Chapter 8

(snap) (thunk) (click-click) (snick) (traffic) (voices) (birds)

“Hello Benito.”

“Edward Richardson, it seems that we keep meeting – here in Memorial Park.”

“Yes ... I...”

“What day is it, Edward? I’m having trouble keeping track of the days.”

“It’s Thursday, Benito. Today is Thursday.”

“Ah! Thursday, excellent. And what time is it, Edward?”

I glance at my wrist. “My watch ... it seems to be playing up. I must have taken it off.”

“Oh? Then what time would you say it is?”

“I think we have a half hour before the end of school.”

“An entire half an hour. Did you come so much earlier just to talk to me? You must be enjoying our little chats.”

“Um ... yes. Yes, I am. But I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh? Ask away.”

“Have you noticed ... anything strange?”

“Strange? What do you mean?”

“I think something is wrong. I think something weird is going on.”

“What is happening?”

“I don’t know. I can’t put it into words. The fountain...”

“That fountain over there? What about it?”

“Yesterday, when we were speaking ... was it yesterday?”

“Yes indeed. We’ve been speaking every day. The last time we spoke was yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not the only one having trouble keeping track of the days. Yesterday, when I left you and went to meet my daughter...”

“Yes.”

“ ... I don’t remember meeting her. Isn’t that strange? I remember getting to the fountain and then I just ... I don’t remember what happened after that.”

“Ah! That’s interesting.” He stands and holds out an arm. “Will you take my arm? I think we should take a walk.”

“A walk? Where will we walk?”

“I think it’s time for you to take me to the fountain.”

“Oh ... but...”

“Edward Richardson, there is a band-aid on your soul. It has been protecting a wound. But it is time to take off the band-aid.”

“I don’t understand. A band-aid? A wound?”

“Never mind. Perhaps I was being overly dramatic. Let’s walk.”

He tucks his hand in my arm and we walk while I puzzle over his words.

“You will have to tell me where we are. Have we reached the place where the path spreads out?”

“Er ... just a few more steps.”

I slow. Hesitate.

“What is it?” Benito asks. “What do you see?”

“People ... a crowd.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re staring at the fountain.”

“The fountain? Is something happening over there?”

“There are children swimming in the fountain.”

“Really? Children? How many children?”

I twist and stretch, trying to peer through the crowd.

“Oh, maybe just the one. I can see her hair waving in the water. She’s getting her school uniform all wet.”

The fountain gurgles.

What is that sound?

A man – a big burly man – stands in the way.

“Mr Richardson? Edward Richardson?”

I nod.

“You need to stop.”

I stop.

“No, Edward. Don’t stop,” says Benito. His voice is strong and urgent – compelling.

“But the crowd ... There’s a man...”

“There is no crowd. There is nobody stopping you, Edward. Go to the fountain.”

I look again. There is no crowd. There is only me and the fountain.

“Step forward, Edward. Tell me what you see.”

I step forward.

“She’s floating. I can see her hair waving in the water.”

“Yes?”

“Blood! I see blood!”

I gasp and lurch forward.

“Mr Richardson?” The policeman standing knee-deep in the water looks up at me. “Edward Richardson?”

I nod.

“You need to stop.”

I stop.

He is lifting her out of the water. Her body drooping in his arms.

Understanding crashes into me.

I howl.