had from my bedroom. His skin had a weird bluey tinge. I could see tiny veins running underneath it. His eyes looked yellow and sort of deflated.

  I wondered if there was a place you reached where you simply couldn’t be any more afraid. If so, I thought I had reached it.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Told you. Got a message for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look out for the chalk men.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And you think I do?” He took a step toward me. “You think I want to be here? You think I want to be dead? You think I want to stink like this?”

  He pointed at me with an arm that hung strangely in its socket. In fact, I realized, it wasn’t in its socket. It was torn out at the top. White bone gleamed in the misty moonlight.

  “I’m only here because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “This is your fault, Shitface. You started it all.”

  I took a step back toward the door.

  “I’m sorry…I’m really sorry.”

  “Really.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “Well, why don’t you show me how suh-reee you are?”

  He grabbed my arm. Warm urine ran down my leg.

  “Suck my cock.”

  “NOOO!”

  I yanked my arm away, just as the driveway was flooded with bright white light from the landing window.

  “EDDIE, ARE YOU UP? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  Sean Cooper stood there for a moment, illuminated like some awful Christmas decoration, the light blazing through him. And then, in the way of all good monsters set free from the darkness, he slowly crumbled and floated to the ground in a small cloud of white dust.

  I looked down. Where he had stood there was now something else. A drawing. Stark white against the dark driveway. A stick figure, half submerged in crude waves, one arm raised like he was waving. No, I thought. Drowning. Not waving. And not a stick figure—a chalk man.

  A shudder rippled through me.

  “Eddie?”

  I darted back inside and closed the door as softly as I could.

  “ ’S’okay, Mum. Just wanted a drink of water.”

  “Did I hear the back door?”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Well, have your drink and go back to bed. School tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Mum.”

  “Good boy.”

  I locked the door, fingers shaking so hard it took me several attempts to twist the key in the lock. Then I padded back upstairs, peeled off my wet pajama bottoms and stuffed them in the laundry basket. I pulled on a fresh pair and climbed into bed. But I didn’t sleep, not for a long while. I lay there, waiting to hear more stones against the window, or maybe the slow tread of wet footsteps up the stairs.

  —

  At some point, just as the birds in the trees outside began to chatter and tweet, I must have drifted off. Not for long. I woke early. Before Mum and Dad. I immediately charged downstairs and flung open the back door, hoping against hope that it was all a dream. There was no dead Sean Cooper. There was no…

  The chalk man was still there.

  Hey, Shitface. Fancy a dip? Come on in—the water’s deadly.

  I could have left it. Maybe I should have done. Instead, I grabbed Mum’s washing-up bowl from under the sink and filled it with water. Then I emptied the bowl out, drowning the chalk man again in cold water and the remnants of soapy suds.

  I tried to tell myself that one of the others must have drawn it. Fat Gav maybe, or Hoppo. Some sort of sick joke. It wasn’t until I was halfway to school that it struck me. We all had our own colors of chalk. Fat Gav was red, Metal Mickey blue, Hoppo green, Nicky yellow and I was orange. None of our gang used white.

  2016

  My mum rings just before lunch. She usually manages to call at the most inconvenient moment, and today is no exception. I could let it go to voicemail, but my mum hates voicemail and it will only make her annoyed when I next talk to her so, reluctantly, I press “accept.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Ed.”

  I make an awkward exit from the classroom into the corridor.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Because Mum has never been one for purely social calls. If Mum is calling, there’s a reason for it.

  “I don’t know. Are you okay? How’s Gerry?”

  “Very good. We’ve just been on a raw-juice detox, so we’re both feeling pretty vital at the moment.”

  I’m sure Mum never used to use words like “vital” or would ever have considered a raw-juice detox a few years ago. Not when Dad was alive. I blame Gerry.

  “Great. Look, Mum. I’m actually in the middle of something, so—”

  “You’re not at work are you, Ed?”

  “Well—”

  “It’s supposed to be the school holidays.”

  “I know, but that’s a bit of an oxymoron these days.”

  “Don’t let them work you too hard, Ed.” She sighs. “There are other things in life.”

  Again, Mum would never have said that years ago. Work used to be her life. But then Dad got ill and looking after him became her life instead.

  I understand that everything she is doing now—including Gerry—is her way of claiming those lost years back. I don’t blame her. I blame myself.

  If I’d married and had a family, perhaps she would have other things to fill her days with, instead of raw-juice bloody detoxes. And perhaps I would have other things to fill my days with instead of work.

  But this is not what Mum wants to hear.

  “I know,” I say to her. “You’re right.”

  “Good. You know, you should try Pilates, Ed. It’s good for your core.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I won’t.

  “Anyway, I won’t keep you if you’re busy. I just wondered if you could do me a small favor?”

  “O-kay—”

  “Gerry and I are thinking of going away in the camper van for a week or two.”

  “Very nice.”

