II.6
“On ne devine pas qu’il a le ventre plein;
Et c’est lui, bien gavé, qu’on accueille et qu’on plaint!”
(People don’t know how full his belly is;
And, stuffed so well, he’s welcomed and pitied!)
Edmond ROSTAND
Les deux Pierrots ou le souper blanc – sc. 4
February 12th, 1990 – Monday
– “I am... so... stuffed...”
Scott kept repeating those words – with moans, and whispers, and sighs. Even as he was silent and trying to stand still, his thoughts kept running in circles, slower and slower, like horses passing through a muddy river.
Phil had helped him walk through the empty lobby and get into the lift. Scott was in his bedroom now – alone, and exhausted. It took him a minute to take off his shirt and T-shirt, tight as they were around his chest, then he let out another long sigh of relief.
– “BUUURRRP!” Scott blushed. “Oops...”
Being shirtless helped him feel better, but that wasn’t enough. Scott tried to get the top button of his jeans opened – then he realized that it had been for a while... along with the next three buttons. As a matter of fact, his pants looked like the seams were simply tattooed on his butt and thighs, and they couldn’t be pulled down any further unless he took them off entirely.
– “I swear, the cleaning service in this hotel could do a MUCH better job... These pants must have shrunk again!”
Scott managed to pull them a bit with his thumbs in the pockets around his crotch. Even his boxer shorts felt painfully tight. His movements reminded him of a grass snake trying to leave its outer skin sloughed in one piece – something a cold-blooded reptile could achieve, but it was an almost impossible task for him at the moment...
– “Come on! I can’t pull them down... I can’t peel them off...” Scott patted his full belly once again. “Looks like I can’t pull it off either.”
In the dark, Scott could only feel the weight of his full belly, and imagine its shape – not to mention its size... His whole midsection had to look like a beach ball. He could feel it rumbling and groaning. As he slowly rubbed the soft expanse of flesh around his navel, with both hands, he also felt how warm it was, almost feverish – radiating so much heat that Scott wondered if his belly wasn’t growing bigger and rounder with every breath he took.
– “I am... so... stuffed! I must have consumed 40.000 calories in one sitting...”
Phil’s invitation for dinner at Matt’s had turned into a rather unexpected but exhilarating experience. There was no doubt that Scott had never eaten so much in a single meal until that night. What little pauses he had taken were nothing compared to the sheer amounts of food he had been served – a genuine stuffing marathon...
There were mirrors on the walls in the bathroom. Scott heard the fabric of his jeans creak, and threaten to rip in strategic places, as he walked to the switch... In the dark, the tall guy only pushed the first button, which provided a very dim and almost ghostly light.
It was probably for the best. Scott wasn’t particularly keen on watching how big and full he was in the mirrors. Curiosity had brought him this far, but he needed to be reassured somehow.
The large, circular hot tub was ready for him with water jets, foam and bubbles. Scott didn’t hesitate.
– “Okay... these pants are ruined anyway.”
The young journalist took a pair of scissors by the sink, and followed the seams along his thighs and legs. He also cut the waistband of his boxers as his moves were rather clumsy. Scott was still tipsy from all that French wine.
– “That’s more like it...”
Naked in the hot tub, Scott was finally able to relax. Spreading his arms around the circle of porcelain and stretching his legs in the water, his body still felt like it was growing, more and more – larger – larger and rounder – like a sponge...
With powerful, hot water jets massaging his back and lower back, Scott’s sides were jiggling and wiggling. He rubbed his stomach with a lazy hand. It felt round, solid and heavy like a bowling ball. His intestines were groaning and grumbling like an industrial butter churn. Scott participated to the bubbles in his whirlpool bath with an enormous fart.
That helped him release some of the pressure.
Still, as he tried to shift his weight for a more comfortable position, Scott found that his butt would be easier moved if he was sitting in the water holding a pair of anvils against his chest... He let out one last sight, giving up.
– “I am... so... stuffed...”
■ ■ ■
Scott’s eyes were closed.
The darkness around him seemed to fade away. He was bathing in sunlight. His body felt a lot lighter too. There was no need for him to stand up. As a matter of fact, when he opened his eyes, he had to look down to find the ground. He had to be standing on top of a mountain, at the edge of a cliff, for such a view: the horizon was far, far away. The sun was rising, and so was he – but he didn’t feel anything under his feet.
Looking further down, Scott saw no mountain, no cliff... The valleys and hills beneath him were simply hundreds of feet under his body. Something didn’t feel right. Why was he naked, up there?
Why was he faced down so much, and not falling? And where were his feet?
The answer to Scott’s concerns was simple enough: he was floating high in the air, like a hot air balloon. That was also the reason why he couldn’t see his feet. They had to be somewhere, but his whole body was round and full to bursting...
Now that his eyes were more accustomed to the light around him, Scott found his arms ridiculously small, compared to his gigantic body. His chest was reduced to a pair of smaller, slightly sagging balloons as well.
Scott’s body was floating and slowly moving in the wind. There was a gentle, warm breeze over the hills. The sky above him was shiny, blue and deep like an ocean. The pastures were an ideal shade of green. It was so silent and peaceful that Scott surrendered to that feeling of well-being, as his body kept growing and swelling. For a moment, his underbelly rested on a bank of fluffy, white clouds. He let out a long moan of delight.
Then he saw a different cloud in the distance. It was grey rather than white, long and thin like a trail of smoke. Scott’s attention was drawn to it as it looked like a rocket. I moved just the same, at an alarming speed...
When it was close enough for Scott to tell, it turned out to be nothing more than a dark cloud – but an angry one, assuming that clouds could get angry. Its rush made Scott’s ballooning body rock to the side and wobble. Then he got caught in a whirlwind, as the bank of white clouds seemed to react to such an assault from the dark cloud. Scott felt them surrounding him and catching him like a feast closing on his belly.
Then the sun hit him in the eyes, and he cried for help.
That wasn’t the sun. Scott was amazed to see another cloud, fiery and bright, just so vague and alive as the others – like a dragon’s breath or feathers from a phoenix. It was blazing furiously, and a fight began between the elements.
Scott understood then that they were fighting for him. He couldn’t move, but he heard a loud, ominous voice tell him
– “You belong to the dark...”
Another voice, softer but deeper, no less harrowing, told him
– “You belong to the light...”
Scott was tempted to shut his eyes, clench his fist against them so he wouldn’t see, but the thunder rolled around him and he was too terrified to ignore that fight. The whole sky was torn to shreds, scratched in black and white – with a long line of fire going through it like an even deeper scar...
Then something happened that caught Scott’s attention immediately. He had not noticed that a great crowd of people had gathered on top of a hill. They were far below, but Scott saw that they had built some sort of butterfly net – and they seemed determined to catch him.
– “You belong to the ground...”
There was a large round of laughter, and Scott suddenly felt the large circle of that net around his belly, like a new waistband cutting into his soft flesh. He was pulled down with surprisingly great strength – so fast that it felt like a fall – then Scott opened his eyes...
