Charlotte (7 page)

Mike smiled.
Chance to get my prestige up a little.
"Sure, I'll do it."

"Good boy. Now, head over there and make sure she's okay. You can sleep on the couch. Take whatever snacks you want from the fridge." With that, Rita turned around and walked into the living room.

Excellent,
thought Mike.
I get fifty quid, three days of freedom, and I get to punish Brunswick for punking me out the other day.

Mike put on his coat and left the house, walking towards Amy's house.

Payback is a bitch.

"Yes, Amy. She was defending herself. I don’t know—Bruce was angry from the meeting with Dr. Barden…" Patricia trailed off, realising her mistake. She didn’t want to bend the truth though; she was already in enough trouble. She took a sip of her lukewarm coffee. It was still as bitter as the previous cup. After the liquid went down, she bit her lip and continued. "He wasn't angry when he got in the car; he exploded on the way home. It was as if a switch turned on or something. Amy was talking to…well, never mind."

"You're not making a lot of sense, Mrs. Brunswick."

"Amy was talking to her imaginary friend, Charlotte."

"Imaginary friend?"

"Yes."

"Amy is nine. I'm not a doctor, but isn't she too old for an imaginary friend?"

"That’s what we thought; it's why we took her to Dr. Barden. Apparently, it's normal. Kids of all ages—and adults too—have them."

"Okay. Amy inflicted the wounds on her father. Why didn’t you bring her with you?"

"I was concerned for my husband's welfare. I didn’t think to do so; I just put him in the car and drove. How did I know the police would be waiting here to pick him up? Besides, I didn’t want her seeing the damage she'd done. It wasn't as bad when it happened. Once the blood started dripping, the skin tore…" Patricia paused and gagged slightly.

D.S Moore sighed and looked down at his notes. He looked at D.S Ledger and nodded. "That will be all for now, Mrs Brunswick. Am I right in thinking you're sticking around for a bit?"

"I'll be at my husband's bedside. What happens next?"

"Well, we might have some more questions. We're waiting for forensics from the crime scene before we do anything further. Your husband has to stay here for now, I'm afraid."

"Okay. He didn’t do it, Detective, I know my husband…despite the evidence, he's a level-headed fellow. He isn't capable of murder."

You never know after tonight. You didn’t know he was a drunk either.

Silence filled the room. D.S Moore nodded, stood up and walked out of the room, followed by his silent partner. Patricia stood up too and fell in line, taking her cue. As she walked through the doorway, Moore turned back to her. "Is Amy in good hands? With her babysitter, I mean. Do we need to send anyone to collect her?"

Patricia remembered the look on her daughter's face. Those yellow eyes floating in the air, supported by nothing. She shivered. "She'll be fine."

Amy was squatting in front of the fire, reading a book. Sandy was resting by her side, taking a nap. Every now and then, Amy's hand wandered away from the book and stroked Sandy's soft head. The puppy would nuzzle in, enjoying the attention. Amy looked at the Christmas tree, all decorated and sparkly. She'd turned the multi-coloured lights on, which cast a rainbow effect on the room. Light reflected from the variety of baubles on the branches, spraying light around the room. Amy smiled, happy, oblivious to the day's events.  It really felt like Christmas. 

She glanced to her left. "No, the mice are blind. That's what makes the story so funny."

Seems lame to me
, came the whisper in her ear.

"Fine, Charlotte, we can read something else if you want?"

Those red leather-bound books look interesting.

Amy stared at the tall bookcase. The red books were the centrepiece, a rare collector's item. "I'm not reading my mum's Dennis Wheatley books. She told me they're scary as hell. Anyway, she'll smack me if she finds out."

She never has to. Anyway, if anyone tries to smack you again, I'll rip their throat out.

"
You will not!
Gross! Promise me you won't do that?"

I can't promise. Charlotte never promises.

"Besides, I don’t want to read a
boring
, adult book. I have a whole load upstairs." Amy straightened up, the burn of fire on her left side. She shuffled around, moving her right side into view of the fake fireplace. The electric, metal flames began to warm her. She took off her gloves and coat, tossing them on the sofa.

