The Augustine Murders - Season 2, Episode 7

II.7
             “When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
              They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
              Though they go mad they shall be sane,
              Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again,
              Though lovers be lost love shall not;
              And death shall have no dominion.”

Dylan THOMAS

Twenty-five Poems –

February 15^th, 1990 – Thursday

  Scott had to leave. It was only a matter of days – less than 48 hours, actually. The young journalist had been staying in Biberton for weeks. He couldn’t spend a whole month on a mission like this.

  His boss, Mr Horn, wouldn’t understand that there was a lot more to be told about Michael Astern’s death, and Saint Augustine Bell’s school for boys, than he could write in the obituaries. Both his articles had been submitted, accepted by the editor-in-chief, summarily rewritten and published. Scott was done with his job here. His boss wouldn’t allow him another day of vacation...

  So he had to leave. The thought had bothered him all evening, after Maria, the sheriff’s wife, had driven him back to his hotel. He didn’t want to go back to work – he was not done with this murder mystery.

  Even as he struggled to find a way to stay in Biberton, Scott had never slept so well. As a matter of fact, the sun filled his bedroom with smoldering nuances of gold when he woke up, with a long moan.

  He had been dreaming again.

  In his dream, Scott felt light and soft, bathing in sunlight. He was lying on his back, in bed – yet, there he was floating in the air, looking down on the ground. The horizon was merely a line, fading in the distance...

  Looking further down, Scott saw the valleys and hills beneath him, hundreds of feet under his body. Something didn’t feel right. He had been dreaming about this before. Once again, he was fully naked, fully bloated – his body was almost shaped like a hot air balloon – and very near to bursting!

  His eyes got more accustomed to the light around him. Scott found his arms ridiculously small, compared to his gigantic body. His chest was also little more than a pair of fluffy pillows. Gulping down in anxiety, he could swear that his cheeks were no less chubby...

  Scott’s body was floating and slowly moving in the wind. There used to be a gentle, warm breeze over the hills, in his memories. The sky above him was shiny, blue and deep like an ocean. The pastures were an impossible shade of green. It was so silent and peaceful that Scott could surrender to that feeling of well-being he had discovered in Biberton, as his body kept growing and swelling before his eyes. For a moment, his underbelly rested on a bank of fluffy, white clouds, and he let out a long moan of pure delight.

  That feeling didn’t last.

  Scott he saw grey clouds, as he remembered then, long and thin like a trail of smoke. Scott’s attention was drawn to them as they looked like rockets, getting closer and closer at an alarming speed...

  He had never been able to tell whether these were more than dark clouds. They seemed to be more agitated, as if an angry spirit was in command of the way they moved. As they passed by in a rush, Scott’s ballooning body rocked to the side and wobbled a bit. Then he got caught in a whirlwind, as the bank of white clouds reacted to that assault from the dark clouds. Scott felt them surrounding him and catching him like a feast suddenly closing on his belly.

  It hurt him more than he expected. Then the sun hit him in the eyes, and he cried for help.

  That wasn’t the sun. Scott had forgotten about that last cloud, fiery and bright, just so vague and alive as the others – like a dragon’s breath or feathers from a phoenix – blazing furiously.

  A fight began between the elements.

  Scott already knew then that they were fighting for him. He couldn’t move, but he heard that 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, black and white streaks with a long line of fire going through it like an even deeper scar.

  As the ballooning boy forced himself to keep his eyes opened, he realized that these angry “clouds” weren’t clouds at all – they looked like giant snakes or dragons, biting, scratching and hissing. Light against Darkness, and Fire on top of it – the confusion was complete, and Scott was simply overwhelmed.

  Then something happened that caught his attention immediately. He had forgotten about that crowd of people who had gathered on top of a hill, far below his obscenely bloated body. Scott saw that they had built some sort of butterfly net – and they seemed determined to catch him...

– “You belong to the night...”

  There was a large round of laughter again. 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 he opened his eyes...

  He was sweating profusely. The last thing he could remember from his dream was that strange voice, whispering in the dark:

– “You belong to me... fat boy!”

■ ■ ■

  Scott had to leave – only, right now, leaving meant getting out of bed. Scott didn’t want to get out of bed. His body felt heavier than ever, and the layers of blankets and bed sheets were too comfortable for him to even consider moving a finger, as they pushed him a few inches further down against the soft mattress. He let out a long sigh.

– “I only have two days left... I can’t afford to stay in bed all morning.”

  If he didn’t know better, Scott could swear that someone had stuffed at least one pillow under the covers, while he was sleeping. He had to make sure, so he took everything off, and looked at his own midsection, still laying in bed.

  For a second, Scott wished that he had been in the habit of wearing pajamas. It would have allowed him a moment of reasonable doubt – so he could pretend that whoever had planned to tease him had been thorough, and stuffed one or two pillows under his T-shirt...

  There was no way for him to pull that one off: there he was, naked in bed as always. If there was a pillow in sight, way too large to be ignored, it had been stuffed right under his own skin – a ball of dough the size of a knapsack, with his bellybutton on top.

– “Wow! did I really grow... that fat ?”

  Scott hoisted himself up in bed, and gave his belly a few good pats with his right hand. He could see the flesh rippling and jiggling as he shook it gently – little waves going from his stomach to his budding love handles, in the morning light...

  Still partly wasted from last night’s dinner at the Maxwell’s, the young man didn’t feel bloated anymore. As a matter of fact, his gut was groaning, not from being full but out of pure hunger.

– “Okay, okay... Time to feed the beast!”

  Walking to the bathroom, Scott kept tripping over himself, then he saw himself in the full length mirrors on the bathroom walls. He had definitely put on some serious weight. He answered to his groaning guts with an equally angry grumble, cleaned himself up slightly, and got dressed in his noticeably tighter clothes.

– “Why... did I... only... buy... size... 34... pants?” Scott struggled.

  His new jeans were already too small around his waist and hips – jeans he had bought only three days before! Scott stretched out his arms until his back almost popped, and held out his breath so he could get the top button closed. Then he let out a deep sigh.

  Fortunately for him, he had chosen comfortable shirts in a generous L size, so he didn’t have to worry about popping these buttons... That was a relief.

– “I should have bought these pants with a 36” waist, not 34...” Scott mumbled to himself, although he remembered that his first choice was 32. “There isn’t much of a difference between a 36” waist and a 34” waist, after all... Right?”

  Standing in the middle of his bedroom, he could see the fabric of his pants and shirt stretching with every breath he took.

– “Well... as long as it doesn’t rip or burst along the seams...”

  Scott was summarily reminded that he was hungry. He went down to the buffet, loaded six plates full of scrambled eggs with pork sausages, beef sausages and bacon, poached eggs with mushrooms, tomatoes, fried dumplings, pudding, toasts and potato scones. He sat down and ate in a hurry, washing it all down with orange juice, whole chocolate milk and apple juice.

  He only took a moment for a few pieces of strawberry pie, orange sponge cake, some crèmes brûlées with maple syrup and whipped cream – then three or four cinnamon rolls for the road. Scott had other and more pressing things on his plate: places to go, people to see...

  And he only had two days left.

■ ■ ■

  The streets of Biberton were usually quiet, especially around the Paddington Hotel, with its private park and spa. Scott always took a walk through it to get to his bus stop. He had been taking the bus to go to Saint Augustine Bells, to the hospital, to the police precinct, to the sheriff’s home...

  There he was now, walking down the street in a part of town he had never seen before. It was a long one way street. The buildings around it were two or three stores higher than in the historical center, and the shops looked smaller and more modest. Scott looked for n°87, looked at the list of names by the door and rang the bell.

  Mrs. Warren lived on the last floor – of course... Scott secretly resented her for it, when he saw the paper attached to the lift: “Out of order”. It looked like that paper had been here for some time, and there was no repairman in sight.

  Scott’s forehead was sweating when he got to her place. He already had to stop and take a pause in the middle of the stairs. The sign on the door said “Oda Mae Warren, astrology, cartomancy, palm reading, etc.” – not what Scott would call “impressive”. It looked rather shabby.

  Still, the sheriff’s wife had told him about her special talents, and the fact that students like Michael asked for her help and guidance, sometimes. Maria had also given a letter of introduction to Scott, assuring him that Mrs. Warren would see him. It looked like she wasn’t even in the book – then it was clear that she didn’t need any advertising.

  The waiting room was empty, with only an old woman getting dressed in a long coat. She waved at Scott as she was putting her gloves on.

– “Good morning, young man.”

– “Good morning... I’m looking for Mrs. Oda Mae Warren?”

– “I see... She’s with a client, right now. I’m Mrs. Davis, her roommate.”

– “How do you do?”

– “Please, sit down. Mrs. Warren will be with you in a moment.”

