Happy Sunshine: Finale
Time is slipping away, the whispers are gathering strength, and the plot is only getting murkier.
Happy Sunshine has been enormously fun to work on over the past month. I hope you’ve all been enjoying reading it as much as I have writing it.
I suspect this final part will divide you, but isn’t that always the case with stories like this? Join me in the Blank Pages Chat for a behind the scenes discussion and/or to ask me any questions you might have.
Jack & Winton
From afternoon to evening, Jack’s has become the makeshift base camp for Winton and his deputies. There’s another search planned, but Winton’s not one to go crawling through the forest at night. Like Julian, he’s familiar enough to know better. Instead, he settles down on Jack’s patio with a coffee, served in a fine china cup and saucer, and listens to the countryside's lullaby. His old friend is pacing in front of him, wearing out the patchy lawn, only now and again joining the conversation.
“How much have you spent on furniture since you started?” Winton asks, examining the coffee table with his finger.
“Huh?”
“I asked…”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a hundred thousand. Give or take.”
“More than that,” Sue interjects. If it had been any other day, she’d be in bed rereading Oscar Wilde by now. But there’s too much excitement cursing through her body. She’d be pacing up and down herself if she didn’t despise what it did to the lawn. Winton knew Sue almost as well as he knew Jack and Julian. She was easy to read; her heart was sawn on her sleeve, although she never realised it.
“I guess those Facebook stocks are doing well.” He said between thoughts.
“Microsoft,” Jack corrected.
“Bill will be happy. Still, no desire to move out of here?”
“He’ll never,” Sue answers.
“What do you mean, I might…” Jack says, stopping his pacing for a beat or two. His eyes sting Sue’s before venturing towards the forest, and a lump forms in his throat. “Why move when you live in paradise?”
“Paradise? This place?” Winton says, a little taken back.
“Yeah, why not. Paradise isn’t one thing. It doesn’t have to be a white beach with coconut trees. Besides, I can ask you the same thing,” Jack says and continues pacing.
“Sure, but I don’t have Microsoft money.”
“But... there are better prospects in a city, no?”
“Maybe… or more competition. It’s a matter of perspective.”
"Exactly."
Although Jack couldn’t help himself teasing Winton now and again, he was impressed with his friend’s command. He didn’t seem rattled, even with all the whispering and whining echoing in the background. He wore a permanent grin; as if he already knew the conclusion and he was simply here to bring it calmly into the open. But for all his admiration and surprise, he was equally distraught and unsurprised by the absence of Julian. I’ll be quick, circulated in his head like a falling maple seed easing its way to earth. Winton had seen Julian run over the lawn and linger between the towering wheat. But he never let on. So when Jack, with all the subtlety of his furniture collection, mentioned that the search should wait until morning, Winton knew the reason behind his recommendation.
“Jul tells me all the time about the forgotten traps out there. It’s probably safer to go in the morning. Besides, Jul’s convinced he’s still in there, playing Robin Crusoe.”
“He’s not wrong. Remember the time we found that fawn with the managed leg…” Winton said, shuddering at the memory. “Jack,” Winton started, then looked over his shoulder, remembering Sue.
“What?” Jack asked.
“The search has to start first thing.”
“I know.”
“We can help,” Sue says, full of energy.
“Not this time, unfortunately. We have to do it ourselves.”
“But there are so many people here. You’ll be putting your feet up in half the time.”
“That might be true, but for one, the village has already had a go. I was there, remember? And besides, we have to do things by the book. I would love a beer, though…”
“Good idea, detective,” Jack adds, and Sue disappears into the kitchen. Jack and Winton find each other’s eyes, but holding contact is too heavy a task. Unknowns and suspicions grow in Jack's green irises and swim in the deep blue of Winton's.
“We saw three figures in the forest. Two close together and one slightly further behind. They were heading towards the western edge.”
“It’s them?”
“Can’t tell for sure. But probably.”
“Who’s the third?"
“I guess someone else was going for a walk. That’s the only reason I’m leaving it until morning. If Jul is with the kid, then they’ll be alright.”
