The Fallen Parler: Part One (A supernatural mystery thriller) (3 page)

‘We are here,’ said Charlotte, circling the station icon with her finger, ‘right in the middle of Shorebridge…apparently.’
Junior scanned the station in one slow twist of his neck, ‘when are we expecting Dr. Willow?’ he muttered.

‘It would be helpful to know what he looks like,’ said Charlotte, shrugging.
A small crowd were gathered at the station entrance, but none matched Peter’s description of Dr. Willow. Based only on their uncanny resemblance to Mr. Roterbee, Charlotte was convinced that Dr. Willow would recognise them. But, when none of the crowd stepped forward, she was forced to believe that either the doctor was not amongst them, or was, and could not elucidate a blatant family resemblance. Suddenly, two young children, from the same coach, bolted to the station entrance and cried, ‘Grandpapa!’ They leaped into their grandfather’s embrace. Soon enough, other eager passengers followed, each meeting and embracing
their acquaintances. D
r. Willow was nowhere in sight. Starved and annoyed, Junior shuffled his cargo to the nearest free seats.

‘You’d think that after we’d travelled half a day, he’d at least have the decency to show up on time.’

Flittering pulses of red worked across Junior’s tanned face. When he was angry, Junior appeared remarkably handsome. Somehow, the colour in his cheeks brought out, beautifully, his piercing green eyes. They decorated his sculpted face, making hard features appear soft in synergy. Charlotte was just as handsome, but often preferred Junior’s full green eyes over her heavy, buried ones. Though she would never admit it to him, Charlotte would often stare into her brother’s eyes, appreciating each aesthetic stroke of colour.
‘Your coach waz early,’ a gawky, foreign voice rang from behind.

Charlotte and Junior flinched in surprise. They turned, automatically, to the direction of the mysterious voice.

‘You are ze Roterbeez, I presume?’ the woman probed, her accent thick and European. She had beady blue eyes and thin dark hair, which had been neatly packaged into a tight miss-trunchbull-bun. Charlotte inspected the woman from feet upwards, ‘Dr. Willow is a man, not a woman,’ she declared.
‘You are quite right Miz Roterbee, Dr. Willow iz a man,’ replied the woman, somewhat amused, ‘but I am his housekeeper, my name iz Luchia.’
Luchia modelled a dark, moth-eaten dress, similar to the kind Allan Roterbee’s maids would wear at the Manor. She had no apron but bore sensible shoes, which told that she frequently engaged in hands-on work. If she was, indeed, who she said she was, Junior was so far unimpressed with the doctor’s proprieties (or more so lack of). Protocol and etiquette should’ve obliged him to personally collect his guests on their arrival to Shorebridge. Junior’s curiosity burned.
Did Dr. Willow know that they were arriving today? Did he care at all? Was he too busy? Doctors are always busy.
Speaking aloud his thoughts, Junior asked, ‘so Dr. Willow’s a busy man, is he?’
‘He iz,’ replied Luchia, ‘but he looks forward to meeting you.’
Extending her hand to Luchia, Charlotte said politely, ‘y
ou can call me Charley.’
‘And you?’ asked Luchia, eyeing Junior.
‘Allan Junior…but Junior is fine.’
Luchia bowed her head cordially and greeted the Roterbee twins. ‘I can take zat,’ she demanded, snatching the suitcase handle from Charlotte’s grip. Out of courtesy Charlotte refused, but Luchia had already heaved Charlotte’s baggage along a steep flight of steps. Surprised by the housekeeper’s brute strength, Charlotte followed, leaving Junior to wheel his own baggage. Outside the station, someone had parked, rather callously, a bright purple Volkswagen. It may have been the most ridiculous car that Junior had ever seen. So when Luchia rolled Charlotte’s suitcase toward the vehicle, Junior’s dread was confirmed…this was Luchia’s car.
‘What – is – that?’ spat Junior, glancing at the bubble-gum coloured car with disgust. Luchia switched it open and began loading the trunk.
‘Zat is our ride,’ said Luchia, her amused tone attenuating a deep eastern European accent. ‘I understand that you both are from ze wealthy pedigree, but things in Shorebridge are different.’
Gulping visibly, Charlotte replied, ‘how so?’
‘You zee, Dr. Willow is a prudent, reserved man. I’d better warn you now, before you get your hopes up, your stay here will not include private limouzines and butlers.’
‘Luchia…’ Junior breathed, faintly, ‘you can’t seriously expect me to enter that thing.’
Junior glanced at the bold vehicle again and realised that it now radiated shades of pink underneath the sunlight.
‘Zat thing haz a name!’ retorted Luchia, ‘she’s called Sylvia and you’re going to love her.’
‘Well, I love Sylvia already,’ said Charlotte, grinning impishly. Junior was unsure as to whether his sister truly meant it. However, the zeal with which Charlotte shot into the front seat of the car told that she did. Junior questioned his sister’s sanity as he lumbered into the unoccupied seat at the rear of the bubble-gum wagon.
‘You can wear ze seatbelts if you want to,’ said Luchia, ‘it’z only a five-minute-drive from here.’

