It was a twenty-minute walk from Jack Kennedy’s bookshop to his house. He’d taken it at least twice a day for the last five years, but this was the first time he’d wanted to sprint all the way. Once he’d locked the store, he’d started with a brisk stride. Usually, he’d take the time to admire the trees and flowers on the way, maybe say hello to Tom and Mary Shaw in their coffee shop. Yet that afternoon, his heart raced around his ribcage while a thousand messages echoed through his skull. And every one of them told him to RUN.
But he didn’t. He waved at old Mrs Parsons on the other side of the street, patted the Wilsons’ dog when it approached him, and even nodded at Charlie Parker as he idled down the road in his police car.
By the time he reached home and fumbled for the key, it was as if every blood vessel in his veins was about to explode. He stumbled inside, intent on reaching the toilet before nature overtook him. And then he threw up all over a first edition hardback of The Shining before he’d gotten two feet inside. His legs gave way and he dropped to the floor as the rest of his breakfast reappeared. What was once scrambled eggs and beans vomited out of his mouth and down his chin. He pressed both palms into the carpet and stared at the new direction his life had turned.
He pushed up, praying the last of it was out of his system. When nothing else came after a minute, he wiped the residue from his chin using his arm. Fog drifted across his sight as everything swirled across his gaze. A thousand pins sent a jolt of electricity through his skull. He rolled on to the floor and stared at the ceiling. There was no roof there, only Evie Church’s inquisitive face asking about her writing.
Jack turned to the side. The room continued to spin around him. Perhaps it could swirl into a vortex and transport him back in time twelve months. No, that wasn’t going to happen. There was only one thing which would wipe away his current pain. He knew there must still be some in the house. But he couldn’t remember where he’d hidden it. Or maybe he did throw it out. No, he wasn’t that strong. Not then and not now.
His arms ached as he pushed up from the carpet. The spew settling on the Stephen King book glistened at him. One foot slumped after another as he trudged upstairs. He ran his fingers across the wall, hoping the chill would unfreeze the fog consuming his brain. He turned right at the top, staggered past the toilet, then his bedroom, and entered the small room at the end.
Books and magazines were piled everywhere, including the floor and the bed. He found the only free spot on the bed and slumped into it. A bunch of dusty periodicals slid into him. The air was stale and, for a horrible fleeting moment, he thought he’d throw up again. He stuck two fingers against his throat and took a sharp breath. His heart was returning to normal and the bile sank back into his gut.
He grabbed a magazine, remembering now what they were: a bunch of pulps he’d bought from an old widow a few years back. He’d intended to sell them for a massive profit on eBay until he got caught up with that ridiculous book signing, the protests, and the regular customers lost over it.
Just the memory of it made him queasy again. He looked at the cover of the pulp to distract him. It was the first appearance of Robert E Howard’s Conan the Barbarian in Weird Tales. It was in pristine condition, with barely a mark on it. He placed it carefully to the side and checked the others. There were dozens of copies of Weird Tales and Amazing Stories, all in excellent condition. It was a decent collection and would probably bring in more money than the bookshop had done in a long time. Well, at least since the incident. Maybe he should forget everything else, forget about Evie Church, and concentrate on this.
He sucked in stale air and got up from the bed. He couldn’t think like that. He had one ambition, had only ever possessed one aim in life, and he wasn’t going to throw it away because some loon had returned from the nuthouse. Her turning up at the shop was unexpected, he wouldn’t deny it, and her appearance had scared the shit out of him, but all he had to do was forget about her and rediscover his confidence. And there was always one thing which would fill him with enthusiasm, and he wouldn’t find it in magazines.
He got on his hands and knees and thrust his hand under the bed. His fingers found more dust, and something with many legs scuttled over his skin. He ignored the reflex to pull away and kept on searching. He moved closer to the bed and reached in further. He was sure he’d put the last one there. He couldn’t face leaving the house again to get more. He was about to give up when his fingertips discovered the chill of the glass. A wide grin washed off the last of the vomit clinging to his mouth as he grasped the bottle and pulled it to his chest.
