Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
It all started with a potato.
Tasty, fresh and packed with vitamins, the humble potato brought a smile to the face of every student in the room who saw it. It even had a smiley face of its own, a texta adornment to show each student just how good it felt. But Mr. O'Donnell wasn't smiling. When he'd walked into third period and realised the potato was not, in fact, his beloved Mr. Potato Head toy, he'd wiped the happy smile off its face and thrown the potato at the wall, smashing it into little pieces. He'd failed to wipe the smile off my face, though. And now.
"Will, are you listening to me?"
I was sitting in the Principal's office as a result. Sitting amongst the history, tradition, prestige and honour that embodied St. Yves' Academy, one of the finest private schools in the country. You could smell it in the antique bookcase, stuffed with the records and achievements of generations past. You could see it in the expansive artwork, a commissioned painting of the school's fa‡ade. But within the fabled halls, there was a new chapter being written in the history of St Yves' Academy.
"I said; are you listening to me, Will?"
.and it came in the form of Principal Deborah McMahon.
Although the desk plaque read just the same, she was nothing like the men who'd ruled the halls 108 years prior. A striking, designer-clad figure in expensive high heels, the attractive Miss McMahon was a popular figure with boys around campus, engaging crowds with her. personality. She was also a popular figure with girls, too, somewhat of a style icon in the beauty department. In fact, the only thing more perfectly manicured than the school's lawns were the fingernails on her delicate little hands.
"William?!" she barked, trying to get my attention for a third time.
"Err. Yes, Ma'am?"
See, engaging.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
Three bags full, Ma'am.
"Repeat what I just said, then."
"Err."
I stalled for time, shifting a bit in my seat as I adjusted to its hardened, wooden frame. Apparently comfort wasn't in this season.
"Mr. O'Donnell has requested your removal from his English class," she informed me, frowning as I struggled to regain focus. "We're removing you ASAP."
"Excuse me?"
"Mr. O'Donnell has requested that you be removed from his English Literature class," she repeated, emphasising her point as I stared blankly past her shoulder. "I've spoken to your father and..."
Wait, now she had my attention.
"You've spoken to my father?"
"Yes, and I've told him the same thing I'm about to tell you," she said, her fingers tracing an all-too-familiar path as she retrieved my academic transcript from the school's database. "Your grades and behaviour are slipping, Will. Your teachers are worried about you."
"Why?"
"Because you're failing English, you're barely passing Geography and Mr. Johnston has had to remove you from his gym class twice in the past fortnight."
"So?"
"So, it's not acceptable, Will," she informed me, turning her attention back to the computer screen in front of her. "In the time I've been here, you've slipped from being a straight-A student to barely averaging Cs."
"Oh."
"Yes, 'oh'. It's almost the end of April, Will. You've got six months until your Year 12 exams and I don't want to see you waste your potential."
"Well what do you care?" I asked, crossing my arms as I finally made eye contact.
"I care for the welfare of all my students," she responded, as if quoting a line from some generic teaching handbook.
"Whatever," I said, sitting up further in my seat. "Can I go now?"
"I have two more things," she said, cutting me off. "Firstly, you missed two days of school last week without explanation."
Oh.
"I was sick."
"Please don't lie to me, Will." She was quick to voice her disapproval, shaking her head as I dutifully studied a nail in the floorboards.
"And what was the last thing?" I asked her, now wanting more than ever to get away.
But she didn't answer right away, seeming to make a decision about something as she fiddled with the clasp of her bracelet. She chose her next words very carefully.
"Is everything ok at home, Will?"
My head shot up.
"Everything's fine." I answered, perhaps a little too quickly.
"Ok," she said, giving me a sympathetic look. "In that case, would you care to tell me how you got that bruise on."
She was abruptly cut off by the sound of the door.
And in walked my father.
'Business'.
That was pretty much my father in a word. At 6'4", he was an imposing figure both in and out of the courtroom, his tailored Italian suits and bold collection of ties combining to create the perfect image of power. When paired with the invincible aura he seemed to carry as easily as his briefcase, my father had an authority that transcended both the conference table and the dinner table. His presence could be felt in even the most crowded of rooms. And that was before he even opened his mouth...
"Good morning, William," he greeted, his voice swallowing the distance that separated us. His feet would soon follow.
"Um, hi Dad," I mumbled, sitting up straight in my seat.
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Hathaway," Principal McMahon invited, greeting him warmly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Really, it's not a problem, Deborah," he told her, taking her hand within his own as he leant down to kiss her cheek.
