Out of Reach Read online

  Sarah stood up awkwardly as Schaefer entered. His shower had taken the edge off her resentment.

  “There’s a fair in the park,” Sarah said. “Oliver’s wanted to go all week, but I thought it was the sort of thing you two might enjoy doing together.”

  “Sure. Sounds good,” Schaefer said, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as possible. He smouldered with frustration; every minute spent away from his work consigned Amber to another minute in captivity, but then hated himself for feeling like this about his son. “You up for some fun, champ?”

  Oliver nodded uncertainly and looked at his mother, who smiled encouragingly. Schaefer got the impression that Oliver was almost as unenthusiastic about the idea as he was.

  “Well, let’s get going then,” Schaefer said, ushering his son towards the door.

  “Do you need any money?” Sarah asked, and Schaefer chafed at the question. Whatever his faults, he’d never burdened her in that way.

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  “Well, have fun,” Sarah said as she watched them leave.

  *

  Schaefer and Oliver walked along Linton Grove in silence. They were heading for Norwood Park. Grey clouds obscured the sun, but it was just about warm enough for an afternoon at the fair without heavy winter gear. Schaefer knew he couldn’t expect his son to open up to him, but struggled to think what they could talk about. Schaefer’s world was so removed from the one Oliver inhabited that their only shared connections were Sarah and Amber. And Schaefer had never spoken to Oliver about the sister who disappeared when he was a baby. They weren’t going to talk about it today.

  “Mum’s still got you wearing that coat,” Schaefer nodded towards the faded blue parka that was a size too small.

  “Yeah,” Oliver replied. “She says I can have a new one for my birthday.”

  “Very sensible your mum,” Schaefer noted, and the two of them continued on in silence.

  The charred remains of the public toilets greeted them when they entered the park. Someone had set fire to the building and burnt it to the ground; only a few piles of blackened brick remained. If it bothered Oliver, he didn’t show it. Schaefer thought the tragedy was that Oliver had probably grown accustomed to such sights a long time ago. He didn’t even ask why someone would do such a thing, which was the natural question to hear from a child.

  “It shouldn’t be like that,” Schaefer said suddenly. “The world, this place, it should be better. You shouldn’t go through life expecting this sort of thing.”

  Oliver looked pleased, if somewhat bemused by his father’s sudden burst of paternal advice.

  “Okay,” he said uncertainly.

  The fair had been erected on the large playing field near the ice cream kiosk. It was the typical collection of thirty-year-old rusty rides that looked more likely to result in death than pleasure. But Oliver’s face lit up as he surveyed the garish signs, gaudy decorations and bright lights.

  “Can we go on the wheel?” Oliver asked excitedly. “And the dodgems?”

  “Whatever you want,” Schaefer said with a smile. He remembered that feeling of innocent excitement and the happiness brought by such simple pleasures.

  “A ghost train!” Oliver exclaimed, pointing at one of the least terrifying structures Schaefer had ever seen. A huge, balsa wood Grim Reaper loomed over a cartoon crowd of terrified people who were trying to avoid his sweeping scythe.

  “Zero G!” Oliver yelled, pointing at an old fashioned round up. “I wanna go on that one first!”

  “Well, let’s go then,” Schaefer said with a smile.

  Schaefer bought a book of ride tokens from the grimy old man who sat next to the booth at the centre of the fair. With one arm and one leg missing, the old man wasn’t a particularly good advert for the safety of the rides, but as he had ferreted for Schaefer’s change he’d explained that he’d lost them to diabetes. Oliver was fascinated by the old amputee, and Schaefer had to nudge him to get him to stop staring at the man’s stumps.

  “Come on,” Schaefer said. “I thought you wanted to go on the Zero G.”

  Oliver and Schaefer approached the Zero G, a metal mesh wheel that was the source of many of the loud squeals and screams that assaulted Schaefer’s throbbing head. Riders stood against the inside of the wheel, which spun so fast that it forced them back against the metal mesh. The loudest screams came when the floor dropped away and the riders were held in position by centrifugal force. Schaefer handed three tokens to the teenage attendant.