   Scott didn’t have to wait for long, although he rather enjoyed his large, art déco club chair. A young black woman came in, dressed in a long robe decorated with motifs in garish colors, with jewels and a necklace that must be weighing her down by a good ten pounds.

– “That would be the same as a camera, then... am I right?”

– “Huh... Why a camera?”

– “You know what they say: “The camera adds ten pounds on you”. I’m Mrs. Warren.”

  Scott offered to shake her hand, but she took a step back.

– “Sorry, boy... I don’t go for that kind of salute. You must be Scott.”

  The young journalist only nodded. He didn’t know what to say – did she just read his mind, or was it a clever trick?

– “No tricks...” She answered, without him asking. “Of course, I could read in your eyes that you were thinking about it. Don’t get up.”

– “...Why?”

– “You’re feeling comfortable in this chair. That’s good. It allows me to feel better about your case as well. Mutual benefit... Now, give me your left hand, palm up if you please.”

  Scott did as he was told. From the way she spoke, Mrs. Warren had to be from Jamaica, or Haiti, but he didn’t want to get distracted right now.

– “Yes... You have found some peace and comfort in our little town, when you were looking for something dark and violent... I can see it now.”

– “What do you see?”

– “Give me a minute, boy... Give me a minute.”

– “What did you see, until now?”

  Mrs. Warren smiled and looked into his eyes.

– “You are quite clever, you know that? What I saw, when I came in, was what every people would see in you at first sight: a confident young man, with a love for all kinds of pleasures... and wearing pants one size too tight.”

– “Huh...” Scott blushed. “I guess I’ve been eating a bit too much.”

– “You have been stuffing yourself, silly. And don’t try to deny it.”

  Scott looked away. Mrs. Warren stopped holding his hand.

– “No need to read you palm. In your case, I should work with something more substantial... more personal. Would you mind taking off your shirt?”

– “I beg your pardon?”

– “Take off your shirt, Scott.” She asked nicely, but in such a way that he couldn’t refuse. “I can already feel that the source of your spiritual self is not in your hands, but in your belly...”

– “Why is it not my hands?”

  As Scott was taking his clothes off, the soft leather of his club chair felt more sensual than ever against his back. The overfed young man let out a sigh – the top buttons of his pants would never get closed again!

– “Now I’m sure...” Mrs. Warren smiled, rubbing her hands together with some scented oils. “Do you know what the greatest sin is today, in America?”

– “I don’t really know...” Scott didn’t want to say: Gluttony. “Pride?”

– “No, no... Pride is good. A man should have some pride.” She started rubbing his belly, in small circles. “Greed is the modern man’s sin. That will cause the Fall of what you and I still call Civilization...”

– “Okay...”

– “Greed is worse than curiosity that will never be satisfied, worse than thirst that will never be quenched, worse than wounds that will never get healed... One gets hurt, and still wants to feel more of that same pain.”

– “Ouch.”

  Scott was certainly not in pain, at the moment, having his belly slowly rubbed by someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

– “Think about it: climbing a mountain – just for the sake of it. You don’t know what’s beyond that summit. You had nowhere to go in the first place. You just want to get on top. Your whole body is suspended to your fingers, to your hands. That is where Greed strikes: in your hands.”

– “I see...”

– “A man’s hands are made to take, and grab, and pinch...”

  She squeezed Scott’s sides gently, making him feel massive – and manly!

– “You are ambitious, Scott, in many ways... but that kind of ambition isn’t really in your nature. The way I see it now, spirits have taken residence in your guts.”

– “Mrs. Warren...”

– “Please, call me Oda Mae.”

– “Are you sure about this? I don’t really believe in spirits...”

– “So what? You don’t believe in spirits. They believe in you.”

– “...Really?”

– “Don’t even doubt about them. Besides, you do believe in spirits. I can feel it.”

– “But... in my guts?”

– “Of course. That’s a good thing, too. A man should have guts.”

  Scott wasn’t quite convinced. As Oda Mae was rubbing his belly and kneading his flesh like cookie dough, he got to feel more and more relaxed, but he had not come to this place for a massage.

– “Underneath this nice, white skin of yours, there is a deeper, darker person, whose name may not even be Scott... but it’s you, more than you even know.”

  She kept rubbing his belly, more forcefully and in larger circles. Scott admitted that he usually appeared as “superficial” – he was definitely aware of his own vanity – but he was more concerned with the darkness he had been feeling around him, lately...

– “The answer to your question would be: yes. There is something about that school for boys. Saint Augustine Bells. Many students have come to me, looking for help, protection, guidance... There is true evil in that place.”

– “Like... an evil spirit?”

– “Something like that...” Oda Mae paused for a moment. “Spirits come and go. Sometimes, there were almost as many spirits as there were students... some good, some bad... The really bad ones are the ones who won’t let go.”

– “Like a ghost, then.”

  Mrs. Warren frowned.

– “You should listen to yourself... And you should listen to me. I am talking about spirits, not ghosts. Ghosts aren’t even what you think they are. It has nothing to do with dead people.”

– “I thought...”

– “You weren’t thinking. You were only repeating what people have told you. If you truly put some thought into what you have been doing for the past few weeks, what would you say?”

  Scott was stunned by that question.

– “I... I have...”

– “Yes? Think about it.”

– “I haven’t done much, really.”

– “Now that is what your boss is thinking, not you.”

– “I have been investigating... about a murder.”

– “That is what you have told everyone in town. Tell me what you have truly been doing... what you truly think about this time you have spent here with us.”

  It was much harder to answer than Scott expected. Looking down at his own belly, he found that the answer had always been there.

– “I have put on weight.”

– “Okay... That’s a good point. You have been eating a lot.”

– “No... I mean... Yes, I have. But I didn’t eat so much than I got... fed.”

– “You mean to say that people have been feeding you?”

– “Yes... fattening me up, really.”

– “Like the other boys at school?”

– “I wouldn’t know... Maybe, a little bit.”

– “Tell me about it.”

– “I have spent some time around school, but not so much with the students.”

– “So, who has been feeding you?”

  Scott let out a sigh.

– “Everyone, really...”

– “Everyone?”

– “Yes. From the head of security, Rick... I mean, Mr Wingrave... to the male nurse they have there, Phil. They don’t even call him by his real name. Then the sheriff and his wife...”

– “I know. Maria loves to make her man eat as much as he can.”

– “I have spent one evening with them, and I have never been treated to such a feast!”

– “Good...”

  Oda Mae patted Scott’s belly.

– “That’s not all... I have tricked Phil into buying me dinner twice, and I’ve never eaten so much in my life! Then the breakfast buffet at my hotel is just heavenly, I just can’t help myself...”

– “I can see that.”

– “Now I’m fat, just like the boys in that godforsaken school.”

– “Certainly not.”

  Mrs. Warren was done with Scott’s belly. She got up and washed her hands from the scented oil with a towel.

– “What do you mean?”

– “Oh, you have grown quite fat, Scott, but this is entirely different. The boys in Augustine Bells are forced to eat, and be lazy. You wouldn’t understand.”

– “Try me.”

  Feeling free to move, Scott chose to be more daring.

– “Most of the boys in Augustine Bells are forced to grow very large and heavy, which is not only against their metabolism but against their spiritual nature. That kind of bad treatment can already cause a spirit to get angry.”

– “So he would get... vengeful?”

– “Definitely. Then if you add all the resentment and rage emanating from a number of mostly harmless boys, you can actually generate an evil spirit.”

– “Oh...”

  Scott had not thought about it. Michael’s ghost coming back to haunt him, or Ian’s ghost coming back to cause Michael’s death, felt a lot less complicated than this – and a lot less threatening.

– “So you would say that... all of this only has to do with karma?”

– “In your case, I would consider it.”

  The way she looked at him made Scott blush.

– “I’m going home, you know... Tomorrow.”

– “I know. You’re sad about it.”

– “Then I’ll lose all this weight.” Scott chuckled, or tried to chuckle. “I don’t get that kind of good food and beer at home... you know?”

– “I have no doubt. You’re sad about it too.”

  Scott protested.

– “Why should I be... sad about it?”

– “You’ve already told me about this. You will miss being large, and round. And fat. More than anything, you will miss being fed.”

– “Huh...” Scott didn’t feel like arguing, at this point. Deep down, he knew how right she was. “So this is the kind of... spiritual energy I have?”

– “Mostly, yes. You can call it karma, like most people do these days, or you can call it charm. And you do have charm, Scott. So, don’t feel bad about it.”

– “Then... why am I feeling like this?”

– “If you allow me, I would have a question for you.”

– “Shoot.”

– “Okay... Do you usually remember your dreams after you wake up?”

  Now Scott was startled – he had been wishing to tell Mrs. Warren about his recurring from the moment he had entered her place.

  He had to tell her twice about his visions, as she asked for details and he was far too nervous to give her a complete description. She seemed rather satisfied with his story, eventually.

