The Fallen Parler: Part One (A supernatural mystery thriller) (6 page)

It was Saturday, and one would’ve guessed from the loud growl of the lawnmower that Dwayne-the-gardener was hard at work. Charlotte had been skyping Sasha all morning and Junior, who was bored out of his mind, finally resorted to playing computer games. Every now and then, he would squeeze a pillow over his head, desperate not to overhear Charlotte and Sasha’s graphic descriptions of their crushes in the boy’s football team. On Saturdays, Luchia would prepare breakfast a little later, and a little bit more lavishly, than usual. To everyone’s surprise, Dr. Willow reported downstairs a whole ten minutes after breakfast was announced, and when he did, he reached straight for his newspaper, which Luchia had collected in advance.

‘There’s been one more disappearance,’ Luchia announced.

Dr. Willow seemed upset that the housekeeper had read the paper before him. Picking apart her eggs, Charlotte mumbled, ‘disappearance?’

‘Yez, they’ve been going on for months now…haven’t you heard?’ replied Luchia. ‘Disappearances of high profile people. My cousin in Scotland sez it’s a conspiracy.’

‘Who disappeared?’ asked Junior, deeply engrossed in Luchia’s theory.

‘There have been about five disappearances so far…zis time it waz Bart Bold, ze head of Bold industries.’

‘And you think that Bart Bold has been abducted or killed?’

‘It wouldn’t be ze first time!’ exclaimed Luchia, ‘ze last time these deaths and disappearances happened in Shorebridge was in the 1940’s. High profile people going missing, then turning up dead somewhere, az if it were natural causes or-’

‘That’s enough, woman!’ Dr. Willow barked, ‘you pay too much attention to these things, there is no conspiracy, and anyone who says so is clearly bored with their own lives.’

‘The 40’s – like 1947?’
blurted Junior, ignoring the doctor.

Luchia remained silent, just as her master had instructed.

‘What does that date mean to you, boy!’ pried Dr. Willow
, his deep blue eyes narrowing over his spectacles.

‘Nothing,’ replied Junior, ‘nothing at all.’

The mention of 1947 seemed to have struck a chord with Dr. Willow, who appeared positively astonished that Junior would ever think up such a date. The doctor disengaged himself from the conversation, worried that his startled countenance would spark a notion that he knew more about ‘1947’ than he was letting on. It was too late; Junior had already recorded the expression on Dr. Willow’s face. Conversely, the doctor sensed that Junior knew something he ought not to know. They stared each other down, for a good few minutes, across the kitchen table. Before long, the women began to clear the table, with hopes that doing so would alleviate the tension in the cottage.

‘I want no mention of conspiracies under this roof …ever again,’ the doctor announced. He heaved himself from the dining table and strode to his study.

Utterly bewildered by the tense exchange, Charlotte muttered, ‘what on earth was that all about?’

‘I couldn’t tell you myself, dear girl,’ answered Luchia.

If Junior had not perceived the slight tremor in Dr. Willow’s voice at the mention of 1947, he may have been just as puzzled as Charlotte or Luchia. However, Dr. Willow’s expression, alone, more or less confirmed that he knew something more about the fire at the Willow Lodge. But then, he was the owner of the cottage after all. Perhaps the doctor was merely touchy over a fire that destroyed his home many years ago. Dr. Willow’s response was untypically abrasive. He was not a pleasant man, but until today Junior had never heard the doctor raise his voice. Poor Luchia was literally barked at for mentioning the word
conspiracy
, and banned from ever discussing it again. From events passed, Junior had learned one thing…if he wanted answers, he would not get them from Dr. Willow.

‘I’m going to the supermarket today, who wants to come?’ asked Luchia, clearing the last bits from the kitchen table.

‘I can’t, I’m going to Sasha’s house,’ said Charlotte, ‘we need to get started on that history project.’

‘History project?’ muttered Junior, dazed.

‘Yup, It’s due in two weeks from now. We have partners, you were partnered with Lena Gwen…remember?’

‘Oh, her,’ droned Junior.

His thoughts had been far away from school the entire week; the discovery of Arthur Mannox was nearly all that he had thought about. School was merely a way to pass the time.

‘Please can I join your group,’ begged Junior. ‘I need a pass in this project to get Mrs. Quabble off my back.’

‘But you’re with Lena-’

‘I can’t stand the girl, all she does is stroke me and fiddle with my hair ... please Charley.’

‘Fine,’ Charlotte surrendered, ‘you’d better get ready, I’ll be off soon.’

