What Really Lies Beyond (Working Title) Prologue - Chapter 2

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Prologue: The Nature of a Final Goodbye1

(Don't be tricked, it is almost out of character for the rest of the story. Read carefully and you'll see where I'm taking it )
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It has been my long held belief that there are only a few moments in time when a person's emotions are truly splashed across their face for the entire world to dissect. Most of the time our feelings are safely hidden behind layers of social graces and geniality. We put on a humble, 'aw-shucks' face to mask our absolute arrogant glee when the boss promotes us in front of the entire staff; we force back our tears and attempt to smile during particularly messy break ups, despite feeling the compelling need to hit the person across from us with a particularly large hammer and then drown them with the tears waiting to be shed; we nod and grin, faking interest, as our elders impart all of their worldly knowledge through memories they retell of when they were two and had to ride half way around the world, through ice and blizzard no doubt, to get home from school so they could plough an entire continent, with a shovel, before sunset, while we, back in this generation, mentally trying to figure out what the hell the stain above the talkers left shoulder is and fight not break down into tears from the boredom. I think most of us can relate to that particular instance. 3

Yes, most of the time we hide what we are really thinking from the world, and most of the time the world buys it like a shoppoholic doctor’s wife at a shoe sale. But, there is the occasional window in the cold brick wall of life through which we can see right into somebody's soul and truly understand what they are thinking. 4

One of these windows will almost undoubtedly give the peerer a bird’s eye view of a funeral. Funerals, although sad affairs on the whole, carry for me a morbid curiosity and fascination. When people are attending funerals, they seem to forget about the rigours of social conditioning they have been through: they cry in public; they wail and moan and feel sorry for themselves; they talk to dead people; they plead with God; they stretch the truth, making the deceased out to be a saint, whether he was an alcoholic, a drug addict, the leader of a major crime syndicate or a terrible bore (often one of a saint's characteristics, but forget semantics). Basically, they do all of the things that in modern society we are taught are better done behind a few sets of locked doors, or preferably not at all. 5

I'm not sure why people seem to lose control at funerals; I don't think it is because of the death of a loved one, as is popular opinion. Humans are inherently selfish creatures, and I think that the real reason lies in this exact characteristic. When somebody that we had a connection with dies, it is extremely different to hearing of a car crash or fire or homicide on the news. Instead of the death being associated with a grainy photo or the teary account of a spouse, that has lost its impact on the greater public through over saturation, it is a shocking realisation of how fragile we as human beings are. Sappy music and perfectly captured tears only work miracles in the land of television; in the real world, few people get a second chance at evading death's indiscriminate clutches. Having a loved one die makes that fact hit home.6

And that touches on my theory about death too: people are afraid of it because it is indiscriminate. Unlike life, it can't be bought, coerced, seduced, convinced, blackmailed, reasoned with or intimidated. The rich, popular, pretty, kind and smart have no leg up when it comes to evading death, and that is why it is terrifying. That is why at funerals people let their true emotions shine through: like alcohol works wonders on reserves of courage, fear is very good at loosening the walls around our souls so that people can see right in. And the reason the tears shed at funerals are selfish is that, as much as we tell ourselves they are, they aren't for the person who has died. No, we mourn for the fact we, one day, will be the corpse lying in a wooden coffin, the only one in the room that doesn't have to endure the nasally tone of the priest with a masters degree in boring people to death (probably so he doesn't run out of work – every funeral means another couple of jobs). And, more importantly, we mourn because there is nothing we can do about it. 7

But, I apologise, I digress. 8

I suppose my excuse for having such deep and theologically developed ideas about death, dying and funerals is that I've had quite a lot of time lately to think over the subjects. Being cooped up in a tiny box without any of the technological marvels of modern society, or even some of the less marvellous staples of old times – like books or conversation – gives one a lot of time to think about things. And when superficial, unimportant topics, like the football rankings, TV shows, everyday dramas and global warming have provided their five minutes of interest, the mind just gravitates toward bigger issues, like being shocked about missing the final of Australian Idol or Biggest Loser (I can never keep pointless reality TV shows straight) and wondering whether you'll ever have to hear the annoying gossiping tone of Mrs. Jenkins from across the street again. Then, finally, you begin to wonder about things like God and death and human nature. Seeing as death is something I've recently had to deal with, my thoughts spent a lot of time poking around the dark corners of that issue. 9