– “This is a very interesting dream, Scott. What you first thought were clouds, then flying snakes, are actually dragons. They represent spirits, very powerful spirits too. I have rarely found such a rich gathering of the white dragon, the black dragon and the dragon of fire...”

– “What is the meaning of all this?”

– “The black dragon is the spirit of darkness, and Life. It is coming to hurt you, harm you, maybe even crush you. I have sensed danger around you from the start. You are surrounded by it.”

– “What about the dragon of fire?”

– “He represents love.”

– “Love?”

– “Don’t scoff. You may have already been killed, without its presence over you.”

– “Did you get a feeling of it when you saw me?”

– “Clear as a bell... You’ve become a rather popular boy in Biberton.” Oda Mae teased him. “Of course, love is also fire. You should be careful, or you may end up roasted like a turkey.”

– “I’ll keep that one in mind...”

– “Good.”

– “How about the white dragon? I was resting against its soft belly, like a bank of fluffy clouds. I guess that’s a good thing?”

– “You were asleep, so naturally you were in the white dragon’s lap.”

– “Okay.”

– “But I wouldn’t say that it’s a good thing. You see, that was only a vision for you... of perpetual sleep. The white dragon represents light – and Death.”

■ ■ ■

“See you in two days, then. About 2PM.”

  Mr Huggins had invited Scott on Monday. The young journalist had just skipped lunch, after his long session at Mrs. Warren’s office, so he wouldn’t be late to meet the secretary of Saint Augustine Bells. It was almost 2:30PM now, and no sign of Mr Huggins...

  Scott was waiting in the hall. The door to the secretary’s office was closed, but not locked. After a few more minutes, waiting less and less patiently, Scott opened to find that the office was empty.

  The silence in the hall was deafening. Classes had started again, so there was no reason for anyone to be here. Scott had nothing to do. He wished that he had been less polite and grabbed lunch somewhere, as he was getting rather hungry.

– “Where is that guy?... Why is he not here?...” Scott kept thinking. “Even if he forgot about this interview, he should be at work, by now. Then I should see him.”

  He was beginning to feel worried. Mr Huggins had made it quite clear that he had important information to share with him. Scott remembered his exact words: “What you’re looking for is a lot darker, a lot deeper than anything coming from beyond the veil.”

  His recent visit to Mrs. Warren allowed Scott some new insights about ghosts, or spirits, but he was still uncertain about it. His mind told him that Mr Huggins was right, that there was no ghost in Augustine Bells – then something kept him from dismissing it so easily.

  Scott could feel it in his gut, even if he couldn’t put his feelings into words. He had to follow his gut.

– “I know, I would follow you to the next diner...” Scott sighed, as his stomach was groaning hungrily.

  Alone in the hall, the young journalist let go for a moment, and patted his soft belly resting naturally and hanging over the waistband of his jeans. It was true. He had grown quite plump and round on all that comfort food...

– “Hello, Scott. What are you doing here?”

  Scott was startled, once again. He had not seen Mr Scupper walking in the hall, coming from the stairs.

– “Oh... Hello, Mr Scupper. I’m waiting for Mr Huggins.”

– “Are you, really? I was just looking for him.”

– “You were?”

– “I was about to ask you if you had not seen him.”

– “Sorry... No, I did not see him.”

– “Now, this is strange. I haven’t seen him all morning.”

  As if Scott had not enough to worry about, Mr Scupper told him about his day, and how he was supposed to work on some document with Mr Huggins, then he had come to see him and the door to his office wasn’t even locked. It always took a long time for Mr Scupper to say the simplest things, and Scott had no time to lose – especially with an old man rambling on and on like that.

  He found a way out, asking a question completely out of the blue.

– “Do you think that there is a difference between ghosts and spirits?”

  Mr Scupper was usually faster when he was intellectually challenged.

– “I guess so, at least in the way we define “ghosts” and “spirits” in the Western world. In japan, for instance, ghosts are generally called Yūreis but some ghosts are the spirits of dead people. They are Shiryōs and correspond to our own definition of a ghost... Then ghosts can be summoned by someone who holds a grudge against someone else. These are Ikiryōs tormenting spirits of people who are still alive... Then there are Onryōs often described as vengeful spirits...”

  It took Mr Scupper some time before he asked Scott why he was wondering about such a distinction between spiritual entities.

– “I was just wondering...”

– “About ghosts and spirits?”

– “Yes... About Ian’s ghost, as you have told me about him.”

– “Oh? Yes, quite. I should show you my album sometimes... I have kept a few clippings from the newspapers, about Ian McNeill, from the year he was killed.”

  Scott was no longer listening. He had been distracted by Mr Scupper’s explanations, where ghosts looked like a collection of insects, pinned down inside little boxes, dissected and classified.

  Then he had suddenly considered how a plague of locusts also caused famine. Science would provide statistics, a system of theories and laws – it wouldn’t prevent the next famine. Then it didn’t explain a thing.

– “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

– “I was mentioning the clippings I have concerning Ian’s death.”

– “Really? I thought everything had burned down.”

– “What do you mean?”

– “The archives, at the newspaper...” Scott realized how confused he was. “I didn’t expect that someone would have kept any record of the event.”

– “You should come to my office and take a look. It doesn’t look like Mr Huggins will join us, at this point.”

  Mr Scupper was probably right. It was already past 3PM.

  Scott spent the next hour in the old man’s office. There were only three articles from 1932, mentioning the assault in Saint Augustine Bells prison, the fire and the death of a security guard named Ian McNeill. That was it.

– “No picture...”

– “Pictures were quite rare in the news, in 1932.”

– “So, this is everything we have to work with.”

– “I thought that you had nothing to work with, so far.”

– “That’s true...” Scott felt like he should give up. “That’s fine.”

– “I thought that any document could be of help with your investigation.”

– “You’re right. But there won’t be any investigation.”

– “Why is that?”

– “Because... I am leaving, tomorrow evening.”

  As he was about to leave campus, Scott noticed that the lights were on in Rick’s office. The head of security may know where Mr Huggins was, if he had already left, or if he had not even showed up in the morning.

  It was almost 4PM, and Rick was sitting at his desk, devouring doughnut after doughnut. Scott was definitely hungry, at this point!

– “Hey, Scott! Come in here...”

– “Good evening, Rick.”

– “Do you feel like cinnamon rolls? Chocolate eclairs? Cherry pie?”

– “All of the above. I’m starving!”

  And, for the next two hours, the two men didn’t exchange a word – merely grunts of mutual encouragement, appreciative nods and smiles when one of them would be done with a full box of pastries and got to grab the handful of fifty or hundred dollar bills that where stashed under the cardboard.

  For two hours, Scott got to forget about his worries – no more thoughts about ghosts, or spirits, or death, or whatever – no more thoughts about leaving this place – not even thinking about ever getting up from that chair...

  Rick was rather good company for Scott. From the way he ate, it looked like he had come to terms with his own weight and size, but Scott knew better: he kept offering him the largest boxes, containing the tastiest, most fattening treats. If that meant more money for Scott, he was okay with it, but he was clearly trying to make his partner eat a lot more than he had to.

– “Come on, you’re eating too slowly...”

– “I’m eating faster than you are.”

– “That’s only because I’ve been here all day. You need to catch up, little guy.”

  Rick did more than offering Scott a box of brownies. He took one in his hand, came to sit next to Scott, and began to feed him quite forcefully...

– “Open up...”

– “Hmmmph...” Scott protested.

– “And eat up!”

  The two men spent another hour eating and being fed like that.

  Scott let his shirt and T-shirt fall on the floor, then he had to let his pants drop around his ankles, before the pile of pastries on Rick’s desk looked small enough for the two grown men to get rid of it. It was down to seven or eight large, pink boxes, by now. Rick was determined not to let Scott go anywhere, until the last piece of pie was gone!

– “There. Have another one...”

– “Hmmmph... Hmmmph!” Scott could only utter a muffled protest.

  Rick hardly allowed him a moment to breathe.

– “I wanted to tell you... I’ve tried.”

– “...Tried what?”

– “I talked to Mr Porkenham. I talked to Mr Thorne, who may have talked to Mr Porkenham. I even talked to Mr Swayn, who may have told Mr Thorne to tell Mr Porkenham... No dice. They didn’t tell me anything, but clearly someone wants you out of here. Yesterday.”

– “Oh...”

  Scott didn’t expect to be called and asked to stay for another month, at this point. It was too late. He was secretly grateful to the head of security to put in a good word for him, especially when it was such a lost cause.

– “Well... Thanks. You did what you could.”

– “Yeah.” Rick sighed. “And it didn’t make any difference... You should expect someone large like me to be in charge!”

  Rick lifted his belly with both hands, then let the round, soft mass fall and settle in his lap again. No matter how stuffed the young journalist was, at the moment, he was still much fatter than Scott.