Luchia seemed pleased that the twins had agendas of their own. With Dr.
Willow in his study and Dwayne in the garden, Saturday afternoon was the perfect time for a short siesta. After dropping the twins at Sasha’s house, Luchia could finally recline.

Sasha was pleased to see Charlotte again and after Junior explained his dire need to get a pass mark in his history project, she was compelled to accept him as a project partner. Sasha’s house was a great deal smaller than the Willow Lodge, and the gardens appeared less spectacular in comparison. The lawn at the head of Sasha’s home was dense and unkempt; it was obvious that no one had paid the garden any tender loving care in years. Junior was convinced that the presence of thick sturdy weeds, which had taken root in Sasha’s front lawn, was enough to increase Dwayne-the-gardener’s blood pressure. Ornaments and family portraits decorated the insides of Sasha’s home, from the door to the hallway that led to the kitchen. The house was modest, probably the most modest house that the Roterbee twins had ever visited. Something about the heavy tribal decor and careful interior design made Sasha’s home seem more interesting than others. When they had all squashed around the small kitchen table, Sasha asked, ‘would you like a drink?’

‘Just water, thanks,’ said Charlotte.

Nodding vacantly, Junior mouthed, ‘same.’

Numerous family photos were pasted over Sasha’s kitchen fridge. The kitchen also bore an impressive collection of souvenirs and miniature landmarks. Sasha’s home and choice of dressing told that she had lived a modest lifestyle; she was clearly not the kinfolk of any exceptionally affluent person, as the Roterbee’s had been. However, one could also detect a rich exuberance of life practices and culture that Sasha would’ve been exposed to. Her house was cluttered with intriguing articles, rain sticks and bongo drums. It was no secret that Sasha was a free spirit, unbound by any responsibility or worry that would usually plague a teen who was born and bred in higher society.

‘Woooah, don’t touch that,’ shrieked Sasha, dragging back the large tribal vase which Junior had uprooted from its spot, ‘it’s my Ma’s favourite black oak and silver vase, she’d kill me if it broke.’

‘Oh sorry,’ said Junior. He fashioned the large vase to its original position and read aloud the label, ‘made in Haiti.’

‘It’s one of the few objects that Ma brought over when she left the island on a great white ship to come to England.’

‘So you’re originally from Haiti?’ asked Charlotte.

‘Partly… my father was from the islands,’ said Sasha, pointing at one of the photos on her fridge. ‘Here we are, in the islands, just before he passed away.’

‘I’m sorry-’

‘Don’t be,’ gulped Sasha, ‘he died a long, long time ago.’

Junior pointed at the photo of a strikingly beautiful woman, who bore a terrific resemblance to Sasha, ‘and your mum, this is her?’ he muttered.

‘Yup, she lives in Haiti with my little brother, Dieter.’

Sasha flicked the photograph and chuckled, ‘If I knew you would be so interested in my family, I would’ve set it as the topic of our history project!’

Though the subject of the visit should’ve been Mr. McGlean’s history homework, it appeared to be the last of anyone’s agenda as they chattered through the afternoon. The main topic of conversation skipped between the various cliques of St. Andrew’s, and how the Roterbee’s would’ve compared it to their old school. Junior’s new admirer and abandoned history partner, Lena Gwen, was also a heated subject of discussion. Charlotte and Sasha gagged as Junior described Lena’s absurd obsession with him, but when Sasha informed him that Lena had been the same way with all the ‘new boys’, he was greatly relieved. Apparently, Lena dated the last four young men who arrived newly to St. Andrew’s and before Junior, she had her eyes set on Ricky Grimshaw (who was also the captain of the boy’s football team).

‘That girl has no boundaries,’ professed Charlotte, ‘she’s almost as irritating as Beau Bennet.’

Junior and Sasha nodded in unison, humoured by Charlotte’s deep disdain towards Beau Bennet. A muffled noise emanated from the corridor and cut all conversations short.

‘Oooz dere,’ a voice echoed from the hallway, ‘is dat you Sasha…Sasha?’

A small, frail figure appeared in the doorway. The elderly brown-skinned woman had a full head of white hair, curly like Sasha’s. Her skin was glossy, with deep rimmed circles beneath her eyes and shallow wrinkle lines cornering her thin lips. She was as breakable as a glass doll. If the old woman’s frame was not supported by the sturdy wooden walking stick, which she clenched with both hands, she would not have been able to stand upright.

‘Ma, I’ve got some friends round,’ called Sasha, ‘meet Charlotte and Junior.’

Sasha waved at her grandmother, drawing her into the kitchen. When the old woman stepped into the light, her features appeared even more defined. She wore a patterned headband and was wrapped in layers of blankets.