Peter could never have given such an ultimatum; seat-belts were always mandatory. But then, Peter would never be caught driving a Barbie-themed automobile. It took Luchia three attempts to start the iffy engine; on the third attempt, the car growled loudly, discharging a cloud of dirty soot as it propelled into the road…the-Sylvia-mobile had a mind of her own. Charlotte dwelled on Luchia’s portrayal of Dr. Willow’s character, and more, his financial status. Though she never expected Dr. Willow to be a filthy rich man, like her father had been, she always supposed that he was somewhere between comfortable and wealthy. Many of Allan’s acquaintances in the city had been of equal wealth to himself. Naturally, Charlotte assumed Willow was also of measurable financial standing. Why else would Allan appoint the doctor as guardian of his children?
It’s what Allan wanted.
Charlotte was certain the doctor was not broke, just not nearly as wealthy as she had expected.
I can live with that.
Shorebridge was a hilly town; one did not have to drive three meters before encountering a large bump in the road, or a steep ridge. Luchia, who was accustomed to the town’s topography, was smooth in her seat, as Charlotte and Junior jolted up and down and side to side at each bump and ridge. Luchia appeared to enjoy watching them jolt, and Charlotte looked like she was ready to puke any moment. The roads were outlandishly clear, most people walked around in small groups or cycled singly. The town was old, perhaps ancient. Nearly all of Shorbridge’s buildings were formed of greyed bricks, which over the years, had corroded. Greenery added little life to the small town. Shorebridge had a strange dormancy which must’ve been mystifying to visitors. However, a single vacation to the town told that it did not attract many outsiders. Shorebridge was not at all what Junior had imagined. But then, he had not imagined Shorebridge at all, for he never foresaw that he would surrender to Peter’s plea. Squinting into the car window, Junior spotted a child. The little girl was dancing in the road, swinging a tight rope over her head. As he peeked closer, Junior realised that the child was skipping, leaping in a rhythmic hop-scotched pattern. In London, children never played in the road, in fact, children were hardly ever seen at all. Engaged in a seemingly animated phone conversation, the young girl’s father had his back turned to her. It was almost as if the child was neglected. A sinister dark shadow rapidly encroached the young child, with it, an ominous cloud of white smoke. Without removing his eyes from the young girl, Junior edged closer, until his nose prodded the glass window. He gasped in realisation that this was no ordinary road. The child was skipping in the middle of a railroad junction. The dark figure that was hastily encroaching the child was a train. Danger was imminent. The child’s piercing scream forced Luchia to stall the car, and onlookers to clasp their mouths in horror. The young girl’s father rotated suddenly and caught sight of the speedy load that would surely crush his daughter’s head any second. It was too late. Junior clasped his eyes shut, unwilling to witness the young girl meet her untimely end, but something strange happened when he did. It was as if time stood still. The train, which was once an encroaching panther, awaiting its pounce, was now unhurried. Almost, but not entirely, frozen. The train was less a panther, and now more like a slow giant bug. It was not just the train, but everything else in comparison was suddenly Junior’s personal freeze frame. For this lucid hallucination, Junior could only blame Sonia’s dodgy mushrooms. Whatever it was, this was his chance to save the young girl. Junior bolted into the railroad and scooped the child from her dangerous path. As quickly as it had blundered, time re-corrected itself.

‘How did you do that!’ the child’s father cried, ‘you came out of nowhere!’
Lost for words and gasping for breath, Junior managed a shrug.
‘What is your name young man?’ wheezed the father, ladling the child in his arms as a crowd of onlookers assembled.
‘My name is ... Allan, Allan Roterbee Junior.’
The onlookers issued Junior an exuberant applaud; it was not long before Charlotte and Luchia surfaced at the front of the crowd.
‘I see zat you’ve been acquainted with ze mayor,’ were the first words that Luchia said.
Mayor? Who on earth was she talking about?
‘Excuse my manners,’ said the child’s father, ‘I’m Mr. Brown, the mayor of Shorebridge.’

‘The mayor?’ gawked Junior.
Extracting a cheque book from his briefcase, the mayor announced, ‘every hero deserves a prize.’

In sophisticated calligraphy, Mr. Brown embellished the cheque with the sum of one thousand pounds.

‘I can’t accept that,’ Junior replied. Mr. Brown stuffed the cheque into Junior’s pocket indifferently.

‘Smile, Mr. Roterbee,’ sang the mayor, posing for photographs, ‘you’re the newest town hero.’

When they were back inside the bubble-gum wagon, Charlotte shrieked, ‘how did you do that…you were as fast as lightening!’

