The Fallen Parler: Part One (A supernatural mystery thriller) (10 page)

‘It’s a crime scene now,’ whispered Charlotte, ‘we could get into serious trouble…we need to know what we’re getting ourselves into.’

This time, as if she had dug deep into a painful memory, Sasha muttered, ‘I’m darn near certain there were no inscriptions on the walls.’

‘Okay, we’ll find out tonight,’ said Charlotte, ‘are you still in?’

‘Sasha Fling is
always
in.’

On lesson’s end, a mousy year 7 boy, bearing a note for the teacher, knocked at the classroom door. The mocking boys and girls of the upper-sixth class cooed and awed as he stumbled across the classroom. After handing Mrs. Lee the pink note, the timid year 7 cowered from the room with frightened eyes and red cheeks. Mrs. Lee scanned the note before regurgitating its contents to the class.

‘No need to be alarmed!’ shouted Mrs Lee, over the buzz of conversation, ‘we have an impromptu whole school assembly. Pack away your belongings and make your way to the grand hall.’

‘Is this about Mr. Williamson?’ called out Beau Bennet, ‘my father is on the school board, you know. He thinks it’s ridiculous…the school putting students in danger, what with the murderer still out there.’

Shooting Bennet a conspicuous glower, Charlotte blurted, ‘no one knows if Williamson was murdered or not.’

‘And that’s exactly what I said to Daddy, imagine what would happen if they close down St. Andrew’s before the Winter Ball.’

‘That would be absolutely terrible!’ gasped Grace.

Eyes watering, Delilah murmured, ‘all those years wasted in school would be for nothing!’

‘Now now, girls,’ interjected Mrs Lee, ‘whether we have a Winter Ball or not is neither here nor there. As for the topic of the assembly, I am as poorly informed as you are.’

Beau shot Sasha a menacing glare, ‘some of us may know more than others,’ she scowled.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean!’ Sasha scowled back.

‘Well, how was it that Sasha Fling and Allan Junior found Mr. Williamson’s corpse in the first place, huh?’ said Beau, flicking her gaze to the teacher, ‘bunking and snooping… I think that they should be expelled.’

‘Now Miss Bennet, that is not your judgment call, and I would advise you to refrain from sticking your nose into matters that do not concern you at all!’ snapped Mrs. Lee. ‘Now off you go – all of you – to the grand hall.’

News of the impromptu assembly had evidently reached all the classrooms of St. Andrew’s college; Charlotte had never seen the main corridor as packed with students as it was now. It was like her first day all over again, a sea of pupils converging towards the St. Andrew’s gate, but this time the current of movement was unidirectional; all students of all ages were headed to the grand hall. It was easy to distinguish Junior’s lanky figure amongst the large crowd of pupils from the lower school. He was modelling his gym attire, which told that his favourite lesson, physical education, was cut short to allow for the assembly. Charlotte could tell that her brother would not have been happy about that. Her suspicions were correct, as when Charlotte and Sasha intercepted Junior’s path, the first words he said were, ‘what is this bloody assembly even about?’

‘No one knows, but by Beau Bennett’s guesses...Mr. Williamson.’

Wary glances bounced between the trio.

‘They can’t have any new news,’ said Junior.

‘We’ll just have to see,’ sighed Charlotte, nervously.

Mrs. Roberta Quabble was the first member of staff to take to the stage, she screened the hall and seemed pleased that the entire population of St. Andrew’s school was her own personal audience.

‘Quiet! Quiet!’ Quabble yelled above the noise, until she could hear a sound as small as a whisper. ‘I’m sure that you are all wondering why you have been called here today. By now, most of you will know that Headmaster Williamson has passed away.’

Quabble cleared her throat dramatically and proceeded, ‘contrary to the general rumour, the cause of death is still undetermined, pending, of course, more rigorous autopsy reports. Until these autopsy reports are finalised, the death of Mr. Williamson is only a presumed murder and St. Andrew’s will not be closed for investigation. All schooling will proceed as normal.’

‘Who’s gonna be our new headmaster!’ a tenor-filled voice shot over the crowd. From tracking the direction which all heads turned, Mrs. Quabble was almost certain that Ricky Grimshaw, the captain of the football team, was the culprit.

‘It’s hands up for questions, Mr. Grimshaw!’ scowled Mrs. Quabble.

