Читать книгу The Boy in the Park: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist - - Страница 21

I am not sorry that I went to the police yesterday. Not sorry, though I do feel a bit the fool. What I must have looked like, an almost middle-ager in a stressed state, trying to attract police interest to a case in which an unknown child, of unknown parents, with no name, vanishes from nothing more than a pattern of being present beside a pond to which I’d grown accustomed. I’m not a nutcase, but hell, after that display I’d be hard pressed to prove it.

I am, however, more than a little annoyed at the officer’s implication that the only explanation for the oddity of my report is that I must be an addict high on some mind-polluting cocktail. I know the circumstances are strange, but surely a more serious consideration is warranted. I can’t recall the last time I felt as if I’d been so summarily dismissed out of hand.

I should have ironed my clothes. Maybe worn a suit. On the television the men who walk into police stations in suits always get paid more attention. I’ll have to remember that if I’m ever back.

Still, I don’t apologize for the action. A knot in my gut was telling me that something wasn’t right, and it still is. I may not know that boy, but I know that these last two days are the only days I can remember that he hasn’t been in the park. Supportable by credible evidence or not, I know that something is wrong. There are certain things in life that you know with a type of knowledge that doesn’t rely on factual data. A kind of knowing that comes from a place other than the brain, and is all the more forceful because of it.

Yet as certain as I am that some sort of action has to be taken, one cannot wholly abandon the necessary course and flow of life. I’m back at the health foods counter this Sunday afternoon, as bereft of his presence as the past two. I have to calm myself down. We sell a powdered concoction that advertises itself as a ‘non-medical, natural Prozac alternative’. Something made from two parts garden weeds and one part homegrown (but organically certified) fungus. I’m agitated, but not an idiot. I’ll try that, perhaps, if two days become twenty.

It’s funny, really, how quickly emotion can shift intensity. Two days ago I was running through the park, convinced of the absolute, immediate need for desperate action – to save someone from something. Yesterday I was still flustered, and today I remain deeply concerned; but my pulse is back where it should be. I’ve counted up our stock of OrganoVit and protein shake powder (if I’m the only one who thinks the name ‘Brown Rice Proto-Power Blast’ is odd, maybe I really am off my gourd). I’ve balanced the ledger from my last two shifts. I’ve moved a respectable amount of stock. The day has, despite it all, become normal.

I must simply tuck down and ignore the one glaring, horrible abnormality. I was at my bench again for lunch. I had a coffee (back to black; it’s the new orange). I had my notebook with me, though I didn’t crack the cover. No verses since before …

But the boy didn’t appear. Of course. Why would he? The boy is gone. And I’m the only one who seems to know.