New thoughts for me, I must admit, well off the beaten path. Some people consider these topics daily, some especially committed philosophers probably think about them hourly, but I tend to stick to more general, less dooms-day thoughts. Friends, girls, work, sport, food; you get the picture. 10

The reason my thoughts have wandered down such morbid paths as death and final goodbyes right now is simple: today is the day of my funeral. The very first I'll have had the opportunity to attend where people will be making me out to be great, rather than some other dead guy, as it happens. So I'm actually rather excited. It should be a blast.11

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Chapter 1: The Calm Before the Storm
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Perhaps I've been a little dramatic and hitched the wagon in front of the horse; if that's the way that saying goes. I'm not really reaching out from beyond the grave or bridging the gap between this world and the next. I'm not even really dead. 13

Now that I've got you really, really confused, I'll introduce myself.14

Hi, I'm Dylan Parker. Okay, so for the sake of honesty my real name is Packy Dylan Quigley Parker, but to stop people snickering when I introduce myself I dropped the Packy. What can I say; I'm a Hollywood starlet in the making. Either that or it was my way of rebelling against my mother's alliteration skill. 15

My father may have drunk too much and worked too little before he left, but I will be eternally grateful to him for convincing my mother that I had to have two middle names, one of which being his fathers name, Dylan. Childhood with the name Packy Quigley Parker would have been the kiss OF DOOM, no matter how much of a tribute it was to my mother's Irish roots. 16

I have a great job...well a job, at a pokey little newspaper in the city where I have an office smaller than the chair in my boss’s office and a tiny bit more cramped than one of the six toilet cubicles they made out of the unused storage cupboard. On the particular night when this whole story began I was cursing and swearing and glaring at my computer screen while with technological glee it sent a burst of bright light glaring right back at me. My problem was that inspiration had run away like a boy who just broke my window and I was way too out of shape to catch up with it. The article I was working on wasn't working at all; rather the little blinking cursor on the screen was mocking me and laughing as I swore again.17

Now, I have a theory. The best way to finally do the little jobs that you've been meaning to do for years is to be given a job you want to do less. Trust me, it works. I'd organised all of my files, ending up with an odd two hundred orange folders hiding within each other so the next time I tried to find a document it would be like a technological maze; I'd deleted all the crap off my USB; I'd cleaned my fingernails; I'd even chatted to a very strange woman on MSN who called herself Tank was surprisingly sane. Okay, so she'd somehow disabled my block button, and had then blackmailed me into talking to her by telling me she knew where I lived. But, she wasn't that bad. Although the description of her prison cell and her twenty crimes was a little too much for a first meeting, in my opinion. Something like that should be left at least until the fourth. 18

As you can tell from the list of tasks I'd managed to procrastinate with, I'd been given a job that I really, really didn't want to do. Like, I'd prefer to do my tax, opt to baby-sit a pair of six year old twins on a sugar high, have my eyes pecked out by budgerigars in preference to doing the job I'd been given. I had been instructed to write an article on the latest supposed government cover up by my very large boss, whose head looks like a muddy, scruffy football on which somebody has drawn a face with their left hand, or perhaps even their left foot. 19

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm completely sick of government cover-ups. It seems every time a politician opens his mouth somebody is saying that he only flashed his pearly whites to distract us from the stacks of hundred dollar bills he's passing out in party bags to the criminals staying the weekend at his holiday home in Italy. Seriously. I'd put money on every politician being crooked in some way, something in their genes, I think, but most of them have enough sense to hide what they are doing from the public. Discretion is the term I'd use, if I'd paid attention in university. Besides, I think if we found out exactly how corrupt the people ruling our everyday lives are we would all run into the seas like obedient lemmings because of the deep cloud of depression that would settle over the nation. Kindergarteners may run the country, but ignorance is bliss, and all that, so why make people suspicious at all?20