‘Until a new headmaster is appointed, I will be assuming all of Mr. Williamson’s duties…Is that all?’

Mrs. Quabble scanned the room again; there was not a soul brave enough to enquire further.

‘As I have stressed, Mr. Williamson’s passing cannot be ruled a murder as of yet. But to prepare for the worst case scenario, the mayor of Shorebridge, Mr. Brown, is here to speak with you today.’

The crowd gawked as Mrs. Quabble departed the stage and a taller, stockier figure assumed her position. Junior recognised him instantly, the man who had been so affected by Junior’s heroism that he had awarded him a cheque of one thousand pounds. That cheque was still crumpled at the bottom of Junior’s rucksack, uncashed. Somehow, the mayor appeared different today. He did not express the degree of elation with which Junior had first encountered him. But given the topic he had been summoned to discuss, the mayor’s lack of elation was the least of anyone’s concerns.

‘As many of you already know, my name is Mr. Brown,’ said the mayor, ‘my role is to govern this town and all of its citizens.’

After a calculated pause, Mr. Brown sighed, ‘sadly, the passing of my dear friend, Percy Williamson, marks a new era in the history of Shorebridge town. At the same time, there has been a lot of chatter regarding the disappearances of several prominent figures. I want you to know that as long as I am the mayor of Shorebridge town, you will be in no danger what-so-ever. Nevertheless, protocol demands that I inform you of any possible danger.’

Turning away from the audience and signalling some backstage technician, the mayor announced, ‘a series of images will appear upon the screen behind me… do not be alarmed.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Sasha whispered at Junior.

‘No idea.’

As the mayor had warned, images were projected onto the grand hall screen. The students gasped hysterically, some clasped their eyes shut altogether.

‘What on earth is he doing?’ hissed Charlotte, disgusted, ‘showing a hall full of students images of dead bodies.’

‘I wonder how he got elected,’ Junior cringed.

‘Children! Children!’ cried the mayor, fighting with the noise of the crowd, ‘do not be alarmed. I’m showing you these images for educational purposes only.’ He winked at Mrs. Quabble, who appeared more horrified by the mayor’s distasteful presentation than any of the students.

‘As you may have gathered, these are dead bodies. These are the bodies of victims of the last Shorebridge
Massacre.’

The hall thundered, its students in pandemonium.

‘Settle down now!’ demanded the mayor, determined to complete his presentation, ‘the last series of attacks occurred in the late 40’s, in a similar pattern to what we see now.’

Raising a single brow, Mr. Brown muttered, ‘they called him the Shorebridge Ripper, he was never discovered …but his victims were.’

At a click of the mayor’s finger, the graphic of one of the slaughtered victims grew on the grand hall screen, revealing an odd-shaped tattoo.

‘The ripper marked all of his victims with the letter
‘P’
, a signature which was believed by many to mock the police service at the time.’

Noting the increasing unease of the students, and the menacing glares of Mrs. Quabble, Mr. Brown harked on, ‘my point is that these are very dangerous times, indeed. The new ‘Shorebridge Ripper’ wants an even more gruesome reputation than his predecessor. If this is the case, then none of us are safe. Let the death of our dear Headmaster Williamson be our warning.’ Sucking in a deep breath, the mayor declared, ‘from now on, students will walk around in groups of no smaller than three. Each student will arrive at school no earlier than 8 am and be dismissed from school no later than 3.45. Mobile phones must be constantly at hand…and finally, no person under the age of 18 is permitted to be lingering the streets after dark. 9pm is the curfew for all underage St. Andrew’s students.’

A resounding chorus of boo’s emanating from a large group of students in the upper sixth drowned out the mayor’s announcement.

‘BOOOOOOO,’ cried Junior, ‘a 9 o clock curfew is anything but fair!’

The mayor’s call for order sounded many times but could not silence the animated hall. It was not long before the students were to start pelting him with socks and bits of stationary, so Mrs. Quabble signalled for the mayor to leave the stage whilst he still had a chance.

‘Anybody who does not abide by this new protocol will be harshly sanctioned!’ yelled Mr. Brown as he departed the platform.