“These are the last two,” Sue says, passing both men a can. “What happened? You look lighter.”
“We're just talking about Julian’s morning routine,” Jack says, with a warm grin curling the corner of his lips.
“Don’t be jealous. He's more put-together than you, even with all your Micro-money or whatever.”
“It’s just money, Sue. And what do you mean, he doesn’t even wear shoes!” He says, and Winton can’t help his chuckle, he's found it funny since Julian started his hobbit habit.
“In some places, that’s very normal behaviour.” She says, arguing for the absent like a mother hen.
“And here?” Winton replies.
“Well, obviously not here, but maybe it should be.”
"Alright, enough chit-chat. I'm going to bed. See you bright and early." Winton says and leaves as abruptly as he came.
The evening dissolved into the abyss of night, and all three abandoned it for a bed. Winton was first to fall asleep, laying in bed listening to White Noise crackle through his speakers. Sue was next to fall with The Selfish Giant on her chest. Jack never joined them, instead spending the night staring at the ceiling, waiting for the birds to announce a new day. Winton’s news had softened his anxiousness, but something ate away at his peace, gnawing the edges until it was ugly and disfigured. Who was the third person, and why were they going for a walk just as the police arrived in the village, just as they’d finished questioning everyone? When he eventually found sleep, he was terrified. Screams and pleas populated his dreams like an urban metropolis. He saw his friend in the place of the delicate fawn they’d found as kids, mangled by an old iron jaw.
In an empty bedroom at the other end of the high street, 'Happy Sunshine' begins to play.
It’s five am. And although the feeble speakers cannot project its tone more than ten metres, Jack's awake. A few minutes later, another alarm sets off: it emanates a few streets away from the detective's bedside table. Winton’s up before it has a chance to finish its melody. He’s heavy-footed, falling against his wardrobe while he pulls his socks up. Sue’s already awake, baking something cinnamony for the prestigious guest who only visits for his work.
Although there’s no doubt in Jack’s mind that his friend is still in the forest, he starts his morning as usual, checking his emails for an update on a recent purchase. If there’s something he loves more than the furniture itself, it’s re-living the history with his morning visitor. But Julian is hard to impress; he has always been that way, even when they shared a table at the back of their history classes. So he’s been digging deeper lately, hunting for history's twisted objects. The last time he inspired anything close to excitement in Julian was when he bought a piece of the Berlin Wall: a highly illegal purchase. Now he was speaking to the same broker, negotiating over a lamp that used to sit on Himmler's Berlin desk. It will have to be a cash purchase and passed through two intermediaries.
“You’re up early,” Jack says, popping his head into the kitchen on his way to the coffee table outside.
“It’s not every day that we have a special visitor,” She calls after him. Julian's never been so lucky to wake up to freshly baked goods.
"We see him every weekend."
"But he doesn't come here," Sue insists, mixing the batter by hand.
The air’s cooler in the morning and a thin blanket of fog has descended just beyond the field, where it meets the forest. Jack looks at the clouded horizon, imagining what night his friend might have had. For a few moments, he finds the peace that had eluded him all night. An image of Julian and Jamie cooking over a fire came to mind: maybe they’d found some mushrooms too. But as quickly as the picture came, it was dispelled by a grim smile he couldn't place.
“My guys will be here at six,” Winton says, stepping onto the patio.
“That’s a bit sexist, isn’t it?”
“It would be if I had any women in my team.”
“Bigot.”
“You slept well then?”
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep at all,” Jack admits, shaking his head like one might knock a computer to help it wake up.
“Ha, it’s okay. It’s not the first time I’ve been called that. Mrs Harvey said that yesterday before she kissed me goodbye.”
It’s five thirty-six by the time Sue emerges from the kitchen. A silver coffee pot, two fine-china cups and saucers and a plate of steaming cinnamon rolls.
“Come here, detective. Your collar is all out of shape.” Sue says, fussing over his uniform.
“It’s okay, Sue. The best part about being the boss is there’s no one to tell me off.”
“But you shouldn't look scruffy.”