‘Friends?’ she squinted, her narrow gaze bouncing from Charlotte to Junior.

‘Friends,’ the old woman muttered again, scrunching her face confusedly. She glanced down and breathed heavily for a moment. Suddenly, the elderly woman began to scowl, mumbling chants in a type of broken English which Charlotte expected only Sasha could understand.

‘Dere here, dere everywhere now, now,’ the old woman chanted.

‘Excuse my Ma, she’s ninety-six!’ muttered Sasha, guiding her grandmother to the nearest unoccupied seat, ‘she has moments when her faculties aren’t completely together.’

‘Me not a mad woman Sasha, me head screwed on right!’ Ma Joelle mumbled.

‘I’m sure it is Ma!’ replied Sasha, mordantly. She placed a glass of cool water on the kitchen table and beckoned the old woman to drink. As she sipped her last droplets, Ma Joelle sighed. She cleared her eyes and focused her gaze on the set of new faces, ‘and what can me do fa ya now?’ she muttered.

‘It’s great to meet you, Ma Joelle, Sasha’s told me alot about you,’ said Charlotte.

‘Has she now?’ said the old woman, surprised.

‘You,’ said Ma Joelle, pointing at Junior, ‘say, fetch an old woman de paper.’

Junior grabbed a familiar copy of the Shorebridge telegraph and placed it on Ma Joelle’s lap. She gestured her appreciation and signalled for Junior to be seated again.

‘Mmmm, more and more of dem,’ Ma Joelle mumbled, speeding through the paper, ‘just like last time.’

‘What’re you talking about, Ma?’ said Sasha, peeping at the paper over her grandmother’s shoulder. ‘Oh, those disappearances again …Ma’s got a bunch of theories!’

‘Nat theories Sasha, dey true!’ the old woman yelled, ‘they being murdered, forget disappearance.’

‘We don’t know that Ma!’ retorted Sasha, ‘I’m sure Bart Bold has probably fled the country for tax reasons, you know how these businessmen are.’

‘What makes you think he was murdered, Ma Joelle?’ asked Junior, intrigued.

Ma Joelle’s mumbles dissolved into a faint whisper, ‘coz he’s one of dem of course, he’s a…a parler.’

‘A what!’ cried Junior.

Sasha rotated a finger around her grandmother’s temples, ‘that’s enough now Ma!’ she groaned. Charlotte chuckled a little.

‘You look like you need a rest Ma, let me take you upstairs,’ said Sasha, lifting her befuddled grandmother into a pushchair, ‘be back in a second.’

‘Me not mad, me not mad, Sasha,’ the old woman’s murmurs became distant whispers, which soon, could be heard no more. A moment later, Sasha reappeared at the doorway.

‘Sorry about that,’ smiled Sasha, ‘we’d better get on to that history project.’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Charlotte.

Making a start on the history project became the main priority for the rest of the evening. Charlotte assigned roles to Sasha and Junior, appointing Sasha the ‘research manager’ and Junior the ‘source analyst’. Charlotte would write the p
roject. And so began work on ‘p
ublic health in the Roman civilisation’. Though the girls sunk their teeth into the project, Junior’s mind was far away from his role as source analyst. Today, he’d learned of three ridiculous theories for the disappearance of Bart Bold. Luchia predicted that the disappearance of Bart Bold was a conspiracy, Sasha suggested that his very ‘appropriate’ disappearance was likely due to tax reasons, and the confused old lady, Ma Joelle, said that Bold was likely dead. She had called him a parler. Junior had never heard of the word before. It may have been sensible to take the mystified mumbles of a perplexed elderly woman with a pinch of salt. One thing that Luchia disclosed, against Dr. Willow’s will, was that this was not the first time high-profile disappearances had occurred in Shorebridge. She mentioned that they had taken place during the war. Ma Joelle had confirmed it when she said
‘just like last time’
. By last time, had the old woman meant just after the war? Ma Joelle would’ve been a mere teen at that time. How far could her memory be trusted? Junior was struggling to link these revelations with his discovery of Arthur Mannox. Something in the bewilderment of Dr. Willow’s countenance at the mention of 1947 told that Mannox’s death at the Willow Lodge was intertwined with the disappearances. Charlotte still had no idea of the uncanny resemblance between Arthur Mannox and her father, and Junior had a rising intuition that the mysterious suicide of Allan Roterbee was somehow intertwined with these other unexplained disappearances. Junior was set on discovering the absolute truth… and in so doing, he hadn’t the slightest idea where to start.