Run Like Hell

This is my second entry to an NYC Midnight short story writing competition this year. The challenge is to write a 1,000 word story following on from a prompt within 48 hours. They give you a randomly allocated genre, object which must appear in the story and a setting. I had to write a Mystery set in a forest featuring a guitar case.

What I really enjoyed about this challenge was seeing the truth of how limitation can really breathe new life into creativity. Within half an hour of reading the prompt and brainstorming, I had several characters clear in my mind and a notion of where I wanted the story to go. The last thing to change was the ending.

A lot of love, some hope, dashes of fear, heavy doses of angst and some sneaky demons went into writing this.

I hope you enjoy.

~

The midsummer sun was well past its zenith while the breeze whispered through the tall oaks, telling untold secrets imprinted onto their long memories. Grant didn’t come here much anymore, not since he’d lost his brother. They used to play in this forest as kids; ‘Run Like Hell’, their own high-octane version of hide and seek, had given them hours of delirious fun, pelting through the deep woods in the enveloping darkness of autumn and winter. A perfect getaway from the tension of home. But it was for Derek that he’d come back. Detective Inspector Campbell gave him a knowing half smile and patted him manfully on the shoulder.

“C’moan. Ye’re doing great.”

The case had been closed for nearly 10 years now. Even now, the memory of that time could still sting; he avoided thinking about it if he could. Any time Derek was brought up in conversation he viewed the topic like a heavy latch door which led down into a dark basement. His frame would go rigid, and he’d answer in detached platitudes.

“Yeah. He was a great musician. Just getting big, too. What a shame, but that’s life.”

Only, it wasn’t. One day he was there, and the next gone without a trace. Forever.

Grant looked down at the polaroid taken outside the last venue Derek played. There he stood, long hair brushing his shoulders like a lion’s mane, easy smile, one hand on the bonnet of his Ford Mondeo, the other placed on top of the hard case of his beloved acoustic guitar. ‘T IN THE PARK ‘96’ sticker visible.

Before he disappeared, Derek had such promise ahead of him, and knew it too. By the time that photo was taken, he’d already released a string of EPs with some respected bands and his solo singles were being played on local radio. He’d bought the car with the proceeds from a year of touring. Everything he ever wanted in his grasp: to get away from it all. The memories of that time were irrevocably mixed up with bellowing, furious arguments at home, slamming doors and the sound of Derek driving off into the night. The worst came two weeks before he disappeared. He went to stay with his ‘junkie friends’ as dad called them. Professional reputation always came first.

An owl hooted, penetrating Grant’s eardrum and shaking him out of his reverie. They were heading down a steep slope. The evidence hadn’t been moved since they found and identified it; Derek’s old Mondeo had been stowed deep in the woods, under the old railway bridge. Long ago it had been set on fire by some bored teenagers, but a local dog walker had come across half an old, rusted registration plate discarded a quarter of a mile away and decided to follow it up. To everyone’s surprise the police database had turned up a positive match. Derek’s.

“What did your mum and dad say when they found out?”

“Well, ehh, it was tough. Mum’s been torn up about it ever since, to be honest. Dad just went quiet and asked me to take care of it.”

“They don’t want to be informed of any new evidence that comes to light? With respect, I thought your auld man was a lawyer?”

“He said he only wants to know if they find out what happened to him. That was it.”

Campbell shot him a searching look. Words were not necessary to vocalise his questions.

“We know he was involved with drugs. We’ve spoken to our Glasgow unit and found he was in close contact with a certain Patrick Kelly, a.k.a. ‘Pasty’. Known for hanging around with a few local bands at that time and dealing them everything from hash to pills. Nasty character. Pasty went down for aggravated assault and attempted murder of his pal, another musician, in 2002.”

“…but you don’t think he was involved, do you?”

“He has an alibi which is pretty sound. I don’t trust the wee pleb, but somehow, I think he’s solid on this.”

As they walked under the great stone arch, they saw that fire had gutted the car’s interior and rust had taken care of most of its doors and bonnet, but some of its original colour remained. Memories of hiding here as kids came rushing back. Grant remembered how they both got used to this spot, and it became overused. That was, until they found the uprooted tree nearby. Beyond the arch it still lay, its body breathing new life into the forest. He approached the hole, a great tear in the earth they used to climb into. As a kid, Grant viewed Derek with a heady mix of envy and awe. He seemed to have an ability to subvert expectations, and a cavalier attitude to rules which constricted most others. Why couldn’t he have just been normal?

Grant’s throat was dry as he approached the hole once again, somehow knowing what to expect. The guitar case stuck out just barely, its faded ‘T IN THE PARK ’96’ sticker visible. Just then, the dam burst. Questions flooded Grant’s mind.

Why this spot? Only the two of us knew it…

He pulled out the guitar case, covered in moss and grime. With minimal effort the case opened, its rusted hinges falling apart from the once leather body. A preserved piece of paper laced through the old strings; lyrics scribbled in cursive.

And it’s too late

For goodbyes now

The seed has grown apart

From the rotten branch and bough.

He turned it over.

Run like Hell.

A weight of years shifted inside him. The arguments, the foiled expectations, every bit not his father’s son, the everlasting rebellion. He should have seen it coming. One over-riding feeling had kept the whole family stuck in 1997 ever since. Complicity. Yet despite himself, he smiled and muttered under his breath. Sly bastard.

He looked directly into the wary eyes of DI Campbell.

“I think I need to call my dad.”