– “I’m going to miss you. Who’s going to get through all this when you’re gone?”

– “Honestly, I have no idea.”

– “It doesn’t really show... that much, but I’ve lost another five pounds, over the last few days.”

  Scott congratulated him. In some corner of his mind, he couldn’t help thinking that he must have gained at least five pounds over these last few days.

  Then, of course, Rick didn’t have to leave town.

– “I’m going to miss all this...” Scott admitted, in a rare moment of sincerity.

– “Then you should eat these pies! Open up. Wider!”

– “Hmmmph...”

  Rick was quite forceful in the way he fed Scott. Closing his eyes while he was chewing, the overfed young man had a flashback from his dinner date with Phil. The Southern blonde beefcake was incomparably gentler in the way he would offer more and more food to his hungry friend.

  Thinking about his dinner with Phil made Scott remember his late night kiss on Phil’s check – then Phil’s kiss on the lips – then...

  That was a dangerous pattern for him to follow: he was only wearing his boxer shorts, after all!

  Fortunately for him, Rick was only focused on stuffing his colleague as fast – and as much – as he could! Even as he gave him loud, friendly slaps on his full stomach, Scott was little more than a surrogate belly for Rick, a bag of fattened flesh that wasn’t attached to his ribs and back...

– “Boy! you’re really going to miss me...”

– “I know, I know...” Rick complained. “You wouldn’t believe how hard I’ve tried to keep you around here, find something official for you to do in Augustine Bells. I’ve asked Mr Scupper for advice... That was the dumbest thing to do.”

  Scott was fed enormous, cream-filled doughnuts. There were only five left: that was the last box on Rick’s desk. He had to keep munching, and gulping down hard, as Rick was only beginning to slow down.

– “I’ve even asked Graham when we trained together, this morning. Of course, that was the dumbest guy to go to.”

  Rick meant Phil – everyone in Saint Augustine Bells kept calling him “Graham”, the school’s best specimen of a big, cuddly bear.

  Scott had a sudden impulse thought.

– “Did you try asking... Mr Huggins?”

– “The secretary? Yes, I saw him yesterday, told him about you and everything. He tried to weasel his way out of it, to tell you the truth.”

– “But... did you see him today?”

– “Not that I remember...” Rick gave it a thought. “Huh! That’s odd... I guess I only saw him around eight, this morning.

– “So you didn’t see him leave tonight?”

– “No, but it’s not so late, it’s hardly...”

  Rick turned to look at the clock. It was almost 7PM.

– “Wow! Where does time go?”

  Scott only answered with a long, sounding belch that made the papers pinned on the walls shake like dead leaves on a willow.

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”

  Rick patted his friend’s painfully bloated gut, almost lovingly.

– “Well done, Scott. Only two doughnuts left.”

– “I will leave them to you, okay?”

– “Come on... and the money that goes with them?” Rick teased. “You’ve gone this far. You can’t leave the game when you’re so close to the goal.”

  Scott took a deep breath. He couldn’t possibly swallow another bite.

  Rick’s encouragements also felt bittersweet, considering his situation.

– “I thought I was getting close to something.”

– “Maybe you were.”

– “Maybe I was...” Scott rubbed his aching belly. “Maybe I was. I guess we will never know.”

– “It’s only a couple doughnuts.”

– “It’s also 7PM. Time out. I’m out of here...”

  Rick didn’t insist. He had to help Scott get up from his chair. The poor guy could hardly stand on his legs.

– “Ouch!”

– “Baby steps, Scott.”

– “I know, but... Yikes!”

– “What’s wrong?”

– “It’s my hip... It has never hurt so bad since the day I got injured.”

■ ■ ■

  Scott accepted Rick’s offer to drive him back to the Paddington Hotel.

  He had trouble walking, with his whole belly so heavily laden with food.

– “Don’t forget this.”

  Rick handed him an envelope with his money. There was more than enough to pay for surgery, but Scott was only focused on the pain he felt in his leg, from the top of his hip to the tip of his toes.

  What was the point of being young and loaded if you had to walk with a cane? Then what was the point of being young and loaded if you didn’t get to enjoy all the finest things in Life? What was the point of being young if you couldn’t get loaded?...

  Scott let his thoughts wander as he waited in the lift, eyes closed with his back against the cold marble wall.

  He had to do something – one last shot. He didn’t care if it was another shot in the dark.

 Alone in his bedroom, Scott sat by the phone and dialed. He knew that his boss would still be there.

– “Sir?”

– “Mr Horn speaking. Who is this?”

– “It’s me. Scott Girder.”

– “Oh, right... Where are you, boy?”

– “I’m in Biberton.”

– “What, you’re still there?”

– “My train leaves tomorrow around 8PM.”

– “Okay, so?”

– “I had to tell you... I can’t leave town.”

– “Why?”

– “I just... I can’t explain why. I just can’t.”

– “Why?”

– “Mr Horn...” Scott scratched his head, as he was starting to sweat. “I know you didn’t send me here to find anything... but I did. I’ve found something that will make the headlines.”

– “Okay, now we’re talking. What did you find?”

– “I mean... I haven’t found it yet, but I’m on it.”

– “So you are. Let me tell you a story, my boy.”

– “... Okay.”

– “Listen. When I was about your age, I worked for a local newspaper in Dallas. Then one day, my boss asked me to attend a big political event. I had heard that the president was coming with his wife and all the top brass following behind. It was my first real, big break. Then I was told to go interview the mayor of a small town, who was inaugurating something totally meaningless with a bunch of his totally meaningless collaborators. That was my assignment. I was furious, then I went to the bar and had a few drinks. I was sitting next to some sap who kept mumbling and mouthing about the presidential visit. I didn’t listen to him that much, as I kept calling my boss on the phone. I almost begged the old bastard. He wouldn’t change his mind...”

– “Huh... Okay.”

– “I didn’t listen to him. I missed my bus on purpose, and stayed in Dallas. Next thing you know, President Kennedy was shot and I was there to witness the whole thing. I wrote a full paper, and showed it to my boss. He wouldn’t take my word for it. The way he saw it, I had been slacking off the job, and tried to cover it with fictitious interviews and everything!”

– “Oh...”

– “So I was fired... But that’s not the worst part. I’m pretty sure that I was this close to get Lee Harvey Oswald’s last interview. No one would believe me. So...”

– “Yes?”

– “Is that the kind of big fish you’ve found and decided to catch in that little pond where you’re standing?”

– “Well... nothing presidential.”

– “Then stop whining and start packing.”

  Scott wasn’t quite finished, but Mr Horn had already hung up.

– “Oh, what the hell does he know!” the young journalist almost smashed the phone on its receiver. Then he looked down at his enormously bloated belly. “I have been packing, in a way... just packing it on.”

  He was upset. His stomach wasn’t upset – that was always a good thing – but he was. Scott had to do something: one last shot in the dark, even if that was only a shot of gin.

  Phone in hand, once again, he pushed n°7 on speed dial.

– “Room service. How may I help you?”

– “Tom? Is that you?”

– “Yes, Scott?”

– “Get your ass over here... No need to bring too much food, tonight.”

■ ■ ■

  February 16^th, 1990 – Friday

– “Only one slice left, Scott... Pace yourself a bit.”

  Tom was holding the last slice in his hand. There were three empty plates of pies and cheesecake by the bedpost, next to the alarm clock. It was almost 1AM.

– “You pace yourself, naughty boy!” Scott gave his usual answer, with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  The Bell boy had been following his instructions all night, once again. This was Scott’s last night at the Paddington Hotel, and he intended to go with a bang. The young journalist had grown such an appetite, since he had come to Biberton, that he was able to eat more sweets only a few hours after Rick had stuffed him like a sausage! Tom was genuinely impressed.

  Scott was also one of the best customers at the hotel – according to Tom, at least. Meeting him after hours always meant a hundred and fifty bucks for “room service”, with another fifty for desserts in bed. His rates had been going up, lately...

– “Your wish is my command, Sir.”

– “Make it a bit faster, then...”

  Tom was lean and limber, but still too lazy for his taste... With the Bell boy sitting on him, and his money next to the empty pie plates, Scott had every right to be the lazy one.

– “Come on! You can do better than this...”

– “I don’t want to... hurt you, you know.”

  Scott's hip didn't hurt right now. He was comfortably resting on his back, feeling the weight in his belly slowly shifting back and forth with Tom's moves.

– “As if you could hurt me, the way you do it...”

– “Okay, then I don’t want to get seasick.”

  Scott didn’t understand.

– “What do you mean?”

– “Honestly? If I closed my eyes, I’d feel like I’m humping a waterbed.”

– “...a what?”

– “Come on, Scott. Admit it.” Tom paused. “It’s probably a good thing that you’re leaving tonight. I couldn’t go on like this.”