“You’d think she works for you,” Jack says, and Winton can’t help but grin at her mother-henning.
“I was always the favourite.”
As the words leave his mouth, a dog begins to bark, and its owner’s balding head bobs after it in the sea of wheat.
“Kingsley?” Winton asks.
“No, it’s… ”
“It is Kingsley,” Winton says, waving at the bobbing head.
“But his dog is too well-trained to make all that noise.”
“But it is him.”
“The detective’s right, Jack. It's Kingsley.”
“What in the hell,” Jack says, already on his feet and stepping towards the man in his field. “What’s wrong, old man?” he shouts into the morning fog. There’s no answer, the wind is drifting in the wrong direction, but Kingsley’s waving his hands like he’s drowning in the golden grass. “He’s probably found a Roman coin or something.”
Jack wades into his field, making sure he parts the crop neatly. Because of the rolling geometry, Kingsley’s in eye-sight, then not, in again, until after a minute of wadding, he’s a few metres away. “For god sake, man! What’s going on?”
“It's, Andrew! Ambulance… call the ambulance. Now Jack, now!” Jack’s heart drops, his stomach falls to the floor, and his legs buckle. All the nightmares have come true. “Who is it?” He asks again, but there’s no answer, just a look of pity and shock. Jack turns and runs. “Stay there. I'll come straight back.”
Winton rings the ambulance and provides some basic details and directions, and then there’s a long wait as it makes its way from the nearest station. As soon as Winton has hung up, they both run into the field, armed with a fresh first aid kit and spare bandages Sue keeps in the kitchen. Kingsley isn’t visible now, he’s squatting beside the limp body resting in the crusting dirt. They reach him, and suddenly shock loosens their faces as they both get a proper look.
“But how? Why?” Jack stutters.
“It doesn’t matter, give me the water… and the bandages too,” Winton says, not hesitating for an instant. He’s flicked a switch from jovial guest to detective on duty.
“He’s cold, he's been here too long,” Kingsley starts, wiping sweat off his forehead and replacing it with a streak of blood.
“The third figure,” Jack mumbles, and Winton shoots him a look.
“What?” Kingsley asks, sensing the secret between them.
“Nothing, old man, I’m just in shock,” Jack says, transfixed by the bloodied body at his feet.
“I don’t suppose you have an antique stretcher in that house?” Winton asks, still focused and working carefully. “Go check, and bring more water and a couple of blankets.”
Jack stands for a beat or two, paralysed by the sense. “Now, Jack, I need it now!” Winton shouts, and Jack turns and runs; this time not bothering to part the crop he planted months ago.
Jack climbs the stairs two at a time and throws the airing cupboard open so quickly its hinges give up. There are no blankets, only bed sheets, and he grabs whatever he can fit in his hands. Then just as frantically, he dives into the kitchen and opens the cupboards. But the kitchen is a different story, it’s Sue’s domain, and she's nothing more than tidy. Everything has its place, and 'the place' is rarely obvious to anyone but her. It takes a few minutes to find something suitable. Eventually, he finds an old camel sack at the back of a shallow drawer filled with knick-knacks. He fills it, dampening the bed sheets while he’s at it, then sprints out the door, across the lawn and back through the field. And whilst he’s breathing hard and trying not to trip on the damp sheets hanging by his ankles, he can’t help but wonder where Julian is.
Julian
I’m unsure if Jamie would have gone through with it or not. But his dad’s echoing voice drained his confidence. At first, it is just another tormenting feature of the night. For a second, I think it might be a vampire or a werewolf: coming to claim those who have disturbed their refuge. But as it got closer, it became more frightening than a mythical monster. This voice belonged to a real devil: who would never stop, even at the sound of his pleading son.
“You led him here?” Jamie accuses me as he begins to tremble.
“I had nothing to do with it… Be quiet, and he'll miss us,” I say as Andrew comes into view.
“He’s looking in the canopy,” Jamie says.
“Sssh.”
He’s under us, examining the bark on the tree, noticing the chipping caused by my exhausted ascent. Then his eyes drift north, climbing branch by branch until he finds my eyes.
