Forgive Me Read online

  Zippo gaped up to the figures on the balcony. “Oh my God. Who’s Stripe with? Fuck me!” He softly punched Doug. “Look up there, D.”

  Doug choked on his drink. “Holy shit.”

  Jace laughed, following their eye line. Stripe and Cameron were busy, cuddling and kissing to the music.

  “You don’t seem shocked!” Zippo said.

  “I'm not,” Jace replied. “I just hope she doesn't ruin her makeup, it took me ages to apply. Clinique brushes don’t grow on trees.”

  Doug gaped. “Have you known this whole time she was seeing Cameron?”

  Jace was having fun toying with them. “Not...the whole time...”

  “At the football field? Is that why you asked us to come along?”

  “Bingo!” Jace said. “You were handy bodyguards.”

  “Does it bother you that Stripe’s…”

  “Gay?” Jace asked. “Of course not! Does it bother you two?”

  She watched them stare at each other mutually, with a single nod, they both shrugged.

  “I can see why she never said anything,” Doug said. “If I were in her shoes, I’d do the same.”

  “Well at least she’s enjoying herself. I’m glad she’s getting some action. Somebody in our group needs to.” Zippo got up and held his hand out to Jace. “Fancy a dance, beautiful?”

  Stripe felt gleefully delirious as she left the hall. High school’s ended on a pretty fucking high note. She was held up by Cameron when they walked to her truck, she'd hurt her ankle dancing like a lunatic to Simple Minds. She’d fallen over but got straight back up and kept going. On the whole, she was proud of herself. She didn’t win the contest but it didn’t matter.

  Cameron gave her a lift to her Aunt Tricia’s house as her father was working late. Again. Beverley didn’t trust her being in the house by herself and yet they were sending her off to college. Cameron stayed in the truck as they talked, kissed and agreed to keep in touch, Stripe couldn’t lie to herself, not seeing Cameron for a while was going to hurt. She couldn’t look back at the truck when she walked away.

  Later on, in the evening Stripe laid in bed, basking in a sea of contentment. One door of her life had closed and another was opening. She was going to learn the mechanics of journalism and the excitement was keeping her awake.

  Red and blue lights flashed outside the window, waking up her mother and auntie. Stripe saw Beverley and Tricia talking to a police officer, huddling together in their nightgowns. It had begun to rain. What was going on? Had there been an accident?

  She saw Beverley’s hands rush to her face, clutching her jaw as her mouth morphed into a scream. She was embraced by Tricia, who rubbed her forehead against her cheek consoling her.

  Before she knew it, Stripe was standing in the street, shivering in the nights breeze. She was still holding her red rose.

  Paper lanterns glowed weightlessly as if a thousand fireballs had been dispersed into the sky. Bouquets of flowers had been strung to neighbourhood fences in a salute of grief and remorse. The tears of a small town in mourning.

  The officer approached Stripe wearing the perfect portrait of pity.

  “I’m sorry for your loss Miss,” he whispered.

  She nodded, staring blankly at the pavement. All light, colour and warmth had been drained from the world.

  “I need to ask you a few questions. Can you come down to the station with us?”

  Stripe looked up at him, nodding a second time, forever cataloguing the memories before and after it happened. “Are you…going to find who did this?”

  Chapter Nine

  Winter 2015

  After she’d finished her story, with certain parts edited out, Isaac’s phone rang and he motioned that he had to answer it. “It’s an emergency. Is it okay if we rearrange this?”

  “Sure, shall I come back tomorrow or are you busy?” Stripe asked.

  Isaac nodded, smiling shyly. “Tomorrow’s fine. I’d love that.”

  “So would I.” She turned off the recorder and unhooked his microphone. He still looked guilty, like a child who’d lied to their teacher or parent about why they didn’t hand in their homework. She packed up her gear and said her goodbyes. As she left, she held her hand out and Isaac shook it with firm conviction. Stripe felt a warm pleasant sensation, she had to flex her fingers on the way to the car.