A logical enough argument, but you don't whisper one word of it to the retired star quarterback of some American football team (with the appropriate muscles, lack of grey matter and growl) who thinks the story will make great news and also happens to be your boss. So that left me sitting in my office, the wall behind me pushing my stomach into the cheap wooden edge of my desk and cutting off my air supply, trying to stretch the ambiguous at best details into a five hundred word article good enough to get me promoted. Then I'd get an office with a chair that had been made for a full sized human being instead of the one I had, modelled for a midget with a deformed spine by a blind child missing three fingers. 21

With a roll of my eyes, I tapped out what I only wish I could give to Skinhead (my boss, trust me when I tell you it suits him). Looking back at me through the glare of the screen was this:22

I really wish I could tell you something that could be classified as news, but sorry this is all I've got. Some government official, we don't even know his average height, hair colour or party, is alleged to have funded a major crime gang, again the details on the little things (like who and where) are sketchy, and voted on a secret piece of legislation that could potentially make things easier for the criminals. To the schoolboys out there who are having a good old laugh at their practical joke, perhaps you could have the decency to send me some proper details next time. I'm a journalist, I'm not God; I can't make something out of nothing. Please, bear with the curiosity for a few days and watch this space. We'll bring you more details as they come. 23

I sighed and tapped the backspace button, letting the words disappear one letter at a time. This was stupid. I would write the article, like a mature and professional man, and then catch up with the guys to complain about it, like the immature boy I really am. 24

Just as I was about to begin my catchy introduction (optimism improves results) I remembered something. I hadn't checked my email in the last twenty minutes. I'd better do it; I could have an important message. Procrastination is what God gave the world to make up for three hundred year old geography lecturers and thick substitute chemistry teachers. 25

Manoeuvring my way to Yahoo Mail, I logged in. A little underlined message told me I had one unread message in my Inbox, so I excitedly opened it, checking the sender details. It apparently had come from the guy I nicknamed 'Source'. Now, it's a fairly self-explanatory name, but for anyone a little slow on the up-take, this guy, name unknown, sends me details of all kinds of topics that I can then make into long bull*bunny* stories to sell newspapers. Sometimes he told before other papers wrote the articles, sometimes after, but he gave them to me and he was usually right so we had a good strong relationship. Although, since he was the one who passed on the details of the latest cover up, I think we were about to hit a rough patch. 26

His message was quite simple:
I have more information on the government cover up – specifics. Meet me at the Bianco Cafe, 5pm tomorrow, Saturday 5th. This is big stuff, it can't be sent over the net.27

Now, naturally, when I heard this I felt ready to grab my gun, jump in my convertible, admire the flowing blonde hair of my impossibly beautiful sidekick, set up all kinds of surveillance, attend the meeting looking impossibly good, and trace my source back to his source and on an afterthought save the world. But then when I snapped around to grab the next best thing to a gun (my bread knife) out of the drawer, I twisted my back, making the muscles scream at me in a chorus of very angry and unhappy tones. So, I figured I'd have to leave the gun behind and attend the meeting with nothing but my usual charm and grace. Hopefully, Source will still send me things after he's met me; my Irish charm can sometimes be an acquired taste.28

If I had known that this government cover up and the abrupt email were the beginning of a complete nightmare I might have been a bit more worried, but being completely in the dark, I tapped and erased with growing annoyance for another half hour. Then I groaned, swore and decided I was going home and trying again in the morning. 29

Noticing on my way out that all of the cameras were conspicuously missing their little blinking red lights, I grinned. Skinhead was going to be annoyed when he found out the security system was down again. Although, he was good at relating to workmen. Their IQ's tended to be well matched. 30

I fiddled around in my wallet to find the identification card with a grainy photo of an unhappy me and slipped it through the reader that clocked our arrival and departure times, before heading toward the back parking lot. 31

The well spaced streetlights didn't do much to alleviate the darkness; in fact, by throwing big shadows over the bitumen it almost made the blackness seem thicker and more alive. I shrugged on my jacket and pulled the helmet over my brown hair before depositing my laptop case on the back of my motorbike. It, meaning the motorbike, not the laptop case, had some long name with lots of complicated letters and numbers, probably tapped out at random by an eighty year old whose hands shake. I'm sure one section of the community could identify the bike by this strange mix of characters, and recite a hundred useless facts, but I can't. To me, it was just the very cool black motorbike with orange flames licking their way down the side and a powerful, satisfying and loud noise. I pushed up the kickstand and revved the engine, grinning at the terrifying mechanical roar. Flipping down the visor, I tore out onto the deserted street, revelling in the power between my knees that I didn't know was propelling me toward disaster.32

