Page 74 of Serenity Falls

‘Well, you know, a sudden death.’

‘Frankie drowned. Not much to say.’ She tilts back her beer bottle.

Sadie fiddles with her glass and then asks in a blurt: ‘There wasn’t anything suspicious about his death, was there?’

Stella eyes her intently. ‘Kid couldn’t swim. That outfit was darn heavy—’

‘But how did he fall in?’

‘Well, it isn’t my job to speculate.’ Stella pauses. ‘But I guess I’m off the clock now.’ She grabs a chair from the next table and sit downs on it. ‘Frankie had a puncture wound, right here.’ She taps her neck. ‘Could have been a sting. His eyes and tongue showed signs of oedema. It’s possible he had an allergic reaction which incapacitated him.’

‘How possible?’

‘Allergic reactions to stings aren’t uncommon. It normally takes more than one to go into shock. I’ve only seen it once before.’

‘You have?’

‘Yeah. Must be ten, fifteen years ago. Poor guy was cycling through the woods and got stung on the neck. Sent him careering down a hill into a barbed-wire fence. Hit it at speed. Sliced his throat right open.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah. Damn shame. He was the nicest man. You’d see him around town all the time. He was a mailman.’ Stella sets her beer down. ‘Funnily enough, he rented a room from Frankie’s grandma, but like I said, this was a long time ago. Frankie would’ve just been a kid.’

‘Right,’ Sadie says thoughtfully.

Stella scrunches up her forehead. ‘What was his name now?’ Then she suddenly clicks her fingers, making Sadie jump. ‘Cash. That was it. Cash Leonards.’

Cash

My next day off was a Wednesday. I decided to dress in my Serenity Falls postal uniform like always. That way if folk saw me cycling up to people’s houses, they’d think I was supposed to be there, not just snooping around.

Not that I was doing anything wrong. Just looking around. But the nervy, slightly sick feeling in my gut remained. I climbed on my bike, a small picnic packed in the satchel on the back along with a copy of the log I’d printed off from the office, then I pushed off and cycled down the street in the direction of the first house on the list.

Number 11 Apple Blossom Avenue was a smart and tidy detached house on a tree-lined street off the slightly larger (and richer) Cherry Tree Drive. A young couple used to live here. Mr and Mrs Farrow. Can’t say they ever made much of an impression, but I do remember that Mr Farrow worked in park maintenance. I’d see him out around the lake cutting back trees and pulling out weeds. According to the log, their house became ‘vacant’ around two years ago.

I stared at it. Like most of the ghost houses, it didn’t look empty except for the lack of a car on the driveway, but during the day that’s not unusual. Most folk are at work. I wheeled my bike up to the front door, as if I was delivering mail.

The blinds weren’t pulled, and I could see there was still furniture in there, which was kind of odd. Most folk take their furniture when they leave, unless of course they’re moving somewhere furnished, which was always possible.

I tried to remember if Garth had said anything about the house when it slipped off the list, but I couldn’t recall. I made a tick beside the house and then wrote: Mr and Mrs Farrow (Mr Farrow – maintenance). Moved.

It was a similar story at the next three houses I visited. Neat and tidy, furnished, but no one home. At each house I marked the name of the former occupants. I couldn’t recall them all in the office but, out and about, looking at the houses, they came right back to me.

I might not be the brightest, I’m not good with words or math, but I’ve always had a good memory for names and faces. Everyone has their thing, I guess. Of course, I didn’t recall the occupations of all of them, nor the reasons why the houses ended up empty. Some had been unoccupied almost as long as I’d lived here.

I pulled up outside one of those houses now. Number 3 Camelia Drive. A large, fancy mansion tucked away behind high gates, complete with stone lions on the top. The mailbox was set into the wall, so you couldn’t get any closer to the main house. ‘And that’s how the owners like it,’ Garth always said. ‘Keeping the commoners out.’

I knew a fair bit about this house. A Conservator lived here – Johnson Green – and he wasn’t a well-liked man. Swaggered around like he owned the town. Made sure you knew how important he was and how small you were. The sort of man my dad would have called ‘a puffed-up blowhard prick’.

Johnson and his wife had one son, Owen. He took after his dad, maybe too much. Same looks, same attitude. But it wasn’t just that. There was something creepy about the kid. Just not right. Still, I wouldn’t have wished what happened to him on anyone.

One night at the fairground Owen had climbed on the Ghost Train ride, probably looking forward to some cheap scares and laughs. He never came out. Somehow, he fell out of the carriage and got trapped in the mechanism. Crushed beneath the wheels, in the dark, among the monsters.

Only fifteen. And this was just a month or so after little Davey Junior. Bad time for the town. Two tragedies like that so close.

I stared up at the house and thought about that awhile before I hopped back on my bike and cycled away towards the next long-term-vacant property, which just happened to be a couple of streets away.

Number 15 Syracuse Street, Wendy Molton’s house. It was much smaller than Green’s. A neat semi, bright and clean-looking, with rows of flowers swaying cheerily in the front garden. If Green’s mansion scowled, Go away, this house said, Well, come right in.