Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 76

Susan shakes her head as she reaches for the
notebook. She begins to flick through it, stopping
occasionally to study the neatly listed observations.
“You’ve done a good job. This is exactly what we
need.” Her full mouth curves in a triumphant smile.

boards the four o’clock bus on Friday afternoon.
This is the moment of truth, the answer to all my
mother’s questions. It concerns me a little. There
may be answers she doesn’t want to hear. Perhaps not
knowing, no matter how torturous, is better than the
final, crushing blow of all the facts.

My mother says nothing but looks pleased.
Susan keeps flicking then stops, flicks
backwards, stops again. She raises her eyes to my
mother.

know.

“So he visits his mother once every month?”
My mother nods. “Yes. I asked a few discreet
questions. The gossip vine is quite well watered in
our street.” Susan laughs and my mother continues.
“His mother lives in a small town over the border. He
leaves on the four o’clock bus on Friday afternoon
and stays with her for the entire weekend, returning on
Monday morning on the eleven o’clock bus.”
For once, I’m thankful for my mother’s
unwavering attention to detail. It used to make
sneaking out of the house difficult, but right now, I
want to hug her!

I ride in the darkened car with Susan to our
destination. Darren is there to meet us. His car is
black to her white. It fades into the darkness whilst the
white sedan stands out like a beacon. We’ve parked
a distance away from my killer’s house. The street is
dark and quiet. It’s generally a quiet neighbourhood,
dominated by pensioners and young families. No wild
parties or roving gangs here. Always peaceful. Always
respectable.
My killer is the weed in the rose garden. No
one knows him. He has no friends, nor does he have
enemies. He is the target of speculation and gossip, but
he keeps to himself, his only crime being his strange
demeanour and refusal to socialise.

I wish I could hug her.
Susan flips the notebook shut and shoves it in
the pocket of her leather jacket, zipping it securely.
“In that case,” she announces smugly, “we have a
plan.”
Things move quickly. Between my flitting,
I’ve been honing my afterlife skills. I find myself
communicating more easily with Susan, my voice
travelling as thoughts that resonate in her head
until she hears me. I say my killer’s name over and
over again, speaking it as she works at her laptop,
whispering it into her ear as she sleeps. I watch as
his name sinks into her consciousness, emerging as
determination driven by conviction. We follow our
target, slipping into the shadows behind him. He
seems unaware of our presence.
Finally, the weekend arrives. Our target

But I know my mother and I know she needs to

It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch.
We walk the block to the shuttered house.
Darren is a tall, solid man with a confident air. A black
backpack is stretched across his broad shoulders. They
are both dressed in black from head to toe. The three
of us slip through the night, each invisible in our own
way, until we reach the darkened house. I glance up
the street at my mother’s house. It is in darkness, as
quiet and still as every other house.
Darren rubs his gloved hands together. “You
ready to go in?”
“Ready when you are,” Susan replies. Her
voice is steady, confident. Walk in the park. Another
day at the office.
I follow them down the front path, hesitating
as we near the house. The memories flood back
momentarily, dark and vicious. I push them away and

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