Blacklands by Belinda Bauer Page B
Authors: Belinda Bauer
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Crime, Domestic Fiction, Mystery Fiction, England, Serial Murderers, Murder, Missing Persons, Investigation, Murder - Investigation - England, Boys, Exmoor (England), Missing Persons - England, Boys - England
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by the collar and yanked the zip up as far as it would go, knocking his chin.
“I swear, Steven, you deserve to catch a cold!”
He said nothing.
“Now take Davey to spend his money. And don’t let him waste it, understand?”
Steven knew he’d get stuck with Davey. Bloody Nan! If only she’d kept her mouth shut Mum would have been happy to let her have custody of Davey, and he could have gone to the library. Now he had Davey in tow.
Davey had birthday money. Three pounds. Steven fidgeted impatiently while Davey picked every rubber dinosaur out of a box and looked at it and then didn’t even buy one. He moved on to the next box, which was full of small clear balls with even cheaper toys inside them. After long and careful deliberation he chose one filled with pink plastic jacks; it cost seventy-five pence.
Steven took Davey’s hand and hurried him towards the library but Davey made himself heavy and awkward as they passed a sweetshop and once again Steven had to wait while Davey peered at every bar, every packet, and into every jar until finally he emerged with a quarter of jelly worms and a Curly Wurly. He tried to stop again at the shop on the corner selling radio-controlled cars, but Steven yanked him onwards.
Without the sun to struggle through its high, dirty windows the library was gloomy and cold.
The librarian—a young man with an earring, a zigzag shaved into the side of his head, and a name tag reading “Oliver”—led Steven to what he grandly called “the archives” with a suspicious air. “The archives” was an alcove behind the reference section—and out of sight of his desk.
“What year?”
“June ’90.”
“1890 or 1990?”
Steven pulled a puzzled face. It had never occurred to him that they would have newspapers going back to 1890.
“1990.”
Oliver sighed and peered up at the giant books on the top shelves. Then he turned on a pulsing fluorescent and looked again.
Then he looked intently at Steven and Davey as if trying to find something wrong with them—something that would give him an excuse not to help them.
“He can’t eat those in here.”
“I know,” said Steven. “He won’t.”
Oliver snorted and held out his hand for the sweets. Davey instinctively withdrew them.
“I’m not having Curly Wurly all over my archives.”
Davey looked at Steven for guidance.
“Give them to him, Davey. He’ll keep them safe for you.”
Reluctantly Davey handed them over.
Oliver kicked a stool noisily across the floor and climbed onto it, dragging down a huge bound volume which he then dropped onto the desk with a petulant bang.
“No eating, no cutting out, no folding or licking the pages.”
Steven blinked; why would he lick the pages?
“Got it?”
“Got it.”
Steven sat on the only chair and Davey sat on the floor and started to open his jacks. Oliver hovered in the doorway but Steven ignored him until he left, then opened the giant book.
The
Western Morning News
used to be much much bigger. It was weird to see the same banner title on this huge newspaper. Steven felt like an elf reading a human book as he paged carefully through the tome. He giggled at the thought and Davey looked up at him.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
The internet had been okay but patchy. Avery’s case predated the internet, and Steven had the frustrating feeling that there was lots it wasn’t telling him. At least the internet didn’t smell like old socks, though.
Davey was struggling to open the plastic sphere, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
“You want me to do that?”
“I can do it.”
The paper was yellowing and painfully thin. In places the ragged edges were torn. Steven stood up so he could handle the tome more efficiently.
ABUSED, TORTURED, KILLED . The headline ended Steven’s search.
There was a picture of Arnold Avery—the first Steven had seen. He instinctively drew closer to the page so as not to miss a
“I swear, Steven, you deserve to catch a cold!”
He said nothing.
“Now take Davey to spend his money. And don’t let him waste it, understand?”
Steven knew he’d get stuck with Davey. Bloody Nan! If only she’d kept her mouth shut Mum would have been happy to let her have custody of Davey, and he could have gone to the library. Now he had Davey in tow.
Davey had birthday money. Three pounds. Steven fidgeted impatiently while Davey picked every rubber dinosaur out of a box and looked at it and then didn’t even buy one. He moved on to the next box, which was full of small clear balls with even cheaper toys inside them. After long and careful deliberation he chose one filled with pink plastic jacks; it cost seventy-five pence.
Steven took Davey’s hand and hurried him towards the library but Davey made himself heavy and awkward as they passed a sweetshop and once again Steven had to wait while Davey peered at every bar, every packet, and into every jar until finally he emerged with a quarter of jelly worms and a Curly Wurly. He tried to stop again at the shop on the corner selling radio-controlled cars, but Steven yanked him onwards.
Without the sun to struggle through its high, dirty windows the library was gloomy and cold.
The librarian—a young man with an earring, a zigzag shaved into the side of his head, and a name tag reading “Oliver”—led Steven to what he grandly called “the archives” with a suspicious air. “The archives” was an alcove behind the reference section—and out of sight of his desk.
“What year?”
“June ’90.”
“1890 or 1990?”
Steven pulled a puzzled face. It had never occurred to him that they would have newspapers going back to 1890.
“1990.”
Oliver sighed and peered up at the giant books on the top shelves. Then he turned on a pulsing fluorescent and looked again.
Then he looked intently at Steven and Davey as if trying to find something wrong with them—something that would give him an excuse not to help them.
“He can’t eat those in here.”
“I know,” said Steven. “He won’t.”
Oliver snorted and held out his hand for the sweets. Davey instinctively withdrew them.
“I’m not having Curly Wurly all over my archives.”
Davey looked at Steven for guidance.
“Give them to him, Davey. He’ll keep them safe for you.”
Reluctantly Davey handed them over.
Oliver kicked a stool noisily across the floor and climbed onto it, dragging down a huge bound volume which he then dropped onto the desk with a petulant bang.
“No eating, no cutting out, no folding or licking the pages.”
Steven blinked; why would he lick the pages?
“Got it?”
“Got it.”
Steven sat on the only chair and Davey sat on the floor and started to open his jacks. Oliver hovered in the doorway but Steven ignored him until he left, then opened the giant book.
The
Western Morning News
used to be much much bigger. It was weird to see the same banner title on this huge newspaper. Steven felt like an elf reading a human book as he paged carefully through the tome. He giggled at the thought and Davey looked up at him.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
The internet had been okay but patchy. Avery’s case predated the internet, and Steven had the frustrating feeling that there was lots it wasn’t telling him. At least the internet didn’t smell like old socks, though.
Davey was struggling to open the plastic sphere, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
“You want me to do that?”
“I can do it.”
The paper was yellowing and painfully thin. In places the ragged edges were torn. Steven stood up so he could handle the tome more efficiently.
ABUSED, TORTURED, KILLED . The headline ended Steven’s search.
There was a picture of Arnold Avery—the first Steven had seen. He instinctively drew closer to the page so as not to miss a
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