  “You not having a go, Dad?” Oliver asked when he saw the tokens.

  “Not my thing,” Schaefer said, noting his son’s disappointment. “We’ll go on something else together.”

  Oliver brightened and joined the short queue. Schaefer leant over the barrier and watched the ride come to a halt. A crowd of queasy, unsteady people left through the exit, and the new batch of victims were allowed in. The attendant spread them out evenly so that the wheel would be balanced. Oliver had a space either side of him, which was good – less chance of him catching a blast of someone else’s vomit. The attendant ran through his brief safety checks and stepped into the operator’s cab. Moments later the round-up started spinning. Oliver smiled and cried out with delight as the ride spun faster and faster. His face became an intermittent marker of each accelerating revolution and then, as the round-up reached full velocity, it was gone. There was just a mash of faces that morphed into a single fleshy mass. When the floor fell away the screams were impossible to distinguish, a dissonant chorus of cacophonous sound.

  “Schaefer.”

  The voice seemed clear and real, but Schaefer could not identify the speaker. He looked around and saw the passing fairground crowd. Unsettled, Schaefer looked back at the Zero G; where was Oliver? He scanned the spinning machine but could not pick out his son’s face. Panic welled up, and Schaefer thought about the seeming reality of the dream he’d had about Amber feeding the ducks. Schaefer scanned his surroundings for a sign that this was a dream. He searched inside for that discordant feeling that something wasn’t quite right, but felt nothing to suggest this was anything other than real. Another unsettling thought troubled Schaefer; either he was hearing voices or he had become unable to distinguish between dreams and reality. Neither option suggested a man in the best mental health. Schaefer relaxed as the floor rose and rejoined the circular mesh. Moments later the round-up had slowed sufficiently for Schaefer to pick Oliver out of the passing crowd of nauseated riders. Oliver looked a little off-colour, but was smiling broadly. The sight of his beaming face gave Schaefer flushed relief and he pushed away any disquiet about his state of mind.

  “That was awesome,” Oliver said as he staggered over to Schaefer. “I think I need something to eat.”

  Schaefer bought a couple of sweaty hot dogs. Oliver smothered them in watery ketchup and luminous yellow mustard. They stood by the old snack van to eat the finest food available at the fair. Oliver devoured his. Schaefer took a couple of tentative bites and decided it was too risky to continue; his stomach might go into violent rebellion if faced with too much solid food. Oliver was bewitched by the fair and didn’t notice his father slip the rest of his hot dog in the bin.

  “Schaefer!”

  The same voice, clearer this time. Schaefer looked at Oliver, concerned that his son would see any outward sign of his mental deterioration. Instead Oliver was looking around for the source call. His son had heard the voice. Schaefer felt relief that he wasn’t losing his mind, and scanned the crowd. He picked out a familiar face that was headed towards him. Captain John Coombes, an eager Labrador of a man. His brown hair was now flecked with grey, but he still wore the ever-present smile of an enthusiast on his lean, unblemished face. Coombes had a horsey blonde and two young children in tow.

  “Thomas Schaefer,” Coombes said as he approached. “I thought it was you. I tried to grab you at that oversized record player, but Todd needed the toilet, and you know how it is; when they’ve got to go, you’ve
got to go.”

  “Hello, John,” Schaefer said.

  “Gosh, that sounds strange,” Coombes laughed. “I’ve got the terrible urge to call you sir.”

  Coombes turned to the woman with him and continued, “Tom was my superior – Major Schaefer, sir.”

  Coombes snapped to attention, and earned a half-hearted laugh from the woman. The two children rolled their eyes in practised embarrassment.

  “I haven’t seen you in what – must be twelve years. This is my wife, Willa,” Coombes said, indicating the woman. He patted the two children on their heads. “And these monsters are Sophie and Todd. Short for Toddney.”

  “Dad!” Todd exclaimed.

  “Alright, not really,” Coombes conceded. “It’s Sir Toddious of Stinksville.”