He was sitting again, in a dark room – sweating profusely as the temperature had to be about 120. He couldn’t see a thing. He could get up. His legs moved desperately, in the water. Scott felt wet up to the waist, maybe a little above the waist. Of course, he was in his hot tub when he had fallen asleep. It was strange, however, that the surface should oppose such resistance when he was floating and trying to raise his body from that tub. For some reason, Scott pictured himself like a fish in a frozen pond, trying to catch a breath and get through a hole drilled in the ice – except he was too large to fit through that hole.
Everything became clear then. He was no longer sitting in his tub. It was just as big, and filled with hot water, but made of cold steel instead of porcelain. It was a cauldron, and the water was slowly boiling around him – or under him, as the edge clung to his belly, front, sides and back like a large, burning ring.
Scott panicked. He was so fat that his body worked like a cork on top of a boiler about to explode from too much heat and pressure. Things could only get worse from then on: he was trapped in an impossible time bomb!
A strange voice whispered in the dark:
– “You belong to us... fat boy!”
■ ■ ■
Scott’s eyes were wide opened.
It was only a dream, and his scream of horror may have been completely silent. The people sleeping in the next room wouldn’t complain to the hotel about him – one warning about the noises he made while having sex with the bell boy was enough. Everything felt real, however – so real that Scott wiped the sweat from his face and forehead with a towel, trying to keep his eyes opened and stop thinking about long clouds fighting in the sky in a frenzy of light and darkness.
For a long moment, Scott simply focused on breathing – then he saw his chest and belly going up and down in the water with each breath. He rested his left hand on top of his stomach and found it reasonably full, only much bigger than he remembered. He did the same with his right hand, gently pushing against his liver, with similar results: it felt heavy and engorged, a lot softer than usual, with a thick layer of skin around it...
Scott grabbed his sides and squeezed budding love handles that seemed only too eager to grow. He reached for his underbelly with both hands and brought a massive ball of dough to the surface – glistening rolls of fat, quivering with every move he made, and with his navel on top like a crease ready to plant a sign with the price for such a pile of butter.
– “God! When did I get so... fat?”
Turning to the mirror on the wall, he saw how changed his face was: it was only a bit fuller, but his cheeks had grown noticeably rounder, and there was a hint of a double chin. One only had to look at his neck to guess that Scott had a strong appetite, just as his sensual lips betrayed the glutton inside him, with a taste for fried foods and sweets.
Scott was shocked. He was fat – he couldn’t deny it any longer. He felt fat. He felt the weight of it, the warmth and fuzziness of it. He was dreaming about it. He was haunted by it...
And, just as he was about to cry, he let out a long, shameless moan of pleasure like a wild animal in heat.
■ ■ ■
7AM – Scott was anxious. The breakfast buffet was always so rich and varied at the Paddington Hotel. It was impossible for him to eat a “light breakfast”. Lately, a “light” breakfast meant six plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages, poached eggs with mushrooms and fried dumplings, potato scones, full baguettes sliced and spread with butter, jam and cream or chocolate paste – not to mention the apple pies, strawberry pies and blueberry pies he couldn’t resist.
– “No wonder I’m getting fat...”
Overeating didn’t make him feel guilty or anything, but he was amazed that two large plates of eggs and bacon couldn’t satisfy his hunger anymore. There was something about the food. It was delicious, and Scott couldn’t get enough – even when he knew that he would have to go through a small mountain of boxes full of pies and pastries, doughnuts and cinnamon rolls in Richard Wingrave’s office, in Saint Augustine Bells...
No matter how tasty the food was in Biberton, Scott was amazed at his own appetite. There had to be another explanation.
It may be a very simple explanation too. Will had already commented on the strange atmosphere in Biberton – the wide, open spaces, the lack of smog over the town and the Biberton Brewing Brothers factory close by, the comfortable lifestyle in the county... Scott had quit smoking recently, and he didn’t even feel the need for a cigarette. What would be the point, when his boss was miles and miles away, when he had not seen his tiny office for more than a month, when his job was finally exciting without being stressful?
The mystery surrounding Michael’s death was still fascinating him. Scott usually lost interest in an assignment, a job or a lover, after a few hours or a few days at best. This was different. The young journalist couldn’t tell why he was ready to keep working on this case, but he remembered Phil’s advice: he should follow his intuition – then ask questions.
Scott got back to his bedroom and decided to put on his best suit as he was about to meet Michael’s mother, Mrs Astern. She had seen him wearing it at the funeral. That was barely three weeks ago, and he couldn’t get the zipper to close up to his pants’ top button – which wouldn’t get closed if he breathed in to the point of getting red in the face...
– “Come on! Seriously...”
It was pointless. His pants were simply two sizes too small for him now – two sizes at least... Scott sighed and let go, then he saw what a big ball of dough he carried over that straining waistband, in the bedroom mirror.
– “I’ve really grown fat... Did I sleep in my hot tub for a month, or what?”
Scott tried to put on his jacket, thinking that he may cheat and keep his pants on with his leather belt. It felt tight around his chest, but Scott could get enough buttons closed so the mess with his pants wouldn’t be visible.
His white shirt was another matter. Two buttons would just not go all the way to their holes, at the level of Scott’s navel. He could hardly breathe and his neck was a bit too thick for his collar. Scott put on a nice tie to cover it up.
What he couldn’t hide, in spite of all his efforts, was how painfully tight he was in his designer clothes. The young journalist’s midsection looked like a sausage prepared with too much stuffing, and about to pop.
– “I shouldn’t have eaten so much breakfast...”
Complaining wouldn’t do him any good. Besides, his stomach was only angry against his confining shirt and jacket, but happily groaning from the massive amounts of food Scott had put in store there.
After a few hesitant steps, Scott found that he could walk, sit down and stand up without too much pain – and no buttons popping like bullets. He took the lift and got to the top floor. Mrs Astern had agreed to meet him privately, in the hotel’s conference room, for her interview.
She was still wearing black, and Scott made a good impression on her as he looked like a man in mourning – although his expression was due to the leather belt cutting into his underbelly. There were two flunkies with her, going back and forth, answering the phone for her in the next room, presenting printed notes for her to read or sign with a pen they handed to her, silent and bowing.
Mrs Astern told them to leave her alone with “Mr Girder” – Scott wasn’t quite used to being referred to as a “Mister”, and it lifted a weight off his shoulders. He wished that it had been lifted off his belly, but he sat down more naturally than he expected. Some kind of butler brought a tray with coffee and cookies. Mrs Astern asked him for a cigarette, then she made a gesture at Scott: he could talk to her.
The interview started with condolences and mundane questions. Scott couldn’t develop any of his questions, as he was a bit out of breath. Mrs Astern was wearing large sunglasses – she had not taken them off – and it made him a bit uncomfortable: she kept staring at him while he couldn’t get her to express any emotion. They were off to a bad start.
Suddenly, she asked him out of the blue.
– “Have you found any clue, about my son’s murder?”
– “Murder...”
Scott had only repeated her last word, but they exchanged the first real look in their meeting. She knew. Scott should have known. She had only accepted to meet him because he was looking for Michael’s killer or killers.
– “I have found a few leads... It’s still vague.”
– “Tell me. What did you find out?”
It didn’t take long for Scott, as he chose his words carefully. He didn’t tell him about the strange messages he had received, the “I.M.N.” riddle or that ancient story of forced feeding, death and revenge from a ghost. He presented her with a few simple facts, the video feed from the security camera he had printed on cassette tapes, the testimonies from his classmates and teachers.
