The Sister(35)

When he spoke of the war, it was his war, the Korean War, but knowing time was short, he condensed the part he’d played into a mere summary. ‘...and when it was over, I met up with a couple of dozen men from my unit, most of whom had been held prisoner by the Chinese. They told me about the mistreatment they were subjected to – degradation, abuse, and brainwashing. Some had changed beyond the point that you might have expected the experience alone to change them. Today is the 25th April, and the thirty-second anniversary of my escape through enemy lines.’ For a moment, he drifted. ‘You know, boy, I escaped, but I never got away. I’m still getting away. Most of the others that made it, made it out within hours. I got left behind and it took me two, even three days... Anyhow, look it up, do your own research, we don’t have time to get into it now.’

‘I will,’ Miller promised. ‘And what about you, sir, are you still teaching?’

Kirk looked across the seat at him, the cigarette end glowing as he drew on it. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew it at the gap in the window, where it siphoned into the outside air. ‘No, I felt it was time for a change, aim at new targets.’

‘So what is it you do now?’

‘I’m still in education, a freelance trouble shooter. I weed out kids with problems. It’s a challenge, but I enjoy the freedom it gives me.’ Changing the subject back to Miller, he said, ‘So you wanted to be a psychiatrist?’

‘Yes, I did. To be truthful, I don’t find it that appealing anymore, not in isolation and coupled with something else, maybe. I'd love to be a private investigator. It’s been an ambition of mine, ever since I first persuaded my mum and dad to allow me to read True Crime magazine. ‘

‘Really?’ said Kirk. ‘That’s interesting.’

Miller watched the rain rolling down the windscreen. After a lengthy pause, he said, ‘Do you remember the scene of that accident?’

‘Of course I do. What’s on your mind?’

‘Well, nothing particularly, it’s just that I’ve since found out you originally came from that neck of the woods, and I wondered if you ever heard—’

‘Any rumours about the place? Of course I did, all us kids from around there heard them. I knew the place as Devils Pond, or Witches Pond as they called it sometimes. Apparently, there was an accident in the mines nearby, in the 1850’s, and they lost a number of miners in a flash flood or something. They didn’t recover all the bodies, about twenty or so were washed away underground.’ The older man was quiet for a moment as he allowed his memories to come back to him. ‘As far as I know, that’s where the extra bodies came from that they found in the pond while looking for your friends.’

‘Yes, I heard that. I’m not sure they ever conclusively proved who they were. What about the other four bodies, did you hear any more about them?’

‘Not really, the press had a field day, though, I do remember that. The bodies had been wrapped in boiler suits and weighted down with stones, hadn’t they? What was it they called them…’ He snapped his fingers as he tried to recall. ‘The Boiler Man Killings.’

‘I wonder who it was. I don’t think they ever found him.’

‘The police are useless,’ Kirk said absently as he yawned. ‘Might be a good first case for you to investigate.’

Miller caught the yawn from him. ‘Maybe one day, but for now I still have too many bad memories.’

‘Try to discover to whom the unidentified remains belonged; they never did find out who they all were.’

‘I think I'd like to look for living missing people, though, not dead ones. I don’t think I could do that. I don’t feel anything if someone is dead. That’s why I never looked for Josie when she went missing. I knew she wasn’t with us anymore.’ He sighed. ‘If I’m going to look for missing people, they’ll have to be still alive.’

‘Well, I wish you luck with whatever you choose to do. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I...I took the one less travelled by, do you remember that poem?’

‘I do,’ he said solemnly. An irresistible tiredness washed over him and he yawned again.

Kirk reached over and took Miller’s hand quite unexpectedly and, shaking it, said, ‘Good night, Milowski, I hope you get on okay. Keep out of trouble,’ he pronounced the name perfectly.

‘You can say my name?’ he said in amazement. ‘I always thought you suffered from word blindness when it came to saying my name.’

‘That’s right,’ he said, with a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘I always could say it.’

Sometimes, you see a painter on the beach, or in the fields, dabbing his brush at the canvas then standing back, coming forward again, executing the finishing touches, before finally standing back once more with a smile, satisfied at last with his work.

Kirk was a teacher, but as Miller left the car and glanced back in at him, he had a satisfied smile and look of a painter about his face.

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Miller ran up to his front door through the sheets of rain and when he turned back to wave, the car was almost invisible. Kirk had let the brakes off and the car began rolling forwards, down the hill silently. It disappeared into the mists, sputtering to life as he jump-started the engine. The red taillights illuminated briefly, and then they vanished, too.