“I fucking knew it… Jamie!” He shouts, fury frothing from his mouth.
“He’s not here,” I say, trying to protect the boy, but his platform isn’t big enough for that lie.
“I can see his goddamn head! Now come down here, you forest fag. Let me show you what happens to men like you.”
“What do you mean, men like me?” I say, attempting to quieten his fury with slow words.
“I mean… Men who lure boys into the forest. People like you deserve to be hog food.”
“I’ll come down, but you have to believe me. I came here to find him. I was never luring him into anything. You’re the one who belongs to the hogs.” I say. Instantly I know I should have resisted the last sentence. But indignation pulled it out of me.
“What are you talking about!” He rages.
“Jamie?” I look at him, he’s quivering, holding the tree trunk for safety. He won’t look at me, and it’s then that I decide I have to kill Andrew.
I’m almost at the bottom of the trunk, descending on the rope, when I feel the first blow. Lucky for me, Andrew's a miserable countryside resident and can’t tell a rotten piece of wood from a healthy one. My back breaks his weapon into wood chippings and dusts my hair with bugs. Then as my feet find the floor, I feel knuckles digging into my kidney. What he lacks in woodland knowledge, he makes up for in boxing expertise. I’m crippled from that punch; it feels like he’s stabbed me with a screwdriver. But he’s not done. I'm spun around and given two more blows, one to my cheek and another to my sternum. I’m not on the ground, but only because the tree trunk's supporting my back. As I protect myself with my rusty guard, I notice a patch of dried earth and awkwardly laid camouflage two metres behind him. I push off the trunk and rush at him. He steps back, grins at the weakness of my counterattack, and then leans in for another couple of shots to my head. I’m losing consciousness; black blotches are narrowing my sight, and my cheeks are swelling. Then with the last of my strength, I give him another push. This time he takes three steps back, and before his lips can curl upwards, the ground crumbles under him. He lets out a yelp. He's a wounded animal calling for help. I look up at the hunting post wedged in the tree trunk, and still, Jamie’s not looking.
“What was in that hole, Jamie?” I ask, gritting through the pain in my jaw. But there’s no answer, so I take a few cautious steps forward. If I thought I was exhausted before climbing the tree, now I’m close to death. My vision is swaying like a buoy in a restless sea, my face is throbbing with each beat of my heart, and my kidney feels like it's ruptured.
“What the hell was that,” he says, clutching a wound on his leg. Jamie had primed this hole for catching food, not sleeping or hiding. Wooden spikes rose menacingly from the earth, and one had sliced his dad’s leg.
“That was your son,” I say, unable to resist kicking him whilst he's down.
“Jamie! I’ll leave you in the cellar next time. You ungrateful fag!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about all that, “ I say, and although I want to leave him there to meet his demise, I’m already beside him, tearing off my sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage.
“Call the ambulance!” He shouts in my face, and I can smell the booze on his breath, but there’s no answering that one. How do you explain to a man like this (one unfamiliar with the forest) that an ambulance will be too slow to save his life? He’s lucky, the spike hasn’t gone in deeper or at a worse angle, but he’s bleeding and sore, and for him, he might as well have been stabbed in the chest.
“Just let me do this, and you’ll be fine,” I say, focusing on the wound running down his thigh. Then as I tighten the knot, his fist finds its way to the back of my head.
“Bastard, I’m trying to help.”
“Don’t touch me,” he shouts. The drink is giving him a second wave of strength. “You better enjoy your last night of freedom,” he says, crawling out of the hole, kicking me away. There’s no thank you, not even a nod of acknowledgement, although he can’t keep his eyes focused. They’re darting about like a baby in a new environment.
“Let me take you home,” I say, trying to manoeuvre myself under his shoulder. But my kindness is met with another blow, this time, an elbow to the ribs.
“Fuck it,” I say, clutching my side. “Go by yourself. You’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”
I stand watching him for a second, he’s unstable, but not totally. He’ll make it home, stumbling from tree to tree until he finds his field or one that looks like his. But it might take him the two hours it’ll take the new day to arrive.
