NOVEL NEXT vol. 5 chapter 3 - Raymond Goodman's Predecessor (3)
The old man sneered.
“Ten years? Why come looking for an old friend from so long ago?”
“I have something I really need to ask.”
“Whatever you ask, you shouldn’t expect much.”
He taunted me with eyes as blue as the sky.
“That guy isn’t sane.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go find him and ask him yourself. He comes here sometimes.”
And with that the old man stomped off.
The old man’s name was William Ranson (윌리엄 랜슨, William Ranson). He had worked as the caretaker of the church and cemetery for forty-two years. He had remained single all his life, relying only on God, and the only person he ever held a proper conversation with was the priest. Although he was respected by the townspeople, he received no affection or goodwill. It turned out he was infamous for his awful temper.
After observing him for a week I concluded that none of the villagers liked him. When greeted he responded only with a curt nod so brusque it felt rude. If any kids playing by chance damaged the garden he would scold them with a terrifying scowl. I never once saw William smile. If his lips quirked even slightly he would tighten his features as if the world might collapse in that very moment, and he walked around perpetually scowling.
Above all he hated outsiders like me. He openly mocked my American accent and would angrily drive me away whenever he found me in the cemetery. Since he loathed me so much I abandoned any thought of befriending him. Instead I stopped worrying about the townspeople’s stares and went to the church every day.
I had never believed in God. I had never entered the church to pray, so I did not attend mass. I usually sat under the shade of the fig tree planted in the corner of the cemetery and watched William at work. For a week he steadily hurled insults and chased me off, but on Sunday, for some reason he did not bark at me. He strode over without raising his voice.
That day, unusually spry for his age, he looked at me with mockery and spoke.
“Yankee bastard.”
That was especially rude even by his standards. Every time he called me Yankee I deliberately replied as if we were on familiar terms.
“Why, Bill?”
William always exploded in anger when I called him Bill. But today he smirked and said
“I knew you were a liar from the moment I first saw you.”
“A liar?”
I took out a cigarette and peered past William’s shoulder. Mass had ended and people were pouring out. Among them I recognized the face of the man from the pub—the one I’d asked about Christopher’s whereabouts.
“Making some church anniversary pamphlet? Besides that you’ve been telling lies everywhere, huh?”
William said triumphantly.
“Everybody says you’ve been couch-surfing in motels, no home to speak of?”
“Hmm….”
I smiled mockingly.
“So what? Saying that won’t make me leave, Bill. I’m only here waiting for Christopher.”
True to form William went berserk. He spat nonsense about how a liar shouldn’t be allowed in the church and chased me beyond the fence. After bowing farewell to the raging old man I turned away for lunch.
Even after that Sunday I persisted in going to the church. Eventually the priest and I became acquainted enough to exchange friendly greetings. The priest seemed amused that William despised me so much. William, seeing the priest’s lukewarm attitude, flared up even more. He began openly sulking.
Our relationship changed after I had been coming for over two weeks. One lazy afternoon I was dozing in the sun on a garden bench when William suddenly thundered, jolting me awake. I yawned and glanced at him. He out of nowhere tossed a pair of gardening gloves into my lap. I caught them in surprise. As I stared blankly, he raised his eyebrows like a tiger.
“You worthless kid, napping when you should be working!”
Still energetic for his age he clicked his tongue.
“Instead of wasting time, you’d be better off helping out! Useless brat.”
Without waiting for a reply he trudged to the flowerbed. I remained seated on the bench and he hollered again.
“Yankee bastard, don’t dawdle!”
“Yes, yes. I’m coming.”
I grinned and stood up.
The old man, as if he had been waiting all day, set me to every chore under the sun. Tidying the flowerbeds, fertilizing, weeding, mowing, cleaning church windows, sweeping and mopping the floors, painting the fence, even tending the tombstones—he seemed to gather every task and throw it at me. But William had not expected me to work so well. Over the past eight years I had done every kind of physical labor imaginable. I had even helped with church renovations once. So I finished all the tasks by midday without difficulty.
Finally I took a mop from the rack, rinsed it, shook it out, and hung it to dry. At that moment William looked at me with an expression that was part disbelief, part exasperation.
“And?”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and asked,
“Is there anything else you want me to do?”
He scowled and glared, then said gruffly,
“Hardworker, aren’t you? Are you not even hungry?”
Maybe feeling a bit guilty for working me so hard, William served me an excellent meal. Sat at the table stinking of sweat I watched as he cooked steak. He accompanied it with broccoli, mushrooms, and carrots. Seasoned only with salt the steak was superb. I devoured it silently and William clicked his tongue and grilled another steak immediately. His cooking was as skilled as his tending of the grounds. When I cleaned my plate even of the carrots he poured me a glass of wine. The wine was excellent. Yet William spoke oddly little throughout the meal, and I fell silent in response.
When the meal ended I stood. William followed slowly behind me. Since he lived in the small house behind the rectory we had to cross the cemetery. The sky was turning to dusk. My damp shirt flapped against me as I walked.
“A friend, huh?”