Amy reached for the TV remote and pushed the on switch. Nothing happened. She remembered her parents turned the TV off at the wall. Sighing loudly, she walked over to the outlet behind the TV. She flicked the switch and the red light popped on, signalling standby mode. Amy grinned. Sandy rolled over on the floor near the fire and grunted, in a dream. Amy looked from the puppy to Charlotte, who was simply a haze in the air. "How comes Sandy doesn’t react to you?"

How do you mean?

"Well, dogs can sense ghosts, can't they?"

I'm not a ghost. I'm in your imagination and I can manifest if you make me. I'm not a spectral being or anything like that; your mind controls me. Think about me enough and I appear, but only you or the person near you can see me.

"That's really cool."
 

A rapping on the door interrupted proceedings. Sandy bolted up and started yapping, filling the quiet home with a furore of high-pitched barks. Amy stared at the door, not moving. She twiddled the remote between her warm hands and dropped it on the sofa beside her. She silently crept to the porch door and listened. The dog continued to bark. "Shhhh, shut up Sandy."

The rapping came again, louder this time, making her jump and shriek.

Who is it?

"I don’t know. Mum told me never to open the door if I was alone."

Great mother, leaving her kid alone like this.

"Shhh. It was kind of our fault this time."

Yes.

Amy saw Charlotte smile in her peripheral vision. As always, Charlotte was hazy, ever changing, never the same twice. Amy was used to it now.

She remembered driving with her father many years ago and gazing out of the windscreen, glancing at the heat in the air, above the road. Shimmering, wavy, almost mirage like. It warped everything beyond it. Amy didn’t know what it was, so she asked. "That's heat distortion, Amy," her father replied. "It's when cold and hot air merge."

That's how Charlotte appeared to Amy.

However, the maniacal grin was clear to see, suspended a few feet off the ground, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. A large grin in the air—complete with teeth, spittle, and sneering lips—with nothing but twisted air behind it. Amy would normally see it as the stuff of nightmares. Her initial fear of Charlotte had subsided quickly though. After all, she was her best friend. However, she imagined other kids would be terrified if Charlotte made herself known…but not Amy. She half-smiled at her bravado and tiptoed closer to the door.

The rapping sounded again. "Amy. Open up, it's Mike."

Amy felt the revulsion cross her face. "Ew." Sandy continued to bark. "Sandy, shhhh!"

"I know you're in there, open up!"

The rapping pounded the door once more.

More barking. She scooped the dog from the ground and ruffled his chin, calming it down. The barking stopped and Amy groaned. "I have to let him in."

Silence greeted her once more. In the presence of others, Charlotte would do this now and again. Only Amy could hear her, like a conscience in her head. For now, her imaginary friend said nothing. "Fine," Amy said, and placed her hand on the handle.

Amy unlatched the porch door and pulled it inwards. Cold, whistling air buffeted her face and cooled her hands, making them sting. Mike was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, shivering. Amy plastered a fake smile on her face. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Hey." A cold plume of steam shot from his mouth. "Your mum sent me. To look after you?"

"I don’t need looking after. I'm fine here on my own."

"Tough cookies, Amy. Your mum is paying me to be here, so I'm here."

Amy hesitated. "Fine. The door's open, you should know that."

Mike pulled the outer porch door towards him, repeating the action from many times in the past.
I should know that
, he thought. Maybe the cold was closing down his brain cells. He stepped through the entrance, the mesh door flapping against the frosty wind at his rear. Amy backed into the house, granting him access. "Hurry up, it's cold. Sandy doesn’t like the cold."

"Alright, chill."

Mike dropped his soaked boots to the floor and walked into the warm Brunswick house. The front door closed behind him with a thud. Silence filled the air around them. Warm, cosy air circled their bodies. Amy walked into the living room and sat on the footrest of the armchair. Her body was rigid with caution, remembering their previous encounter. "Well, here you are. You know where Dad's office is, why don’t you make yourself at home?"

