Revenge, He Wrote

Revenge, He Wrote



From my backstage vantage point at the edge of the curtain I scan the audience searching for familiar faces; ones I haven’t seen for years, but ones I’ll never forget.

I spot one straight away. Craig, the football jock. Shit, that must be Cheryl. Head of the mean girls. They’d made a good pair back then – both cocky, shallow, entitled. She sure doesn’t look much like the blonde bombshell from school. And Craig doesn’t look like he’s played any sport for a while. The years haven’t been kind to either of them.

I keep scanning the crowd. My old school auditorium is packed with people who’ve come to see me. The shy, gawky kid. The nerd. The guy they’d considered least likely to succeed. The boy made good. Look at the twits. Row after row of failed dreams and mediocrity, narrow, small-town minds, content to be big fish in a little pond. Not me. I didn’t just get out; I hit the big time. Celebrity author. Just look at me now!  

And they’ve certainly come to look; hundreds of them. Some are in their off-the-rack Sunday best, even though it’s Thursday. Others have obviously come straight from work: there’s more than a smattering of overalls, faded suits, office skirts and hi-vis shirts. I smooth my linen jacket, adjust my pocket handkerchief and pick a fleck of dust from my Gucci jeans. I check my watch, the gold glinting in the shadows. A lot of them look a bit uncomfortable, fidgeting in their seats, pulling at tight collars and ill-fitting jackets. Probably because they’re not used to dressing up. Maybe they’re bored by the constant drone of that compere. Or maybe it’s guilt. Guilt can make people feel uncomfortable. 

There was a time when I thought I’d never set foot in this town again. Good riddance, I’d said. Nothing to hold me here. But I did return, just after my first book was published. I’d wanted to move my parents to the city, get them a nice house, a comfortable life. Share the benefits of my success. So, I’d come back for that. And a couple of personal errands.

I’d done what I came to do and then left town, and I’d thought I could leave the memories behind. But it wasn’t that easy. They still get me sometimes, even now. I often wake in a slather of sweat and tangled sheets, sit bolt upright in bed scanning the dark room for those two-legged monsters. I relive the fear, and I’m taken back to those dark childhood days when I couldn’t see a future that wasn’t filled with the humiliation, impotence and the belief that I wasn’t good enough for anyone; that no one would ever want me. Hah! But just look at me now!

I peer into the middle distance of the auditorium and spot another familiar face. Chris. What a jerk he turned out to be. Pretended to be all meek and mild, but, boy, could he throw a mean right hander. Especially when it was swinging my school bag and was aimed at my head.

The compere, the principal of my old school, drones on. “… his debut novel, ‘The Train Ride’ was a huge success … we’re so proud of him … many of you will recall him …”

Yeah, my first book. My novel about the kid who suicides because of bullying. When it won all those awards my face was plastered over the television and in the press. Bet it would have given all these wannabes something to talk about. Ronald Patrick. Published author. Not the gawky nerd that other kids preyed on. Not the victim that adults ignored, turning a blind eye to it all. It made me someone; made me their hometown celebrity.

But the best part about that book was what I learned writing it: you can write just about anything under the guise of fiction. And the worse the topic and the transgressions, the more you can lay it on. The thing is, nobody’s going to call you out. Who’s going to put their hand up and say, “Hey, that’s me you’re writing about! I’m the villain in your book!”  Nah, they just cringe and slouch away, hoping no one else recognises them hidden within the pages.

There were certainly a lot of villains in that first book. But, hey, it was fiction … a fictional town, fictional kids, fictional bullying. Yeah. Right. As if everyone wouldn’t see the reality behind my thinly disguised characters and their disgusting behaviour. Those bastards had made my life hell. I lived every day and many nights in fear of their surprise attacks, their jokes at my expense. The humiliation and degradation, the physical pain of the beatings. And the more they got away with, the worse they became. Like the time they ambushed me on the bridge and dangled me over the side. I never knew when or where they’d strike.

Okay, so I didn’t actually kill myself like the bullied kid in my book, but there were lots of times when I wanted to; times when I couldn’t imagine a future; times when I just wanted to die. Actually, I did nearly jump off the train once when they were chasing me, but that would have been murder, not suicide. Anyway, it’s different now. I’m back and this time I’m not afraid.

More crowd scanning and I recognise another one of the pricks. Joey. Not the ring leader, but just as guilty. A real spineless snake. Just followed the leader without question.

The compere’s still droning on. “… and how fabulous was it when his second book made the New York Times bestseller list! … and more awards, of course … I know you’re all itching to see him again after all this time …”

Yeh, I bet they are. I reckon they’re scared shitless that I’ll drop some bombshell that exposes them. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.

