The Lost Author

Detective Constable Michaela Riach was mindful of her step; the forest’s thick undergrowth was wet from recent rainfall and glistened in the bright afternoon sun. Three paces behind her followed DC Martin Steenson. He was the favourite of the new recruits among the men Michaela worked with and she was determined to give him a taste of what the job actually entailed beyond the preferential treatment from which he'd so far benefitted.

The directions they had were simple enough; drive to the end of the dirt road then follow the path to a small clearing in the trees. After an hour of trudging through mud and bracken their targets hideout came into view. It was small hut that looked as though it had stood there for over fifty years; it was smothered in moss and ivy, the roof was sunken and the wooden door had virtually split apart with age. The only signs of life were the thin wafts of smoke trailing out from the jury-rigged chimney.

‘Who could live in that?’ Martin said in disbelief.

They approached the hut and Michaela, without knowing why, started feeling uneasy. Sidestepping the pocket of water-logged marsh at the entrance she rapped on the door, hoping it wouldn’t fall apart.

There was no response. A leg was visible through a wide split in the door.

‘Hello… police!’ Michaela said into the hole.

The person inside shuffled lethargically.

‘It’s not locked detectives,’ said a raspy voice.

Michaela pushed the door and its hinges screamed.

There was barely enough room inside for the detectives to enter. Spread out on the floor to their left was a withered and stained towel, at the far end sat a compact Rustic Raeburn, atop of which a kettle began whistling. The occupant himself was hunched over a small desk and looked terribly emaciated, like he’d gone months without food or sleep. A mane of long black tangled hair fell to his knees and an equally unkempt beard covered his face save for his sunken eyes and high cheek bones. The clothes on him were worn through and hung loosely on his thin frame.

‘Jesus,’ Martin whispered.

Michaela shot him a quick glance to say ‘keep those reactions under wraps.’

Martin’s eye however was not on the state of the occupant but rather the walls. Everything, from floor to ceiling, was covered in columns of hand written scrawl as though the inside of the hut had been poorly substituted for the pages of a diary.

‘Would you like a cup?’ the frail man offered, his hand shook as he lifted the kettle up.

‘Are you Nathan Heron?’ Michaela asked.

He carefully poured into two white mugs and steam billowed up. ‘Of course,’ he rasped.

‘I am DC Riach and this is DC Steenson. We’re h-’

‘I can’t offer you anything to sit on young man, and I know how lazy you must be feeling,’ Nathan interjected.

‘Excuse me...’ Martin snapped at the offhand remark.

Michaela nudged him and carried on, ‘Mr Heron-’

‘Lady, I cannot offer you tea as I only have the two cups. You wouldn’t drink anyway and that would be a waste of rain water,’ Nathan said as he stirred the drinks.

‘Mr Heron I’m going to get to the point: In our investigations-’

‘Which have nothing to do with me but rather-’

‘Have a lot to do with you in fact, if you’d let me finish,’ Michaela cut him off irritably.

She pulled a brown envelope from her jacket, flattened it out then emptied three photos into her hand.

‘A couple weeks ago this man beat up his two children in a shopping mall. There were over a hundred witnesses,’ Michaela placed the first photo down on the desk next to the tea.

‘Later, on the same day, a young girl stabbed her boyfriend at the cinema,’ she set the second photo down.

‘And last week, this lawyer committed suicide,’ she placed the third between the first two.

Nathan leaned into it, squinting thoughtfully.

‘Now I’m sure you must wondering what these incidents have in common and why we’re all the way out here talking to you about them.’

This kind of shock and awe opening was designed to do a number of things; it was to stun the interviewee, elicit fear or sorrow, secure cooperation and set the tone for the rest of the encounter.

‘Now your name has come up in each of these separate incidents. Mr Heron I'd like to know why that is? Can you help me solve this puzzle?’

‘It was the eyes, wasn’t it,’ Nathan said, tapping the second photo and looking up at Michaela.

She met his stare and Nathans expression turned solemn, regretful.

He looked back down to the photo and muttered under his breath. To Michaela it sounded like, ‘they found you.’

‘Why would you ask that?’

‘They have a rather… twisted sense of humor,’ Nathan said, leaning back and sipping his tea.

‘Who has? Do you know this girl?’ Michaela moved the second photo so that it lay on top.

‘Not anymore.’

‘Then why do you say that Mr. Heron. Help me understand.’

‘You think I am running a criminal network do you, from way out here? No, of course. There is a connection - although you haven’t found it yet. I am not responsible for what others chose to do... but there are times when I wish I were.

‘You say you’re not responsible, but they... the victims, say you coerced them. Now, whether you did or not, I think that even living out here you still know what’s is going on.’

‘Of course, I’ve known for years. You want to know how these people could do the things they did without ever having met me. That’s it isn’t it? What you really want to know, and what you should probably look for – not that it’s going to matter – is that book I wrote.’

‘What book?’

‘It’s banned now, not long after release actually... when they saw what happened. That had an impact on royalties let me tell you,’ Nathan spread his arms wide, indicating the dilapidated hut in which he lived.