– “Why’s that?”

– “Well, you’ve become... quite a handful, you know.”

  Tom grabbed one of Scott’s love handles to make himself perfectly clear. There was enough flesh to hold on to during sex – even rough sex – as Scott wished for it even more, feeling frustrated right now.

– “So what? I thought you enjoyed this.”

– “Oh, please...” Tom let go of Scott’s plump sides and caught the two hundred dollar bills on the bedpost. “This? I wouldn’t go anywhere without it... makes the world go round. This?” He pointed at the empty plates of food. “I wouldn’t come an inch closer... makes your belly grow round.” Tom chuckled. “Now, this?... I don’t know.”

  He patted Scott on the top of his belly, watching the flabby mass of guts quiver and jiggle slowly, like a man-sized bowl of Jell-O.

– “Jell-O, huh?”

– “Pretty much.”

– “Then why don’t you try a bit harder to kiss my behind? It’s a real peach!”

  Scott teased, but he was getting angry at Tom. The bell boy only shrugged.

– “Sure... But I’m warning you, that would cost you extra.”

– “I thought that was part of your job description.”

  That hit a nerve in Tom. He slapped his large customer’s belly with both hands.

– “Okay, you want me to be blunt? I can be blunt.”

– “Shoot.”

– “You know how the guys I work with give nicknames to everyone... It took us a few days to get yours right, but one guy at the counter nailed it. So now you’re the blimp with a limp.”

  In any other circumstance, Scott would have found a nasty comeback for Tom – but not this time. That was both mean and personal, and he actually felt hurt.

– “Are you always this... creative?”

– “Nah, he got lucky with that one.”

– “Do you have a nickname like that for every customer?”

– “Anyone who stays for than a few nights... You can’t expect us to remember the first names and last names of all the suckers who keep coming and going around here. I wish you guys were forced to wear your names on your clothes, just like us. It would make my job a lot easier...”

■ ■ ■

  Scott had nowhere to go. He had signed the register at the Paddington Hotel, and the bill to be sent to his boss. His luggage was in the lobby, at the station. His suitcase was in the same locker as his luggage. Scott only had the key to it in his pocket, and his ticket in the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his wallet.

  His train would leave at 8:23PM. He had the whole day off.

  The bus stopped as he was leaving the station. Scott hopped in without even thinking about it.

  It was hardly 10AM, and he could use his free bus pass one last time, get to Saint Augustine Bells one last time, see Rick and maybe Phil one last time. For some reason, he had not even caught a glimpse of that brawny blonde bear, for the last two days...

– “There it is. Saint Augustine Bells.”

  Scott knew those high walls and towers almost by heart. There was a light fog around them, making the fields and the brownstone buildings emerge like elements of a dream. Scott was still quite impressed by this place: the gates entirely made of red bricks and covered with ivy, the tall trees growing over neatly trimmed grass, the grey brick roads leading to various, identical buildings, and the large dome surrounded with scaffoldings, as it was being restored into its ancient glory...

– “I couldn’t say that I like this place... I hate this architecture. Then I can’t help feeling that I’m going to miss all this. How strange is that?”

  As a friend of Rick, Scott had a secret key to the back of his office. The head of security had forgotten about it, and Scott had no intention of giving it back, even if he would never get to use it again. Right now, it allowed him to get through security completely unnoticed.

  The last thing he needed was another full morning with Rick. Scott’s pants were feeling dangerously tight around his waist – and he was wearing them as low as he could – with the top button always opened...

– “Okay, then... where should I go?”

  Scott took the small notebook he had in his wallet. He had spent enough time on his own, personal map of Saint Augustine Bells to know where he didn’t want to go. There were plenty of buildings left for him to explore.

  After a moment, he chose one building with a few lights on, at ground level, and opened the door.

  Mr Swayn was there with about two dozen students, all quietly sitting in front of computers. From the silence in the room, he could guess that they were not playing video games.

– “Hello, Scott.” Mr Swayn welcomed him, stone-faced as ever.

– “Hello...”

  With a finger to his lips, the tutor and lecturer of Augustine Bells invited Scott to talk to him in private. The students wouldn’t be disturbed, passive as they were, answering question on the screens by pushing one button or another.

– “I thought that you had already left.”

– “...I’m leaving tonight. I only wanted to say good-bye.”

– “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  The silence of the students made Scott even more uncomfortable.

– “What is this place, exactly?”

– “Just an examination room. This is a test.”

– “What are you testing, at the moment?”

– “Math.”

– “Oh, so you meant actual tests. Nothing experimental, or... scientific.”

– “Math is a branch of science, so this would still be scientific, I guess.”

– “Of course.”

– “I guess you’re right. There is more to be tested here than their knowledge of the last math classes. Look at them...”

– “Yes?”

– “All sitting, almost immobile. They’ve had a pretty substantial breakfast, of course.”

– “Of course.”

– “Good, lazy, sedentary lifestyle...”

  Scott didn’t know what to say. From the back, the boys he could see looked generally obese, ranging from chubby to massively overweight, with large love handles jutting over plump, masculine hips and butts pressed against their chairs.

  Mr Swayn had better things to do than give the young journalist a tour. He was there to make sure than none of these cunning boys was cheating. Scott also noticed that he carried a note pad with everyone's name on it, to make sure that no student would stay at his desk for more than ten minutes before he was served another large doughnut or a piece of pie. There was a plate next to every keyboard, and the tutor would check on every boy who had more than two uneaten pastries left. If he didn't clean his plate immediately, it was almost the same as if he had given a wrong answer to his math test.

– “I guess I’ll... say good-bye to your colleagues.”

– “Of course. Have a nice day.”

  Dusty as it may be, the hall provided a welcomed breath of fresh air for Scott. He was sweating profusely.

– “Scott? Are you feeling all right?”

  It was Father Knox. Scott could recognize that voice anytime.

– “Huh... Hello.”

– “I thought that you were already gone.”

– “No... I’m leaving tonight. I only wanted to say good-bye.”

– “How nice of you to come by. My prayers are with you.”

– “Oh? Thank you...”

– “But what were you doing here, in the game room?”

– “I thought the students were passing an exam with Mr Swayn.”

  Father Knox shrugged, and took Scott further down the hall.

– “He may call this kind of test an examination, it’s still a game, if you ask me.”

– “They don’t really look like they’re playing.”

– “No, but you shouldn’t trust them by the way they look.”

– “What’s wrong with multiple-choice tests like this? I’ve seen a few.”

– “...And it will become common practice, I have no doubt.”

– “But you don’t like them.”

– “No, I don’t. For one thing, our boys can hardly get to complete a sentence, and they have become too lazy to write.”

  Scott remembered Michael’s journal and his strange system of notes – so he couldn’t agree more.

– “And this is only the beginning. Who knows what you will achieve by keeping our boys in front of that Idiot box for hours on end, day after day?”

– “I thought TV was the Idiot box...”

– “So it is, but I don’t see much difference between the two. Mr Swayn is happy because the average student gains 40 to 45 pounds a year, around the hips, just from sitting like this between meals.”

– “Wow...”

– “But how does it affect their minds? How does it corrupt their spirits? Think about this. There is no need to make our students wear blinders, when their field of vision is reduced to the side of a window with garish colors and rather square shapes keeping reality at bay.”

– “Huh... I had never thought about it.”

– “When was the last time you stopped looking at your TV screen, or your computer screen, just to look at a real window?”

– “I don’t know...”

– “Then you see my point.”

– “But computers are a necessary tool for them. They will use computers in their professional life.”

– “I know, I know... It’s a lost battle. Machines will always be more productive, more effective than regular workers. I only regret that our younger generations are being raised to desire and be satisfied with what machines can offer – and nothing more.”

  Scott couldn't leave Father Knox on such a sad note.

– “Did you ever discuss it with one of the students?”

  A thin, clever smile curled up the old man’s lips, and he looked into Scott’s eyes gratefully.

– “I did discuss the subject with one of them.”

– “Then it had to be Michael.”

– “The one and only... Mr Astern was a fine young man.”

– “Everything I have found about him tells me that he must have stood out...”

– “Yes... Like a sore thumb.”

  Father Knox was a bit moved, remembering Michael. He was shaking nervously.

– “What do you mean?”

– “You don’t know what kind of violent, vicious boys we have in Saint Augustine Bells...”

– “I’ve... got to meet a few of them.”

– “Trust me, my boy, you haven’t seen anything. It’s not just the students. Even Mr Swayn made jokes about Michael, since he was Jewish. I would call him a “fine young man”, he would nickname him Feynman.”

– “Oh...”

  That sounded like something Mr Swayn would do. He was the one who had come up with the nickname Graham for Phil, after all, because the poor guy was from a Southern state. Scott didn’t even remember the joke, only that it was terrible.

  Father Knox pulled himself together almost immediately.