Four hours later, more than half of it was gone, the first drops of alcohol to pass his lips in five years. All the fear and anguish had vanished, replaced with staggering arrogance. He couldn’t remember why he’d given up drinking, couldn’t recollect the girlfriend who ended up in the hospital getting her stomach pumped, and didn’t recall driving the car and hitting the old woman. Only most of his savings and unscrupulous lawyers had kept him out of jail then.
He’d remember all of this later when the hangover kicked in, but for now, he was a born-again Jack Kennedy living a new life. And it was all dependent upon the document staring at him from the computer screen. He took another drink and read it aloud for the umpteenth time.
Hi Jack
Pendant Publishing would like to congratulate you on the upcoming publication of your intoxicating novel “A Dark Heart in the Garden of Delights”, a coming of age story illuminating the harsh realities of family life in modern America.
Only it wasn’t his work, or his creativity, or his writing. Twenty years of his writing had produced nothing but a dozen disastrous novels and over a thousand rejections. He’d just about given up when Evie Church sent him one of her short stories, wanting to get feedback from someone in the publishing world.
He laughed and snorted booze from his nose.
What a waste.
Fancy believing that he, a soon to be failed bookshop owner, was someone in the publishing world. But he had nothing else to do, so he read the story and the others she sent. They’re good, he told her. You show plenty of promise, he added. It was a long time since anything had intrigued Jack, but this did.
She did. Evie Church. The girl who’d committed herself to Shady Acres. He knew little about her apart from that, but once he decided on his plan, he found out everything he could about her and her family. He hated the internet for what it had done to traditional booksellers, but it sometimes had its uses, and he discovered some interesting nuggets about them.
Her parents were part of a fundamentalist congregation always banging on about Sin and the Old Testament. They’d joined their maker courtesy of a drunk driver. Reading about it made his teeth ache. Then he quickly moved on to the son, Adam. There was little online about him, just a piece he found about some financial firm he left to go to one of the bigger institutions on Wall Street.
He’d recalled the time he’d spent researching Evie and her family as he cleaned himself up and the drinking started. He placed his fingers on to the computer screen and read the email over and over, his flesh trying to transport the words into his skin and bone. He knew what he had to do, but not how to do it. He pulled his hand away and contemplated this problem. He reached for the TV remote and turned the set on. It flickered into life, displaying the local news channel, where something strange and unexpected presented itself to him. He’d muted the volume, so he increased it as he stumbled forward. The words rang inside his ears as his mind adjusted to the confusion. He focused on the rolling ticker tape headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
BODIES OF GIRLS FOUND IN CHURCH HOUSE BASEMENT
The sound sprang to life on the TV.
‘The police are releasing no more details at the moment, but there will be a press briefing later tonight.’
The reporter was standing in the street, lights flashing around them, as police cars lined up outside a row of houses.
He rubbed at his eyes. The police have found the Glick sisters, but were they talking about the basement of a church building? It didn’t look like it as the TV flicked over to an advert about health insurance. He moved towards the computer, glanced at the email again, then opened a web browser. Jack typed in missing Glick girls in the search engine and hit Enter on the keyboard. Hundreds of results bounced on to the screen. He clicked on the first one and scoured the details more than once. This had all happened while he’d locked himself away in the bookshop; the scenes outside the house were from yesterday. After the third read-through, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and sank into the sofa.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
He wasn’t a religious man, but he took this as a sign from someone looking out for him. The reports said a suspect had been arrested for the murders of Kay and Martha Glick, but didn’t name them. It had to be Adam Church, and that’s why Evie was back in the community.
He raised the bottle to his lips, the glass resting between them. He’d got a second chance and now was not the time to waste it. He walked into the kitchen and dumped the rest of the booze over the dirty plates before dropping the empty into the bin. It was a second chance not to be squandered.
But how could he exploit this to his benefit?