Black's Creek (15 page)

A
rmstrong's shock acquittal reverberated through the town and beyond. I sat in the living room, watching the aftermath unfold on live television. Prosecutor Flynn was standing on the snow-covered steps of the courthouse, looking uncertain and drained, giving hesitant responses to the media's bullet-like questions.

‘Prosecutor Flynn, what on earth happened?' a local hack asked, notepad in hand. ‘You kept telling everyone this was an open-and-shut case. Looks more open now than it did at the beginning. What went wrong?'

Despite the freezing temperature and falling snow, Flynn's face was greasy with sweat. ‘I wouldn't characterise it as anything gone wrong. It's the nature of the system.'

‘Would you not agree that perhaps someone with more experience with murder trials should have been in charge of this one?'

‘I have plenty of experience with murder trials.' Flynn's face constricted. ‘I felt there was sufficient evidence to get this case before a jury. That's my duty. Don't forget, Mr Armstrong may have been acquitted, but the jury didn't say he was innocent, or that –'

As Flynn tried to finish his sentence, behind him a beaming Bradford could be seen, exiting the courthouse. The media swarmed towards him as one, leaving a relieved-looking Flynn to hurriedly disappear down the snowy courthouse steps and out of sight.

‘Mr Bradford! Mr Bradford! How does your client feel, now that he's a free man?'

Bradford gave his best Hollywood smile before answering.

‘Mr Armstrong feels as good as any innocent man feels after being vindicated and released from a nightmare. His good name has been restored to him by the clear-thinking men and women of the jury. All he asks now is to be left alone to try and pick up the pieces of his life, a life possibly irrevocably damaged by vindictive law enforcement officials and their despicable gung-ho attitude. Arresting someone simply because they live alone and do not follow the norms of society, cannot go unchallenged.'

‘There's talk your client will be suing the county for wrongful imprisonment. Is that true?'

Bradford's smile disappeared. ‘The travesty of imprisoning the innocent should never be permitted. Nor should we passively accept what the system tries to impose upon us when the system is clearly wrong. More than likely, the killer of young Devlin Mantle was a drifter. Rather than pick on Norman Armstrong, the police should have been out looking for the real killer. They wasted time. They wasted taxpayers' money. Worse, they allowed the real killer to slip through the net and escape justice and –'

Mom appeared out of nowhere and clicked the television off.

‘That's enough of that windbag spewing out his nonsense,' she said angrily. ‘Didn't I tell you I didn't want to see you the rest of the day?'

‘I wanted to see if Dad was going to be on television.'

‘Well, he's not. Now, go to your room and clear up all those comic books scattered about the floor. I'm tired looking at them.'

She was upset, and I should have simply done what she wanted. But I had to go and open my big mouth instead, by saying, ‘Armstrong got off. How could Dad let that happen?'

For a second, Mom looked at me as if I were a slithering worm she had almost stepped on. Then she turned on me like a hungry tiger, her eyes tightening like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western.

‘I
ever
hear you say anything like that again about your father, I guarantee you won't sit down for a week.' She pushed her face up against mine. Our noses touched. ‘Your bare butt isn't too old to escape my handprint all over it, Mister. Now, get out of my sight and into your room –
pronto
!'

‘They're saying I arrested Armstrong too soon, Helen,' Dad said, holding up the newspaper later that evening. ‘God the night! When can it be too soon to arrest a monster like Armstrong? After he kills again?'

‘Stop crucifying yourself, Frank. There's enough Judases in this town with hammers in their dirty hands. You did the best you could with what little you had.'

‘Well, according to the newspapers, my best wasn't good enough.' Dad began reading from the evening newspaper he had brought back with him.

Dad flung the newspaper at the far wall.

‘If Flynn or the media think I'm going to allow you to be made into a scapegoat, they better get their heads in gear and out of their asses,' said Mom defiantly.

I was shocked. The word ‘asses' sounded so foreign coming from her mouth. It carried a whole new level of crudeness.

‘Helen Henderson! What on earth's gotten into you, talking like that?' Dad said, smiling.

‘When it comes to this family, I'll be doing more than swearing if someone thinks they're going to hurt us.'

Dad reached over and kissed Mom.

‘Dad?' I said, looking directly at him.

‘Yes? What is it, Tommy?'

‘I'm … I'm sorry for blaming you for Armstrong getting off. I was angry.'

‘I didn't know you blamed me, but that's okay. I know how you feel about Devlin. I'm just sorry I couldn't bring her killer to justice … this time.'

This time?
The way he said that and looked directly into my eyes, made my heart tighten. Was Dad sending me a cryptic message of his determination to see justice done? Those two words gave me hope. He hadn't given up.

‘They should have hung the jury, Dad.'

Dad laughed, and nodded. ‘I can't argue with the truth, Tommy.'

‘Can I be excused, Mom? I'm tired. I think I'll have an early night.'

Mom nodded and gave me a reluctant half smile. I think she was pleased at my apology to Dad. She didn't even insist I eat the broccoli languishing at the side of my plate like some alien creature from outer space.

From the stairs, I could hear Dad going over the case with Mom, examining where it all went wrong.

‘It was Bradford's endless innuendo about the mother's lifestyle that muddied the water. That swayed the jury more than any other factor. Bradford didn't say it, but he more or less hinted that mother and daughter were cut from the same cloth, and that the killer could have been any of the mother's many clients. It was sickening to listen to, but it worked.'