– “Anyway... It is too late for Michael, now. He’s with the Lord, and we have to deal with the rest of that...wild bunch.”

– “I guess he agreed with you about computers?”

– “Not entirely. He had a few interesting things to say in favor of computers... but discussing with me also allowed him to stay away from computers, at least in the evening.”

– “Why is that?”

– “Most students have to spend the evening in one of our game rooms. Michael enjoyed video games as much as the next boy, but he got tired rather quickly. Since he was one of the few quiet boys in school, he got to spend some evenings with me or with another teacher. He was a really good chess player.”

  Scott suddenly remembered something.

– “On the night he was... found dead...”

– “Yes?”

– “Michael came back to his bedroom around 9PM, I think.”

– “That’s what I was told.”

– “I didn’t pay much attention to it, earlier. I only thought that it was a bit early for such a young boy to turn in.”

– “I guess it was, but I see your point. Michael was one of the few students who could do that. You could call it a personal favor from Mr Porkenham to him...”

  The young journalist wouldn’t forget those words: a personal favor – that got him mysteriously killed...

■ ■ ■

  Talking with Father Knox only made Scott more eager to explore that part of the school where he had followed him, a few days before: he had not given up on finding the secret basements at the end of that darkened alleyway.

– “There it was. Turn left, then... There it is.”

  Scott was lucky to find the little signs he had marked on the skirting boards. There he was, alone, going faster and faster in a dimly lit maze of alleyways – almost as if he knew where he was going... and what he would find at the end of his search.

– “Okay... Then the whole place was in complete darkness.”

  The tall young man remembered that it had to be the result of someone switching off the lights, or a circuit breaker being opened somewhere. The most likely solution was a switch, not too far from where he was standing.

– “Let’s try this one.”

  The lights went out, but only in the alleyway. Scott wasn’t close enough.

– “How about this one?...”

  When Scott switched it off, all the lights went out – and he heard something click at the end of the hall. He had just found the secret passage...

  Slowly, carefully, he opened the door and listened to the distant noises coming from the basement. It sounded like this was only a boiler room, with washing machines and maybe something else – a bit louder, like the old printing machine they had at the newspaper.

  Scott only had his pocket flashlight, so he could only see a small circle of light on the wall, or on the floor, as it made more sense for him to mind his steps.

  A wide spiral staircase was going down, making Scott’s attempts at figuring out his surroundings seem rather hopeless. He tried not to make too much noise as he went down those stairs.

  The batteries in his flashlight must have been dead. He couldn’t see a thing, when he got to the lower level. The noises around him were hardly more precise – only he could discern some muffled cries and protests.

  He wasn’t alone.

  In the dark, the best thing to do was to touch a wall and go around the room in a full circle. Scott extended his hands, and felt a hard, cold, metallic surface at his fingertips...

– “Good. Now, all I need to do is...”

  Scott didn’t get to complete his sentence – or his thought.

  Suddenly, he felt grabbed by his wrists, and thrown inside the room behind that metallic surface, which had to be another door. Just as he had been pulled, he was pushed and made to turn so he almost fell on his ass, facing that door – only he didn’t fall flat, but found himself sitting in a solid armchair, and a strong hand forced him to stay in position against a headrest.

  Everything had happened so fast that Scott didn’t even protest. The device that held him in that sitting position had to be purely mechanic: what he had taken for a hand wearing a glove was in fact a metallic plate, curved to cling to his forehead, with a thick layer of sponge to cushion the blow.

  Scott was about to move when he felt his wrists and ankles strapped in thick, metallic cuffs, as well as his arms and forearms, and other plates resting on his knees heavily...

– “What the...”

  There was only one thing that could not be remotely controlled. The door was closed with a discrete bang, and Scott could swear that he heard a voice saying

– “You should have left and never come back.”

  Scott was so nervous that he couldn’t recognize the voice. It was a man’s voice, but that wasn’t exactly a clue...

  The last thing he could hear rather distinctly was a rack-type wheel being turned, like some oversized timer, followed by a high-pitched bell.

  Then the machines took over.

  Scott was in a lot of pain, forced as he was to stay sitting and immobile. His hip hurt more than ever, and so did his knee with that amount of weight pressing against it. In the dark, he suddenly felt like he was going to be strangled – or at least tortured – as his whole face felt cold. Some kind of mask had been applied, then Scott felt something against his teeth, forcing him to open his mouth, as wide as he could. When he tried to call out for help, he felt a large tube against his tongue – going further and further, almost to his tonsils.

  There was a distant, wheezing sound, and Scott felt something thick being pumped into the back of his mouth, going down his throat. He recognized the faint taste of rice pudding, and understood where he was in a heartbeat: it had to be some kind of feeding machine. He was trapped inside a feeding machine!

  Scott only got to guess what he was being fed: rice pudding, oatmeal with lots of honey, chocolate mousse, cottage cheese with plenty of jam, creamed corn, half-and-half, custard and whipped cream, apple-pie filling, cream cheese, frozen yogurt, flan, whole milk and more...

  All that food was almost entirely liquid or gooey. Scott was forced to swallow more and more of everything at an alarmingly fast pace! He almost forgot about the pain in his hip as he was focused on his swollen throat, right now. He could also feel his stomach expand by the minute, his intestines get hard from being stuffed too fast, and the buttons of his pants pop open. Scott’s second button actually hit the metallic door of that feeding machine like a bullet!
  For a moment, Scott tried to resist, but he couldn't move. He couldn't even turn his head to the side. The feeding tube was inserted too far inside his throat, still pouring whole milk down his esophagus, bloating him mercilessly, which forced him to squirm on his chair. 
  Much to his surprise, Scott felt the surface of his chair hardening and brushing against the fabric of his jeans, pulling them down, along with his briefs. Soon, the big boy found himself butt naked. While he would naturally feel cool in such a drafty basement, the surface felt cold and hard like porcelain. Scott was on some sort of toilet seat – and he would definitely not complain about it, as he already felt stuffed to the point of exploding...

– “I guess it's better to just... let go, for now?” He thought.

  Letting go meant that he allowed himself to take a good leak. Some vacuum system started immediately. Its discrete humming encouraged Scott to keep going, just as the pressure in his throat and the constant flow in his guts forced him to go for some rather impressive bowel movements.
  It was the only thing in there that made him feel a bit better – but he wasn't out of his misery...
  Still completely in the dark, with a hard mask over his face, Scott had no idea about how long he had already been sitting in there. Every new kind of cream was forced down his throat in a constant, rather gentle flow, with sudden and more powerful surges coming regularly to force the young man’s jaws to catch up and gulp down – hard ! – then a greater amount of soft food would be filling his stomach in no time...

  Scott tried to focus on the quantities he was forced to eat. After a few changes, going from flan to rice pudding then back to chocolate mousse, he felt like he was being forced half a gallon of everything! The thought made him shiver, and he felt a cold tingling going down his spine.

  This was worse than any kind of forced feeding Scott had ever experienced. Even Rick wasn’t so rough... This was pure torture.
  Much to his horror, Scott felt a second, much larger tube coming against his lips, against his teeth, going inside his mouth with another mask covering the lower part of his face. The first tube stopped pouring, and was automatically removed, sliding inside the second tube. Then the distant wheezing sounds of the machine changed – like wheels turning faster, or a beehive going angry.
  Scott felt a much more powerful surge of food inside his mouth, which forced him to puff out his cheeks. It was almost as if he had just stuffed three whole doughnuts in there at once. Then his mouth was filled with what tasted like chocolate milk, and he had to gulp down immediately, before some similar amount of food was pushed automatically.

  Moaning and groaning, the overfed young man squirmed grotesquely in his armchair, unable to move except for his wobbling, expanding belly... Scott felt his T-shirt riding up on him so much that the label at the bottom got to the level of his tits. His shirt was now stretched to the point of ripping or sending more buttons to knock against the door. Even as he tried to move, Scott was forced to swallow and gulp down... He thought that he would faint at any moment now.

■ ■ ■

  Swallow and gulp down...

  Swallow and gulp down – hard...

  More and more – Scott’s eyes were closing. He was exhausted.

  Every now and then, he would piss like a horse – or worse. Then he didn't get to feel any better, as the machine seemed to know that his intestines were less full. More food was forced into his mouth immediately, faster than an ice-cream machine.

  Swallow and gulp down... Keep going.

  Scott’s forehead was sweating abundantly. He understood why a thick piece of sponge had been attached to that mask.

  Swallow and gulp down...

  Scott couldn’t give up. Right now, surrendering to the rhythm of the machine was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.

  Scott may have passed out, at some point, then he felt something hard, poking at his stuffed and aching belly...

   He had just reached a certain size – his bellybutton had come against the off switch, and the machine simply stopped.

■ ■ ■

  It was too good to be true. The feeding machine had finally stopped.

