Page 87 of D for Dead

Maybe he could try one last time to talk to her, somehow make her understand, before it was too late. Or was it already too late? He walked down the hallway to the bedrooms. The door to the master suite was shut. He paused briefly outside, raised his hand and contemplated knocking.

It was late and he was tired. Maybe he would try tomorrow.

He backed into the spare room, hit the light and placed his briefcase on the floor. Wearily, he dropped down on the bed, kicked off his shoes and lay back on the mattress. It felt good under the aching muscles of his back.

His jacket pocket vibrated and he reached for his cell, frowning at the number that flashed up and clicking open the text. He read the words on the screen, felt his mouth dry up. A small ball of dread knotted and snaked its way up his belly.

Sitting up straight and wide awake now, he read the words again.

I’m going to kill your girlfriend.

26

The summer of 1983 was one Troy Cunningham would never forget.

It began when his parents decided to uproot and move to Melford – which Troy soon learned was a tiny pissant town at the back end of nowhere.

For a twelve-year-old boy it sucked leaving his friends behind. His parents told him the move was for a better life; the city was dangerous and full of bad influences. Melford was better and they would be able to spend quality time together as a family.

Troy wasn’t so sure. Melford, as far as he could see, had no mall, just one lousy movie theatre that only opened at weekends, and the kids at his new school weren’t cool.

He was an only child and his parents had just ruined his childhood.

For the first few weeks he sulked around the house, reading comics in his room or watching television, but then his mom started roping him into chores. It wasn’t healthy to laze around; if he had nothing better to do he could help her around the house or give his father a hand outside.

Troy knew it was a ploy to get him outside and it worked. Not wanting to help with chores, he took his bike and explored the four corners of the town: the open fields, the railway track, the thick surrounding forest.

Before he had been a sociable kid with plenty of friends, but now he chose to keep to himself, cycling the forest paths and trying to net the fish in the creek.

And that was where he first saw her, hiking in the woods with the Rooney twins, her long brown hair scraped into a braid, wearing a baggy white T-shirt tucked into chino shorts, her eyes gold and full of excitement.

Amy Gallaty.

He learned her name from following the girls; listening to their conversations. The twins went to his school, were a couple of years older. Amy was older too and visiting for a week or so while her parents were on vacation. And she had the most beautiful smile Troy had ever seen. That summer he fell in love.

And so moving to Melford became not so bad.

The girls were out most days, hiking and exploring, paddling in the creek and climbing trees. Troy followed. He kept a distance, always out of sight but close enough to hear their conversation.

On one occasion, while in town, he had run into Amy as she was leaving the grocery store. For a moment he had been close enough to smell the fresh peachy scent of soap or shampoo and, as he had blustered out an apology, tripping over his words, she had smiled that smile at him, told him not to worry, and his heart had melted. He was too young for her, too young for love, he knew. How he wished to be fifteen, sixteen even, so maybe she would take notice.

But age was irrelevant; she was leaving in a few days, going back home to Montana, to her family.

The thought of being stuck here in this hick town without her was almost more than Troy could bear. It was the following day while tracking them down to the creek he heard them talk about the old Johnson house. Leslie Rooney claimed the place to be haunted.

Troy knew it belonged to Tucker Johnson, but he’d only seen the man once. Tucker was a loner. He was friendly enough from what Troy had heard. Came into town every once in a while to stock up on his groceries, tipped generously, and was solicitous to everyone whose path he crossed. But other than that he kept to himself. His wife and child had died, Troy had learned. Shortly after moving into the house in the woods, Mrs Johnson had fed their young daughter a lethal dose of sleeping pills before running herself a bath and slitting her wrists. Word around town was she had suffered with depression. That was the reason Tucker wasn’t big on company; he preferred to stay home and grieve for his lost family.

Leslie Rooney was convinced the house was haunted by the spirits of Tucker’s dead wife and child, and for Amy’s last night in town she proposed an adventure: a trip to check out the Johnson residence. Amy had seemed dubious; maybe even a little afraid, but Leslie wasn’t one to take no for an answer. She had a stronger personality than Amy and Troy had noticed that she was often quick to put her down. She had begged, bribed, badgered and bullied until she got her way, and plans had been made to slip out of the house once the twins’ parents went to bed.

Troy was watching from the bushes when the three girls clambered down the oak tree outside of Crystal Rooney’s bedroom window: the twins with their blonde Debbie Harry styled bobs, dressed identically in jeans, sneakers and off the shoulder T-shirts; Amy behind them, also in jeans, with her long hair tied back through a baseball cap. They carried flashlights, but the evening was clear, dusk not long settled, and they wouldn’t need them yet. They had almost reached the end of the street when Leslie stopped.

‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’ Crystal wanted to know.

‘I heard footsteps.’

‘They’re ours.’