My second book must have really shaken them up. “The Lion’s Share”. A fictional story about a boy and the inequality of poverty. Poverty. Not something most of them would ever have known about. Not back in my day, anyway. The book told some raw truths about what it’s like to be poor in a small town, always trying to hide it, but fearing that people would figure out the truth. What it’s like to go hungry, to wrap up some cardboard to make it look like you have lunch. The degradation of not having the same clothes and cool stuff as the other kids, and trying to come up with stories to explain it away. The bitter taste of charity, and the humiliation when you’re taunted about it. But it was all fiction, of course. Fictional town, fictional characters, the fictional pain of a fictional child who couldn’t imagine a future without hunger and desperation. Yep, just fiction. Just my imagination. Yeah. Right.

I see some movement at the end of the third row. Someone’s trying to slither into their seat. Jeez, it’s Kevin. I’d thought at first he wasn’t like the others, but he eventually proved me wrong. Gutless like them. Didn’t have the courage to stand up to them and say no. Pack mentality at its worst.

The compere is still at it. Shit, she hasn’t drawn breath. Even I’m sick of hearing about me. “… and, of course, it was such great news to hear that Ronald had decided to write about his town, our town … not fiction this time, but true-life crime …”

“The mystery of Kent Larson’s death has plagued our community for years … not knowing has been torture for all of us, but especially Kent’s family … How could we lose one of our most promising young men in such a vicious way?

“But, as a celebrated author and with the local knowledge gained by growing up here, Ronald was given an inside look into the investigation from the very start; he was virtually embedded in the team. While the crime has never been solved, Ronald’s book promises to answer a lot of our questions. It will take us deep into the police investigation, Kent’s life and the horror of the murder.

“Now, without further ado, let’s hear from the author himself. Please give a big ‘welcome home’ to our very own Ronald Patrick. He’ll start off by reading the first chapter of his new book and then he’ll be happy to take questions, and, of course, sign your copies which you can buy over at the desk at the side of the hall. Ladies and gentlemen, Ronald Patrick.”

There’d been a time when I could never have imagined this moment, not in my wildest dreams. This stage had always been for others. The winners. The achievers. The sport stars. The beautiful people. Those that belonged. This had never figured in the future that I’d imagined for me. But here I am. They’re here to see me, to hear from me. They’re clapping for me. And I don’t need to be afraid anymore. I won’t be afraid anymore. I straighten my posture, puff out my chest and stride out on the stage.

There are bright flashes from phone cameras and the local newspaper photographer. There are stage lights, and tripod lamps set up by the television crew. And there’s clapping. Lots of clapping. I look out into the sea of faceless clappers and the noise builds, a roar of thunder in my ears.

The roar grows to a crescendo and a blackness envelops me. I can feel my heart pound, a physical pain in my chest, the fear a bitter metallic taste. Or is that bile? I’m back in the tent at the school camp. On my own, of course. As usual. It’s pitch black. I can’t see a thing at first, but then the shape emerges as my eyes adjust and my foggy brain, asleep just moments ago, tries to make sense of everything. I can see the shaggy mane, the menacing, grinning teeth, the curled talons, claws stretched, reaching, grasping for me. The roar, the growl. I feel the warmth in my pyjamas as I wet myself and then the sickening realisation that I’ve also shit in my pants. I shimmy backwards along my sleeping bag, trying desperately to put distance between me and the lumbering, roaring shape. And then the laugh. The hideous, cackling laugh as Kent pulls off the lion mask and slumps forward, his hands on his knees, heaving, almost legless with laughter. And then the humiliation as he drags me, sobbing, from the tent, and yells for the other boys to come look. Come look at cry-baby Ronald in his pissy, pooey pants. My nickname was born. Ronny P.

The auditorium quietens as I move to the microphone. The thunder in my ears subsides, the pounding of my chest lulls to a gentle rhythm. Hopefully, if they can see my wet forehead they’ll think it’s just from the heat of the stage lights. I don’t have to be afraid. Not anymore. It’s all in the past; not now; not in the future. Just the past.

I open the book, clear my throat and start to read. ‘The Last Laugh’ by Ronald Patrick. Chapter One.

“A lot of things have baffled the police investigating the brutal stabbing murder of medical student and elite athlete Kent Larson in his small hometown. There is the obvious question of who could do such a thing to someone who seemed to be liked, no, adored, by everyone. There’s the mystery of how he could have been taken by surprise so easily, with no sign of forced entry to his luxury apartment. And, there’s the fact that there seems no motive: nothing was stolen, nothing was disturbed. But, the biggest question for investigators is why did the killer leave a clown’s mask beside the body? …”

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