  When she got home, she made her dinner whilst she juggled a glass of wine. She listened to Beverley jabber on the phone about her tea party and how disappointed that her one and only child didn’t make an appearance. Beverley’s friend was apparently asking after Stripe, hoping to set her up on a blind date with her son, a gifted neurosurgeon.

  “I’m too busy to date right now,” Stripe muttered.

  “You’ve got to get out there, Susan!” Beverley gushed. “I don’t want you to leave it too late. I want grandchildren.”

  She giggled. “I love you too, Mom.”

  Inside, she was groaning with tiredness. Stripe McLachlan and the dating world didn’t mix well, it was like a terribly made cocktail, leaving a rather bitter aftertaste. Ever since her father’s death, when she had the courage to announce her tainted past, people mostly grew uncomfortable. That was one of the things she loved about interviewing Charles Libby. He’d lived in her shoes and understood the pain of having a section of life darkened by the sadistic actions of other people. Stripe hadn’t always been unlucky when it came to love. After Cameron Storms, she had a string of romances under her belt but they never went anywhere. Once the honeymoon period and great sex had soured, they were gone without a trace. She could’ve drowned her sorrows in litres of beer, snorted her way to insanity but that didn’t feel the right way to leave the world. After a couple of years of distancing from romance, Stripe came to a conclusion, journalism was her true lover. Not any man or woman. Delving into a story made the world dwindle. She’d forget things. For just a little while.

  Her phone pinged loudly and she smiled when she saw the text:

  Thanks for all of your hard work kid. I knew you were the right one for this gig. I really appreciate it.

  -Charlie x

  She texted Charles back, wishing him all the best and snuggled on the sofa with her laptop balancing on her knees. She checked her emails, rolling her eyes as she read the message:

  You’re a whore. My whole family thinks I’m a freak because of what you wrote. You don’t know what a true Satanist is. We don’t abuse children. We don’t advocate violence and rape. Next time you’re in New York, you better watch where you’re stepping.

  Stripe laughed at the hypocrisy. “You say you don’t support violence, yet you’re threatening me.” She deleted the email, her motion on auto pilot. “Bye bye!”

  Her fingers tapped, the screen blowing up with the Titan News Facebook page and she scrolled through the comments. She fell on a particular huddle, likes and shares were ticking over manically.

  I don’t think her article is particularly fair, that’s all I’m trying to say. It’s all very one sided. I know she lost her dad, but I know people in this subculture and they are NOT like that. Maybe she’s trying to find solace or refuge in her work because her Pop’s killer was never found…

  She read the next comment underneath:

  Didn’t you read the article all the way through? She wasn’t writing about her own experiences at all, it was about Charles Libby’s life. For fuck’s sake, his name is in the God damn subtitle. A man who had to survive through years of abuse at the hands of a mad cult family, who happened to be Satanists. There are documented cases where practicing Satanists have done some awful acts – like sacrificing new-born babies…Where are on earth are you getting the Night Scrawler from all of this? It’s never fucking mentioned! Stop pouring your narrative onto us.

  Titan News journalists were not allowed to interact with comments, emails, phone calls, or videos on any social media platforms in reaction to their work unless it was approved by Carla and the legal team. Stripe appreciated that
she had admirers, they didn’t need to fight her corner. Everyone had the right to their opinion and if they hated her writing, they hated it, there was nothing she could do. But, occasionally, she felt the sting when an anonymous voice casually threw her father’s death around for some hidden dynamite in their argument.

  As she was reading, another sludge of a documentary about the Night Scrawler flashed on the television. Conspiracy theorists comparing the disappearance of the axe wielding maniac to Jack the Ripper, the Victorian slasher of prostitutes in England and the Zodiac Killer who shot his way through Northern California in the sixties. Stripe switched off the television and clicked off Facebook, searching for the quirky Isaac Payne.