Mike took his coat off and hung it on one of the dining room chairs. He spotted the books in front of the fire. A condescending smile lifted his lips. He glanced around the place and listened. "So your folks aren't in?"

Amy said nothing. Just shook her head.

"Excellent. Just the kids then."

Silence settled between them. Amy placed Sandy on the ground and the dog ran over to Mike, sniffing his feet and legs. "Don't worry, he doesn’t bite."

"Sure." Mike leant down and stroked the dog. "Nice puppy."

"Dad got her as an early Christmas present. Cute, huh?"

"I prefer cats. But sure."

Amy frowned, hope of an amicable chat banished in seconds. She sighed. "I have things to get on with, so…" Amy waved her hand at him, signalling he wasn’t welcome.

"Okay." He stood up, away from the dog. Sandy ran off into the depths of the house, her claws clacking on the wooden floor. Mike turned and ambled off in the direction of Bruce's lounge, passing the dining table and chairs.

As he entered the office, tucked in a corner from the kitchen, the memory from his youth returned. Playing video games and eating doughnuts, a kids dream. He saw the younger version of himself and Amy sat there, playing games and laughing. He remembered Amy being quite astute at the racing games in particular. Mrs. Brunswick would come over, pay attention for a bit, drink her tea, and disappear to do adult stuff. He hardly ever saw Mr. Brunswick. Like his dad, he worked a lot. Losing to Amy one day, he'd ignored her for a week. A grimace curled his lips.

That was some time ago. I could kick her arse now.

Now, he saw the battered leather couches, the huge TV and the stack of green game cases on the side. His eyes widened. He glanced at the electronic boxes below the TV. A stab of disappointment made him groan. The consoles were old.

Lame
, he thought. 

Mike turned around and walked back into the front of the house. Amy was sitting on the sofa, reading one of her childish books.

"Your dad has an Xbox."

"So?" Amy said, without looking up.

"I hate Xbox. PlayStation is far superior."

"So what, I don’t choose the consoles, that's Dad's thing."

"It's a load of shit is what it is. I thought your dad was rich."

"No, that's just yours. As you keep reminding us, iPhone Six boy."

"He should have both. And definitely the next gen ones. I can't play on a shitty old gen console. It's so last year. Your dad is lame." The childish whine, not suited for a fourteen year old, was clear in his voice, the noise of someone used to having everything his own way. A spoilt child. Amy gritted her teeth, hoping he would go away.

"He needs the
new
consoles."

Amy said nothing. She continued to read.

"What are you going to
do
about it, Brunswick?" Mike whined.

Amy looked up. Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Fuck off, will you?"

Mike gasped. He folded his arms, scorn flashed across his face. Amy stared at him, unflinching. "Okay, I'll go. I'm not happy with this. I will be asking for money from your Mum."

"Do as you wish. And good luck with that." Amy returned to her book.

Mike paused and returned to the office area. He started rifling through the games, tossing them aside in a tantrum—once he'd read the titles. "Done it. Done it. Completed it. Shit. Rubbish. Man, this guy has shit taste in games. No shooters or anything."

Mike straightened up and walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a cold Pepsi. He punched the tab, sighing at the sound of the familiar hiss, and swallowed a large mouthful.
You could go and get your PS4?

Too much hassle. What if I drop it in the snow?

Put it in a bag.

Too much hassle. Besides, not that I care, what if Amy falls in the fire or breaks her neck?

I'd applaud.

No you wouldn’t. You're a pussy.

I so would.

Mike lowered his head, resigned to the standard, old style consoles. Boredom was on his horizon and he didn’t like that. He slipped his phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

Nothing. He put his phone back in his pocket.

Then he had an idea.

It might've been the coolness of the fizzy drink but he suddenly remembered his chat with Amy the other day. A slow, burning rage started to rise in the boy.
What is it she said to me? 'I'm sure your Dad likes to debunk on her face now and then.'