  “But our usual cat-sitter has let us down.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Ed! You’re supposed to be an animal lover.”

  “I am. Mittens just happens to hate me.”

  “Nonsense. He’s a cat. He doesn’t hate anyone.”

  “He’s not a cat, he’s a furry sociopath.”

  “Can you look after him or not?”

  I sigh. “Yes. I can. Of course.”

  “Good. I’ll bring him round tomorrow morning.”

  Oh. Good.

  I end the call and walk back into the classroom. A skinny teenager with black hair hanging over his face in a lank fringe reclines in a chair, DMs propped up on the desk, tapping away at his smartphone and chewing gum.

  Danny Myers is in my class for English. He’s a bright kid, or so everyone tells me: our head, and Danny’s parents, who, funnily enough, happen to be friends with our head and several members of the Board of Governors. I don’t doubt it, but I’ve yet to see anything in his work that reflects this.

  That is not what his parents or our head want to hear, of course. They believe that Danny needs special attention. Danny is being let down by the “one size fits all” state education system. He is too bright, too easily distracted, too sensitive. Blah, blah, blah.

  So Danny is now in what we call “intervention.” This means that he is wheeled in for extra tutoring during the school holidays and I am supposed to inspire him, bully him and cajole him i
nto achieving the grades his parents believe he really should be getting.

  Sometimes these interventions produce results, with kids who have ability but don’t do so well in the classroom. Other times, they are a waste of both my time and the pupil’s. I don’t like to think I am a defeatist. But I am a realist. I am no Mr. Chips. When it comes down it, I want to teach pupils who want to learn. Pupils who are interested and engaged. Or at least pupils who want to try. Better a hard-won D than a couldn’t-give-a-crap C.

  “Phone and feet. Both off,” I say as I sit down at my desk.

  He swings his legs from the table but continues to tap away at his phone. I pop my glasses back on and find the place in the text we were just discussing.

  “When you’ve finished, perhaps Lord of the Flies could recapture your attention?”

  More tapping.

  “Danny, I would hate to have to suggest to your parents that an embargo on all social media might just be the boost your grades are looking for…”

  Danny stares at me for a moment. I smile politely back. He would like to argue, like to push me, but on this occasion he turns the phone off and slips it back into his pocket. I do not consider this a victory, more like he’s letting me have this one.

  That’s fine. Whatever makes these two hours go more easily is fine by me. Sometimes I enjoy these mind games with Danny. And there is indeed a feeling of satisfaction when I get him to actually turn in a half-decent piece of schoolwork. But today is not the day for it. I feel tired from my broken night’s sleep, and on edge. Like I am waiting for something to happen. Something bad. Something irretrievable.

  I try to concentrate on the text. “Okay, so we were talking about what the main characters represent, Ralph, Jack, Simon—”

  He shrugs. “Simon was a waste of space from the start.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Deadweight. A sap. He deserved to die.”

  “Deserved it? How?”

  “All right. He was no loss, okay? Jack was right. If they were going to survive on the island, they had to forget all that civilized crap.”

  “But the whole point of the novel is that if we resort to savagery society falls apart.”

  “Maybe it should. It’s all fake, anyway. That’s what the book’s really saying. We’re all just pretending to be civilized, when, deep down, we’re not.”

  I smile, even though I can feel a knot of discomfort building inside. Probably just indigestion again. “Well, it’s an interesting viewpoint.”

  My watch beeps. I always set an alarm to mark the end of our session.

  “Okay. Well, that’s all for today.” I gather up my textbooks. “I shall look forward to reading more about this theory in your next essay, Danny.”

  He stands and picks up his duffel bag. “Later, sir.”

  “Same time next week.”

  As he saunters from the classroom, I find myself saying, “And I suppose in your new version of society you would be one of the survivors, Danny?”

  “ ’Course.” He gives me an odd look. “But don’t worry, sir. You would be, too.”

  —

  The park is the longer route back from school; it isn’t even a particularly warm day, but I decide to take a detour, anyway. A little stroll down memory lane.

  The riverside walk is pretty, with rolling fields to one side and, past this, a distant view of the cathedral, although it’s currently half shrouded in scaffolding, as it has been for several years. It took four hundred years to build the famous spire from scratch, with no proper tools or machinery. I can’t help thinking it will take longer, using the wonders of modern technology, to restore it.

  Despite this picturesque setting, whenever I walk by the river I find my eyes drawn to the fast-flowing, brown water. Thinking about how cold it must be. How unforgiving the currents are. Mostly, I still think about Sean Cooper, slipping beneath the surface as he tried to reach his bike. The bike that no one ever claimed responsibility for stealing.

  To my left is the new recreation area. A couple of boys clatter skateboards up and down the skate park; a mum pushes a giggling toddler on a roundabout; and a solitary teenage girl sits on the swings. Her head is down and her hair falls over her face in a shiny curtain. Brown hair, not red. But the way she sits there, locked in her own hard shell of self-composure, reminds me momentarily of Nicky.