  “That’s just lame, Dad!” Todd fired back.

  Coombes tousled his son’s hair, and found himself in the unfamiliar territory of silence. Schaefer looked at Coombes and his family with mix of shame and envy. This buffoon had managed to become a fully-fledged family man, when Schaefer hadn’t even been able to keep his safe. Schaefer realised that Coombes was looking at him expectantly. Coombes’ eyes flitted towards Oliver. Schaefer was uncomfortable with the sudden expectations of civilised society, but put his arm around Oliver and nudged him forward.

  “This is Oliver,” Schaefer said.

  “You look just like your dad,” Coombes observed. And then, with the awareness of a headlong dog bounding towards a ball, “Is your mum around?”

  Oliver shook his head, and Schaefer’s expression hardened.

  “Of course,” Coombes said. He leant in to Schaefer and continued softly, “I was so sorry to hear about your little girl. Froggie – Colonel Froggart – told me what happened. Must have been terrible.”

  From the way his head sagged, Schaefer could tell that Oliver had heard this stupid man’s every word. Schaefer wanted to punch Coombes, but his happy, dopey expression was devoid of malice. And he wasn’t about to smack the man in front of his wife and kids.

  “So, what are you doing with yourself now?” Coombes asked loudly.

  “It’s been good seeing you again, John,” Schaefer replied. “Enjoy the fair.”

  Schaefer put his arm around Oliver and steered his son away. Coombes watched them go, uncertain how to deal with such an overt act of rudeness. Willa spoke up to spare her husband’s feelings. “How rude!” she said. “Come on kids, let’s go on the Waltzer.”

  *

  Schaefer ensured they didn’t bump into Coombes and his family for the rest of the afternoon. Oliver had soon brightened up when the two of them hopped in separate dodgems and started haphazardly chasing each other around the crowded rink. Despite the man’s insensitivity, Schaefer was glad Coombes had found him. Had he not, Schaefer would have left the fair doubting his own sanity. Schaefer was jolted from his train of thought by a strong collision that knocked his car sideways. He looked over his shoulder and saw Oliver’s smiling face.

  “You’re too slow, Dad!” Oliver yelled over the surrounding bedlam. Oliver turned away and set off across the rink with a backward glance that challenged his father to give chase.

  Schaefer spun his steering wheel and set out in pursuit. He never did catch Oliver, but the two of them spent a happy few minutes enjoying the mayhem.

  After the dodgems, Schaefer took Oliver on the Ferris wheel, the vertical drop, and they played some of the rigged games at the stalls that vied for business between the rides. Schaefer didn’t win a thing, not even at the shooting gallery. But that had nothing to do with the quality of his marksmanship, and a lot to do with the curvature of the rifle barrels. The straightest of the bunch was curved by at least five degrees, and no amount of expert compensation on Schaefer’s part could win Oliver his choice of the garish soft toys on offer. After the shooting gallery, Oliver pleaded for some candy floss. As they watched a young goth girl wind the sweet, pink strands around a stick, Schaefer checked his watch: five-fifteen.

  “Time for us to go, champ,” Schaefer observed.

  “One more ride, Dad,” Oliver implored.

  According to the custody agreement, Schaefer had until five-thirty every second Sunday, but he was pretty sure Sarah wouldn’t go running to the lawyers if he was a few minutes late. She always said she wanted him to develop a normal relationship with Oliver, and there were few things more normal than indulging a child.

  “One more,” Schaefer replied. “What do you want to go on?”

  “The Ghost Train,” Oliver said excitedly. He started pulling Schaefer towards it.

  They handed six tokens to a grey-haired old woman who wore a gaudy old floral dress. Her bony fingers and the corners of her thin-lipped mouth were stained yellow with nicotine.

  “Take the front cart,” the old woman said, pointed out an old rust bucket that had the flaked painting of a bandaged mummy on its side. “Keep your hands inside the ride at all times.”