Scott didn’t want to tell Mrs Astern about some of his more disturbing findings – like the strange activities in that school, which may be related to their Quiet Diet policy. He was reluctant to share such information, considering that he was talking to the victim’s mother.
Mrs Astern was listening – then she interrupted him again, with a comment Scott didn’t expect from her.
– “Some men are meant to be fat.”
– “I beg your pardon?”
– “You heard me. Some men are meant to be fat... They enjoy life in such a way that they eat too much. Naturally, they get fat. And they deal with it. There’s nothing wrong about it...” She paused. “Michael wasn’t meant to grow fat.”
Scott didn’t know what to do with such an opinion. Was it directed toward him? He would probably avoid the cookies on that plate, and drink his coffee black for a change.
It was an opportunity to ask her about Michael, at least. He had not gathered much information from the people in and out of Saint Augustine Bells.
– “Would you like to tell me something about your son? What was he like?”
Mrs Astern left her cigarette in the ashtray. Asking a mother about her dead son would mean opening the floodgates – Scott assumed that much. She painted quite a picture of how clever he was, how brilliant he was in all his classes except gym, how he kept in touch with her when he was at school...
Scott listened, but he had trouble figuring how such a well-adjusted teenager could live in a preparatory school meant for misbehaving, disturbed kids, violent or addicted to something – he would have stuck out like a sore thumb in that environment.
Then his parents shouldn’t have sent him to Augustine Bells in the first place.
Mrs Astern may be lying to keep up appearances. She may also feel guilty for taking such a decision. Scott had to ask.
– “Why did Michael come to study in this school, in Biberton?”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Mrs Astern answered almost angrily, her lips tightened.
– “My husband signed his application form. I had nothing to do with it.”
That was no answer, and she was perfectly aware of it – but she also knew that Scott wouldn’t insist. He had to find another way to make her talk.
– “You know...” he hesitated. “I have only seen your son’s dead body. I didn’t get to see his face or anything. May I see a picture of Michael?”
For the first time since Scott had seen her, Mrs Astern smiled. She opened her purse and took a few photos from her wallet. Scott took a look at them, one by one. Michael was a short boy, quite thin when he was a child, with dark hair and guileless, hazel eyes – rather cute, in Scott’s opinion.
– “What do you think?”
– “He looks quite nice...”
Scott was looking at a picture of Michael when he was 17 – still short, still thin but growing up to be a really handsome young man. Scott couldn’t help noticing his smile, a bit mischievous with his delicately pouty lips. The young journalist knew that smile. He had seen it before – he had some practice in that area... It reminded him of his own method when he hooked up in high school: an innocent, shy and engaging smile, with just the right amount of sensual tease.
There was no doubt about it. Scott also considered the way he posed and how well-dressed he was. That boy was on his way to become quite a seducer.
– “This is a recent picture...”
– “Was this before your husband sent him away?”
– “Yes... Our last happy Summer.”
Scott looked at the picture. Mrs Astern was sitting in her garden, on a large, white wicker chair, wearing a white dress. Michael was standing next to her, almost like a guardian angel. He was more handsome than in any of his previous pics, with his hair cut short and a lean face, looking like a young adult instead of a child.
But he wasn’t smiling on this picture. There was sadness in his eyes, his pose was less affirming than before – his expression was anxious, almost distressed. He was looking away, like a man trying to escape. Scott was actually impressed. These pictures revealed a young man with more personality than the journalist had in mind. He wouldn’t write the same about his last days in Augustine Bells, from now on.
– “This is the last picture I have of him...”
Scott was still considering the growth and changes in Michael, but he wasn’t quite prepared for this new pic.
Michael was wearing his school uniform. It was clearly three or four sizes larger than his previous clothes, but it fit him rather snugly. His face was much fuller, and his cheekbones were a lot less visible than his cherub cheeks. He must have put on an easy sixty pounds... He wasn’t smiling.
His eyes were still shining with anxiety.
There was something strange about that pic – something dark, like a shadow hanging over the boy’s short, plump figure. Scott couldn’t be more fascinated. For some reason, the darkness surrounding Michael felt familiar. He had seen it before – at the morgue, for instance...
Scott had also seen that shadow, or at least felt its darkness, when he had first watched Michael going to his bedroom on video. The light bulbs in the hallway may be old and dusty, the camera may have a low resolution and be out of focus – all that didn’t explain the gloom and doom of that particular moment.
He didn’t want to comment on that last pic.
– “Thank you...”
Mrs Astern took the pictures and put them back in her wallet. Looking into her purse, she seemed to hesitate, then presented Scott with a small leather-bound book – a notebook or a diary.
– “This is my son’s journal...”
Scott let her talk about it.
– “Mr Porkenham has kept most of Michael’s “personal belongings”... as he told me. I had to insist to get his journal, with his family pictures and a few books.”
After a last moment of silence, she handed it to Scott.
The young journalist opened the diary and skipped through the pages. Michael’s handwriting was really small. Every page was covered with chicken scratch, even in the margin... Scott had to look really closely to read it.
– “Jan. 15th – GC. S: “LLL” – B... What does it mean?”
– “I know, my son had his own system, very elliptic... GC means German Class. Michael was often discussing with foreign students in Saint Augustine Bells. He helped them with their English, and he learned from them as well.”
– “Okay. How about that... S: LLL, B ?”
– “I don’t know...” Mrs Astern thought about it. “Michael had recently told me about Shakespeare. S could be a reference, then LLL must also refer to Love’s Labour’s Lost. In Michael’s system, B means that he brought the book back to the library.”
– “I see...”
Michael's scribbling was both difficult to read and to understand. Scott only saw a few words fully written, here and there, among enigmatic notes, such as the series:
Kg6 Kb6, Kxg7 f5, Kf6! f4, Ke5 f3, Kd6 f2, c7 f1Q, c8Q Qf4+, Kd5 ½-½.
– “Is that some sort of code?”
– “It’s classic notation for a game of chess... This looks like an endgame.”
– “Okay...”
Scott skipped through a few more pages. His forehead was starting to sweat. He had trouble breathing in such a tight shirt and jacket, but Michael’s intellect also baffled him. More notes and initials. More code. Scott welcomed the first two lines of fully written words.
“Si numeres anno soles et nubila toto,
Invenies nitidum sæpius isse diem.”
Invenies nitidum sæpius isse diem.”
Michael had translated those lines in fine print.
– “If you count the sunny and the cloudy days of the year, you will find that the sunshine prevails. Ovid, Tristia – V, 8...”
There was nothing for Scott in all that... Skipping to the last pages, the young journalist found them blank – naturally. Turning back to Michael’s last entry in the journal, Scott found that he had only written two initials at the bottom of the page, about “10PM”.
– “Jan. 21st : M– D.”
– “That M sign with a line meant meeting, in Michael’s system.”
– “So he was going to meet someone... on that night, when he was...”
– “Murdered. Yes.”
■ ■ ■
Scott had to take a nap after his interview with Mrs Astern. He was still out of breath, and sweating like a sponge even after he had taken a cold shower...
Slowly pacing in his bedroom, naked, Scott finally got to relax. He had made some major progress, thanks to Mrs Astern. She would send him a full copy of her son’s journal. Scott could also count on her support to keep digging into the mysteries of Saint Augustine Bells.
