Thomas Craig: The Outkast

Copyright @ 2012 Craig Thomas

Thursday, August 13

It was 10:25 in the morning.

Exactly one week prior to the incident that brought abysmal tragedy upon Ogre’s Pond, Trevor Carter’s body lay on the floor near the doorway to the toilet, smiling up at the men as they ran into his office. A tiny ring of blood sat on the front of his neck.

“Shit. He’s dead,” Donnie Murphy said.

“No, not yet. Maybe later.” Breathing hard, Brad Conner stood with his hands propped against the edge of the principal’s mahogany desk, slightly shaking. It appeared the morning sprint from the staff room to the principal’s office-coupled with the bad news lying on the floor-had got him winded. His tiny frame seemed to have started diminishing even further.

“How did you figure that out?” Donnie asked, bunching up his eyebrows and scowling at Brad, as if the short and hearing-impaired man had just uttered the most disgusting statement of all time. “Are you a doctor, or what?”

“Do I need to be one to use my eyes and common sense, Donnie? Or can’t you see he’s not drenched yet?”

“Drenched?” Donnie said, puzzled. “Who mentioned anything about being drenched?”

“Oh, I thought you implied that he’s drenched with his own blood.”

Leaning a little towards Brad so that his mouth aligned with the short man’s ear, Donnie shouted, “D-e-a-d. I said he’s d-e-a-d.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Donnie, I get it. You know you don’t have to scream that much to drive your point home.”

“Like hell I don’t. How else can you get a message into the chambers of your ears-especially when you keep forgetting to bring your hearing aid from home? Have you started suffering from amnesia, too?”

“Amne… what?”

Donnie rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

Mrs. Kathy Wilson, who had just learned of the incident, and was now rushing to the scene, heard Donnie’s voice as she was about to enter the principal’s office. “Oh, my God,” she cried, and skittered inside. She had been teaching the fine arts at Our Lady of Peace Junior High for more than a decade. On several occasions, she had created well-painted pictures of war carnages, of soldiers screaming and holding on to the ruins of their severed limbs while blood spurted out and ran tracks of claret behind them like slime trails after a snail. But her bravery to handle the macabre didn’t go beyond her paintings. Real life brutality scared the crap out of her. She stopped dead beside Brad, clasping her plump fingers over her flabby bosoms, her blue eyes wide. “Is it true, Brad?”

“As you can see, Mrs. Wilson,” Donnie said with nonchalance before Brad could utter a word, pointing to the body on the floor. He was a fairly despised man among both the staff members and the student body, as well as in the entire community of Ogre’s Pond, and he had worked really hard over the years to maintain that notorious status.

“Oh, my God.” That was Mrs. Wilson again. It appeared that was all she could say at the moment. She put her hand over her mouth as she began to weep.

“Did you notice anyone come into the school premises at some point today, Mrs. Wilson? Any strange faces?” Brad asked.

Mrs. Wilson dabbed at her tears. “Well, not that I can recall. Did you?”

“No, but I was wondering that since your office overlooks the main entrance gate-”

“Then, I should be the watchman, right?”

“Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong. What I meant-”

Mrs. Wilson waved Brad’s comment aside, and said, “Anyway, you have the right to mean whatever you desire to mean. Where’s the security guard? He’s got a lot to answer for. And if-”

Walking around the desk to pick up the phone, Donnie interrupted. “I wouldn’t ask any questions even if it was necessary. It’s the cops’ job, you know. Now, I don’t want anyone messing around here. Keep your hands off everything and anything that can bring about complication.” He rubbed his balding pate as he spoke, and looked at Brad. “Got it?”

Brad, who hadn’t moved an inch away from the desk since he came in, nodded.

Donnie called 9-1-1.

Mrs. Wilson took a step closer towards Trevor, squeezing the hem of her blue denim jacket as if trying to wring out comfort by that stroke of action. Looking down at the face of the man who had once been her boss, she shivered.

Trevor Carter was the sixth principal of Our Lady of Peace, and the youngest among his predecessors. He was renowned for his diligence and thoroughness in running the affairs of the school. There were hardly any similarities between Donnie Murphy’s personality and his, and they never enjoyed each other’s company-except in matters concerning their common enemy.

From behind the desk, Donnie watched Trevor’s body with a vested interest, and he was sucked into a preternatural communion with the dead man in the process.

Lying on the floor with his eyes slightly parted and his face adorned with a cool smile, Trevor seemed to make an exclusive call out to Donnie, saying: Hey, I know you’re an irredeemable asshole, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that. But regardless of what you are, I want you to carry on with my fight-the only one you’re good at, of course. I’m resting now, but you won’t have any rest of your own until you’ve finished the task ahead of you, until you’ve brought the boy down-the useless, runty troll. But if he outsmarts you and fucks you up, well, that’ll be your own downfall. And the broad you’ve dreamt of your whole mediocre life will slip through your fingers. I’m out of the game. Lights out.

Donnie startled a little.

“Are you okay?” Brad asked, having noticed him jerk backwards.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, thinking, I’m just having a fucking broad daylight trance, that’s all.

Making sure to bypass a mush of chewed sandwich on the floor, Donnie walked to the door and locked it, resting his back against the cool slab of woodwork. His Hawaiian shirt rucked up at the front, where his fat belly cascaded.

Mrs. Wilson cast a weird look at him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Aren’t you feeling sick already?”

“No, I’m not,” Donnie said. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty giddy with delight.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Brad snorted. “What’s good about murder?”

“Don’t be so literal-minded, Brad. I’m not feeling giddy with death, but with justice. I’m so glad justice is around the corner.” Donnie grinned, showing a faintly stained dentine.

“Well, I am,” Mrs. Wilson said. She moved away from the door and caught sight of her face in a small mirror mounted on the wall. She had turned awfully pale in such a short time, her strands of blonde hair flying every which way. “I’m feeling really sick, and you’ve just made the situation worse by locking that door.”

“Mrs. Wilson, if you’re feeling sick, you have every right to walk out of this room, and no obligation at all to stay here in the first place. In fact, go out now, talk to Cheryl and Blake and Jennifer. Encourage them to stay calm and focused so they can monitor the kids. Everyone should get back inside the class and stay put until the cops arrive.”

“Yes, I will do that. Need some fresh air, anyway.” There were two and a half men inside the office, with Mrs. Wilson being the only female. But hitherto, she hadn’t noticed the boy cowering against one corner of the office toilet. Perhaps Mrs. Wilson’s oversight had occurred as a result of her nervousness when she had come running in. Or perhaps because the northern wall of the office had been in the way, and unless one crossed the border a little to the south, there was no way to glimpse the boy. Anyhow, he was there, curling up at one corner of the toilet with his back to Mrs. Wilson, just about three feet away from Trevor, closer to the dead man than any of them were. “Holy Sister of Mary! Isn’t that Robert Smallwood?”