COOTER

Gary stood at the window of his maisonette, pushed up his glasses and looked out over the cul-de-sac. Constructed in the fifties by the local authority, this small enclave of properties was nestled discretely at the edge of the village. Unlike some of the other, larger estates, “thrown up” when there was a dire need for council housing, this one was okay. Some aesthetic consideration had been paid, though they normally didn’t need any, they weren’t selling them after all. The only requirement was to fill them. He was pleased the place wasn’t ugly; he’d had enough of ugly in his previous location.

Gary wasn’t known on the estate or in the village, had never been there in fact. If he were, he would be as welcomed as the trash that used to reside in the property he now stood in. Evicted and long remembered for all the wrong reasons. Except maybe by the kids who had to find a new dealer. He stood contemplating what the future might hold for him, hands in the pockets of his donated trousers. Having only recently given back the wretched uniform he used to wear, he was, nonetheless, still aware of being clothed by the authorities. His relocation here, to nowheresville, was the idea of the parole board, not his own. He would keep himself to himself he’d decided. Speak when he was spoken to. Nod. Hello. Hi. Basic stuff.

Moving away from the window he scanned the main lounge-diner, basically furnished with charity donations. The mattress on the bed was new at least, like the linen. He wouldn’t be able to afford much in the way of luxuries, being on benefits would see to that. But the place was clean at least, the bonus being not having to share it with anyone else. Gary’s main annoyance was being banned from owning any device capable of connecting to the internet. Although how that would be policed, he failed to understand. He had gotten around it before, so he was certain he could do it again.

Gary took walks around the village and got familiar with most of the roads and side streets. Nodding to the occasional passer-by, sometimes extending it to a verbal acknowledgement. The village, like many in the area, had an abnormally large church for its size. A historical reminder of the power it used to hold over its wool-farming community. There was a small green in the village centre where the war memorial stood. At the edge, mossy and uncared for, stood a couple of old wooden benches. On occasion, Gary would sit on one of these in the hope that a mother would come by with her children in tow. Sometimes they did and he would stay a while and watch as they played. He was careful how long he sat there, not wishing to draw attention to himself. After a few months, Gary felt more comfortable in his surroundings, even venturing once or twice to the run-down pub. He couldn’t afford to drink there regularly, and it wasn’t a good idea anyway. Making acquaintances meant difficult questions might be asked, and he wanted to avoid those.

Spring was attempting its futile handover to summer when Gary came out of his front door. At the T junction at the top of the road, a boy flashed by on a scooter. He had never seen him before and didn’t recognise him as a resident of the cul-de-sac. The boy shot across the road without checking for traffic, turned the corner and disappeared from sight. It might be a local discovering new territory, or maybe someone new to the area. He didn’t give it much thought, even though the latter intrigued him. New blood, new possibilities. He dwelt on those before looking at his watch, realising he’d better get a move on. The local bus service was appalling, and missing one meant an hour’s wait for the next. One of only two that came in the morning. Bus journeys are bad enough but those that wind through the countryside can be exhausting, collecting the old, the skint and the car-less. Those journeys could destroy the patience of any mortal.

In Cheltenham, Gary stopped off at the used tech shop and picked up an old laptop. Then he shopped around for some other cheap hardware he needed, before heading to the park. His return bus journey was hours away, so he had time to spend doing one of his favourite things. Back home, he set up the laptop and contrived to make his online presence invisible. He knew how it worked, and no one was going to stop him doing what he liked.

Another week passed before he saw the boy on the scooter again. By this time, he was firmly ensconced in his own online world. A world he had missed since his recent incarceration at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The boy was standing astride his scooter in the middle of the road, facing the row of maisonettes. He watched Gary leave his front door before turning and speeding up the road. When he reached the corner, he stopped and turned to face him again. To Gary, it seemed the boy was waiting for something. Him? He decided to follow, offering the sun his pallid face. It felt good to be out. At the corner, he scanned the road further up ahead and spied the child on his scooter, already a couple of hundred yards away. Again he had stopped and was looking back. Does he want me to follow? His instinct was to do so, the temptation too great. Each time he got to where the boy had stopped, he spotted him further ahead. And each time he was stationary, looking back. The game of cat and mouse lasted until he ended up at the church. Gary walked around the perimeter of the medieval structure until he came to a large family mausoleum. The door was locked when he tried it. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

A week later, the boy appeared in the road outside his house again. This time he was closer to the maisonette, giving Gary a better view of his features and his mop of curly blonde hair. He looked radiant in the hazy sunshine. The game of pursuit started again with the same result. Every time Gary followed, the boy disappeared further up the road and then waited. Always ending up at the church and always managing to give him the slip. When he saw him a week later, the boy was only yards from Gary’s house. One foot on the metal plate of the scooter, the other on the ground. The boy was looking directly at Gary as he opened his front door. A cherubic-looking eight- or nine-year-old.

“Hello! What’s your name then?”

The boy stared back angelically.

“You know, it’s not polite if you don’t answer a grown-up.”

“Cooter.”

“Scooter?”

“Cooter.”

“That’s an unusual name. Do you live around here, Cooter?”

The boy shook his head.