Junior shrugged impassively.

‘I mean I know you play football and everything, but I’ve never seen you like that.’

‘It waz like you were here one minute, zen zere ze next, Mizter Junior!’ cried Luchia, her beady eyes filling
with amazement.
‘I... I don’t know, honestly, it just happened,’ said Junior. The idea of telling his sister that he had somehow tampered with the time–space continuum was as berserk as it sounded.
‘However you did it, it was bree-liant!’ cried Luchia, ‘I will be surprised if you are not on ze cover of ze Shorebridge telegraph tomorrow morning.’

‘The w-w-what?’ stuttered Junior.

Ignoring the startled boy, the housekeeper muttered, ‘to think Mizter Brown would give the newest town hero only one thousand pounds for saving ze life of hiz only daughter.’
‘I think that’s plenty,’ blurted Charlotte, ‘and seeing as both our trust funds are frozen, it’s only right that Junior shares it. Five hundred each.’
‘No way!’ Junior puffed.
Luchia chuckled, the strong frown lines on her forehead and mouth made it seem that her life had been devoid of laughter for many years. Charlotte could not shake the feeling that Dr. Willow had something to do with this. When the housekeeper pulled up at a large cottage which sat, perfectly, between two hills, overlooking the riverside, the Roterbee twins were pleasantly surprised.
‘Welcome to the Willow Lodge... your new home,’ announced Luchia.

‘The Doctor’

There was a still, bottle-green pond, over which stood an old tapered bridge; this served as the Willow Lodge
’s only connection to town. At this time of the day, the pond
was unusually motionless, despite the reverberating sounds of nature about it. The gentle trill of toads leaping about the large pond, and the incessant chirp of grassland crickets all gave the Willow Lodge a serene disposition. The cottage was embroiled with picturesque arrays of flowers; neatly trimmed hedges demarcated Dr. Willow’s land. A serrated pathway led to a large red door, etched, in sophisticated calligraphy, with the words ‘
The Willow Lodge’
. The same logo was inked into the rusty letterbox that had always leaned to one side of the cottage. The Willow Lodge was unlike anything Junior had ever seen. It was, in many ways, different from the Roterbee Manor back in London, which was stylish but not at all homely. This cottage was the polar opposite. It was as if the cottage had been designed to appear snug, and there was something more than its aesthetic landscape that abetted this notion. Once upon a time, a sweet little family must’ve lived here. Charlotte gawked at the lodge for some time, absorbing all the intricacies of her new home, before beginning down the pebbly path.
‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Charlotte, pointing at a hedge which had been moulded into a man.
‘Ze creative property of Dwayne, ze gardener,’ said Luchia, ‘he works on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.’
‘He must be very skilled,’ said Junior, ‘this place seems as if it was handcrafted by Picasso, himself.’

Luchia dug into her handbag and pulled out a bulky set of keys. She fiddled between them until she found the right one.

‘Got ya,’ smirked the housekeeper, lugging at the large red door until it gave way.

The Roterbee twins tip toed into the lobby. The entrance was dark and heavily festooned with glossy, Victorian wood. In some strange way, the insides of the cottage appeared less majestic than the outward landscape.

After Luchia had granted them permission to explore their new home, Junior and Charlotte trotted into every room, endeavouring to note all the pieces of furniture and new, intriguing objects. It didn’t take long to assimilate that Dr. Willow was a hoarder of books, as in addition to his state-of-the-art library on the ground floor, the doctor had packed two of the four bedrooms with mighty stacks of literature, which towered from the ground to the ceiling. There was a narrow space to walk between them. One thing Dr. Willow loathed passionately was when his belongings were moved out of place; this was Luchia’s personal forewarning. And so, the Roterbee twins were not to touch anything… especially not anything of value. The doctor often got his way around here, and the housekeeper needn’t say it, for it was written over her face like a book. At first, Junior didn’t know what to make of Dr. Willow; his house, which bore no family portraits, gave little of persona away. One could survey the entire Willow Lodge, and the doctor would still be an utter mystery.
It was getting late and sundown was fast approaching. Luchia chaperoned the Roterbee twins about the grounds all evening; at suppertime, she invited them to her cabin at the backyard, offering
tea and Romanian biscuits. Charlotte and Junior, who were both sta
rving
, could not refuse. Whilst the twins ran riot in the large cottage, familiarising themselves with every
room, Luchia resourcefully delivered their suitcases to the allotted room. This room, on the second floor, was one of the two which Dr. Willow had not crammed with literature books, the other one was his own bedroom. The room was a great deal smaller than Charlotte’s bedroom had been back at the Roterbee Manor. She was less than pleased to learn that she would be sharing it with her brother. Junior called dibs on the top bunk before Charlotte had even entered the room. She dived into the bottom bed, accepting defeat.