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Chapter 2: And It All Turns To Hell
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You know how in the movies, people can always tell when there is a dead body lying behind the door? They have some sort of extra sense (I'm reluctant to say sixth since some scientists retain things like proprioception, nociperception and kinaesthesia are really senses; irrelevant, but interesting) and that sense tells them there has been a heinous crime committed just a few meters from where they are standing. So they'll pull their guns, edge around the door and be fully prepared for the gruesome sight that meets them. Well, I don't have that sense. I don't know whether I missed out when God was passing around the secret or whether the people who can tell are just freaks, but when I returned home, I had absolutely no idea what was lying behind my wooden door. 34

So, like every normal day, I juggled my laptop case, helmet, and jacket in one hand while holding the mail in-between my teeth and struggling to get the key into the lock. I could have sworn that key was made for a different lock, because it couldn't have possibly been made for that lock. It just didn't fit. Finally I nudged open the door, threw my jacket onto the table and spit the mail down beside it. 35

That, unfortunately, was where the normality stopped and the absolute nightmare of the last week began. 36

When I glanced up at my living room, it wasn't its usual mix of strange colours and ugly windows. You may ask how a window could be ugly. Ugly windows are the kind of thing top interior decorators knock over before breakfast, and the specific interior designer that had put together this room spent the rest of the week making every aspect unbearable. A strange light cream colour morphed into a suspicious brown the lower down the wall you had the misfortune to look, being met at the bottom by a checkered sort of carpet that could bring a grown man to tears if he was forced to look at it too long. The carpet was disrupted in the middle by a horrible green shagpile rug that in three years I still hadn't found the nerve to touch. I wanted to get rid of it, but I had no idea what monsters could be hiding between the woolly fibres. A few different pieces of furniture were scattered around, and the three different tones of wood showed that my wonder interior designer hadn't fledged toward the end of her destruction spree, and on the walls I had covered up a perfectly horrible modern artwork with a slightly less ugly photograph of my family. Of course, it was only slightly less ugly, because I was nine at the time and the effect of missing teeth with the indescribable fashion of the time was ghastly. I suppose if pressed for time I could simply describe the room as looking as though a paint easel and a few different fabrics from the 60's had gotten together, had an ugly child (don't question logistics, it will ruin the metaphor) and left the weird looking mutant to explode and shower the room with random colours, designs and textures.37

Now you can picture the living room I came home to everyday, imagine my shock to find the perfect green rug ruined by a large spreading stain of sickly red blood. Imagine that blood was leaking from between the orange hairs of a young man whose arm was sticking out at an unnatural angle and whose face was actually buried in the green rug (after I'd gotten over the shock of the body itself, the deeper shock of a person having to touch the rug was with me for a long time). And now, after all that, imagine that poor guy with his nose breaching the barrier to hell was your brother.38

Perhaps you are experiencing a little of the shock that I was being numbed by. Maybe not. Regardless, I can tell you my heart was ready to beat out of my chest, my lungs had frozen and my brain had stopped working. Aiden's reddy orange hair was unmistakable, and from this angle I could see the faint scar I had given him when he was eleven and had annoyed me until I smashed him on the shoulder with a blue, flowery, plastic dolls chair. He told people it had been a football injury. 39

Looking back I'm not sure how long I stood there gaping at my older brother bleeding on my living room rug. But when it finally sunk in, I sprinted to the toilet and threw up. Twice. I flushed it and sat on the lid, trying to calm myself down. I was dangerously close to hyperventilating and tears were swimming in my eyes. Aiden and I hadn't been very close; as adulthood dawned on us we began to drift away, losing the comrade of our younger days, but we were still brothers and despite being able to look back on it now with minimum emotion, then I was completely shattered. After a few minutes, I went back out to make sure I had seen everything right. 40

