Bad Life

“Um?”
Watson blinked, his vision blurred by pain. I asked calmly once more.
“The dog Hugh and George kept—Christopher. Do you know him or not?”
In that instant, a flash of recognition lit Watson’s eyes.
“So you know”
I stared into Watson’s face. If he lied again to stall, I swore I’d cut off his nose and feed it to my dog.
Fortunately for him, Watson didn’t try any more tricks. He nodded slowly, his body trembling. From that gesture I felt, for the first time in eight years, the clue that had always slipped away was finally within reach. I swallowed and inhaled deeply on my cigarette before snuffing it out.
Facing Watson, I drew my pocketknife from my back pocket. Worn though it was, the blade remained keen. Watson’s face went pale. I pinched the tip of his nose without smiling and said coldly,
“From now on, if your answer lags, you lose your nose.”
Watson, terrified, couldn’t even cry. His nose was clamped shut; he panted through his mouth and nodded frantically. I flicked the blade open and tapped it against the bathroom tile as I asked,
“Surname.”
Watson looked bewildered. I repeated,
“What’s Christopher’s last name?”
“Christopher… Christopher… Moore. It was Moore. Yes, that’s right…”
“How old was he then? Christopher, I mean.”
“Seventeen? Eighteen? Around there… he was our age…”
Seventeen. So Christopher was sold into prostitution by age seventeen at the latest.
It had been more than ten years since I first met those boys on the top floor. The deeper I’d dug, the more appalled I’d grown at their cruelty. Rage swelled in me toward the shameless Watson seated before me. Those who’d participated in the Club—once or twice—lived out their ordinary lives with untroubled faces. But the boys dragged into the Club? Where were they now? Did they, too, live somewhere, walking dogs after work, posting banal photos on Instagram?
They were all dead. None survived. No one remembered them. No one searched for them. Except me, no one had. I gazed at Watson, burning with hate. I would find those boys. I would uncover the deaths someone had hidden and buried.
“Tell me about Christopher”
I tilted the blade across Watson’s nose and said,
“Recall as much as you can.”
“W-wait… please, just… wait…”
Watson trembled and stammered out,
“We called him Cherry…”
“Cherry?”

“A nickname… Chris—Christopher—he was in the same pool as Hugh. Preparing for the junior meet… he was normal. Just… normal…”
“And?”
“And he… he was good at swimming…”
“And?”
“I don’t know… I really don’t… nothing special about him…”
“I expected more.”
The blade pressed into Watson’s nose. He froze like wax and wept silently.
“I ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) really don’t know. After that, I went to Italy… I don’t know anything else…”
At that moment Watson doubled over and vomited. I stepped back and folded my knife. I no longer needed anything from him. He had told me what I sought about Christopher.
I left Watson retching on the floor. I wiped my wet hands, stopped the recording app on my phone, and paused at the door. I turned to look at him crouched and crying, and, unlike my earlier harshness, said gently,
“Dave.”
Watson jerked his head up as if electrocuted.
“I don’t think you’d tell anyone, but it’s best if you don’t mention tonight’s events to anyone.”
“N-no, I—never…”
“‘Club’ friends don’t like their business broadcast around.”
I didn’t actually know if the Club still existed or who was in it, but this was always how I threatened them. It worked every time—I knew more about the Club than anyone.
“I hear George hates rumors most of all.”
Without waiting for Watson’s frantic nods, I left the bathroom.
Despite the commotion, the dog lay quietly by the door. When I opened it, the dog followed, leash dragging. It climbed into the elevator with me and even rode all the way down. Outside, I boarded the first bus at the stop. I looked back through the window at the dog wagging its tail on the curb and then turned away.
The winner of the 7th Oxfordshire County Youth Swimming Championships in 1996 was Hugh Donwell.