‘Bradford's a despicable creature, Frank. How on earth he sleeps at night is beyond me.'

Hate and anger burned in me as I listened. It was hard to decide whether I hated Bradford more than I hated Armstrong. One thing I did know: I wanted to kill both of them. I thought of Brent, also. Would his testimony have sent Armstrong to prison for life? I believed it would, and quickly put Brent down on my list of hate.

Bone-tired, I began undressing in my room, watching the snow fall outside on the front lawn. It was covering everything
with its cleansing beauty, but I knew it was just an illusion that couldn't be sustained. Eventually the snow would fade, and all the filth and dirt would emerge again, triumphantly.

I crawled into the refuge of my bed. An arrowhead of moonlight entrenched itself upon the wooden beam directly above my head, as if someone had taken a potshot at me with a crossbow. Quickly pulling the blankets up over my head, I achieved shelter and warmth simultaneously. Before I knew it, sleep touched me on the shoulder, and took me to the land of Nod.

Just how long I had been permitted to visit the world of sleep, I couldn't tell. I awoke in the middle of the night with a feeling of trepidation. Probably a bad dream, I reasoned, as I peeped over the roof of the blankets to glance about my room. I thought I'd heard a sound. Something? Nothing. Imagination? Probably.

Then, just as I closed my eyes, I heard it again. The sound grew and fell and then grew again. It was coming from outside the house. I listened. It was like an enticing hum, like someone blowing on an empty bottle, and the unnatural progression of my thoughts led repeatedly back to it until I could no longer tolerate its torturous whisper.

The swing …?
It sounded like the swing groaning under the pressure of too much weight.

I got out of bed to investigate, tiptoeing to the window. Pressing my face against its coldness, my breath quickly fogged
the glass. I wiped it, and stared out across the snow-covered garden. To my amazement, the swing
was
moving, but almost imperceptibility, as if being pushed by invisible hands.
The wind …?

I thought of Devlin, laughing on the swing, being pushed by me on a beautiful summer's afternoon.

Oh, Devlin …

I continued looking out the window, scrutinising the snowy scene. In the play of light and shadow, the moon's luminous glow was pale, yet bright enough to hurt.

‘What the …?'

Something had moved. Something was out there, in the winter wonderland. I quickly wiped the fogged window again. Nothing. Just snow playing tricks with my tired eyes. Then I saw him. Armstrong. He was staring up at the window. Partially camouflaged by the falling snow, and totally naked, his luminous and hairless body looked diseased, like a withered funeral candle. In his right hand he held a large knife. The knife's blade was as long as his massive hand was wide. His whole being radiated something terrifyingly arrogant.

I quickly ducked beneath the window, hoping beyond hope he hadn't seen me.

Easy … steady your nerves. It can't be him. He wouldn't have the balls to come here …

I eased up to the window's edge, and sneaked a peek. To my horror, he was walking towards the house. I wanted to shout,
but the electric shock of fear stunned my mouth. I tried to run, to get Dad, but my feet seemed glued to the carpet. A dark sickness began rising up in me. Armstrong had used his evil powers to make me immobile, and he was coming here, into our home, to kill me, just like he'd killed Devlin, just like he'd promised in the Strand's toilet.

I tried to control my breathing while listening to the sounds from within the house: the soft hum of electricity ticking from the basement; the fridge moaning and shuddering; the wind sneaking through cracks and holes.

A door sounded from downstairs.
He's in
. The bastard was in the house. Sneaky footsteps began registering on the stairs.

Finally freed from Armstrong's spell, I moved in slow motion for the door. Just as I neared it, the door began slowly to open. I threw my entire weight against it. The door slammed shut.

‘Bastard! Get out, you murdering bastard!' I screamed. ‘Dad! Dad!
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp
!'

I pushed against the door with all my strength. I could still feel force coming from the other side.

‘Tommy? What on earth's going on? What's all the shouting about?' Dad was banging on the door.

‘Dad? Dad! Armstrong's in the house!' I shouted, opening the door quickly. Dad was in uniform. ‘He was outside, now he's in.'

‘Armstrong? Get back inside.'

‘But –'

‘
Now
!' he hissed, pushing me back and slamming the door, just as Mom's voice said from their bedroom, ‘Frank? What on earth's going on?'

‘Helen!' shouted Dad. ‘Get back in and lock the door.'

It all went quiet. After a few moments, I opened the door inch-wide, peering through its spine. Dad was cautiously going down the stairs in the darkness, gun in hand, halting on each step for a second before proceeding. He kept pointing the gun in different directions, just like I'd seen on TV.

Careful, Dad …

Minutes crawled by painfully. Not a sound. Then the lights came on in the house, followed by Dad's distant voice. ‘Come on down. I've got him!'

‘Frank, what's going on?' said Mom, rushing down the stairs in her nightgown. ‘Got who? And why is the back door open, all that snow coming in?'

‘Tommy's intruder, Helen. Out in the back,' Dad said, pointing the gun towards the back garden.

‘An intruder?'

‘You got him, Dad?' I said, rushing down the stairs, almost breaking my neck in the process.

‘I've got him covered, Son. Don't worry. I've told him to freeze, and take that silly grin off his face.'