A hole, that had blackened around the edges, marred his temple, and although the protagonist of another book, who had keen observation skills and a convenient background with police might have been able to tell you the weapon; how long Aiden had been dead and how close the attacker had been. He would have nearly been able to solve the crime himself. But, I am a journalist and can be annoyingly slow on the up-take. It looked to me like a gunshot wound, my diagnosis being based on extensive viewing of cop shows and hospital dramas. Unfortunately I was still way behind the hero of that other book, because I had no idea what the jumble of letters and numbers that identified the gun to seriously obsessed civilians and policemen. I'd heard of an M16, but that was about it, so I was hesitant to label it an M16, because I figured there were probably a few other models, and the chance it was the one type I knew was pretty thin. 41

So, for some unknown reason my older brother was improving the colour of my carpet and a distracting gunshot wound from some unknown gun shot by some unknown person was staring up at me from his mauled forehead.42

And since that was all I knew, that is all you know. Of course now, looking back, I understand every single second, but I can be very evil, and I'm going to let you ponder just like I did. I know, how unfair. Just sometimes life is like that. 43

I was still staring in shock at my brother when my mobile phone began to announce to the world somebody wanted to talk to me by buzzing, ringing with its pre-programmed sound and making a general annoyance of itself. I'm not sure whether you can develop those extra senses I mentioned earlier, but I think I was on the way to getting some sort of intuition, because when the phone rang a pang of trepidation shot around my heart and petered out in a thrill of adrenalin in my fingers and toes. 44

I flipped open the black Nokia and spoke with delayed shock. The call reminded me that the outside world existed; it seemed in this surreal nightmare the whole universe consisted of my horrid living room and the seeping stain. 45

“Hello?” My voice seemed very loud in the silence of the apartment.46

“Packy Parker?”47

I winced at the horrible alliteration and decided that couldn't go uncorrected, even if I suspected it was one of those horrible telemarketers. “Uh, Dylan Parker. I don't go by...Packy.”48

“Right,” the mans voice was rushed and distant, as though speaking to me were just one of a hundred things he was doing. “Right, well, Dylan, I need you to do something.”49

“What? Who are you?” I was annoyed now. I'd found my brother dead on my shagpile rug and a telemarketer was asking me favours.50

“That doesn't matter. I know about your brother.”51

“Wha-” this time my question was louder and more demanding. This guy had turned from a distant annoyance to the very centre of my attention. I'd only known about Aiden for a few minutes and it was very fishy that somebody else knew.52

“Unlock the door.”53

“I'm sorry, but who ar-”54

“Dylan!” He had shouted. My ear hurt. “You need to unlock the door. Now!”55

Something in his tone made me reconsider arguing. I walked over to the front door and pulled it open. 56

Leaning against the wall were two figures, who on first take looked very similar. Unlike the government agents or heroes in the movies they weren't wearing black pants, black shirts, black jackets and black sunglasses. In fact, they looked incredibly normal, and I might have asked which charity they were collecting for, or something, if he hadn't been holding a phone in his hand and looking at me expectantly.57

The man had a sharp chiselled face, the kind I suppose would make him quite a heartthrob had he been in Hollywood. Because he was only standing outside my front door, I took more notice of the barely concealed muscles lying above his dark jeans, the but of the gun peeking out from behind his tan leather jacket and the competent look in his eyes. 58

It was the girl beside him that got my attention. She had a striking pair of green eyes that looked up at me with such an indescribable look I had to literally drag my own blue eyes away from them. Her brownish auburn hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, but one piece of fringe was too short to be caught by the pink band, and tickled her smooth tanned skin. She had a pink pullover and washed-out jeans that capped white lace less joggers. 59

Without another word, the man met the lady's eyes and then dragged his light green orbs over to mine before ushering me back inside. 60

