Page 58 of Serenity Falls

‘Must have moved fast.’

‘Well, I guess. But I’m hardly Usain Bolt.’

He looks at me quizzically.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What about the security camera?’ he asks now.

I clear my throat. ‘Both nights I got a notification on my phone and saw the figure on the screen. But the next day – the notification had gone. I think there’s a fault with the camera.’

‘Right.’ Jerry strokes his chin and makes a show of looking at his notepad, which he has been lazily scribbling in and dripping coffee on. I can’t quite see what he’s written past his – also stupidly large – coffee mug.

‘Okay.’ He lets out a long breath. ‘So, you have absolutely no record of this intruder on camera?’

‘That’s right. Like I said, it must be some kind of fault.’

‘So maybe you should talk to the home security service?’

‘They can’t come till tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Then what is it you want me to do, exactly?’

‘Well, I wondered whether anything like this had happened before, or maybe you know of some teenagers who might play this type of trick? Playing pranks on the newcomers.’

He stares at me thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anything like this before.’

I shift on the smaller chair. It’s uncomfortable, especially for a tall man like me.

‘Could you ask around?’ I persist. ‘Maybe talk to some of the mascots, or parents of kids at the school?’

‘You want me to start asking parents if their kids have been dressing up as Arnie the Armadillo and standing in your back yard with weird signs around their neck to scare you?’

I feel my face redden. I’m no stranger to looking foolish. As a teacher, it comes with the job. You spend a good portion of your life being sniggered at, ridiculed and called a variety of names. Sometimes these names are even immortalized on desks or toilet doors. It takes a lot to humiliate me. Even more to really annoy me or get my goat.

So, the fact that Jerry is managing to do all three is certainly an achievement. Credit where credit is due.

‘Someone might know something,’ I say through gritted teeth.

A deep sigh. ‘The mascots are good kids, Mr Barker. Most of the teenagers here are. I can’t see any of them doing something like this. More to the point, you don’t have any evidence that anyone did anything.’

‘I’m here telling you I saw it.’

‘But that’s not evidence, is it, Mr Barker? I can’t go around accusing people without evidence.’

‘You think I made it up?’

‘You’ve had a stressful couple of days. Shock, jet lag, moving to a new country. Isn’t it more likely that you imagined it, or dreamt it, even?’

‘I didn’t imagine it,’ I say tightly. ‘I know what I saw.’

He leans over the massive desk, a thin smile twisting his lips. ‘Let me tell you something you obviously don’t know. When a mascot dies in costume, and it happens sometimes – few years back, Ron Turbett had an epileptic fit in Harry the Hyena, poor kid – well, when that happens, that costume is retired. As a mark of respect to the person who wore it. It’s a long-standing Winsom tradition.’

‘But that doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have got hold of the costume—’

‘The costume is incinerated, Mr Barker. Arnie the Armadillo is dust. That’s how I know no one was standing in your back yard wearing it.’

I swallow. Sweat trickles down my back and nestles in the crevice of my butt cheeks. Incinerated. Dust.