  Wow, he takes a good picture. Look at those eyes. She ignored the glow in her belly and logged into her Virtisan account. Oh, I have a friend request. She clicked the accept button and gained access to Isaac’s profile. He’s nice, kinda weird, but interesting. His page was manic, dotted with pictures and swarming with words. She read through his blog and couldn't help but get excited. She was indulging herself when something struck out like a pin prick to the skin.

  Finally. The content howled at her. Something very, very juicy. Ideas coursed around her imagination like flies.

  Isaac Payne. Stripe poured more wine into her glass, opened up a fresh blank page and began to write, letting the magic take control of her fingers. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.

  Stripe hadn’t felt this eager since the start of the Charles Libby project. The anticipation of what she might discover, the overwhelming excitement and even the stroke of fear. She drove to Isaac’s, rehearsing the words she’d use for the unearthing. Even if she was wrong, she knew she couldn’t let the curiosity slip.

  She drew up outside the house, she saw Isaac through his lavish open windows. He shot up off the sofa and came to her car, offering to take her equipment inside. He was dressed less conservatively this time, in a casual dark blue sweatshirt and black jeans. The dark colours enhanced his blue eyes even more. Stripe wondered if he knew that. They exchanged the fundamental chit-chat and he made her coffee while she got the equipment ready. She noticed his shocked expression when she casually brought up the anonymous death threat from the night before.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Isaac said. “What did they say?”

  “The usual. That I know nothing about Satanism.”

  “Shouldn’t you report it?”

  Stripe shrugged. “No, it’s just words. Their threat didn’t frighten me, it’s hot air. I’ll worry if they start to show up outside my house. That person was just angry and they clearly didn’t read the whole thing.”

  “Yeah because you interviewed other people who participated in the culture.”

  Fuck, he was telling the truth. He read my article, in its entirety too. “I like to gather opinions from both sides of the argument, so it’s a balanced piece. Charles was born into a Satanist group who groomed him for many years, but there are other Satanists who focus their beliefs on love and respect. I know because I interviewed them, they even invited me to some of their practices. That person must’ve interpreted my words assuming that I thought all Satanists are evil and abusive which isn’t true, that’s not what I said at all.”

  “Yikes. If they’re getting upset with you over it maybe you were digging at activities, they shouldn’t be participating in.”

  “Precisely. How was your conference call anyway?” she asked, ceremoniously clicking the microphone onto his shirt. She smiled when she caught the sweet discomfort on his face. “I’m gonna start recording, okay?”

  “No problem. It was fine, thanks. I managed to get some work rolling out so it was good. I’m sorry about cutting it short yesterday. I hope you weren’t offended.”

  “Don't worry about it. I'm a journalist, I'm used to schedules changing.” She grinned and in turn, so did he. “Could I ask what it was about or am I prying?”

  “Not at all. We received some feedback from our service users who want to have a more interactive way of communicating. At the moment, we have chat rooms, forums and private messenger. It’s similar to how AOL or MSN was back in the day, they can video call like you have on WhatsApp and Facebook.”

  “I used MSN Messenger all the time when I was in college, it was how I kept in touch with my friends.” Stripe thought about Jace, Doug and Zippo. She’d lost contact with those three amazing weirdos after high school. She should’ve tried harder to keep them in her grasp, a painful regret she couldn’t forgive herself for. “What do you mean by more interactive?”

  “Well, we’ve noticed that users are grouping together, wanting to collaborate with each other and address their followers. My conference call was about how to make that happen so we’re trying to create a video call than hold more than a handful of users at one time.”

  “Like an online meeting?”

  “You’re correct.” Isaac tipped his head quizzically. “Do you want to go back to your page?”

  “Sure, show me what to do next.”