“Jamie, are you alright?” I say, but there’s no reply. All I can hear is Andrew mumbling his way through the forest and the hushed sobs from his son above.
“He’s gone, Jamie.”
“I know… Why did you do that? He would have died in that hole.”
“I couldn’t leave him there. What about your Mum?”
“She would have been… re-born.”
“But you said…”
“That’s if she had to watch him being paraded around as a criminal,” He says, and his voice is firmer. “That… was the perfect opportunity.”
“Jamie, I know he’s a horrible bastard, but you can't deal with people like that with spikes in holes. Otherwise, you’re no better.”
“Life’s too disgusting for your morals.” He replies and starts climbing down.
“Maybe that’s true, but without them, we’re all hiding from the world in holes and up trees.”
“That sounds like a better life than pandering to people like that," he says, and I can sense his fury building.
“Jesus, man, wake up! Sooner or later, you’ll have to face up to your life. The sooner, the better.”
He’s on his feet and walking towards me.
"Thanks," he says, then knees me in the thigh and pushes me against the tree.
“Where are you going now?” I ask.
“To face life,” he says, and his voice is unrecognisable. That’s the last thing he said to me.
I spent two days locked up at home, recovering from my beating, while the storm gathered strength around me. Jack and Winton came in the morning and again at night. Those two days of sneaking around felt like the old days. When we would bunk off school and drink in empty courtyards. But the nightmare wasn’t over. It was just beginning, and the pace was picking up with each tick-tock of the clock. Once Andrew made it back home, which happened the same day they found him, he began his crusade against me. First, I was a murderer, then when no one was discovered dead, I became the kidnapper. The groomer: a man with despicable morals and, if you believe the whisperers, someone with more secrets hidden in the forest. The first night, before Andrew started, I thought perhaps naively that Jamie might resist his father's wild stories. But he did nothing. I was only saved from the corrupt judgement against me because Winton decided I was more important than his career. He fed us information, and when the net was about to be pulled up and tightened around me, he provided the cover I needed to slip away. And before I could be red-listed, I was pitching into the air from a runway I never knew existed.
I didn't know it then, but I will probably never see the village again. Worse still, the forest. Perhaps it's my fault for thinking I could resolve everything so simply. Just a few pointed phrases and Jamie would skip back into his mother’s arms. But I did what all fools end up doing and bit more off than I could chew. And it turns out that the whisperers and theorists got their way because everything was pinned on me. Jamie’s disappearance, Andrew’s leg (which I’ll take responsibility for) and most frustrating of all, the blow to his head. A detail that came with a life sentence. Jamie moved back in with his parents, but not for long. He ran away for good a few months later, joined a sailing crew down south and never spoke to either of his parents again. Or so the rumours go. Since that night in the forest, Andrew has been drinking more, or at least more openly. He’s starting brawls in the pubs and losing most of them. When he’s finally barred from one, he moves to another. But nowadays, he’s an easy opponent, neither coordinated nor particularly strong. At least, that’s what I hear. Jack’s the one branch from my life that survived that storm intact. And only because he has the means to meet me in the deepest crevasses of the world. Deeper and more hidden than any in the forest. Sue cries every so often when he’s at the cottage, lamenting that week and the whisperers that sent me away. So he goes less and less, but when he’s there, he wakes up at five and waits to sip his coffee thirty-five minutes after. Winton keeps his distance, scared away by the thought that his sleight of hand might be discovered.
Even though I’ve had to uproot my life to flee to a place where I don’t understand the people, I cannot read their signs, watch their TV or laugh at their jokes. I find a certain peace in doing the same. I forage in another forest: one with different residences, no motorway rumbling in the distance and no hogs filling the air with their snorts. No kids digging fox holes or spiked pits. But the one thing that has never changed is the sound I wake up to... happy sunshine.
Love, Luke
P.S This series was one of my more successful stories, but I’m sure those who read it all have some questions. Ask me anything in the Blank Pages Chat!