  I remember another day, that summer. A small moment, almost lost in the jumbled haze of other memories. Mum had sent me into town to pick up some shopping. I was walking back through the park when I spotted Nicky in the playground. She sat alone on the swings, staring down at her lap. I almost called out to her: Hey, Nicky!

  But something stopped me. Perhaps the way she was just silently rocking, back and forth. I stole closer. She held something in her hand. It glinted silver in the sunlight—and I recognized the small crucifix she normally wore around her neck. I watched as she raised it up…and then jabbed it into the soft flesh of her thigh. Again and again and again.

  I backed away and hurried home. I never told Nicky, or anyone, what I saw that day. But it stayed with me. The way she drove the crucifix into her leg. Over and over. Probably drawing blood. But she never made a sound, not even a whimper.

  The girl in the park looks up, tucks her hair behind one ear. Multiple silver hoops glint in the lobe, and a large metal ring protrudes from her nose. She is older than I first thought, probably at college. Still, I am acutely aware that I am a middle-aged man, rather eccentric in his appearance, staring at a teenage girl in a child’s playground.

  I put my head down and walk on, more briskly. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting it to be my mum. It isn’t. It’s Chloe.

  “Yes?”

  “Nice greeting. You should work on your telephone manner.”

  “Sorry. I’m just a bit…Sorry, what is it?”

  “Your mate left his wallet here.”

  “Mickey?”

  “Yeah, found it under the hall table just after you left. Must have fallen out of his jacket.”

  I frown. It’s lunchtime. Surely Mickey must have realized his wallet is missing by now. But then, he was pretty drunk last night. Maybe he’s still sleeping it off at his hotel.

  “Right. Well, I’ll give him a call, let him know. Thanks.”

  “Okay.”

  Then something occurs to me.

  “Can you get Mickey’s wallet and look inside?”

  “Hang on.”

  I hear her moving about and then she comes back to the phone. “Okay. Cash—about twenty quid—credit cards, bank cards, receipts, driving license.”

  “His hotel-room key card?”

  “Oh, yeah. That, too.”

  His key card. The card he needed to get into his room. Of course, I’m sure a member of staff would have been happy to issue another one, if he had some form of ID on him…

  As if echoing my thoughts, Chloe says, “Does this mean he didn’t get back to his hotel last night?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He could have slept in his car, I suppose.”

  But why didn’t he call me? And even if he didn’t want to bother me last night, why hasn’t he called this morning?

  “Hope he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere,” Chloe says.

  “Why the hell would you say that?”

  I immediately regret snapping. I can almost hear her bristle at the other end of the phone.

  “What is it with you this morning? Did you get out of the side of bed marked ‘Twatsville’?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

  “Fine,” she says in a tone which tells me it most certainly is not. “What are you going to do about your friend?”

  “I’ll give him a call. If I can’t get hold of him, I’ll drop the wallet round to the hotel. Check he’s okay.”

  “I’ll leave it on the hall table.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “Bingo, Sherlock. My incredible social life, remember?”<
br />
  “Okay, well, I’ll see you later.”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  She ends the call and I’m left wondering if that was a joke about staying out late or a genuine expression of her desire not to see such a bad-tempered loon as me ever again.

  I sigh, and try Mickey’s number. It goes straight to voicemail:

  “Hi, this is Mickey. I can’t get to the phone right now, so do what you need to do after the beep.”

  I don’t bother to leave a message. I retrace my steps, out of the park, and take the shorter route back home, trying to ignore the vague disquiet rumbling in the pit of my stomach. It’s probably nothing. Mickey probably stumbled back to the hotel, persuaded the staff to give him a new key card and is just sleeping off his hangover. By the time I get there, he’ll be tucking into lunch. Absolutely, perfectly, bloody fine.

  I tell myself this several times, with more and more conviction.

  And each time, I believe it less and less.

  —

  The Travelodge is an ugly building squatting next door to a rundown Little Chef. I would have thought Mickey could have afforded to stay somewhere better, but I guess it’s convenient.

  I try Mickey’s number twice more on the way. Both times, his phone goes to voicemail. My bad feeling gradually notches up.

  I park and walk into reception. A young man with ginger hair in a bristly ponytail and gaping holes in his ears stands behind the desk, looking uncomfortable in a too-tight shirt and badly done-up tie. A badge pinned to his lapel informs me that his name is “Duds,” which seems less of a name and more an admission of a chronic fault.

  “Hello. Checking in?”

  “Actually, no. I’m here to meet a friend of mine.”

  “Right.”

  “Mickey Cooper. I believe he checked in yesterday?”

  “Okay.”

  He continues to look at me vaguely.

  “So,” I labor on, “would you be able to check if he’s here?”

  “Can’t you call him?”

  “He’s not answering, and the thing is—” I pull the wallet out of my pocket. “He left this at my house last night. It’s got his room key card and all his credit cards in.”