  Scott couldn’t stand on his legs. He was in too much pain. His pants and boxers were still around his ankles. His shirt and T-shirt were too tight around his large keg of a belly. Then he stretched his back, and let out an endlessly echoing belch.

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!”

  Much to his surprise, he heard someone laughing. It was a man, once again – or a boy – maybe the same man who had trapped him inside and programmed the machine.

  Scott couldn’t let anyone get away with such a trick.

  He heard someone climbing the stairs, and rushed to follow him. It was easier said than done, as his belly felt like a ball in chain, weighing him down as if he had been eating bricks instead of cream!

  But he had to catch that bastard – Scott almost fell, climbing the stairs in long strides. He saw the light in the alleyway through the door, as it was getting shut by the same device that he had used. Scott was fast enough to catch the door at the last moment. He wouldn’t let anyone keep him locked in anymore!

  In the dim light of the alleyway, Scott couldn’t see the shape of the guy he was running after. He was already turning around the corner, anyway. There wasn’t a second to lose...

  Scott had never been much of a runner – certainly not after his football injury. Heavy, stuffed and nervous, he was in no condition to outrun a guy who seemed to go faster than a speeding bullet!

  Then he had to find his way out of that maze. Scott had no time to look for his markers – he was running on fumes, only following his instincts. Turning right, then left, then out of the dorm and into the main hall, climbing the stairs, going up to the first floor, climbing that second flight of stairs...

  It was pointless. He had lost sight of him, whoever it was.

  Scott gave up. He couldn’t walk one step further – the guy had definitely outrun him...

– “Scott? Are you okay?”

– “...Huh?”

  The young journalist was exhausted. Looking up, he saw the school’s male nurse coming his way.

– “Phil?”

– “What’s happened to you? Boy, you look...”

– “I know, I... Huh...” Scott panted.

  He was ready to collapse on the cold, slippery floor. This was a hall with offices and classrooms for students in their first year. The boys around here were only starting to grow plump. Then anyone around here could run decently fast. 

  Scott felt desperately frustrated. Running after that guy was a mistake. He may not be far ahead of him, but he had disappeared... like a shadow.

– “Seriously, Scott... You look like you’ve been chasing a ghost.”

■ ■ ■

– “Does this hurt?”

– “No, that’s... actually good.”

– “My hands aren’t too cold, I hope.”

– “They’re fine...”

  Scott agreed that a good massage was the answer to all his troubles. Phil had invited him into his office. Lying on the table, Scott had no choice than to be on his back – which was new for him.

  The young doctor looked very much concerned. Scott could imagine why. With his shirt, T-shirt and pants neatly folded on a chair next to the massage table, he looked like a white elephant. A pregnant elephant...

– “How about your hip, there... when I do this?”

– “Ouch! Yeah, that hurts.”

– “And your knee?”

– “Ouch! You son of a bitch!”

– “It hurts, all right...”

  Phil proceeded to give him a careful and thorough, full body massage. When he started rubbing his belly, Scott remembered how Oda Mae Warren had warned him about the “spiritual” dimension of his guts.

  Looking down, he admitted that he had never been so big, or so round, in his whole life. Then something struck him as strange: as Phil was gently rubbing his full stomach, he could swear that he saw it expand even further!

– “Woooaaah! What kind of massage oil is this?”

– “The usual... why?”

– “I just thought that... It’s silly, really, but... didn’t my belly just, like... grow before our eyes?”

– “How do you mean... grow?”

– “Like an inflated balloon! Okay?”

  Scott had almost yelled. To his horror, he could see his belly growing rounder and larger with every breath he took. Phil let go and considered his friend like a doctor examining a case. Scott noticed that the blonde man looked exhausted too, although not from being overfed but simply from being overworked.

– “It does strike me as odd, but I think you’re right. Let me check something.”

  Phil took a long tape measure, slipped it under Scott’s back and closed it around his enormous mound of guts.

– “Hold still, please...”

  Scott tried to turn his body into a statue, but his intestines were churning.

– “There is no need to hold your breath...” Phil’s voice was soothing as always. Being with him helped Scott calm down “Yes, something in your stomach is...”

  Phil didn’t get to tell his friend. He was interrupted by a most obnoxious belch.

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”

  Scott felt red in the face, after such a primal cry. Then he noticed that his belly looked noticeably smaller. It didn't feel so painful, for a moment.

– “Just as I thought...”

– “What were you thinking?”

– “You must have been drinking too much beer, this afternoon.”

– “I didn’t drink any beer.”

– “Then you have been eating something that contained a lot of yeast. It must be what makes your belly swell so much...”

– “Yeast?”
– “I should think so.”

  While he had no way to be sure, Scott found the suggestion rather strange. He had been stuffed with a lot of dairy products, and sweets, but yeast would be a bit extreme – then his memories of the feeding machine were more than a bit extreme...

– “Are you suggesting that I was stuffed yeast so my belly would just... swell and expand?”

– “I don't know... Just look at your belly now.”

  Phil was right. The swelling in his belly wasn't only alarming as it was – it kept increasing, making Scott's situation worse and worse by the minute... The guy on the table was petrified.

– “Don't hold back. It's probably better for you to...”

– “What... burp?”

– “I think you have to.”

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”

  Scott felt a little better knowing that a simple belch could save his life, right now – or a simple fart, as he immediately proved on the massage table.

– “Okay...” Phil tried not to laugh. “There, there... You should be fine. This is only a lot of food, and yeast combined with the right ingredients is inflating your belly. It's just the same as a baker letting bread grow.”

– “Did you just call me a dough boy?”

– “It couldn't get more accurate than this...” Phil chuckled.

  The blonde doctor gave a gentle pat to Scott's belly, still helpless on the table, as his stomach felt like an anvil and his guts reached a truly impressive size, once again... The process was quite fast.

– “This raises the question: What have you been eating today?”

– “To be perfectly honest... I don’t know.”

– “You don’t remember?”

  Scott answered with a booming and much needed belch.

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”
– “Better out than in, I guess...”
– “You bet!”
– “So, what did you eat?”

– “I. don’t. know.”

– “Okay...”

  Phil rubbed his forehead, like a man with a splitting headache. He had to sit down.

– “To be honest, I don’t remember what I had for breakfast...”

  Scott remembered about his breakfast. He only had trouble with what he had been forcefed. The young journalist already knew how his friend suffered from memory lapses sometimes. Phil may be only trying to be nice, though.

– “What day is this?”

– “Friday.”

– “Really? I thought that you had to leave on Friday.”

– “I’m leaving tonight.” Scott rolled his eyes.

– “Why did you come back to Saint Augustine Bells?”

– “I wanted to say good-bye to the people who have welcomed me so nicely.”

– “Oh? That’s good.”

– “Come on! Don’t be a pussy! I had to try and find something related to the case.”

– “Michael’s murder.”

– “Right.”

– “So... did you find anything?”

  It was a fair question. Phil didn’t know about the darkened alleyways, the dead end, the secret passage, the basements... the feeding machine.

  Scott had not even thought about putting one and one together. Looking at his grotesquely bloated belly, still swelling at a much slower pace, he suddenly remembered how he had seen Michael’s body, lying on a table at the morgue – exactly as he was now.

– “...Scott?”

– “Huh... yes?”

– “Are you sure that you’re okay? You just looked terribly pale.”

  Scott couldn’t expect any less.

– “Phil... How much do you think I weigh?”

– “Honestly?”

– “Honestly.”

– “You look stuffed... I would say 240lbs.”

– “Yes. I guess so.”

  He had to pause to let out another loud belch, followed by a long fart, almost as loud... Phil simply looked away. The sun was going down, and he almost closed his eyes.

– “How much did Michael weigh... when he was, you know...”

– “I don’t remember exactly.”

– “About 250lbs, am I right?”

– “More like 270lbs... and he was a lot shorter than you.”

  Scott was sweating again.

– “Phil... Am I going to die?”

– “Don’t be ridiculous...”

– “I don’t want to die like Michael!”

■ ■ ■

  Phil had to calm him down. Scott was almost hysterical for a moment.

– “Why would you die... like Michael? Honestly...”

  Students had been warning Scott about it. They had to eat, or they would die just like Michael. It made perfect sense, if they were taken to that dark room and locked in those feeding machines when they were considered “not overfed enough” by Mr Swayn or someone else from the board of administrators.

  What if one machine stopped working correctly? What if it didn't stop at the right moment, and kept stuffing and stuffing the boy trapped inside? There must have been a few incidents in the past – maybe not lethal, but still seriously dangerous for the boys' health!

  Then – Scott couldn't stop thinking about it – what if the machine had been programmed on purpose? What if one student had to be silenced once and for all? This would be easily explained, just like any other mishap...

