The Boy in the Park: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist. A Grayson J

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      Today, at 12.11 p.m., I walked through those gates, produced my local ID so as to avoid the tourists’ entrance fee, and wandered through the greenery to my bench. To that spot where that which is expected is also that which is cherished. I took my familiar steps and thanked God it’s not just the dreary parts of life that are repetitive.

      I have no coffee today, here on my perch. Enough of it has already worked its way into my system. It often does on mornings like this, which, though unremarkable, follow restless nights. I have too many of those, though there’s no discernible reason why I should. My job isn’t exactly the high-stress sort, and outside of work all is generally as peaceful as I could hope for. But still sleep is often slow in coming, and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it. I’ve tried the tablets, descended at times to drink, even given a shot to the soothing tones of a new-age SureSleep app downloaded to my phone for ninety-nine cents. But nothing really helps (and Apple won’t refund the ninety-nine cents). Insomnia is like an unwanted family member on a holiday visit. The more you wish he would leave, the more obstinately he remains.

      So no coffee, but I have my notebook and my pencil – the productive equipment, and the food and the drink, of the poet. Which is what I consider myself and what I am, despite the fact of my rather more worldly employment. And the absence of a single published poem. A badge of honour, I’m convinced. True poets never publish. To publish a poem is to sell one’s soul, to befoul and dirty one’s words with consumerism and industrial approval-seeking. This is a realization almost all real poets come to, generally after their thirtieth or fortieth rejection letter. And however it may sound, it’s not hypocrisy, this: it’s the fruit borne of a slow evolution of genuine understanding. The kind of understanding I am proud to call my own, after many years of careful refinement.

      Since I’ve been sitting here I’ve jotted down two lines of my latest poetic effort.

       The tree-bough leans, its leaves an applause

       Cheering in the wind

      It’s what I’ve managed so far. And I’m not one to be too precious: it’s a bit shit. The muses have yet to find me at the pond today. No flashes of inspiration illumine me, no sudden bursts of creativity. That can be a frustrating thing; it’s driven some poets to madness. But today there are ducks in the water – a mother with three children paddling after her from one small bay to the next, seeking what only ducks know is there to be sought. That’s enough. I’ve learned that poems come when they will, they’re not things that can be forced. Being a poet is mostly about the waiting. Waiting for the right thought to take the right shape, then capturing it in words like pixels capture sights for a camera. And there are rice yeast tablets and kale extract drinks to sell in between, so I’m not going to find myself homeless.

      Then, clockwork: he’s there again. The little boy. One of those once-surprises that’s become a predictable repetition of the good and welcome sort. I like that I see him every day, visiting this place just like me. I like his kiddish overalls. The white shirt that’s become a dusty brown is on display again, the armpits stained. His hair is dirtier than before. The stick again is in his hand, the tip piercing the water.

      He seems to gaze vacantly out over the tiny expanse of our miniature sea. He doesn’t notice the ducks.

      He never notices the ducks.

      I squint my eyes. It looks like there’s a spot of blood on his arm, poor thing. Happens to kids.

      It glistens in the midday light. Blood on the arm of the little boy. And like the ducks, like the wind, he doesn’t seem to notice.

       3

       The Boy in the Park, Stanza 2

       The evening is coming,

       The morning is gone;

       Little boy with his playful heart

       And castle and crozier and soldier.

       Leaps, not knowing

       where they shall land –

       How little boys do play until

       The day of youth is done.

       4

       Wednesday Afternoon

      I’ve gone back to the shop and taken up my dutiful post. A steady stream of customers, none of them terribly interesting. None of them offensive. I ate a sprout and beancurd wrap for a bite, taken from our refrigerator in the back. Why pack a lunch when you work at a health food shop? I wouldn’t take the tablets if they were free (and Lord knows they aren’t), but the food’s a nice perk; at least, once you convince yourself that terms like ‘curdled’ and ‘fermented’ are actually positives and not the repellent horrors the words more obviously suggest.

      I’ve developed the habit of eating when I return to work, after my outings, in the last five minutes of my lunch break (though my boss, Michael, doesn’t really mind if I nibble at the counter once my shift resumes). Eating at the pond always seems a touch vulgar. A cup of coffee, that’s different. Sip and watch and enjoy. But gnawing into a sandwich or wrap, face smothered in the cellophane wrapping with bits of lettuce and mayonnaise clinging to your chin … it seems like the trees, if they had voices, would snicker down and say, ‘All well and good that you visit like this, but honestly, couldn’t you do that sort of thing at home?’

      So it’s here in the store that I’m chewing on my sprouts and former beans, and here that I’m pondering what came before. I am, I realize, a touch confused by what I saw in the park. It didn’t hit me then, but it’s stuck with me since. This boy and I have been sharing the pond for a year and a half, and I’ve never seen him injured before today. Not a bump, never even an obvious scratch. Then today, that bloodied arm … it’s troubled me more than it really should.

      I think I’m most disturbed that he didn’t notice it. Or at least, he gave no visible signs of having noticed. There was blood that descended from a patch of raw skin above his left elbow, emerging just beneath the tattered hem of a short sleeve, which isn’t something a person simply stands oblivious too. Especially a child. I’m left wondering what caused it. A bad scrape from a fall? Rough play? In any case, what I’d seen was too much blood for a little child – the amount of blood you expect to draw tears. But there were no tears.

      There was no expression on his shadow-hidden face. None that I could make out. The blood dripped a little, but his attention remained at the tip of his stick, tracing figure eights in the algae at the surface of the water. He appeared unfazed and unemotional.

      I’m plucked back into the present by a woman who wants to know about dietary supplements. ‘The kind for losing weight.’ I walk her over to a whole shelf we have cunningly dedicated to this particular myth. HEALTHY RAPID WEIGHT LOSS is the sign we’ve affixed to the top of the section: words so oxymoronic that I’m surprised we’ve never been sued for deception.

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