The Fallen Parler: Part One (A supernatural mystery thriller) (2 page)

‘What is it?’ murmured Junior.

Peter was unusually sombre, ‘it’s just… I wanted to tell you that I’ll miss you,’ he mumbled.

‘N I too,’ said Sonia, ruffling Junior’s hair play
fully.
The young man smiled, he was forced to admit that Sonia could be extremely amiable (when she wanted to be). Though he had been a miserable soul for the length of her stay, Sonia always gave Junior his deserved space. It was clear that Peter and Sonia were a good pair. In a world were circumstances were not as warped, Junior may have called them family… a family he yearned for but never had. The young man frowned, very rarely did he allow himself to ponder over his irredeemable lot. When he did, it bothered him greatly. With a strange sadness, Junior considered that his butler was the most genuine of all his acquaintances. Peter was determined and unrequitedly loyal, a type of man who’d never been taught propriety, but had inherited it naturally. Peter would follow Allan Roterbee’s dying order because it was the right thing to do. It was only now, this very moment, that Junior sensed the gravity of the butler’s bid. If fulfilling his father’s wish meant leaving his home, he would do it. His own proprieties, faint and blurry as they were, compelled Junior to surrender.

‘I’ll go.’

Junior’s surrender was met with glee. Sonia pecked his cheek and Peter gave him a manly pat on the shoulder. From his baffled expression, it was clear that the butler did not expect Junior to give in with such ease. The boy had been defiant for most of the evening, repelling anyone who attempted to console him over the matter.
What could have changed between then and now?

Somewhere between superficial sleep and consciousness, Junior mumbled, ‘where is it? where I and Charlotte are going…where Dr. Willow lives?’

‘It’s a small town in the North of England, it’s called Shorebridge,’ whispered Peter.

‘Shorebridge…it sounds strange.’

‘Farewell, Manor’

Gazing skyward, underneath the summit of a clear dome-shaped stadium, Charlotte inhales the air of panic. As suddenly as she arrives here, a nauseating resonance forces her to shield her ears
. She scuffles between the crowds of jeering fanatics to get a good view of the spectacle. There are two masked figures in the middle of the stadium, one dressed in whi
te and the other in black. Each time one opponent hauls the other to the floor, the right side of the dome stadium cheers and the left side jeers. This is a fight, a duel. In this duel, there is no palpable victor. Where one is strong and robust, the other is speedy and agile. They are of equal and opposite aptitude. How long before the arbitrator calls it a draw? Here he comes. His face is frightfully recognisable to Charlotte. Allan Roterbee Sr. is walking towards the competitors. As he closes in on them, the fighting ceases and the crowd is utterly silenced. A mounting sensation of shock and bewilderment propels her from the dream.

‘Strange,’ yawns Charlotte, rubbing her eyelids. She feels she has slept plenty, but the dark circles underneath her eyes disagree. That dream appears to her every night since her father’s death. Dreaming about the dead is never a good sign. Dr. Goodman called it PTS (Post traumatic Stress), but the mention of such a condition was gravely shunned by Charlotte. She had recently commenced her final year of sixth form and a psychiatric consultation was the least of her desires. To lay the matter to rest, Charlotte made out that the troubling dream was a singular occurrence. Today however, the young woman was woken from the dream by the pungent aroma of bacon.

‘Yuck!’ she groaned.

Charlotte leapt from her bed and trailed the punchy scent down a flight of steps, to where Junior, Peter and Sonia were nestled around the dining room table. Sonia shoved a plate at Charlotte’s face as soon as the young woman emerged from the steps; she was in no mood to receive Charlotte’s lecture on the cruel treatment of animals in factory farms.

‘Vegetarian bacon,’ smiled Sonia, Charlotte received the plate happily.

‘But I want real pork!’ groaned Junior.

‘This is
especially
for Charlotte,’ Sonia replied, sardonically, ‘we all know how she feels about meat.’

‘Well at least someone around here understands,’ said Charlotte, grimacing at her brother.

Both Charlotte and Junior had developed a strange fondness towards Sonia. These sentiments were fairly reciprocated by the butler’s wife, who felt it was a great shame that the twins were leaving today. Sonia could have easily gotten used to being the mistress of the Roterbee Manor which, in comparison, was many times showier than her humble abode in the suburbs. The butler’s wife had become unusually familiar with Allan Roterbee’s home, and probably more acquainted with it than Allan had ever been. Before Mr. Roterbee’s death, she had visited the Manor a few measly times and left with miserable reviews. Peter could recall his wife saying
‘the city of London is certainly not a place to raise children’.
The irony that she now considered the Roterbee Manor her second home compelled Sonia to rebuke her previous utterances against it. The kids she once considered obnoxious were now like priceless jewels. If Sonia ever did have children of her own, she would want them to have Junior’s intriguing emerald coloured eyes and Charlotte’s impeccable sharpness. She would miss them very much when it’d be just her and Peter again.