The mayor’s assembly was the most talked about topic for the remainder of the school day. For the most part, the upper sixth form were gladly reassured that nothing would disrupt the Winter Ball. They were, however, livid at the newly implemented curfew. Ricky Grimshaw was caught telling some other boys on the football team that Mr. Brown did not have the power to pass such a law, the surveillance mechanisms in Shorebridge were not nearly excellent enough to carry out the regulation. Unless the mayor employed security personnel to watch over the streets at night, there was no way he would be able to stop the brawny team members sneaking out to any over 18’s club that turned an eye at fake ID. If Charlotte was not one-third of a group that had already made plans to sneak out this very night, she would’ve considered Mr. Brown’s decision perfectly sensible. But, as not to snub the grievances of other frustrated teens, she pretended that she was just as angry.

When the school day came to an end, Charlotte, Junior and Sasha power walked to their homes with one thought in mind. How on earth would they sneak out amidst all the new surveillance measures? Creeping out of a house which contained the overly nosey Luchia and the always-attentive Dr. Willow would not be an easy task. However, this would be just half of the job. The real challenge would be making it back to St. Andrew’s undetected. Today, Luchia appeared at the doorway even before the twins had reached the tapered bridge. From this, Charlotte had reason to suspect that Mr. Brown’s assembly was followed up by an email to all guardians, which contained detailed intricacies of the new regulations.
Great
. Luchia would never let them out of her sight now. These suspicions were confirmed when the housekeeper briskly ushered the twins into the hallway and delivered a rehearsed speech on ‘keeping safe from danger’. The doctor listened from his study, surprised by Luchia’s eagerness.

‘You, sir … are a parler’

If one sincerely wishes, it is not impossible to hear a pin drop at night time in Shorebridge. Even before Mr. Brown’s implemented curfew, the small town never had much nightlife. But now, and more so than ever, not even a pip could be heard from the streets of Shorebridge after 9 o clock. Complete silence. Charlotte and Junior Roterbee were greeted with this piercing silence as they lowered themselves from their bedroom window, to the front lawn. Fortunately, Sasha Fling was already waiting, bicycle at hand, to provide a warmer, more cordial salute.

‘I’ll get the bicycles from the gardener’s shed,’ whispered Junior, before disappearing into the darkness. He returned within a few moments, wheeling two rusted bikes.

‘They’ve got a few spider webs, but I guess they’ll have to do,’ muttered Junior, rolling one of the bikes to Charlotte.

Before mounting, Charlotte dusted the bicycle seat with her hands and scowled at the collected grime.

‘Are you ready?’ asked Sasha.

The two nods she received were ample signal. Sasha Fling and the Roterbee twins peddled into the night with perfect ease, in hope that the raucous clanks of their rusted bicycles would not wake Dr. Willow or Luchia. At the end of the tapered bridge, the trio sighed in relief; the Willow Lodge was as still as ever.

The cycle to St. Andrew’s took no more than five minutes, and to the pleasant surprise of the trio, they encountered no surveillance officers.

‘So Mr. Brown was just bluffing, huh?’ sniggered Junior, demounting his bike.

‘I wouldn’t speak so quickly!’ snapped Charlotte, spotting a hazed figure at the school entrance.

‘Duck now!’ gasped Sasha.

The surveillance officer detected muffled sounds of life and halted suddenly. He circled his torchlight mechanically, illuminating the entire opening of St. Andrew’s college. The officer resumed a static position at the school gate.

‘Darn foxes,’ he breathed, before disappearing into the darkness.

‘That was close,’ whispered Sasha, peering into St. Andrew’s forest. ‘I know a backway into the school’s kitchen.’

‘Lead the way,’ breathed Junior as Charlotte nodded in silent agreement. The trio trudged through St Andrew’s forest until they came to a division of the school that was no longer familiar.

‘We’ve arrived,’ said Sasha, striding to the kitchen’s backdoor.

Charlotte examined the rigid door immediately, ‘there’s no keyhole,’ she muttered. ‘How do we break in if there’s no keyhole?’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ smirked Junior, clearing his throat pretentiously.

‘What?’ blurted Charlotte.

Junior studied the kitchen’s backdoor for a few moments.

‘Stand back, ladies,’ he muttered, suddenly resolute.

After sucking in a deep, defiant breath, Junior bolted at the rigid door. With a thunderous
BOOOOOM,
he collapsed to the ground. He growled from pain, and more from the fact that the door still hadn’t given way.

‘Get up, you idiot!’ cried Charlotte, ‘a great idea that was … you’ll probably set off an alarm!’

‘You can be awfully stupid sometimes!’ said Sasha, patting the gravel from Junior’s back.