  Scott's deepest belief, which he couldn't dismiss, no matter how hard he had tried, was that the machine may have gone crazy – as if Ian's ghost had taken over the original program... or Michael's ghost, in Scott's case? What kind of evil spirits were at work in this school?

  This was too much for Scott. He had to share his thoughts somehow.

– “I have to tell you about something, but you have to promise me two things.”

– “Okay.”

– “Number one: you have to believe me. I’m not making this up.” Scott gave a sounding slap to his huge, quivering belly. “Number two: you have to keep it to yourself. Do you promise?”

– “Sure...” Phil almost yawned.

– “Do you promise?” Scott almost yelled again.

– “Please, Scott... don’t get angry. I haven’t slept last night, I’m really tired.”

– “What happened to you?”

– “I was on call at the hospital. Doctor Lipton is out of town. The phone never stopped ringing. Then I had to work on the latest check-ups of all the boys in school for Mr Porkenham. Then I was in the middle of coaching Rick when I got a call from Mr Thorne, who had chest pains. That’s when I saw you... and I only know what I did because I wrote every appointment in my notebook.”

– “Okay...”

– “So, let me help you with this: number one, I trust you. No questions asked. Now tell me what you have found.”

– “How about number two?”

– “Oh... I forgot.”

– “You have to keep it a secret.”

– “I guess I will, if I forget what you have told me...”

  Then Scott told Phil about the feeding machine, and how he had spent hours locked in there, being force-fed and stuffed almost to the point of bursting like an overcooked sausage!

  Phil was listening patiently. He was back in the game, and focused.

  When Scott was done, he waited for a reaction. Phil didn't provide much of a response. Scott would have appreciated a little more feedback – so he started asking questions immediately.

– “Michael was allergic, right?”

– “Yes. Analyses confirmed that he was allergic to kiwi, mango, and a variety of nuts or seeds. Poor kid...”

– “Then he died of... what did you call it again?”

– “Anaphylactic shock.”

– “Right. Then... you told me that allergies like this caused some kind of swelling and the boy choked?”

– “That’s how he died, unfortunately.”

– “Then, if his throat was shut tight, the swelling in his belly only got worse and worse, and...”

  Scott had to let out another endless, booming belch.

– “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!”

  Phil had already caught his drift.

– “Yes... He couldn’t belch and let it out.”

  Scott was out of breath. He had to close his eyes – then he saw the vision he had already seen, in his dream. Everything was bathed in light. According to Oda Mae’s reading, this would mean that Death had won the battle. Death was everywhere...

  Then his eyes got accustomed to the light – it was pure fire. Death had lost the battle. Scott was saved. There was no Death!

  He opened his eyes, and turned his head to face Phil.

– “I know how Michael was killed!” 

■ ■ ■

  The sun was down. Scott had little more than an hour to catch his train.

– “Are you sure that you should leave?”

– “I’m not leaving. I will see my boss, first thing on Monday. Then I will tell him the whole story, and I will be back with everything I need to solve this case.”

– “Okay...”

  Phil didn’t look quite convinced. Scott was feeling better, but it may not be safe to let him travel, even by night train.

  Scott waved at him. Now that he knew that he wasn’t leaving for good, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest – metaphorically speaking. The weight he felt in his gut was nothing in comparison.   

  As Scott was walking on school grounds, he spotted the gardener’s pavilion – where he had enjoyed quite a few naps, after an afternoon long massage or an even longer eating binge with Rick. The thought made him smile. He was in a good mood.

  The door to the pavilion suddenly clapped and creaked. It was only the wind, but Scott found it strange. He remembered that the place was abandoned, and rather carefully closed. Scott had his security pass, but no one should have left the door opened like this.

  Scott should have ignored this. He was in a hurry, after all – not that he cared too much about missing his train, but he didn’t want to give his boss any reason to complain, when he was about to ask him something important.

  Curiosity got the better of him. Scott knew that he couldn’t resist his urge to spend one last moment in that lonely place.

  As soon as he was in there, Scott saw white footsteps almost glowing in the nocturnal light. Scott’s own footsteps were black and muddy on the dusty floor. Plaster had been falling off the ceiling. Then someone must have come upstairs recently.

  And no footsteps were there to show that someone had been coming out of the pavilion.

  Scott felt nervous again. He looked at the furniture around him, which he had come to know pretty well: the long couch where he used to take a nap, the dessert table, the mahogany sculpted chairs, the garden chairs in painted wicker, the shards of broken glass and the petals of dead roses...

  So stealthy as he could be, Scott climbed the stairs. He had never been to the first floor. There was only one large room, with bay windows and balconies on all sides. The floor was definitely quite dusty.

  Then Scott saw something and almost panicked.

– “Oh my God!”

  Mr Huggins was there, sitting in an armchair, facing the door. His hands were really pale and tense. His eyes were bulging out of his face, his mouth gaping and his tongue hanging in a grotesque grimace of pain.

  Scott had to catch his breath before looking at him again – white like a blanket, except for his blood-shot eyes and red marks around his neck. The poor guy had been strangled.

■ ■ ■

  Sheriff Maxwell was getting impatient.

– “Okay, lock this place down. We’ll take him away in the morning.”

  Phil had been called to examine the body. Strangulation was the obvious cause of death.

– “When would you say he was killed?”

– “Sometimes yesterday. Then this pavilion is quite cool and drafty. Insect activity will provide a better estimation.”

– “Cold place, all right.” The sheriff rubbed his belly with both hands.

  He didn’t look happy about all this. Having to deal with another murder – one that couldn’t get dismissed as an accident so easily, like Michael’s murder... – and the perspective of police reports to be typed, filed and classified with more paperwork for various administrations made him angry. Scott had a hunch that a magnificent dinner was waiting for him at home...

– “Hey, doc!”

– “Yes?”

– “What’s your name already?”

– “Phil. Hewdge.”

– “Okay doc, what would you say if he was killed earlier today?”

– “Early in the morning?”

– “Yeah.”

– “It looks a bit unlikely, but I wouldn’t say that it is impossible.”

  Scott was wondering why the sheriff kept asking questions like that. The whole staff of Saint Augustine Bells had come to the scene, and left. Mr Porkenham was shocked. Mr Thorne had to sneeze to avoid crying. Mr Swayn tried not to smirk. Rick tried to keep his work shirt closed...

  It was almost 8:30. Scott would definitely miss his train, unless sheriff Maxwell called the station and took him there in his car.

– “Sheriff...”

– “Yes?”

– “I don’t want to bother you with your investigation, but...”

– “You’re not bothering me. You’re going to follow me.”

– “What? Where?”

– “To the precinct, of course. You’ve found the body. You’re our first witness. I have questions for you.”

– “But...”

  Sheriff Maxwell meant business. As a matter of fact, Scott saw him take his handcuffs from his belt. Not that he didn’t enjoy a little kinky play with cuffs, but Scott knew that it wouldn’t go down that way with the man...

– “Wait... What are you doing with these?”

– “Just a reminder. In most cases, the first witness is also the primary suspect.”

– “You’re suspecting me? Come on!”

– “What were you doing here in the first place?”

– “I... Huh...”

– “I thought that you had a train to catch.”

– “I had some time before it...” Too late, it was 8:30. “...leaves.”

– “What were you doing on campus today, anyway?”

– “I wanted to say... good-bye.”

– “Oh! cut the crap!”

  Phil was still there. He was busy taping off the crime scene, as the sheriff had asked him to do something useful. Scott knew how tired he was, but he could be help him now.

– “I was with Rick all morning, today. And I went to see Phil in the afternoon.”

– “Who’s Phil?”

– “He’s standing right behind you.”

– “Oh, right... Hey, doctor. Did Scott spend the afternoon with you?”

– “He did?” Phil looked as if he was trying to calculate the square root of 1990. “I don’t know.”

– “What now?” The sheriff shouted. “You don’t remember?”

– “Honestly... No, I don’t.”

  Sheriff Maxwell turned to Scott.

– “Anything else you wanted to tell me, like that?”

– “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

– “It doesn’t feel like such a bad idea, right now.”

  Phil finally came up with something helpful. 

– “He has a right to call his people on the phone.”

– “Right... Well, go ahead.”

  Scott didn’t know what to do. Then he saw the sheriff smile and wink at him. Phil was also smiling, behind him. They both knew. This brought some colors back to the young journalist’s cheeks.

– “Mr Horn?”

– “Speaking. Who is it?”

– “It’s me, boss. Scott Girder.”

– “Scott! Still in Biberton, huh?”

– “I’m afraid so. I’m under arrest.”

– “...What?”

– “I’ve just been arrested... for murder.”

  Sitting in his armchair with a white handkerchief over his face – his arms stretched out, his shirt slightly opened revealing his hollow chest, his beer belly resting in his lap – Mr Huggins’ body was pale, almost glowing in the shadow... like a ghost.

(To be continued...)

Next season: « Poison »