My throat closed over. Every warning Mum had ever given me screamed inside my head, but nothing came out. Not even a squeak.
Never get in a car with a stranger. If anyone ever tries to grab you, scream your head off, kick him in the goolies and run like the clappers.
She didn’t mince words, my mum, when it came to my personal safety. Now here I was, bundled into the back of a truck by the very freaks I had tried to warn her about. She was going to kill me, if I lived long enough to tell her the story.
I was lucky: the bloke in the truck, Anders, hadn’t noticed me yet. He was clattering a bundle of long-handled implements – a mop, rake, broom and a hoe – across the metal floor of the truck. I edged away from him under cover of the noise, risking a quick glance back outside. Manny and Caleb were halfway up the driveway, with pairs of dining-room chairs clamped under their arms.
I hesitated in the open back of the truck. For would-be abductors, they were showing a remarkable lack of interest in me. I glanced back at the man inside the van, but he was still fiddling with loose stuff up front.
No-one was taking the slightest bit of notice of me; they were all intent on what they were doing. That’s not how I would have expected serial killers to act.
From where I stood, I could easily jump back out of the truck, and there was no-one on the ground to stop me. I figured that had to make me fairly safe, at least for the moment.
When I turned back round, Anders was standing little more than a body length away from me.
I knew it was a body length, because stretched out between us, resting on top of a long narrow table, was a gleaming polished wood coffin.
He dropped his eyes to the armful of blankets he held, as though unsure what to do next. The blankets must have been wrapped around the coffin, to protect it in transit, because I hadn’t noticed it until this very moment. Believe me, a coffin wasn’t the kind of thing that normally escaped my attention.
It had a strange kind of beauty: an elongated six-sided casket, with six ornate silver handles and six decorative silver clips clamping down the burnished oak lid.
Goose flesh broke out all over my body.
Six sides. Six handles. Six silver clasps.
Six ... Six ... Six ... the devil’s number.
I plunged my hand into the pocket of my school shorts. It was still there, the reassuringly solid lump of my old mobile phone. It might be the cheapest on the market, but it came with a built-in camera. If I could get off just one quick photo, Mum would have to believe me. But first, I had to get this bloke out of the way.
‘Uh, would you like me to watch your stuff? You know, while you take those blankets inside?’ My voice echoed uncertainly in the confines of the truck.
I’d packed and unpacked enough times to know that this was one of the better jobs associated with moving. Blanket and pillow carrying. You’d have to be crazy not to put your hand up for that job.
Which apparently he was ... because he said nothing, just dumped the armful of blankets on me and backed away, his blue eyes locked onto me in a weird, intense way.
I looked away, not sure if he was mute, rude, or maybe a bit crazy.
‘That’s OK, Henry. Just pass them down here. I’ll take them in.’ It was Caleb, back for another load, looking like he needed a bit of a breather.
I passed the blankets down to him just as Manny arrived beside him. He stared past me, into the body of the truck, a look of concern leaping onto his face.
‘Anders! Don’t try to move that on your own – you’ll chip the finish! Kid, quick, give him a hand–’
I turned just in time to grab the shiny end of the coffin as it swung my way. My hands left sweaty skid marks on the wood’s polished surface. It wasn’t heavy, thank God – that meant it was still empty – but it was long enough to be a bit awkward for one person to carry on his own.
Anders hesitated as I adjusted my grip, and then shuffled back down the length of the coffin. I edged towards the open back of the truck, planning my next move.
Manny held up his hands for me to pass the coffin down to him, and I knew that this was my chance. As soon as he had it, I could mutter something about having to phone my mother, pull out my camera phone and snap off a quick shot. Bingo, I’d have my evidence.
But just as I handed my end to Manny, a flash went off in my eyes. I blinked in confusion; it was as though the real world and the one inside my head had somehow collided. It took me a moment to realise what had happened.
Somebody else had just photographed the coffin.
When my vision cleared, a Perpetual Sucker uniform and hat swam into focus, then a second flash went off. I yielded the coffin to Manny’s sure-fisted control, blinking out stars, trying to focus on the source of the flash.
The photographer backed away with a girly squeal as the coffin swung towards her. The phone dropped away from her face, revealing eyes wide with excitement and triumph.
My heart shrank in my chest.
It was Angelica. The queen of the catty Year Seven girls had just captured me on film, sliding a full-sized coffin into the waiting arms of someone who looked like a cross between Frankenstein’s monster and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, while Count Dracula looked on.
My life, pathetically un-newsworthy as it had been until this point, was now officially over.