  Oliver skipped ahead, and clambered into the lead cart. Judging by the number of carts lined up behind it, the ride was not a popular one. Schaefer joined his son, lowering himself onto the unyielding metal bench seat. He pulled the guard bar down and locked it into position above their laps. The old woman stepped into the operator’s booth and performed whatever wizardry it took to get the old train running. The rickety cart clattered and shook its way to what the bloody painted text said was the Portal to Fear, but was in reality a pair of warped plywood doors covered with a cartoonish painting of the Grim Reaper. The cart pushed the doors apart and trundled inside. Schaefer could make out a coffin, gallows and a small graveyard in the light cast through the open doorway, before the whole place was plunged into darkness when the doors swung shut.

  Schaefer felt Oliver clasp his hand as the cart clattered forward. They were surrounded by the sounds of screaming, tortured souls. Schaefer turned to see his son’s silhouette barely distinguishable from the blackness around it. Suddenly Oliver was illuminated by a green glow, as a luminous body dropped from the gallows. A piercing scream and the crack of a neck bone echoed around them. Oliver’s verdigris face was beaming with thrilling excitement and laughter. Even Schaefer had to smile at the absurdity of the green zombie hanging from the end of the rope. They passed through another set of doors and were enveloped by darkness. A gruesome witch dropped directly ahead of them, causing Oliver to scream. The cart turned suddenly to avoid the hideous cut out, and a series of three skeletons popped from the wings, startling the boy even more. Schaefer could sense Oliver’s heightened vigilance and knew that his son was doing what everyone does on a ghost train; trying to anticipate the shocks to lessen their impact. But the ride was designed to outfox even the most prepared fear hunters. A coffin opened suddenly revealing a red hued vampire who roared and lurched forward with all the violence his aged mechanism could muster. Oliver jumped, his thighs hitting the guard bar with enough force to jolt it.

  “You okay?” Schaefer asked above the sounds of terror.

  “This is stupid,” Oliver replied with an overdose of bravado.

  The cart rumbled through another set of doors into darkness. This time there was no instant shock to greet them, and the cart rattled along the tracks as the atmosphere soundtrack fell silent. As Schaefer’s eyes grew accustomed to the pitch black, they started to play tricks on him. Schaefer was convinced he could see movement up ahead, and not the typical cut outs and mannequins that had populated the ride so far. These were wraith-like figures rushing around at the fringes of his vision. Schaefer felt his pulse quicken, something was wrong.

  “Oliver?” Schaefer heard himself saying.

  There was no response. And when he put his hand out to touch his son, there was nothing there.

  “Oliver!”

  A sudden flash of light, and the appearance of a figure directly ahead of him. It was the dead face of Edward Lomas, the side of his head bloody and caved, his hair matted and his eyes milky white. As Schaefer recoiled in terror, Lomas opened his mouth
, which was filled with blackened teeth.

  “Tenebris renascentis,” Lomas growled. The sound was inhuman and terrifying, and Schaefer felt himself gripped by a fear that surpassed any he had ever felt. His bones burned with the acid of terror.

  And then the figure was gone, replaced by a set of double doors that opened onto grey daylight. Panicked, Schaefer looked next to him and saw Oliver laughing. The old woman smoked a cigarette and stared at them as the cart clattered to a halt. The fear must have shown on Schaefer’s face because Oliver’s laughter died suddenly.

  “Dad, are you okay?” he asked. “That scarecrow was pretty awesome wasn’t it?”

  Schaefer couldn’t answer. His body trembled. The words, the hideous voice, and the face of the man he was hunting. But this wasn’t a dream, or if it was it felt like one that Schaefer would never wake from. Schaefer looked at his son, at the old woman, at the smiling Grim Reaper that loomed over the sidings where the cart had drawn to a halt; this was reality.

  “Dad?” Oliver asked again, a touch more concern in his voice.

  The old woman came over and released the guard rail. Schaefer still couldn’t move.

  “Dad?”

  “We’re closing,” the old woman exhaled a plume of smoke.

  Schaefer looked at her ancient, bitter eyes and found himself wondering whether she was in on it. Five minutes alone and a handful of questions would reveal the truth.