The twins powered through breakfast, chattering over current affairs. As Peter passed the newspaper around the table, each person discovered a new article to discuss. On closing the paper, Junior caught the eyes of a man whose face was too familiar to ignore. Allan Roterbee’s face shot out from the paper:

‘It is with great sadness that Mr Allan Roterbee, the entrepreneur of The Roterbee exchange firm, is finally laid to rest. The Prime Minister and several members of cabinet graced the funeral. Roterbee, who was an avid philanthropist, leaves behind his children: Allan Roterbee Junior (17) and Charlotte Grace Roterbee (17)’

Junior closed the
paper and tossed it at the centre of the table.

‘Avid Philanthropist’
Junior could not name one philanthropic act his father had ever performed. If Allan was ever a generous soul, it was at the expense of spending time with his own kids. He had never once attended any of Junior’s football matches, nor any of Charlotte’s Olympiad contests. Naturally, after Allan’s unexpected death became public knowledge, such extracurricular activities were halted. The teachers at Ridgewood high school urged the Roterbee twins to take a season of leave (as a mandatory grieving period). Charlotte, who was head girl, strongly opposed the idea. Many suspected that having to hand over her badge to Eliza Greggle, Charlotte’s long-time frenemy, was the underpinning source of her contempt. On the other hand, dodging school was Junior’s favourite part of the whole ordeal. The death of his father fell under a list of mitigating circumstances which granted Junior a pass in all exams (something he may not have been able to achieve otherwise). This was the only good news that Junior had heard all fall. Charlotte, however, opted out of exclusion from exams. She was a straight-A student and did not want to achieve her grades by default. Hard work was one trait her father taught by example. Allan Roterbee spearheaded
the Roterbee exchange firm for many years before his untimely end. Charlotte’s aspirations were no less
impressive than her father’s. She planned to one-day head the firm, but accepted that Allan’s infamous suicide may have tarnished the Roterbee brand irredeemably. The future of the Roterbee exchange firm was now indefinite. Charlotte pondered over it intently in the weeks following Allan’s death. Many of Allan’s old acquaintances speculated that the death of his wife, who was rumoured to have died during childbirth, marked the onset of his chronic depression. Perhaps this was the reason Allan Roterbee found it difficult to relate with his children…they looked and acted too much like their mother, whom he’d never stopped loving. These were a few of the gossips for Allan Roterbee’s alleged suicide. Junior was grateful that these gossips had not been mentioned in the article; he was thankful that the intricacies of his father’s death had been excluded from the press. The less information people knew, the less they would ask and the less he would have to explain.

The morning passed quickly and Charlotte spent most of it by the telephone, receiving goodbye messages from her friends. Junior assured his schoolmates that he’d likely return by the new year…certainly by his 18th birthday. He was sure that his trip to Shorebridge would be no more than a lengthy vacation. For now, the primary objective was finding a way to squeeze his necessities into the modest-sized suitcase Peter had allotted him. When everything was ready to go, Peter began transporting the cargo. The twins glanced over their home, especially at the large, hand-painted portrait of their father. It dangled, as it always had, on the wall above the fireplace. The portrait had an outlandish guise; it often moved Junior a great deal. Mr. Roterbee was smiling…anybody who ever crossed paths with Mr. Roterbee knew that he seldom smiled. The gifted artist, who handcrafted the painting, may have captured Mr. Roterbee at a rare, invaluable moment. The source of his merriment in the portrait would be an ever-present mystery to Junior. At best, he could speculate that Allan, wherever he was now, was as happy as he appeared in the portrait. His father’s face was transiently blocked by Sonia’s pink duster. Sonia had been polishing the Manor all morning. She wished to leave Allan Roterbee’s home (aside from a few golden spoons) exactly as she met it. When she was pleased with the spotlessness, Sonia loaded her rucksack onto her back and quitted the Manor reluctantly. Charlotte glanced away from her father’s portrait, batting between deep sighs and sobs.

‘There, there,’ teased Junior, ‘and I thought I was the one who didn’t want to leave.’