He grabbed my elbow and guided me past the body on the floor and into the dining room. He and the woman sat down on the other side of the wooden table and stared at each other for a second, having a conversation filled with the minutest raise of eyebrows, narrowing of eyes and barely perceptible shake of heads. Funny, isn't it, that no matter how many different languages you know – I mean, I can lip-read, a cousin taught me three swear words in sign language and I suffered through six painful years of Italian at school (the fact I can only count to fifteen and ask where to find the toilet is irrelevant) – the conversation will always be in some form of communication you can't understand. I think I'll make a law out of that idea; it worked for Murphy. It will be as follows: no matter how many languages you know, the conversation will be in one you don't understand. It has a nice ring to it. Justin's Law. Or perhaps Parker's Law. Definitely not Packy's Law, that denies it even one scrap of credibility. Whatever. By this time they had finished their little conversation and were both staring quite intensely at me with beautiful pairs of green eyes. Well, hers were beautiful. I wasn't taking much notice of him. Thinking I should rip my eyes away from what could be his girlfriend and make a good impression on him since he was the muscly guy with a particularly threatening black gun poking out of his jacket, I grinned nervously. 61

“Uh, hi.” Not my best attempt at smooth, in control and nice, but this whole thing was crazy.62

The girl smiled back at me. “Hey. This must be a little strange.”63

I shot her an incredulous look. I'd always been good at those; one eyebrow raised up and a grin shadowed my mouth. 64

“Okay, very strange.”65

The man looked a little nervous and I hoped he wasn't trigger happy. With an impatient sigh he interrupted.66

“I'm Jack and she's my sister, Allison.”67

I nodded and tried to formulate my next question very carefully. I had to be tactful and gracious. “Who the hell are you?” Okay, so not my best attempt, but I was under pressure. 68

“I just told you-”69

“No, you told me your name. That isn't who you are.” I felt quite smart and witty, but I could tell he was getting annoyed.70

“We're here to help,” Jack said, nervously glancing at his watch and jumping when a car revved its engine outside, purposely ignoring my question.71

“Are you police? Or...”72

They had one of those quick silent conversations again. 73

“You don't get it do you.”74

I hesitantly shook my head, brown hair falling in my eyes.75

“This wasn't some accident. Some very powerful people are having you framed for Aiden's death.” 76

Jack had said it in such a relaxed tone, as though he were simply stating that it had been unusually warm summer just past. 77

“What?” I use a question mark, but an exclamation mark would be good too. Perhaps somebody needs to burden the world by inventing a combination of the question and exclamation marks. A few changed keyboards; a few confused eleven year olds. So what? At least completely pointless paragraphs like this wouldn't have to be tapped out painfully, letter by letter with two fingers, by dozens of writers all around the world. 78

To catch you up, I'd just exploded in confusion and anger at the insinuation I was going to be framed for my brother’s murder. 79

Jack, either expecting this reaction or having done this a number of times, rolled his eyes and began to speak. “The gun on the ground, lying behind Aiden, is yours. Your ammunition is missing. Your gun license is missing and the record has been deleted from the mainframe. Under your brothers fingernails is DNA. Your DNA, probably from that cup over there.” I followed his finger to look at the unwashed glass beside the sink. “There was gun residue on the hall door; you now have it all over your hands. And, a tape was played of you and Aiden screaming at each other. The neighbours were probably turned deaf by it.”80

He leaned back as though he were very satisfied with himself. 81

“That's motive and means. By replacing the footage of the camera outside, turning off the ones at your office and changing your log out time, they have given you opportunity.”82

I think, looking back, perhaps the shotgun delivery wasn't the best idea. A stand-up comedian once said that an Irishman always looks as though he has just been told two very important pieces of information at the same time. The little man on one shoulder says the man has won a billion pounds. The little leprechaun on the other shoulder tells him he only has three minutes to live. The comedian of course makes it funny by pulling a very dense confused face, but my point with this is that I'm already Irish, and instead of being told two pieces of information, I'd been told at least half a dozen. Imagine that face!83

The one word that managed to come out of my mouth, out of the thousands running around in my head, was a very stunned: “Why?”84

Allison shrugged. “We don't know. But we're going to find out.”85

Jack, I'd decided, acted as though he was sitting on a very prickly, cactus-like chair, and had been told he had to stay there for a few minutes. He kept checking his watch nervously, and glancing around the room. This room, just in case you were wondering, had been protected from the interior decorator. It had a polished timber floor with cream paint on the walls and tasteful furniture. I spent more time in here than the living room, as I'm sure you might have guessed. 86