‘Mr Heron if we can focus on the issue at hand,’ Michaela tried to get the conversation back on course. She found herself utterly unable to read him and was at a loss to know whether everything he was saying was lies or the truth.

Nathan continued unabated, ‘The publisher you see, fearing reprisals in court, didn’t want to take any responsibility. I believe the volume has since gained... a certain amount of... notoriety among... I guess you could call them... connoisseurs. Copies have become something of a collector’s item. They’re being sold you see... in secret.’

‘You’re not answering my question,’ Michaela’s patience was starting to thin.

‘If you’ll allow me detective, a minute, I will clarify. This book serves a purpose - anyone who reads it… they... however it may seem to you... serve that purpose. For want of better words, they go mad. These criminals you speak of and as you’ve described their actions, it’s my belief that they’ve all read it. You will too before long, I would discourage you of course but you’re not going to listen.’

‘How does it make people go mad?’

‘Not long enough, nothings ready yet,’ Nathan muttered to himself absently before continuing. ‘It’s called Perfections Song and… I didn’t so much write it as transcribe it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They wrote it, through me. It is why I was chosen.’

Michaela sighed deeply, ‘They?’

‘You’ve met one actually, though... you didn’t know it at the time.’

*

Martin, getting bored with Nathans ramblings, turned his attention to the scrawl that covered the wall on his left and casually started scanning the words at eye level, not really taking any of it in. That is until something caught his eye, something unbelievable. He read it again to make sure he got it right and still disbelieving, read it again. Right there in the middle of a paragraph was his full name. A chill welled inside him and he started on the next paragraph to see what else there was.

Michaela’s name was there too, as was a reference to the M & M’s: a quip by Martins senior that had played off of the fact that his Christian name alliterated with Michaela’s. As far as Martin knew, only he and his senior knew of that exchange. But that couldn’t be right, not if it was written up on the wall of a hut out in the middle of nowhere. But how could that hermit Nathan have possibly known. Something wasn’t right. His insides twisted uncomfortably.

He scanned further; Michaela’s name came up again:

She was ever so disappointing to her father. He wanted a boy to call Michael, to take to football games and play catch with. He never knew Our Little Wickedness as We do.

Michaela Riach knocked on the door. The Voice does not respond.

‘Hello... police!’

‘It’s not locked detectives.’

‘That can’t be right,’ Martin thought to himself. Cold fear swelled inside him.

‘Jesus,’ Martin breathed when he saw inside the hut for the first time.

What the fuck was going on? Martin remembered quite clearly saying that. How could that possibly be on the wall before him? The words “first time”- what did that mean? Was he going to return to that god-awful shack?

Martin turned back to the conversation and listened carefully.

*

‘There are, from what I can tell, at least three of them,’ said Nathan calmly.

‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m not buying this,’ Michaela said firmly. She noticed Martin was as white as a sheet but didn’t say anything.

‘It’s alright, you’ll see... in time,’ said Nathan as he savoured his tea.

*

Martin turned back to the wall and skipped ahead. He spotting his name again he started to read, praying his suspicions were wrong.

Martin Steenson, shocked with what he had just read, turns round and listens to their conversation.

‘There are, from what I can tell, at least three of them.’

‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m not buying this.’

Our Little Wickedness... oh you won’t believe the things we want to teach you.

The impossibility overtook Martins mind. How could those ugly scribbles accurately transcribe what was happening right then and there? He took a deep breath to clear his mind. This was not happening; it had to be some form of trick. Unless the whole thing was scripted, which meant Michaela herself was in on it. But the whole illusion required that he read the wall and he had had no coercion whatsoever. The writing even encapsulated what he himself had said. This is nonsense!

A ferocious curiosity gripped Martin and he skipped ahead to the next passage. If the scrawl was accurately predicting the future as it was the present then Nathan was going to respond to Michaela’s next question with, ‘Evil!’

*

‘These things,’ Michaela sighed, ‘are not what’s responsible. They’re not real. They’re-’

‘Evil!’ Nathan cut her off.

*

Martin gasped. Michaela threw him a ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ look.

Skipping the next two columns it wasn’t long before he found his name again.

Martin screamed. He grabbed Michaela’s gun and wrestled her to the ground, but it was too late. She had shot Nathan Heron in the face.

Martin froze. Nauseous and confused he leant against the wall and wished there was something to sit on.

*

‘You kill me, you know, in about twenty minutes,’ Nathan said with almost serene indifference.

Michaela scoffed, ‘I think it’s about time-’

‘We should leave,’ Martin blurted out and grabbed her elbow.

‘What?’ Michaela flashed him an annoyed look.

‘Right now,’ he said urgently.

Michaela saw in his eyes that someone really was wrong. ‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right. Mr Heron I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you come with us.’

‘No, no leave him, we need to go,’ Martin whispered in her ear fiercely.

Michaela looked up at him with a little anger and plenty of confusion.

‘It’s not going to make any difference young man,’ said Nathan, drinking his tea.