‘Oh stop it!’ Charlotte snapped, ‘I’m fine, it’s my hay fever…that’s all.’

‘It’s autumn,’ retorted Junior, smirking.

Charlotte gave her brother a despondent smile and absorbed the Manor one last time. Soon after, the Roterbee’s departed their home altogether.

*

The drive to Victoria coach station is not long; the roads are unusually clear, and today, traffic is absurdly low. Peter skips through radio stations more frequently than usual. All stations are playing depressive ballads, so Peter quits the radio completely. Sonia fills the silence for the rest of the drive and somehow, Charlotte is not vexed by Sonia’s relentless chatters. Charlotte can tell when they have arrived at the coach station, because the squeaks of suitcase wheels revolving along a tiled floor reverberate about the air. A freckled red-head girl is stationed at the booking desk by the entrance of the station. She is the first person to take the Roterbee’s details and, on learning their family name, expresses her deepest sympathy.
‘You’re booked for the 11 o clock coach to Shorebridge, is that right?’ says the redhead.
Junior offers the tickets and nods. The redhead’s hand touches Junior’s as she accepts. Her childish giggle tells that she is readily anticipating the moment she’ll tell all her colleagues
‘Allan Roterbee Jr glided his soft fingers over mine’
. Junior’s cheeks flush and Charlotte gags between amusement and revulsion. Once inside the station, their cargo is alleviated from them; Sonia and Peter begin their go
odbyes.

‘Be good,’ says Sonia, winking. To Junior especially, she says, ‘look after your sister, dear.’
Digging into his pocket, Peter exclaims, ‘I nearly forgot, your father wanted you to have these!’
He collects two golden rimmed cases, and Charlotte snatches her own automatically. Junior frowns, it’s only the Roterbee ring and necklace of Allan’s will. He flicks his own golden-rimmed-case into his rucksack whilst Charlotte weaves the necklace around her wrist, upcycling it to a trendier bracelet.
‘These trinkets meant a lot to your father,’ Peter’s tone is accusatory, and he glares at Junior directly.
‘Okay, Okay,’ groans Junior, fetching the ring and sliding it onto his finger, ‘happy now?’
Sonia hugs Charlotte once more before she and Peter turn to leave, waving until they can no longer be seen. The coach is tight and overcrowded. Once inside, Junior flicks the sapphire ring to bury at the bottom of his bag. He wonders how many times the automated voice will repeat
‘This is a National Express coach from Victoria to Shorebridge’
. To his annoyance, the voice replays
every twenty seconds, until he plugs in his earphones. The music drowns out all other distractions. After a short time, the growl of a warm, vibrating engine, coupled with the world outside the coach window speeding behind him, tells Junior that the coach has departed.

‘Seven more hours of this,’ he yawns.

He closes his eyes…
sleep is always the best way to kill time.

‘Welcome to Shorebridge’

‘Wake up!’ snapped Charlotte. She nudged the snoozing boy beside her irately. Junior could make out a light dot which, after rubbing his eyes, became the familiar face of his sister. She nudged him once more and nagged, ‘sound asleep with your neck curved all along the window, you’re lucky it isn’t sprained!’

Junior peeled his face from the hot glass, he suspected that dried dribble and sweat had sealed him there for most of the journey. The young man wiped a layer of perspiration from his forehead and groaned. He twisted his arms behind his head, attempting to disperse the pounding aches. Junior had slept like a baby, in a most bizarre position, for the entire length of the journey.
‘We’ve arrived?’ shot Junior, extricating the knots in his neck.
‘Evidently,’ muttered Charlotte, ‘there wasn’t one coach stop and I’ve been awfully peckish…the sandwiches Sonia packed weren’t at all filling.’
Junior rummaged an empty container from his sister’s rucksack, ‘you had my sandwiches too!’ he cried.
‘You snooze, you lose,’ chuckled Charlotte, dragging the remaining rucksack from the overhead baggage compartment. The Roterbee’s squeezed along the narrow isle, embarking on a tight trek to the coach exit. After being clouted with a number of rucksacks, which were being recklessly pelted onto their owner’s backs, they departed the coach. Baggage retrieval was the next task, and as they had little cargo to collect, the Roterbee twins completed this speedily. They came to the information desk, which had no information giver in sight, but contained a measly pile of information leaflets. Charlotte snatched one, pressed it to her nose and squinted intently. The leaflet detailed a collection of small villages in relation to the route of the town’s only bus.