William suddenly asked. I turned and saw him a few paces behind, looking at a headstone. I stepped beside him. It was the grave of Mr. and Mrs. Moore.
“Yes.”
I answered shortly. William said curtly,
“He didn’t have friends.”
I gazed silently at the old man’s wrinkled face.
Thinking back it was strange. He corrected my word Christopher to Christine even though I said Christopher. He mocked him as insane yet never told me anything about him. If he hated my visits so much he could have just told me about Christopher and sent me off. My only purpose was Christopher. But William’s stubborn resistance seemed odd.
If the old man had no reason to be Christopher’s friend, he wouldn’t have been so adamant.
“He’s the only one who can help.”
I answered belatedly. My voice cracked without my realizing.
“What is it?”
William asked gruffly. I spoke words I had never uttered, not even once since killing George. Yet for some reason I spoke honestly.
“I need help.”
My voice sounded much worse than I expected. It was pitiful. As if feeling nostalgia for the old man whom I had only known for a fortnight, I became absurdly honest at that moment.
“Alone… it’s too hard.”
William let out a low sigh but without looking at me he said,
“You’ll come tomorrow. You come every year around this time.”
Silence fell. Instead of speaking I nodded and turned away. Not even a few steps later I heard the old man’s sharp voice behind me.
“If you lie again…”
I didn’t turn back, standing still. William continued heavily,
“You’ll pay the price.”
That night I could not ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) sleep.
To be honest even I had no idea what I wanted to say when I finally met Christopher (크리스토퍼, Christopher). Though I had searched so desperately for eight years, I had never once thought about what I would say when I met him. I always put it off: I’ll think about it later. Later, organize my thoughts then. I had done that every time.
There were so many things I wanted to say. Yet when I tried to speak not a single word would leave my throat. The fear that he would not be the answer after all—I feared that. And if after all this time I still found no answer… the emptiness suffocated me. It was a night of terrible frustration and anguish.
I tossed until dawn and finally fell asleep. When I woke it was late afternoon, well past lunchtime. The fatigue from working like a beast yesterday must have caught up with me. I stretched and sluggishly prepared myself. Christopher usually came around evening to avoid prying eyes, so there was still plenty of time.
I finished packing, even tidied the room, then flopped onto the bed. I took out Christopher’s photo I’d kept in my wallet. No matter how many times I looked it was just an ordinary boy. A boy like any other. I had been one too. One of those ordinary boys. Folding the photo I slipped it back into my wallet and got up. The sun would not set for a while, but I didn’t want to lie still any longer.
My mouth kept going dry, probably from nerves. On the way to the church I tried to force thoughts of Christopher out of my head. I no longer worried about what to say first. Well, I did worry, but I didn’t dwell on it. Surely when I saw his face words would just come. After all, the important thing was meeting him. Meeting him… I washed my face with cold water, feeling restless.
But when I arrived at the church all my nervousness vanished.
As soon as I set foot in the garden William, who was tending it, doused me with water. I froze, speechless, staring at him. He was livid.
“You rotten Yankee bastard! Lying again!”
He even hurled the bucket at me, shouting. Bewildered I caught it.
“Wait, Bill, calm down. Why are you doing this all of a sudden?”
“A friend? That friend is, that damned kid!”
“What do you mean…”
A fleeting thought struck me and I dropped the bucket.
“William, did Christopher come?”
“That school friend of yours?”
William trembled with rage as he shouted,
“Christine turned white when she heard that and ran off!”
My mind went blank. I had missed him right in front of me. Because of that stupid mistake. A high school friend—if I said that…! But before I could ask William anything else he splashed me again and shouted so loudly that the priest came out and I could no longer stay. Fleeing the church in a panic, I ground my teeth over that painful mistake.
The frustration lasted only a moment. With each step away from the church my pounding heart cooled. I could not give up now. After tracking him this far I could not lose him so absurdly.
Back at the motel I pulled off my wet shirt. There was no way I couldn’t find a method. First I could steal William’s phone and mail to see if he was in contact with Christopher. If that failed I could threaten that damned old man to find out somehow. I couldn’t lose him again. Not like this! Biting my lip I slammed the wall in frustration and then stopped, realizing the thought that had made me freeze. I would threaten William. I sank onto the bed and sighed.
I was cornered. It was okay. I would think of another way. Hadn’t I always done that? Hitting a dead end was familiar. Still, I was far better off now than before. The only reason the setback stung was that I had lost him right before my eyes. I had learned Christopher’s last name, his hometown, his school, and even had a childhood photo—and that he had been called Christine…
“Christine.”
If Christopher had been living all along under the name Christine, dressing as a woman or having transitioned…
I shot up. Throwing on my damp shirt I grabbed my duffel bag and bolted from the motel. I caught the next bus out of town. It took only twenty minutes to leave Chadstone, where I had stayed almost a month. With these clues I might trace Christopher in Newcontan. Confronting William could come later.
Newcontan was the place name George had mentioned eight years ago. He had once said he sold Christopher to a brothel in Newcontan. But I had never heard of a city called Newcontan. There was no such name in the U.S. or the U.K. The only way I learned where Newcontan was was by tracking down members one by one.