He was only concerned with one pesky detail. His boss, Mr Horn, wanted him back by Monday – which meant that he had less than a week left to complete his research... When he mentioned it to Mrs Astern, she agreed that he couldn’t accomplish much in so little time, and she offered to call the newspaper to allow him another month in Biberton. They parted on words of mutual encouragement.
Yet Scott knew that tone. Mrs Astern wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. She could have called Mr Horn when he was still there. The young journalist had to find another way out...
– “I really don’t want to leave...” Scott sighed, then he patted his bulging belly. “I don’t know... It may be for my own good.”
Scott decided to run a few errands in town, to clear his mind. His first stop was at the mall, where he bought new pants and a few shirts. They were cheap, but Scott would mingle easier in that crowd of lumberjacks he had seen roaming in the streets.
He felt a lot better, wearing jeans four sizes larger than his old designer pants.
His next visit was to the local newspaper, the Biberton Bugle. He was received immediately, and politely introduced in the editor’s office.
Scott’s intentions were to look into the archives, to read all the articles covering the fire in Saint Augustine Bells in 1932, with all the details he could find about Ian McNeill, the prison guard who was forcefed to death – then he would like to follow the line of events regarding his revenge as a ghost.
Considering the director’s warmth toward him, Scott had something different in mind, more strategic: why should he go back to a job he hated in a second-rate newspaper, working for someone he despised? What if he was offered a better position at the Biberton Bugle?
He was immediately disappointed – on both accounts.
– “This is where we keep our files.”
– “I would like to check the boxes from January and February 1932...”
– “1932?”
– “Yes.”
– “I am sorry, but the Biberton Bugle didn’t keep a record of its daily issues until 1960. There may be a few older copies or clippings in the local library.”
– “Oh...”
Scott left the building, thinking that the Biberton Bugle was a really modest newspaper. Even if he was hired, he wouldn’t get paid much, and he wouldn’t be able to keep inquiring about Michael’s death.
His situation was more delicate than ever. Mr Horn must have taken a look at his hotel bill, and his expenses as a reporter amounted to a few thousand bucks already... Scott didn’t know what to do.
– “I need a beer...”
■ ■ ■
Scott had seen enough scribbling for one day, so we was taking notes in his own book rather slowly, while sipping on his second beer.
– “Meeting D...”
Sitting in his favorite diner with a plate of fried chicken and pickles, Scott tried to make a list. “D” could mean a first name. He had met a few people whose names started with a D.
– “Let’s see. Number one: Daniel Hilton – one of Michael’s classmates... Number two: Dirk Swayn – tutor and lecturer at Augustine Bells... Number three: Dylan Huggins – secretary. Number four: Diana Spread – chef... Number five: Father Dean Knox – priest...”
Scott ordered a third beer, and considered what he had come up with.
– “That’s five people already.” Scott let out a sigh. “Tough...”
It could also be a last name. Miss Astern had already implied that Michael kept his distance with the people around him. Scott had met two students who also happened to sleep next to Michael’s bedroom. Number one: on the left side, Brad Dulles. Number two: on the right side, Owen Dickson.
– “We’ll have to call it a tie.”
It could be an adult, of course. Scott gave it a thought. The only name he could come up with was Robert Desmond, mayor of Biberton.
– “I wonder why a boy like Michael should meet the mayor... unless he had to tell him something big about Augustine Bells...”
There were enough secrets about the school to warrant investigation. The local administration could also be involved.
– “Hmmm... What else?”
Scott considered his other options. “D” could refer to a title. Miles Thorne was the dean of boys in Augustine Bells. Gregory Porkenham was the director... It could also be a nickname. Scott had heard a few students referring to Richard Wingrave as Dickie.
– “That’s a bit far-fetched... I already have too many suspects, as it is.”
A shadow covered the page as he was looking at his list of names. Scott turned and saw Mr Huggins standing behind him.
– “Hi there... Boy, you look like you could use another one of those.”
Mr Huggins waved to the bartender, making a V sign.
– “I could also use a good “lazy groundhog” cocktail, right now.”
Scott quickly closed his notebook.
– “How are you doing, Mr Huggins?”
– “Please, call me Dylan.”
– “Okay...”
– “The real question here is: how are you doing with your investigation?”
– “Honestly? So-so...”
– “I see... You got to interview Mr Thorne, didn’t you?”
– “I did. He told me a few things, but I’m afraid that it was a dead end, or I have reached a point where I don’t know where to turn.”
– “Dead end, huh?” Mr Huggins chuckled, taking a good swig of beer. “I guess you could say that, but your investigation started just the same, with a boy’s death... You see, Death is only the beginning.”
He winked at Scott, grabbing a few pickles from his plate.
– “Is Ian’s ghost story famous in Biberton?”
– “Famous? I wouldn’t say that. It’s certainly become quite popular in our school, lately! Mr Porkenham called for a special meeting yesterday, with our complete staff, teachers and educators. I wonder if the whole team of cook will have to be there...”
– “What’s the point?”
– “Rumor has it that someone has recently let the cat out of the bag. Well, let’s say... a kitten.”
– “And that made the fat cats angry?”
– “Hmm hmm.”
Mr Huggins finished his beer and ordered two more.
– “Is it all about Ian McNeill?”
– “Ian McNeill’s dead. He’s gone. What’s causing trouble in our school now... Well, you can call it whatever you like.”
– “I’ll go with the name I was given.”
Scott had no problem keeping up with his new friend. He would match him pint for pint, until the guy would talk.
– “Yes...”
– “Sorry, what?”
– “I just answered your silent question. Yes, I know more about that... ghost.”
– “Okay...”
Mr Huggins was getting a bit tipsy. Scott knew that it would require at least twice the number of “lazy groundhogs” they had been drinking to get his partner under the table, but he seemed to be in a chatty mood.
– “A ghost... You’re chasing a ghost. You might be chasing your own tail...”
– “Come on!” Scott encouraged him. “What do you know?”
They were served two more beer cocktails. Those “lazy groundhogs” felt quite heavy as Scott chugged. Mr Huggins turned to face him.
– “Hey... what do you know? You’ve attached a pretty good keg to your pipe.”
– “Sorry?”
– “Look at that paunch!” Mr Huggins chuckled again. “Isn’t that something?”
– “I guess it is...” Scott interrupted, blushing.
– “You look like you belong to this town.”
That comment caught Scott’s attention. It reminded of his dream, and those strong voices calling him like distant trumpets. What did that man mean, when he commented on the fact that Scott “belonged” to this town?
– “What did you say?”
– “You look like you belong to this place. When you first came to Biberton, it was clear that you were used to living in a big city, that you worked in a more active business area... There was no question about it.”
– “I see.”
– “Consider the shirt you’re wearing. I remember you in a black leather suit and a fancy shirt, something in an electric blue...”
– “Yes. I guess it was a bit too bright.”
– “What you’re wearing now makes you look like a local guy. And the way you’re filling that shirt certainly doesn’t hurt...”
– “Oh...”
Scott looked down. His beer gut was bulging and almost resting in his lap.
– “I guess I have put on some weight.”
– “That’s perfectly normal. Every man in this town grows fat, sooner or later.”