Flushing slightly, she moved to retake her seat as she began to shuffle the papers atop her desk, not taking her eyes off my father for a second. Setting aside the pile and taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to begin when there was a knock at the door, and through it popped the head of her secretary.
"Shirley, I'm busy at the moment," Principal McMahon called, frowning slightly at the interruption.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Deb, but I have Mr. Sanderson requesting your urgent attention on line four," she said, looking no more pleased at the situation than anybody else in the room. Vice-Principal Derek Sanderson was not a popular figure around the campus, with either students or faculty.
Principal McMahon sighed deeply, glancing skyward ever so briefly as she began to rise from her seat.
"I'll be back in just a moment," she apologised, closing the door softly behind her as she left my father and I to wait in her office.
Alone.
"William." he started, pausing briefly as he made no effort to take his seat. He seemed to be searching for the right words, or perhaps it was for dramatic effect. Either way, the moment dragged for an eternity.
"Do we need to have another 'talk'?"
"Excuse me?"
"You know what I'm talking about, William."
"Oh what, you read minds now?"
"Don't play your queer little games with me, William."
He was in full courtroom mode now; his broad shoulders an impressive shadow as he moved forward. I could literally feel the fight draining out of me at that moment, the ambient dropping noticeably in the room. But the cold shiver that ran through me had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Well?" He was openly staring now, locking me into his dominant gaze as he stood over me.
I blinked first; dropping my gaze as the cold stare deferred to a small, self-satisfied smile. He paused a few moments longer, but I could sense his patience wearing thin.
"Have it your way, then," he said. "We'll deal with this when you get home."
His eyes sought mine again, his anger suppressed behind the derelict fa‡ade of his smile. I could see right through him as he closed the uncomfortable few inches that separated us and.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
The soft voice of Principal McMahon cut through the tension, signaling her welcome return. "Now, where were we, Mr. Hathaway?"
"William was just offering us a few moments of privacy," my father informed her, granting a cordial smile as she resumed the seat behind her desk.
"Actually, Will, it's almost time for you to go home," Principal McMahon told me, smiling across the desk. "Perhaps we could resume this tomorrow?"
"Of course," I responded, forcing a similar gesture as I reached for my backpack and rose to my feet. Whatever they needed to discuss, they would be doing it alone. "Same time and place?"
"My office, 9a-," she started, the last part cut off as I closed the door heavily behind me.
First impressions weren't good.
Taking a long, slow sip of his coffee, Detective Mike Holden toyed with the poppy on his lapel, staring out across the city skyline as he surveyed his new beat. Hobart was a quiet place, not the bustling metropolis he was used to; but on the promise of a 'sea change', he'd up and moved his family to this new location, seeking a better quality of life for his children.
But the move had not been smooth sailing.
Missing luggage, nosy neighbors, damaged goods; they'd all combined to leave a bitter taste, a taste not unlike the beverage in his hand. Taking one last look across the skyline, the detective drained the black cup with haste, sighing with frustration at the papers that cluttered the top of his desk. How did one acquire such a backlog in two short weeks?
Oh, how he hated the paperwork.
What he wanted was the thrill of the chase, the game of cat and mouse that punctuates the career of a homicide detective. But on this quiet Monday evening, his pulse was steady, his feet immobile. Glancing down at his gold timepiece, the detective released another deep sigh as he noted the time remaining. Just another fifteen minutes.
He knew it'd take some getting used to, but first impressions weren't looking good for Detective Holden, and there's a funny thing about first impressions.
You only get to make one.
They say time flies when you're having fun, and the rest of the day passed in a flash. Long before I was ready, though, I was pulled up at the front gate to my house; the cast iron glinting menacingly in the twilight. Traversing its vertical bars, I circled the driveway and pulled up alongside my father's sedan, killing the engine immediately.
Closing the front door behind me, I ignored the raised voices from the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time on the way to my bedroom. Locking the door behind me, I loosened my tie and tossed it across the room, dumping my backpack as I flopped down on the unmade bed. Listening for movement, I stared up at the ceiling, waiting for my pulse to slow as the sounds of arguing emanated from downstairs. I couldn't make out specific words, but it didn't take a genius to work out the content. They were arguing about me, it was all they ever argued about. Closing my eyes, I took some deep breaths, tuning them out as I tried to gather my thoughts before.
"William?"
His baritone penetrated the woodwork with ease, warning of his arrival as I listened for the heavy drumbeat of his footsteps.
"I know you're in there, William."