“You don’t say much, do you? I haven’t seen you in the village. Has your family moved here recently?

The boy shook his head.

“No? You live on the other side of town then?”

Cooter nodded, then turned, pumped the ground with his right foot and sped off. Gary thought about following but changed his mind. That kid’s a strange one. It was then that he saw his neighbour come out. The woman, who he knew simply as Marj, had the xanthous colouring and deep lines of a heavy smoker. It would be polite to call her careworn – she was haggard.

“Hi, Marj. Hey, do you know who that kid is that keeps coming around here on the scooter?”

“What kid?”

“The blonde one, about eight or nine years old.”

“No, never seen ‘im, must be new in town. You got any ciggies? I run out and I’m a bit wobbly to go to the shop.”

“No, but I can get you some if you want. I’m just off up there myself.”

“Thanks, Gary,” she said, coming over to where he was standing. He could smell her – the staleness, the rancid nicotine sweat. “You’re a lifesaver.” She handed him a crumpled tenner then hobbled back to her door. “Just come in when you get back.”

When he got back from the shop, he delivered the cigs to Marj. Her place was just as he imagined – grimy, the kitchen on its last legs and stains indistinguishable from patterns on the furniture. At least he had the luxury of having had his own modest abode freshly painted. Even if it did look like the housing association tradesmen had intentionally dipped their paint brushes in dust first. Back at home no more than half an hour after leaving Marj, and about to trawl the darker side of the web, he heard a knock on the front door. Gary went downstairs and peeped through the spy hole. He saw the scooter kid outside, one foot on the base, one on the ground. What does he want?

“Hi Cooter, what can I do for you?” he said, opening the door.

“You want to play, mister?”

“What do you mean, play?”

“You know… play,” Cooter winked, his small pink tongue brushing his lips. “I got a friend too. He’s like me.”

Cooter hopped on his wheels and sped off down the road before Gary could respond. He tried to decipher what had just happened. This was one of the fantasies he had only dreamt about. Had Cooter just suggested what he thought? He shut the door behind him without a moment’s hesitation and went in pursuit. The boy was going towards the church again; that he was certain of. As unfit as he was, Gary moved along at a brisk pace. When he got near his destination, he saw the mop of blonde curls whizz around the back of the building. The churchyard and cemetery were deserted; he couldn’t believe his luck.

At the entrance to the family mausoleum, he saw two scooters parked up next to each other. The vault door, previously locked, was now wide open, and through it he heard the sounds of children’s laughter. Gary could barely contain himself as he felt the familiar rush of excitement. He scanned the churchyard again, making sure it was empty, then hurried over to the small building. As he passed the scooters, one of which he was used to seeing in his cul-de-sac, he noticed the other one had a familiarity; as if from a memory he couldn’t quite recall. It looked much older than its companion and it was covered in stickers. Gary brushed the thought aside. His primary urge ushered him forward and he entered the chamber.

The only light came from the open door, though not enough to dismiss the gloom hovering in the corners or take the cool dampness from the air. There were three steps down into the main part of the chamber where he saw Cooter and another boy of a similar age standing by the back wall. Giggling, they waved at him as he entered. Once inside, Gary watched as the new boy darted past him and shut the crypt door. Gary wasn’t aware of how he’d done it, how he’d managed to be so quick. For a moment it was pitch black. Fear of the dark wasn’t something that usually affected Gary, but it crept into his bones with the knowledge of where he was. The giggling turned to laughter, bouncing off the walls in waves of echoes. Gary shouted for the boys to stop, to stop mucking about and open the door. Enough was enough, he didn’t appreciate the joke. Then a dim glow began to emanate from an unknown source in the centre of the dank space. In its growing light, Gary saw the two boys standing right in front of him. They were smiling. Angelic. Cherubic. A hint of familiarity about the new boy nudged at his memory. Wouldn’t let go as it tried to push to be remembered. He couldn’t quite place it as he struggled to comprehend the sound of the laughter. It reverberated on, unaided by either child. He couldn’t understand how it was happening. Then it ceased, absorbed into the cold stone. In the unnatural light and silence, the boys grinned. Oh god, oh god, what’s happening? Gary looked on unbelieving as their mouths became unspeakably wide, and from behind the soft lips, four rows of obscenely pointed teeth greeted him.

“Remember me, Gary? Remember my scooter?” the new boy said to him, his voice trawling an unholy depth of sweetness and hate.

It had been thirty years, but when he heard the boy speak it triggered the memory. One he knew very well but had locked away. It came back in staggered flashes as the boys watched, waiting for the memories to click into place The memory of the boy the authorities never found, just his scooter. Covered in stickers. The boy’s abuser and killer was never brought to justice. His family never knew what happened to him. But Gary did, and to the others as well, and as that memory bloomed and grew, the weird unnatural glow gave way to darkness once more. Terror came then, like nothing he could imagine. Heavy and suffocating. Paralysing. Then the boys were on him, in the pitch dark, through his helpless flailing and pitiful screams. Tearing at his flesh, relentless and unyielding, until what remained would be no more than carrion feast.

Outside, in the graveyard, a stranger walked past an old gravestone, untended for many years; the family gone from the parish. Its inscription was still just about readable.