‘In case of what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You been through the deleted mails?’
‘Bugger-all. See for yourself.’
Under deleted mails, Merrily found one that said GHOSTOURS. Re half price. She clicked on it.
Hi Robson!
Thanks for your mail and your interest in GHOSTOURS. Yes, it certainly is half-price for children. However, we don’t usually allow anyone under sixteen to go on the walk unless accompanied by a responsible adult. Mind you, it’s usually the adults who are most scared!
Is there a parent or relative who would come with you? If so, we usually gather in the Bullring on Friday and Saturday evenings, at 8.00 p.m. But pop into the shop when you’re here and we’ll see what we can do!
Cheers,
Jonathan Scole,
Ludlow Ghostours.
‘That’s months old,’ Mumford said. ‘Boy making plans for his holiday. This is the ghost-walk feller the Pepper woman paid to take her round. Would she have made a responsible adult for Robbie, you reckon?’
‘Andy, that—’
Merrily turned round. A boy had squeezed under the metal door. He looked about ten or eleven. She tapped Mumford on the shoulder, gave the kid a quick smile.
‘Hello.’
The boy said nothing.
Mumford eyed him with naked suspicion. ‘What d’you want, sonny?’
The kid moved further into the garage, baseball cap pulled down. ‘What you doing?’
‘What’s it look like we’re doing?’ Mumford said. ‘We’re playing computer games.’
‘What you got?’
‘Sonic the Hedgehog,’ Mumford said. ‘Before your time. En’t you got something violent to watch on TV?’
‘That Robbie Walsh’s stuff?’
Mumford clicked off the e-mail. ‘Makes you think that?’
‘Their garage, ennit?’
‘You knew Robbie Walsh?’
‘You his grandad?’
‘No I en’t, you cheeky little sod.’
‘Ange said we could have a look at his stuff, see if there’s anything we wanted.’
‘Aye, I bet she did.’
‘Honest!’
‘All right, goodnight, son,’ Mumford said. His tone had hardened. His hands hung by his sides. Mumford still had police presence. The kid backed off, ducked under the opening, then stuck his head back in.
‘Don’t want none of that shit, anyway. Robbie Walsh was gay. I’d get Aids or some’ing.’
And disappeared, laughing. Mumford said nothing, but went over and pulled down the metal door, leaving a much smaller gap at the bottom this time.
‘He probably doesn’t even know what it means, anyway,’ Merrily said when Mumford came back to the computer.
‘I know what it means.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘Means the boy was different. Sensitive. Bit academic and didn’t hang around with whatever gangs operated on the estate. An outcast, in other words.’ He picked up the book with the damaged spine. ‘Therefore a target.’
‘He was being victimized? Bullied? That’s what you think?’
Mumford didn’t reply. He put the book back and laid a hand on the mouse, running the cursor from icon to icon.
‘Try Internet Explorer and click on History,’ Merrily suggested. ‘Find out where he’s been lately.’
But Robbie’s most recent ventures on the Net amounted only to Ludlow tourist sites, Ludlow historical society documents. Nothing unexpected. Nothing that looked like a suicide chat-room. After about fifteen fruitless minutes, Mumford went back to the desktop, where nothing looked promising unless you were seriously into medieval history.
It was cold in here, and Merrily was no longer sure what they were looking for. It all came down to Mumford’s feeling that the boy had been in need of help and he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps thinking he’d got off too lightly with his own daughters, to whom nothing bad seemed to have happened.
‘School Projects,’ she said. ‘Try that. Sounds boring.’
Mumford looked at her. A vehicle went slowly past the garage.
‘Maybe a bit too boring,’ Merrily said. ‘Do you think?’
Mumford clicked on it. An e-mail appeared at once.
Dear Robbie,
Thanks for the stuff you sent me. It was great. It’s cool that we’re interested in the same things and OF COURSE I won’t stop writing to you.
But DON’T WORRY! I know things can seem really bad but like my nan says it’s always darkest before the dawn and I know this is going to work out for you and you’ll get away from that awful place. Just HANG ON IN THERE and thanks for sharing this with me, I feel really privileged.
Look, Robbie, I’ve got a lot to do with exams and stuff coming up, so if you don’t hear from me for a bit don’t think I’ve forgotten, all right. Love and GOOD LUCK!
Merrily read it again. There was no signature.
‘Well done, Mrs Watkins,’ Mumford said.
‘It looks like he’s copied the e-mail onto a document, deleting the signature and the e-mail address. He’s hidden it away where nobody’s likely to look for it and if anyone finds it they won’t know who sent it.’
‘Mabbe scared of his mother or Mathiesson getting into his computer when he en’t around.’ Mumford scrolled up. ‘Hang on, here’s another.’
Dear Robbie
You’ve made me cry. I just wept when I read your mail. Those bastards! You can’t let them do these things to you. You have to tell someone, do you understand? You could even tell the police, never mind about your stepfather or whatever he is. You’ve got to do something, do you understand? I’ll tell the police for you if you want, I don’t mind. Just DO SOMETHING!
love
‘I take it all back,’ Merrily said.
‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I thought it. I thought you were making something out of nothing.’
Mumford scrolled up again. No more e-mails.
‘We need to go through everything, Mrs Watkins, no matter how unpromising. He’s probably got stuff scattered all over the place.’
Merrily read the last one again. ‘Obviously a girl. A boy would never admit to crying. It’s also someone close to his age…’
‘Because she talks about exams.’
‘And if we assume the last one was sent first…’
‘Then he’s replied to it, obviously,’ Mumford said. ‘He’s replied and deleted his reply from his own computer. He’s upset he’s made her cry, and so he’s saying, Oh, things en’t that bad. And he’s told her something. And he’s sent her something.’
‘ “Thanks for sharing this with me”… what’s that mean?’
‘Sounds like he’s told her about some plan for getting away. Right.’ Mumford straightened up, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m taking this computer home. Then I’m gonner come back tomorrow and talk to Angela. You agree? I en’t overreacting?’
‘No, you’re not overreacting.’
‘Accident – balls,’ Mumford said. ‘That boy killed hisself.’
‘It’s starting to look more like it.’
‘And if I—’
Mumford spun round as the garage door came up suddenly and violently, like a car crash. Breath shot into Merrily’s throat and she toppled a box with her elbow, spraying books across the floor. She saw still figures in the gaping night.
Silence except for a metallic chink.
There were four of them. One, in a hooded top, had something like a dog-chain doubled up and stretched between his fists, and he kept pulling it tight, letting it go, snapping it tight.