I could feel him walking closer, tremors moving through the bed frame. Halting swiftly at the locked door, his fist pounded against the obstacle, seemingly daring it to continue its obstruction. Each strike of the door brought me a step closer to reality, and by the time he was finished, I was sitting bolt upright on the mattress.
"Um, yeah?" I asked, not knowing how else to respond as I rubbed at the sudden ache in my temples.
"Dinner is ready."
Hearing the movement of his retreat, the words sparked me into motion, as I began discarding my school clothes. I picked up yesterday's jeans off the floor, pulling them on in one swift motion. Grabbing a t-shirt off the top of the clean laundry, I moved toward the door, unlocking it quickly as I padded across the hallway to the bathroom.
I had just caught sight of my reflection when I heard the deep rumble of his voice, traveling easily up the stairs from his position at their base.
"You have five minutes, William."
Five minutes, that's all that remained.
Another three hundred laboured ticks, and Detective Holden would be heading for the door. Beginning to shut down his computer for the night, the Detective took a glance around the office, distracting himself in the hope of those seconds passing more quickly. When he found nothing else of particular interest, his eyes came to rest on the framed photograph beside his laptop. His family would be waiting when he got home, his daughters awake and hoping for another bedtime story from their daddy.
Stroking a thumb over the family portrait, the Detective shut down his office for the night, deciding there was nothing that couldn't wait until morning. Rising from his uncomfortable chair, he switched off his desk lamp and moved quickly toward the exit, not even looking back at his desk for a second. But before he could reach the doorway, he heard his intercom come to life, crackling softly as he shook his head in annoyance.
"Detective, are you there?" a soft voice asked, completely oblivious to its intrusion
He considered his response for a moment.
"Yes, Marjorie, I'm here," he finally answered, in what he hoped was a professional tone. "What can I do for you tonight?"
"Detective, I have a boy who's here to see you, says he needs to speak with Homicide."
Detective Holden weighed this information up for a moment, calculating priorities in a tenth of a second. "Is anybody else able to handle the enquiry?" he eventually asked, releasing a deep breath in the process.
"I'm sorry, Detective," the voice informed him, almost regretfully. "We've been short-handed all night."
"Yes, I suppose you have been," he admitted, beginning to walk back toward his desk in a concession of defeat.
"Shall I send the boy in then, Detective?" Marjorie asked.
"Ok," the Detective sighed, pulled the seat out from behind his desk. "Send him in."
Only five minutes to prepare for battle, to engage in the art of war.
Catching sight of my reflection, I could see all the battle scars from the many wars I'd engaged in over the years. First had been the neighbor's guard dog, and the scar on my wrist that came when I'd tried to pet him. That had been a valuable first lesson in the art of war; knowing when and where to choose your battles.
Then came the scar on my ankle, from the time I'd fought valiantly against gravity, and lost. Turns out Superman couldn't fly from a second-story balcony. Two broken bones and a trip to the ER had only served to confirm that.
Then there was the scar in my hairline, from my first foray into field hockey. I should have known I'd get decked on the morning we learnt the 'high stick' rule.
"Five minutes, William," my father called again, his voice cutting through the night air.
Despite the distance that divided us, I could feel his presence in that bathroom. I could see him in that mirror, staring back at me in the twilight, scrutinizing every movement, every outcome, every millimeter.
Expectation. It was a rival I fought with every day.
Staring into the mirror that evening, I could see the surface wounds from the battle. They were burnt into my psyche; they were etched upon my skin. But the scarring ran much, much deeper.
"We're ready, William," his voice called, a little louder than before.
Ignoring both his voice and shadow, I found myself drying my hands on the towel, before my fingers came up to examine my cheekbone. They examined the bruise just below my left eye; the one I'd been avoiding all sorts of questions about. The swelling had now subsided somewhat, hopefully the unwanted questions would follow suit.
Pushing my dark locks aside, my fingers crept up and toyed with the metallic stud protruding just above my right eye. My piercing had been a recent acquisition, and one my father had been none too happy about.
"Don't make me come up there!"
Let him wait, I thought, lifting my t-shirt as I continued to examine the scars from battles past.
These scars had been a lot more recent, and as my fingers traced their way over the series of marks around my stomach and ribcage, I couldn't help wondering how long the healing process would take. Flinching as I prodded, the twitching and tenderness of the muscles suggested it was far from over.
Physically or emotionally.
"WILLIAM!"
Pushing back the memories, I let go of my t-shirt and pressed it back down, smoothing it over in the mirror.
"You have until the count of three, William."
I took a deep breath.
"One."