Jack once again turned his gaze toward me and spoke in a tone that suggested he was nervous but still in control of the situation. Yes, I'm very intuitive at reading in between the lines when it comes to voices. 87

“You've got a choice. You can stay here, wait for the cops, forget we ever came. Chances are you'll go to prison.”88

I gulped. His words had definitely had the desired effect.89

“Or you can come with us and find out who's behind all this.”90

Now, for all of you, sitting on the beach or lying in bed, all safe and relaxed, it may have seemed like a simple question, but for me, in my kitchen with two complete strangers, trying to come to grips with my brother's death and understand this whole 'being framed' thing, it was a little more difficult. Assuming they were telling the truth, staying here would invariably lead to me sitting in a cell the size of my office with a guy named Bubba with the new title of murderer. Leaving gave me a chance to get to the bottom of the whole sordid thing, and they both seemed nice enough, but it meant I would become a fugitive. As much as being a fugitive sounds like fun when you have popcorn and a big screen, actually leaving your whole life and heading into the unknown is pretty damn terrifying.91

As I was weighing up my options, the distant wail of a police car broke the silent air and all of that pent up nervous energy Jack had been storing was converted to kinetic. He and Allison both jumped to their feet and looked at me with matching green eyes. 92

“What's it gonna be, Dylan?”93

“Uh...”94

“Come on!” 95

The siren was getting louder and louder, turning from the distant cry of a fly buzzing around my ear to the demanding wail of a bratty baby. 96

“Um, I'll go with you guys...” It was very nervous and undecided, and I didn't blame Allison for questioning me. 97

“Yeah?”98

I nodded with more finality, “Yes. Let's go.”99

Jack and Allison both seemed to know where they were going, so I just trailed behind them as we ran to my bedroom and pushed open the window. They both seemed to gracefully glide out, but it took me a bit more concentration to co-ordinate my hands gripping the sill, one leg holding my weight and the other sliding through the gap, all while having my chest pressed against the my hands because of the width of the gap. It was a logistical nightmare. 100

The siren really began to get under my skin. It was getting louder and, though I think this was an illusion, became more and more like the wailing voice of a particularly bratty child. We crossed my pathetic excuse of a garden, the darkness hiding us from any suspicious eyes, but also hiding any potential obstacles from our nervous eyes, and Jack and Allison vaulted over the neck high fence with movie-worthy prowess. I sort of pushed myself up and tumbled over the edge, somehow landing on my feet when I fell down the other side. 101

We ran through a dozen yards, jumping those very annoying fences left, right and centre, and although the noise from the police car had been annoying, the sudden silence gave us no idea where the cops were, and that was just as terrifying. Jumping all these fences was like the workout from hell. And that particular accolade had some tough competition. I had been in my second year of university and decided that although I was (and always have been) on the skinny side I wanted some muscle. So, I signed up to a gym, bought a shirt that already looked old and sweat stained and picked a blue towel to take along. I was very excited. I'd get buff, get fit and get some good old gym buddies. Yeah, right. 102

My personal trainer hated me.103

He yelled. And swore. And told me I was a *bunny* idiot for drinking alcohol. He himself looked like a building: very strong, very tall, and ready to fall on your head and crush you the second a terrorist appeared on the horizon. That terrorist, in his life, was me. I was clumsy and weak and very unconditioned and he hated me on sight. That was reflected in the workout session that left me groaning in bed for a week. 104

Anyway, after jumping enough fences to make me think my internal organs now hated me and were trying to escape from the body that had crossed over the dark side where people check for fat free-ness and actually exercise, we came to a car they must have parked earlier. 105

I mentioned I don't know very much about cars, so all I can tell you about this one is that it was a faded red and looked fairly old. No fancy letters and numbers for you this time, sorry. We jumped in and he began driving at a perfectly legal speed so a roaming squad car wouldn't begin chasing us. That would be well within the realm of my usual luck. 106

As the streets became unfamiliar, everything began sinking in. 107

My brother was dead.108

I was being framed.109

I didn't know who by or why.110

Now I was a fugitive.111

One word began reverberating around my head in the storm of questions and realisations already swirling around and confusing me. 112

Crap.