– “Really?”
– “You’ve been investigating in Biberton for more than a month, and you haven’t figured that out?”
– “I didn’t really draw any conclusion...”
– “Right.” Mr Huggins set his empty pint of beer down on the bar. “It’s a real mystery. Some people blame it on the atmosphere in town, with the brewery so close. How childish is that?”
– “You can’t get that many calories from what they release in the air...”
– “Quite. You do a much better job guzzling what they release onto the market.”
Mr Huggins gave a few appreciative pats on Scott’s belly, full of beer as it was. He was right. That belly was well on its way to be bouncing and jiggling...
– “Would you say that it’s a... good thing?”
– “I don’t know. What do you think?”
– “All I can think of, right now, is that I have less than a week left to complete my research, write one last article and leave Biberton.”
– “Do you, really? I had no idea...”
Scott noticed some genuine concern in the man’s voice.
– “What if I told you something new... about your investigation?”
– “I’m all ears.”
Mr Huggins was still on his guard. He wasn’t so drunk as Scott was hoping he would get, going for one pint of “lazy groundhog” after another. After a long look to check who was in the diner, he leaned forward to talk to Scott.
– “I have followed your investigation... more or less. All I can say right now is this: you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”
– “Okay... So, naturally, there is no ghost in Augustine Bells...”
– “Forget about the ghost!” Mr Huggins brushed it off. “What you’re looking for is a lot darker, a lot deeper than anything coming from beyond the veil.”
Scott looked at Mr Huggins, paying close attention to his attitude. Obviously, that man didn’t believe in ghosts, but he probably didn’t believe in God either.
– “What can you tell me, then?”
– “I’m sorry...” Mr Huggins caught his breath. “I can’t tell you anything right now. Come and see me in my office.”
– “Sure thing. When can we meet?”
– “Let me think... How about Thursday afternoon?”
– “That’s fine by me.”
– “Okay then.”
Mr Huggins looked nervous rather than drunk. His hands twitching on the bar were a sign. Scott could tell the difference. He suddenly got up, telling the bartender to put everything on his tab.
– “See you in two days, then. How about 2PM?”
– “I’ll be there.”
Scott saw the man leave the place, fading away in the fog that filled the air on Main Street – then Scott noticed that he was in Dean’s diner. In Michael’s journal, “D” could also refer to a place, where he might have met someone, before he was murdered... It may have been the killer himself – then it could be anyone in town.
■ ■ ■
February 13th, 1990 – Tuesday
9AM – Waking up in his bedroom, well-rested and hungry, Scott considered some of his previous thoughts about that mysterious “D” and found them silly. Michael wanted to meet someone on that fateful day, but he was in his bedroom by the time of that meeting. Was it cancelled at the last moment?
Michael couldn’t go to Dean’s diner, for instance. Whoever was supposed to see him would have to join the young student in his bedroom, in the dorm. It had to be a classmate, a teacher or a member of the staff in Saint Augustine Bells.
Of course, Scott knew that no one had come to the boy’s room, that night.
The whole thing didn’t make a lick of sense. Still, Scott was convinced that the mention of a “D” in Michael’s journal meant something. It was a clue. There was nothing else written on that last page, when the boy usually scribbled endlessly. Clearly, he had something else on his mind – not Latin poetry, Shakespeare or a game of chess...
– “It’s not like it narrows it down for me... There are quite a few people in my list.”
Scott had plenty of time to think about it, in Augustine Bells. For the last two weeks, he had spent his mornings in Richard Wingrave’s office. His job was easy enough – eat half a dozen pies and three boxes of chocolate éclairs or brownies.
There was no doubt that helping the head of security to slim down had caused Scott to gain pretty much the same amount of weight that Rick claimed he had already lost.
Still munching on brownies, Scott asked his friend about it.
– “How much do you weigh, these days?”
– “Only 355!” Rick patted his belly, still pretty much the size of a beach ball. “I have lost 40 pounds, at least!”
– “Great...”
– “Thanks to you.”
– “No need to thank me...” Scott mumbled, with his mouth full.
He was wondering if he had really put on that much weight. It felt like a lot – then his own midsection wasn’t exactly flat or lean... The security guard was probably lying about his weight loss, on the other hand.
– “What’s wrong?” Rick asked. “Something on your mind?”
– “More like... something in my stomach. I’ve really packed it on, lately.”
– “I know, but you were so thin when you started working with me. I can’t even imagine what would happen to me if I had to keep stuffing myself alone...”
– “You should consider hiring someone else, soon.”
– “Why is that? I thought that we had a deal.”
– “We do, but it won’t last.”
– “Don’t tell me that you don’t like these pies. I’ve never seen you eat so well.”
Rick encouraged him, but he sounded genuinely worried. Scott knew that he wasn’t concerned with his health or anything, but with the vast amounts of food he would have to get rid of – without attracting anyone’s attention on his little business of bribes and “get out of jail” cards with the boys in school.
– “What’s wrong, then?”
– “I have to go back. It’s a matter of days, now.”
– “Days? You mean...”
– “Less than a week. My boss wants to see me in his office on Monday.”
Scott looked at Rick from the corner of his eyes. He was red in the face, out of breath – almost as if he could breathe fire, with his nostrils flaring so much.
– “No... You can’t leave so soon.”
– “I’ve spent more than a month in Biberton. This case is getting cold.”
– “What did your boss expect? You don’t solve a mystery like this in a few days. This isn’t a TV series!”
– “And I’m not a private detective.”
Rick admitted that he had a point. His concern now was all that food he would have to eat – all of it – which meant that he was bound to grow enormously obese, soon...
– “No... No. You can’t leave Biberton. Not now. You have truly made your mark here... People have come to know you too... Deep down, you know that you came looking for something more than what you find summed up in a few words in the obituaries.”
– “I guess...”
– “You can’t leave Biberton so soon. This is where you belong.”
Scott was startled by that last sentence.
– “What did you say?”
– “I mean... You have work to do... starting with these doughnuts!”
Rick pushed a large box in front of him, urging him to eat more.
– “I don’t know... I’m rather stuffed, right now.”
– “Don’t be such a baby!”
– “Oh, I’m the one behaving like a baby, here?”
– “Okay, then. Be a baby... Give me a big belch!”
– “What?”
– “Come on. Let it all out.”
Scott didn’t need to be told twice.
– “BUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRP!!!”
– “Good boy. Now, have another doughnut.”
Rick had to insist. Scott protested a bit, but in vain.
– “I will talk to Mr Swayn, and Mr Thorne. They may convince Mr Porkenham to call your boss. Then you will stay with us for another month... or two...”
Scott was secretly grateful for his friend’s efforts to keep him around – but he also kept him eating, more than his usual share... As a matter of fact, Rick didn’t let him leave his office before the last blueberry muffin was eaten and swallowed to the last bite.
The young journalist had to take a nap. He wobbled his way to the gardener’s pavilion he had found before, where he could lie down on an old couch, knowing that he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone.
– “I am... so... stuffed...”
■ ■ ■
6PM – Scott had accepted the sheriff’s invitation to have dinner with him and his wife. This was the evening before Valentine’s Day, and they would certainly prefer to be left alone, so it was the first and last chance for him to be with them.
