Posted 10/8/00
Tom was still covered with her blood when the policemen came back in. The stench filled his nostrils, stung his eyes. The coffee burned his throat and did little to calm his nerves.
He'd held her life - and lost it.
No, not lost. It had been taken from her - ripped from her - by her attacker. The savage bastard who had torn her apart so badly that despite all of his skills, he could not save her. The monster who had preyed on an eight year old girl.
He heard the police talking softly to the nurse about the case. A few minutes later, without quite knowing why, he slipped silently out of the hospital into the cold midnight street. For some reason, he had to be there, had to see it. Maybe then he could understand. Even if it killed him, he would understand.
The track behind Downey Park has no lights and is pitch black come nightfall. It runs along the tiny wilderness surrounding Enoggera Creek, darkly over-shadowed by the spreading mangroves. Through this wall of wood, through which not even the most adventurous child would ever climb, was where she'd been found, stained black from the blood, and from the dark mud which cradled her broken body. Tom stared down at the slowly moving water glistening between the thick branches, but knew that it was not enough.
In furious determination, he pushed and struggled through the trees. His shirt tore, and at one point, so did his flesh, as a snapped twig scratched surprisingly deep across his neck and cheek. He lost his grip and ended up knee-deep in the foetid mudbank. The impact knocked his glasses into the darkness, lost forever. He swore, and then there was utter silence.
Then he heard it.
Somehow, he knew instantly that it was what he was seeking. He could smell it, smell the blood that covered it, the same blood that covered him. His breath caught in his throat as he saw again the huge marks in the girl's flesh. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised he had no weapon and no means to protect himself. The sound grew closer - a shuffling, slurping sound across the mud, at small intervals - footsteps.
Tom crawled further into the middle of the creek, beyond the trees, and at last saw the shadow. It lurched forward with bipedal steps, but its shape was grossly inhuman. At that, the fear in Tom destroyed all logic, all thoughts of caution, and he began to scream.
"Show yourself!" he bellowed, tears beginning to sting his eyes. "Come on! Come HERE!" The figure stopped at the sound and seemed to turn to look at Tom. "Come on, you bastard!" he screamed, beating his chest with crazed fury. Tom lurched another step forward through the thick mud, splattering his face. He tasted soil and spat. When he looked up again, his eyes met the creature's.
The moon had come out faintly and in that light, his bleary vision caught sight of a face; a face so alien, so hideous, he wanted nothing more to look away, but found he could not. For in the middle of the face was a sight so familiar he felt like he was looking into a mirror. The thing was staring at him with a look of confusion, of fear, and of incomprehensibility in the face of the unutterably alien. For an instant, Tom saw himself as the creature saw him.
Then a blinding light flashed in Tom's eyes, and he heard a splash. The thing was gone.
A man's voice called out from behind the light. The second time, Tom realised it was asking if he was all right. He couldn't answer; he didn't know.
"I-I lost my glasses" he choked.
A bearded man in a yellow raincoat pushed through the mangroves and stretched his hand out as far as possible to him. "Here mate," he offered.
Tom stared through his tears at his dirty, blood-stained body, half naked and sprawled like a wild thing in the mud. He looked up at the pristine yellow raincoat of the man reaching to help him, his trimmed beard, his clean hands. And he cried.