  Isaac grabbed his laptop from the counter and sat next to her, his arm brushing hers slightly. Stripe watched him as he took control. With the way his fingers moved across the keys, she reckoned he could perform the majority of the technological jargon in his sleep. In fact, he didn’t even glance down at all when he was talking to her. After a while, he started to go on about colours and fonts and Stripe drank her coffee, nodding but nothing was sinking in. Her attention switched back when he asked about her favourite horror story.

  “The Lumberjack,” she replied.

  “Oh, I’ve never heard of it. Is it a movie or a novel?”

  “It’s neither. It’s actually an urban legend.”

  “Like The Candyman or Bloody Mary?”

  “Exactly, but those two stories were based off real life situations or people. The lumberjack displays an essence of mystery. Whether it’s true, I don’t know. The Candyman was a terrible bloody tale of a black man who fell in love with a white woman. He was murdered by a group of white men who didn’t approve of the interracial romance. Bloody Mary was loosely based on Mary Tudor, a British monarch who had hundreds of people burned at the stake. But that’s the thing with urban legends, they change all the time because we’re influenced by our society. There are different versions everywhere. I’ve researched and found other distinct variations. In another form, Candyman was the focus of brutal bullying; he was covered in honey and thrown into a bush, hungry wasps stung him to death and Bloody Mary was about a woman scorned who tumbled into murderous madness, seeking vengeance on her cheating lover.”

  Isaac smiled warmly. “Maybe, you should write an article about it.”

  “I might do.”

  “Can you tell me more about the lumberjack? If you’re okay with it...”

  “It’s a classic anti-hero story. An innocent family torn apart, a damaged child suffering through and witnessing violence, then he ventures out, seeking revenge. They say he’s still out there, with his mask and axe. Late at night, if you hear someone on the stairs, it’s him patrolling your house, keeping you safe.”

  “Sounds sad,” Isaac said. “How did you hear about it?”

  “My dad. I think it was to scare me. We stayed in a cabin when I was younger and I used to roam the woods sometimes, it kept me out of trouble.” Stripe felt her stomach tighten, especially when her father wafted into her memory. It’s been years but it still hurts.

  Isaac shifted on the stool. “Your page is ready.”

  “Wow. You've done a really good job. You got the colour scheme right and...” She tipped her chin towards him. “It’s almost like we’ve met before...”

  Isaac shifted again, his blue eyes darting around the room.

  Aaawww, he doesn’t get it. “Can you make my page look more like your blog?”

  “You've read my blog?” Isaac asked, sounding surprised.

  “Of course. You asked me to write an article about you…”

  “Not me. Ab
out my company.”

  Shit. “Sorry, that was a figure of speech. What I meant to say instead, is that it’s predominantly about your business but readers will also want to know about its creator. And that’s you. For example, why do we get information about the author on the cover of a novel? What's up with the Tom guy in the white t-shirt on MySpace?”

  He laughed. “I get you now. I agree about MySpace. He stole my idea. We were in the same class.”

  She wanted to jump up and down like a kid. “Can I put that in the article?”

  “As long as you focus more on the website, then I’ll allow it.”

  Oh, will you now? Her stomach tightened again. Hey, behave. She knew she had to say something. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Isaac stared at her with concern. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, I just wanted to ask...” She pressed stop on the recorder and looked back at him. “As we’re talking about your blog, I scoped you out last night. Something...caught my eye.” She leaned towards his laptop. “May I?”

  “Of course, go for it.”

  Stripe clicked on his profile and found the treasure for him.

  Isaac laughed nervously. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be interrogated?”

  She smiled. “Believe me, you'd know if I was pulling a serious one on you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, when we were talking about you studying at NYU yesterday. I brought up an old friend from high school. Cameron Storms?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “So, last night I was looking through your blog and found one of your news bulletins and I came across this picture.” She pointed to the image on the screen, it was taken at a gathering of some kind and Isaac was in it with his arms round an older man and woman. “This picture unnerved me a little because...” she pointed to the woman he was embracing. “I recognise her. That’s Cameron’s mother.”