He had not eaten lunch, knowing only too well that sheriff Maxwell had a big appetite and enjoyed to be in the company of other young men making a display of their own capacities.
The Maxwells lived in a one-story house, with a short driveway, a small garden with two bushes. It looked both modest and tidy, the classic “perfect home” for newlyweds. Scott smiled, but he didn’t feel ironic.
Sheriff Maxwell opened the door and welcomed Scott with a strong, masculine handshake.
– “I hope that you’re hungry. Maria has been cooking up a storm.”
No surprise there. Scott took a good look at the sheriff, while he was putting his coat in the pantry. God! The guy was handsome – especially now, wearing casual clothes instead of his tight uniform, a pair of well-worn jeans and an immaculate wifebeater.
For some reason, Scott remembered having lunch with a slightly slimmer black man. The sheriff’s belly looked quite round and bulging, but soft and hanging a bit further over the waistband of his tight jeans...
Maria came out of the kitchen to welcome her guest, and Scott caught a whiff of various delicious Mexican foods... It made him smile broadly and close his eyes with a sigh. When he opened his eyes, he was pleasantly surprised. Maria was amazingly beautiful: not too short for a Latino girl, with dark hair flowing around her face, long hands, sensual lips and bright eyes with that glimmer of gold Scott had seen too rarely in other women – enough to drive a man crazy.
– “Scott, meet Maria...”
– “Pleased to meet you.”
It was not lost on Scott that Maria was checking out his body from head to toe as the sheriff was introducing him, and the case he was working on. Judging from her gentle, malicious smile, Scott could tell that she liked what she saw – and wished to see more, if there was an opportunity for it...
Scott wasn’t listening to the couple’s small talk. He was fascinated. In the blink of an eye, he had already punched sheriff Maxwell flat on the floor, swept his wife off her feet, and taken her away – somewhere, anywhere – to have sex all night, adoring that luscious body and being worshiped in return!
Sheriff Maxwell woke him up, offering him to sit on the couch.
– “Maria likes you...”
– “Huh... What?”
Scott couldn’t help blushing furiously.
– “She has an eye for guys like you... guys like us...”
Sheriff Maxwell was rubbing his bulging, groaning belly. Scott didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t exactly the kind of evening he had in mind, with a quiet, young couple living in the sticks.
– “Guys like us? You mean... guys who like to eat well?”
– “Damn straight!”
Scott laughed – a single “Hah!” His host and hostess wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t possibly imagine what was going on in his mind. For a guy like him, the sheriff and his wife were at the same level of attractiveness: just as he had been drooling over the husband’s body, he had pictured himself in bed with his young wife – and now, his overactive brain was considering the various advantages of a threesome deal.
Bad boy, Scott! Bad boy...
– “What did you tell your wife, about me?”
– “I don’t remember exactly. I told her that she would be pleased to meet you.”
– “Oh boy! She would be...” Scott whispered to himself.
Maria joined them with two large plates – one for each man: thick tacos with lots of fillings, avocado, tomato, onions and guacamole.
– “Dig in, boys! Dinner will be ready in a minute.”
Scott had been so distracted that he only noticed then how Maria spoke with an accent, a cute Mexican lilt that added flavor to some of her words. She also spoke Spanish to her husband, obviously encouraging him to enjoy as much food as his stomach could hold. The temperature in the room kept rising, and Scott decided to focus on his food to keep his mind clear...
There was a long moment of silence, as Scott and the sheriff were only eating tacos made with carnitas filling and drinking beer. The food was too delicious to waste a moment on conversation.
When Maria came back with more tacos – grilled shrimp tacos – her husband had cleaned his plate, and Scott was hardly one mouthful behind...
– “Are you both done with your first round of tacos? Perfect.”
– “Perfect timing! You wouldn’t want our guest to get hungry...”
Maria gave a new plate to Scott, with four more tacos. They were too big to be considered “appetizers”, but he had a hunch that he was only at the beginning of a long and adventurous night.
– “Your wife is a great cook.”
– “She's the best!” Sheriff Maxwell grabbed a bite. “Maria isn't exactly my wife. We have been together for some time, and we wish to get married soon, but...”
– “Is there a problem?”
Sheriff Maxwell looked like he would let out a heavy sigh, but he grabbed another large bite of food to hide it, like the macho man he was.
– “I’m not exactly wealthy, and Maria’s parents are rich – like... really rich. Old money, catholic and everything, in Mexico. You get the picture.”
– “I see...” Scott mumbled between mouthfuls. “You have found the right place for your love nest.”
– “You’re absolutely right!” Sheriff Maxwell answered enthusiastically. “We only wanted to put some distance between her family and our couple. Then Maria found out about Biberton, just what we had in mind: the perfect little town... to grow big!”
Reaching for another taco, sheriff Maxwell caressed the bulge of his fat gut and gave it two smacks on the side, feeling that magnificent, exposed flesh jiggle. Scott was a bit puzzled at his smile.
– “Was it really important for you... to grow big?”
– “Oh yes! definitely.”
Scott was still eating. His friend opened two bottles of beer, and told him about his relationship with Maria.
They may be living in sin, in the eyes of some people – “some people wearing blindfolds all their lives”, as the sheriff put it – but they were deeply in love with each other. They had similar tastes and beliefs, and interests. She loved to cook. He loved to eat. She wanted him to gain weight. He was determined to grow a nice, round belly for her.
The sheriff didn’t mention anything about their sex life, but Scott had already seen enough to draw his own conclusions. They were the most perfect couple he had met in his life.
For the first time since he had come to Biberton, Scott felt jealous. He had to do something. A proud young man like him wasn’t used to feeling second best. The answer came to him at once: he was ready to challenge the sheriff with every dish they would be served, and beat him at his own game – so he would look like a possible mate for his wife.
Scott immediately realized how absurd it was, but he also knew his own Nature – that deep, dark impulse that made him do crazy things sometimes, but that brought color and flavor to his life.
– “So, basically... Maria is fattening you up.”
– “I guess you could say that.”
Maria was coming back just then, with blended margaritas. She protested that she wasn’t just “fattening up” her boyfriend. Scott felt the cold blade of jealousy slide along his back again, as that sexy, young woman gave sheriff Maxwell a tight, heartfelt hug from behind, rubbing her hands on his wifebeater to make him giggle...
– “People in Biberton have come to understand a very simple truth, that big men should be held in higher esteem than thin men.”
– “Okay....”
– “That’s the way of this world. Now, my Damon is the sheriff in this county, and I want him to be the most... respectable man in town!”
She punctuated her sentence with a hard pat on her boyfriend’s soft paunch, like someone fluffing a pillow all too gently. Scott found that move insanely sexy. His throat was dry. He thanked her for his margarita, and chug it down in one single gulp.
– “I’ll make you another one.”
– “Wow... strong margaritas!”
– “I used original Cointreau in those.”
– “Okay...”
Scott had tears in his eyes. Even he couldn’t tell if that was due to the alcohol, his amazement at Maria or his own excitement. Sheriff Maxwell encouraged him to eat his tacos – and Scott managed to eat faster than him!
– “Look at that! Well done...”
The sheriff’s praise made Scott blush, but he also understood something. This was no contest. He could never win against sheriff Maxwell, because the man didn’t even feel challenged... What could be the point, when he had already won the prize?