I straightened my posture.
"Two."
And then I killed the lights.
It was time for round three.
"You're grounded."
It was a hell of an opening statement, spat from his mouth as if the flavour of my rebellion were no longer bearable to his palate. His speech reverberated off the walls of the dining room, bouncing off the crystal ware and coming to rest squarely in the forefront of my mind. I could still taste the fear from before, but as I stared at him from across the table, it was steadily being replaced with good old-fashioned resentment.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, YOU'RE GROUNDED."
Now he was rattling the silverware too. He hadn't even taken off his suit. Where did he think he was, the courtroom?
"You're kidding me, right?"
"Please don't speak to your father like that, Will."
Now stepmother #3 was in on the act, putting her nose in where it most certainly wasn't wanted.
"I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion?"
"DON'T SPEAK TO YOUR STEPMOTHER LIKE THAT."
He rose to his feet, huffing short, deep breaths as the veins in his neck battled to maintain a vengeful shade of scarlet. His anger radiated from him, upping the ambient in this suddenly tight cauldron.
"Or you'll what?" I demanded. "This is the dinner table, not the fucking court house."
"If you say one more word..."
"You'll what? Well? You'll what?"
"Don't push me, William."
"Go on, say it! Say what you'll do to me."
He took a deep breath.
"You have brought shame to this family," he said, shaking his head regretfully as he moved to resume his seat.
"This coming from a man who puts murderers back on the street?" I said, with a bitter laugh. Was that really the best he could come up with?
"Your mother would be ashamed."
It wasn't.
"Excuse me?"
"I said 'your mother would be ashamed'," he repeated, raising his voice slightly. "She'd be ashamed to have a faggot like you for a son."
"Oh fuck you," I retorted, now raising my own voice. "Last time I checked, she hadn't spoken to you in five years."
"Don't push me, William," he warned.
"Or what?"
"Don't. Push. Me."
"Try me, old man," I challenged, pushing away my half-finished risotto as I rose to my feet. "What are you gonna do, hit me again?"
"I said don't push me."
"No, come on, what are you gonna do? Put me in hospital this time? Don't think McMahon hasn't picked up on your bullshit, either."
"Deborah McMahon won't be bothering us anymore," he stated, with a little more certainty than I felt comfortable with.
"What, you threatened to beat the shit out of her, too?"
I turned to my stepmother.
"And you. Haven't your three months expired already?"
"Excuse me?" she demanded, her shrill tone piercing the tension. "Your father and I."
"Don't," I said, looking down at her with a sour mix of pity and disgust. "Just, don't."
"DON'T SPEAK TO YOUR STEPMOTHER LIKE THAT!" My father roared.
"Or what?" I asked, turning my attention toward his direction.
"Don't push your luck, William."
"Whatever. I'm going to my room."
And with that, I turned my back on him and walked out, closing the door heavily behind me.
It would be a quick exchange of information, the Detective decided, shaking his head as he switched on the lamp that illuminated his desk. The kid would repeat a rumour, he'd hand over his contact details and they'd both go on their merry way.
But when he saw the tall-ish kid walking through the doorway of his office, he somehow knew this wasn't going to be quick. The poor kid looked, in a word, distraught. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up all over the place and a smear of dried blood lay across his cheek. His shirt was torn above the left bicep, but both new and expensive enough to suggest it wasn't his doing.
"How can I help you, son?" the Detective asked, giving the kid a friendly smile and gesturing toward the seat in front of his desk.
"Um, I'm here to report some information," the kid said, before he sank gingerly into the offered seat.
"Ok," the Detective said, beginning to take notes on the pad sitting in front of him. "First things first, what's your name?"
"My name is Will Hathaway, sir," the kid answered, as if his name were the only thing he was sure of at that moment.
"And why are you here, Will?" the Detective asked, watching the kid fiddle nervously with his wrist watch.
"Um, I think, someone. someone I know, has been murdered." Will said, his voice breaking between shallow breaths.
The Detective let out a low whistle, glancing to the heavens as he set the pen softly down on the desk
"Ok," he said, standing. "I think I'm gonna need coffee for this one."
Author's Note: There it is, chapter one. I'm not sure that sex is going to play a big part in this story (if at all), but if you're a sucker for murder-mystery, feel free to jump on board. I love hearing from readers, so all comments and suggestions are welcome. My email is mcooke0@utas.edu.au. I'm also happy chat with readers on MSN, so feel free to add me. My address is tiger_fan_tiger_man@hotmail.com. Otherwise, keep an eye out for chapter two!