Hugh’s face on the monitor looked far younger than I remembered. He beamed with his medal around his neck, revealing perfect white teeth—no one would guess the vicious cruelty beneath that smile. I stared at the red-cheeked boy with bright blue eyes, then scrolled down. Below the medalists was the full competitor list. I found the name easily:
Christopher Moore (크리스토퍼 무어, Christopher Moore). Born 1977. Educated at Chaddesden School, Oxfordshire. There was even a photo. At last I saw Christopher’s normal face—until now, I’d only known the image of him sold into a brothel. Facing the innocent boy’s smiling photograph, I felt unexpectedly detached. I noted his gaunt cheeks and pale complexion—typical of a boy in a growth spurt—and the faint shadow under his eyes.
After eight years of pursuit, this was the face of my quarry. Handsome in a neat, unremarkable way—someone you might pass on the street without a second glance. Hugh’s casual description echoed in my mind: “Just normal, really normal…” Indeed. A boy who could never have imagined his future. I printed the photo of Christopher and left the library.
Over the next few days I stayed in Chaddesden. Rushing to the school to demand information risked police intervention, so I repeated the method I’d used to find Watson: scouring Facebook for Chaddesden School alumni my age. Days of locked-room laptop work yielded little.
I had to canvass in person. Dressing neatly—a clean shave and tidy clothes—I passed as someone friendly. It helped that I naturally put people at ease. Whenever I saw an ad featuring my ex-Julia, I was struck by how much we resembled. With just a haircut and fresh clothes, most people greeted me warmly.
Armed with Christopher’s photo, I first visited the parish church. The priest, newly appointed years later, didn’t know Christopher.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with him, sorry.”
No surprise there. Then I hit the nearby pubs and restaurants. Pubs made questions easier. On the fourth day, an older man who’d run the pub for decades recalled the Moore family.
“Ah, yes. His son was a swimmer, I think?” He slid me a pint.
A chill crept over me—my first lead a week after arrival.
“Yes. Christopher Moore. He even competed in the county championships.”
“That’s right. I remember him.” The man scratched his stubbled cheek. “Haven’t heard the name in ages.”
“Did they move away?” I asked, too tense to drink. The man eyed me and asked,
“Why are you looking for them?”
“I’m compiling a centennial commemorative booklet for the school.” I nonchalantly took a sip. “Christopher was the first to compete in the county meet, so I wanted to include his photo. But the contact info got lost.”
“Mmm.” He leaned on the bar. “They moved out long ago.”
“What happened?”
He frowned, then said, “The Moores died in a double suicide, and the son moved away alone.”
Seeing my shock, he quickly corrected himself: “Well, suspicious accident,” but the implication was clear.
He didn’t know more: cause of death, where Christopher moved, any rumors since. It seemed Christopher had buried his parents’ deaths and vanished. Prying further would only raise suspicion, so he changed the subject with a regretful, “That’s too bad.”
After an hour of small talk, I left the pub. The late-summer night was oppressively humid. Hands in my pockets, I walked toward the church. My chest tightened after hearing the double suicide. Eight years of hunting monsters had hardened me, yet each time my stomach twisted with disgust.
From the evening mass, hymn singing drifted through the open doors. I slipped around to the churchyard cemetery. Among the well-kept grass rose headstones; I strode past until I found the names I sought.
“May Alex Moore and Melissa Moore rest peacefully with the Lord.”
They died in 2000—when Christopher would have turned twenty-three. He must have been rescued from the brothel. No guesswork needed to imagine what followed: the grief overcame the parents, they killed themselves, and the son vanished. I traced the smooth edges of the stone.
“Oi, you there?”
A sharp voice made me turn. An elderly groundskeeper with broom and dustpan glared at me.
“Sorry, I was just paying respects.”
But the man’s scowl didn’t soften. He approached in long, brisk strides—shorter than me, yet unbowed. He demanded,
“What’s your relation to the deceased?”
Feigning hesitation, I replied,
“They were my friends’ parents.”
“Friends?” He snorted. “Doesn’t wash. What friend?”
My shoulders tensed, but I maintained calm.
“Christopher, you mean?”
“Christopher, my foot.” He snorted again, then, as if letting something slip, shrugged and said,
“Probably Christine.”
Christine? Caught off guard, I said nothing. The man narrowed his eyes and poked me in the chest.
“A lie, that is. You said friends.”
“In high school.” It might sound lame, but I had no choice.
“It’s been over ten years since you saw him.”