Scott’s twinge of jealousy was gone. It was only replaced by a deeper, darker, colder feeling – loneliness.
For more than a month, Scott had been living alone in Biberton. He was already living on his own, like a lone wolf, before he had been sent to this godforsaken town – but he had never considered how lonely he was.
– “Is everything okay?...”
– “Huh?”
Scott was a bit startled. He decided to be honest about it.
– “Not really. I just thought about something, and I’m feeling... hollow.”
– “Hollow?”
– “Yeah...”
– “Well, let’s fill that void together! There’s plenty of food for the two of us.”
Sheriff Maxwell’s generous offer almost brought tears to the young journalist’s eyes. Scott tried to smile. He decided that he would never do anything that would hurt him or Maria, or put their couple in jeopardy.
He had never taken such a resolution – maybe he did belong to Biberton. This town had a good influence on him, after all...
– “You’ve always been really nice to me, sheriff.”
– “Come on... call me Damon.”
– “Thank you, Damon.”
Maria was coming back with truly enormous cook pots and platters.
– “Es la hora de tragar!”
And so, for the next two hours, Damon and Scott stuffed themselves full of flour tortillas sprinkled with grated, melting cheese, then nachos with beef, beans and more cheese, mixed beef and chicken fajitas served on a hot iron skillet, enchiladas con chile rojo and enchiladas with tasajo beef.
The two men were sitting on the couch, pushing the large trays in their lap a bit further with every bite... They had to open their pants buttons, pretty soon.
– “BUUUUUUUURRRRRRRP!”
– “Nice one, Scott.”
– “Huh... Thanks.”
– “I’m impressed. Maria would love it if I could belch like that...”
– “You’re certainly eating enough to project a real, good one.”
– “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
That was a welcomed change for Scott. He was actually doing something better than his friend – something that his wife found sexy, too.
– “It’s really not that hard. Let me show you... You grab a few bites, like this.” Scott explained, with his mouth full. “Really big bites... Get a lot of air into your stomach as you gulp it down.”
– “Okay...”
– “Now, you keep it up a few times. Eat a whole fajita like that, then...”
Scott sat a bit more straight to really let it ramble on.
– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”
– “Wow...”
Maria was back in the living room. She answered to Scott’s loud and rather obnoxious belch with a good laugh. She may have applauded too, but she was carrying a heavy plate of puerco pibil – large pieces of slow-roasted pork meat marinated in citrus juice with annatto seed.
– “Are you trying to teach Damon how to burp?”
– “Huh... I know it’s not very polite...”
Scott was blushing, but he truly turned red in the face when Maria came close to him and kissed him on the cheek, as a way to thank him.
– “You can eat all the food you want.”
Just as Scott thought, Damon wasn’t jealous at all for that innocent little kiss – or was it an innocent little kiss? Scott couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to be told either. He only knew two things, right now.
Number one: The Maxwells were an extraordinary couple, exceeding every expectation. Number two: He felt comfortable with them, and he would treasure their friendship.
There was enough pork roast for eight, but Scott started devouring without thinking. He had not even noticed that the second button in his jeans had just popped opened...
– “Then it’s a deal. You’re welcome to have dinner with us whenever you want, and you can show me how to belch like a man. I may teach you a thing or two in return...”
– “I wish I could come back often... but I am supposed to leave by the end of the week.”
– “Says who?”
Damon was truly surprised, then shocked when Scott explained that his boss wanted to bring his “vacation” to an end.
– “What does he think that you are doing here?”
– “I have no idea...” Scott rubbed his full belly absent-mindedly. “It shouldn’t be too hard for him to guess when he sees me.”
– “You can’t leave Biberton...” Damon interrupted him suddenly.
He looked angry, for some reason. Scott had never heard him saying anything with such a commanding tone.
– “You have made some really good progress in only a month. They can’t tell you to stop now, when you’re following a lead.”
Scott saw the sheriff leave food in his plate. He had to be truly upset.
– “No. You can’t leave so soon...”
– “Are you going to say that I belong to this town?”
Damon looked straight into Scott’s eyes.
– “If you want to put it like that...” he whispered. “All I know is that some people in Biberton need your help, so they need you to stay... important people too.”
He was talking to himself. Maria asked them why they were looking so serious... She offered to watch the last episode of The Golden Girls she had recorded, a few days before. Scott was a fan of the show, and he had not seen it.
So they watched The Golden Girls. The episode Maria had recorded was “An illegitimate concern”. Damon, Maria and Scott enjoyed a good half hour in the company of Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sofia. The story about Blanche’s dead husband’s infidelity and his young son visiting her in Miami was interesting.
They talked about some of their favorite lines from the show. Scott had always found Dorothy’s answer hilarious in one of the first episodes:
“I don’t know why people throw rice at weddings.”
“Because tomatoes leave stains.”
Maria was fond of Rose, and Sofia reminded Damon of one of his old aunts. They were in the right mood to keep on feasting on rich Mexican food.
– “What if I threw rice at you, Scott?” Maria teased him deliciously. “Fried rice, of course...”
– “I don’t know. I’m feeling rather... full.”
Scott was just coming back from the toilets, feeling that his paunch had swelled to nearly twice the size it had been upon his arrival. He felt relieved, but he was no longer hungry – to say the least! His shirt was stretched tight across his chest and belly, and no amount of tugging it down would help cover all that soft, exposed flesh...
Maria lifted his shirt a bit, and gently rubbed his belly.
– “Traga, puercote. Tienes que engordar.”
With that teasing, sexy tone, she may have asked him to eat a whole stick of butter. Scott felt so hot that it would have simply melted on his tongue and flowed down his throat. Damon was spreading himself on the couch, ready to eat until he would burst...
– “You should make yourself more comfortable, you know...”
– “I find this couch quite comfortable, really.”
– “I meant your shirt.”
– “What about it?” Scott started blushing again.
– “You know what I mean. Don’t be embarrassed, take it off.”
– “Are you sure? I’m not wearing any T-shirt underneath...”
The sheriff’s invitation to get shirtless was sincere, almost like the natural thing to do in such a situation. Scott wasn’t sure – until his host rose from the couch and took off his wifebeater, standing proudly before Scott with his fully exposed belly, ready for a lot more than a couple tacos and empanadas.
– “Wow...”
– “Come on, Scott! You don’t want to leave Biberton without enjoying its lifestyle to the fullest.”
Scott got to the conclusion that he had a choice: he could grow fat and feel sad about it – like Rick – or grow even fatter and be happy about it – like Damon.
He decided to follow his Nature. A healthy, sexy, well-fed young man like him would never allow himself to be unhappy.
– “Count me in.”
For the next hour, Damon and Scott were fed enough fried chicken and fried rice to last any normal guy a lifetime, with shredded lettuce, sour cream, salsa, pico de gallo and nacho cheese.
– “Ooof...” Scott complained. “I can hardly move!”
– “I can hardly breathe...”
– “Yeah...”
– “You do the talking.”
Scott remembered that he had come to share information regarding Michael’s last night in Saint Augustine Bells. He had brought the first video tape, showing the boy around 9PM.
– "That’s him, walking down the hallway. This is his bedroom... He’s going to bed now. You won’t see him come out of his room.”
– "Huh...” Sheriff Maxwell commented. “That’s strange.”
– "I know...”
Of course, Scott had seen that particular moment a dozen times. Maybe his friend had seen something he had missed.
– “What’s strange about it?”
– “9PM. Isn’t that really early for a young student to go to bed, on a Saturday? Why did Michael go to his bedroom like that?”
– “Huh... I had not thought about it that way.”
Scott’s stomach rumbled ominously. He was truly gorged like a fattened pig.
– “I need to lie down.”
– “Sure. You can have the couch, if you can help me get up from it!”
– “No... way...” Scott chuckled.
The two men were so comfortable with each other that Scott decided to stay next to his friend. Damon invited him to lie down completely and rest his head on his side, against his belly.
Scott didn’t hesitate. He put a hand on top of his own belly, feeling his bloated, hard and warm stomach – groaning as it was, like a beehive.
– “Time for dessert! Apple pie, chocolate chip cookies and milk-shakes for you, boys...”
Maria kept bringing more pastries and sweets... Scott couldn’t resist temptation like that. He was back in the game, with a winner’s appetite!
The young woman came to rub her boyfriend’s belly lovingly. He had been chugging down a whole bottle of Coca-Cola, so he was quite round and soft, with a nice sheen of sweat.
– “BUUUUUUUURRRRRRP!”
They were all startled. Damon had just belched, loudly, like a real man.
– “Hey, what do you know? This works!”
– “I’m proud of you, big guy.”
Maria hugged her overfed man and kissed him passionately.
– “Quiero que tu panza esté bien llena y pesada.”
This marked the beginning of a true orgy of sweets and soft drinks. It was impossible for any of the men to turn down Maria’s offer for another piece of pie. When Scott protested that he couldn’t get himself to sit down, his friend pushed the piece into his mouth and told him to munch on it.
– “Come on! That won’t do...”
They were in no hurry either. After a short pause, Scott ate a few more pastries and accepted to show them how to really belch like a pig. Maria brought the right beer for him: a full jug of “growling bear”, Biberton Brewing Brothers’ strongest product!
– “Okay...”
Scott began chugging straight from the jug, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He drained about a full quarter of beer, then slowed down a bit, and set it down on the table heavily when the jug was empty to the last drop. He wiped his mouth with his hand, and rolled out another impressive belch.
– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!”
There was a round of applause for him.
Damon was getting quite full. Scott was getting quite drunk. Maria was washing dishes in the kitchen. It was time for some more personal talk between friends.
– “Seriously, Damon... You look like you’re about to deliver triplets.”
– “Shush.” Sheriff Maxwell brought a finger to his lips. “Don’t say that out loud.”
– “...Why?”
– “Oh, well... I guess I can tell you...”
– “What do you want to tell me?”
– “Maria and I... We’ve been together for about five years. We’ve been trying for some time, but we couldn’t get her pregnant.”
– “Oh...”
– “We’ve seen Doctor Lipton, last week. According to him, it looks like we won’t have children of our own.”
– “Damn. I’m sorry, Damon...”
– “I can deal with it... more or less. But Maria has been taking it hard. She’s working at the daycare center, you see. She’s used to being surrounded with kids. She’s already a mother at heart.”
– “So, I should never mention any of this around her?”
– “Don’t be silly. We’re all adults here.”
There was some noise coming from the kitchen, running water in the sink.
Maria came to offer a mug of good, strong coffee to her guest and friend. Scott graciously accepted. When she came back with a hot pot of black coffee, the young journalist thanked her for that delicious meal.
– “I should have bought my new pants two sizes larger in advance.”
Then he invited Maria to really join their conversation. He had already been talking about Michael’s death all evening, so he congratulated them for their lovely home, and he commented on the things he had also found and enjoyed in Biberton.
Scott was absolutely honest, for once. He didn’t want to leave.
He belonged to this mysterious, little town.
– “This reminds me...”
– “Yes?”
– “I have been sleeping in a great hotel. Really nice room, good service, great food...”
– “You’re staying at the Paddington Hotel, right?”
– “That’s the one. Yes... I just wanted to say that... I have had these really strange dreams, for the last few days.”
– “What kind of dreams?”
– “I don’t even remember. Something to do with... clouds. Fluffy clouds, long clouds. White ones, dark ones...”
– “Sounds quite peaceful to me.”
– “No, no. They were fighting. The sky was torn to shreds...”
Maria had an idea.
– “I know someone you should see. Mrs Oda Mae Warren, on 4th street.”
– “Oda Mae Warren?”
– “Come on, Maria...” Damon shrugged. “You know that woman.”
– “Right. I know her, and I know that she gets results. She helped Mrs Stauffer get rid of her nightmares.”
– “Yeah, her and Napoleon... Mrs Stauffer’s been replacing her orange juice with brandy again.”
– “Excuse me... Who is this Oda Mae Warren?”
The Maxwells answered in unison.
– “She’s a psychic.”
Maria was serious, while Damon was clearly not enthusiastic about her. They agreed on the fact that she could help Scott if he told her about his dreams in detail. Maria looked for her card in her wallet.
– “I wonder if Michael Astern didn’t go to see her.”
– “Why would he do such a thing?”
– “I have seen Mrs Warren every week, at the center. She told me about the boys in Augustine Bells. Troubled kids, looking for answers... Every year, some new student comes knocking on her door.”
Sheriff Maxwell approved. He didn’t trust the woman. Some people in town called her a witch, as she claimed to be a “witch doctor”, and he didn’t want to deal with that kind of rumors and disorder.
Scott accepted Maria’s card.
– “It’s funny. The more I’m looking into Michael’s past, the more I find that there is still to be explored...”
– “Didn’t I tell you about it? You can’t leave Biberton so soon.”
Scott couldn’t agree more. It was just not up to him.
Sheriff Maxwell put a hand on his shoulder.
– “You’ve been eating really well. Have another cup of coffee...”
– “I should really be going... It’s getting late.”
– “Have one last cup of coffee with me, and I’ll tell you what I know about Michael Astern.”
Scott sat down next to the sheriff.
– “What do you know about him?”
– “I have seen Michael before his death. He’s come to the Police precinct once. That was two... no, three days before he was found dead.”
■ ■ ■
Scott could hardly walk. His belly weighed him down so much that he had to hold it with both hands. Maria had been kind enough to drive him back to his hotel. Now he wished that someone could carry him all the way to the lift.
– “I am... so... stuffed...”
Going back to his bedroom, at the Paddington Hotel, the young journalist let out one last, loud, long belch that woke him up from his stupor.
– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP...”
His thoughts were running in circles again – faster and faster, erratically, like birds caught in a whirlwind. He should have taken notes when Damon was telling him about Michael, at the end of their conversation, after that endless dinner... Why would a young student in a preparatory school turn to the Police... unless there was something obscure threatening him, lurking in the dark?
“D” could mean Damon, sheriff Maxwell. Scott had not even thought about it.
He opened his notebook and found the list of names, next to the letter he had received from his boss, urging him to leave town and go back to work.
Scott couldn’t leave town – not now, not like this...
Falling asleep almost immediately, the young man knew that he didn’t want to leave Biberton. He knew that he had to leave, and he knew that he shouldn’t.
He wasn’t quite sure that he could leave...
(To be continued...)
