Charlie's Key (9 page)

A forensic fire specialist estimated temperatures in the cement-block cell approached 1,000°F, before its contents flashed over into a fierce blaze that burned for more than two hours.

In delivering his verdict, Justice Caseman noted, “The victim essentially cooked in his cell—a crueler death would be difficult to imagine.”

Sykes suffered severe burns to his right hand in the blaze, which he and the co-accused started using contraband lighter fluid. The fluid was eventually traced to Sykes’s cell. Sykes maintained his was burned in an attempt to pry open the locked cell door, though he had a long history of altercations with the deceased prisoner.

Sykes is in Dorchester, serving five years for the 1989 manslaughter death of Brother Sean Sullivan.

The Telegram,
Monday, August
17
,
2009

SYKES RETURNS TO ISLAND

Twice-convicted killer Nick Sykes has been transferred from Dorchester Penitentiary in New Brunswick to Her Majesty’s Prison in St. John’s as he prepares for mandatory release later this month.

Sykes was convicted of manslaughter in the death of Sean Sullivan in 1989. While in prison he was found guilty of second-degree murder for causing the death of a fellow prisoner during a riot in March 1993.

Both sentences will have expired on Friday, August 21.

There’s no word on where Sykes plans to live.

The Telegram,
Thursday, August
20
,
2009

ACCIDENT VICTIM NAMED

Police have released the name of the man killed Wednesday when his vehicle struck a moose just before midnight on the Trans-Canada Highway near St. John’s.

Michael Sykes died in hospital just hours after the collision, without regaining consciousness. The accident happened about
11
:
30
pm, near the Outer Ring Road on the city outskirts.

Sykes’s
13
-year-old son was in the car at the time but was not seriously injured. Police say he was orphaned in the accident and has been taken into care by the Newfoundland and Labrador Department of Child Services while arrangements for his long-term care are finalized.

I feel sick when I finish reading—not like I’m going to throw up, but crampy. I have to get to the toilet. One stall is locked, but I make it to the other one just in time, my insides like water. Finally I get up and wash my hands. I stand kinda sideways to the sink now when I wash my hands, to keep an eye on the door. It opens, but it’s not Flarehead—it’s Frankie, with a big smile on his face.

“Cowboy, my man,” he says, stopping when he gets a closer look at me. “Jesus—you look like crap.”

“Just sick. I’ll be okay.”

He gives a nod like he doesn’t quite believe me, then says, “I thought I should tell ya—I’m getting sprung tomorrow.”

“You’re going home?”

“Don’t know about home, but outta this shithole for sure. Van leaves at nine am. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be having a beer and talking some shit with the b’ys.”

“That’s good,” I say, which I don’t really mean.

He can tell I’m not too excited for him, because I’m sorta smiling one of those smiles you put on when you’re pretty much trying not to cry.

“Listen, things’ll work out. You’ll be outta here in a couple a weeks and set up with some nice family out in Mount Pearl, with a big-screen
TV
in the rec room. I been in a couple a foster homes and some of them is pretty nice—Doritos and stuff anytime you wants ’em, let you stay up late watching the satellite. You’ll see.”

“I guess.”

“And don’t worry about Flarehead—I’ll have a talk with him before I leaves.”

Then he’s out the door, and I’m looking down at the hand that Flarehead squashed. It doesn’t really hurt much anymore, unless you squeeze the knuckles together. There’s still some tenderness.

Then
bang!
Lights flash in the back of my eyes and my mouth fills up with the taste of old pennies that drip red onto my shirtfront from where my teeth bite into my tongue. I spit more blood into the sink and see Flarehead in the mirror—he must’ve come outta the other stall. Before I can move, he jumps on me, dropping me onto the floor, all two hundred pounds of him sitting right on my chest. I can’t move. His breath stinks when he sticks his face close to mine.

“Your buddy’s gonna talk to me, is he?” he says, all quiet so no one comes running to see what’s happening. I try to yell, but Flarehead’s so heavy on my chest I can’t draw in any air.

“Gonna scream, are ya?” he says, feeling me trying to suck in air. He reaches over to the trash can by the sink and grabs a handful of old paper towels from inside. He shoves a wad of it, all wet and cardboardy, into my mouth.

“Try screaming now, you little shit,” he says, but I can’t scream or call out or breathe. I can’t do anything—can’t move my arms or legs. I figure I’m going to pass out when all of sudden Flarehead pulls himself off me and stands up, panting.

“That’s a taste, Puke Pants,” he says, shaking his fat fist down at me. “Come tomorrow, once your buddy’s gone, it’ll be ten times worse.”

He takes one last kick at me, then walks out the door.

I yank the paper towel outta my mouth, strings of red spit hanging off it, then stick my head in the sink and gag. There’s nothing there except blood and some yellow stuff. I let out a stinky burp and spit.

“Jesus,” comes a voice from another person I don’t see till he’s right on top of me. I gotta get better at looking out for people. This time it’s Pillsbury.

“What happened to you?” he says, looking down at the pile of blood and paper and garbage.

I almost laugh—really, I do—because just for a sec I get this picture in my mind like I’m looking down from up on the ceiling, down at me and Pillsbury and the blood in the sink and on my shirt, and the garbage all over the floor, and the air stinking of puke and crap, and I think, what’s a good answer to “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I say, leaving it up to Pillsbury to figure out how good an answer that is. Does he really care what happened? Or is he scared to know what happened? I look at him looking at me, and wait. His eyes do a couple a circles, taking it all in. The crap, my face, my shirt.

“Okay,” he says.

Which makes me sad and happy, right at the same time. Sad, because I think that if anything like this ever happened to me before—if someone turned a corner and found me puking up blood in a sink, with garbage all around me—they would definitely not be okay with “Nothing” for an answer. No matter who it was—my dad or a teacher or a babysitter or a friend—they would think, Well, something happened. They’d care enough about me to think something happened. Now, nobody cares.

And that’s the same thing that makes me happy. As soon as I realize that nobody cares, I get this picture in my mind of a bird flying up in the sky. Which is a funny thing to think of when you’ve just been smacked in the head and have puked your guts up in some crappy bathroom. But I think of it. And I feel like that bird. Not attached to anything. Free.

I keep feeling it when I bend down to pick up the paper towel, and put it back in the trash can. When I spit out the last of the blood and give the sink another rinse. When I wiggle my front teeth to make sure they’re in there good and tight. I think it when I head for the door and go past Pillsbury, who’s still looking at me but saying nothing. Which is okay now, because that’s what happened here. Nothing. Except that I figured out I am not gonna stay in The Hollow to get the crap beat outta me by some crazy bully. I’m not gonna go live with some aunt whose nephew bashes people’s heads in and burns them up. I’m not gonna go live with somebody in some place called Mount Pearl—even if they do have Doritos and satellite
TV
. I am not doing those things.

What I am doing is getting outta here. I don’t know how or to where, but I know I’m going. I’m going and I’ll be free. And nobody’ll care.

TWELVE

That night at lights-out I shove all my stuff in my backpack— my jeans, my underwear and socks, the Oilers T-shirt. I’ve got my wallet, too, and the money my dad gave me for this trip, except for $
3
.
12
I spent in North Sydney on a chocolate bar and a pop. The key I take outta the Bible and put under the insole in my sneaker. The Bible I put back in the desk. I am gonna be ready to get outta here when there’s a chance. Maybe tomorrow or the next day I’ll grab my pack and sneak out when everybody is doing yard work. Or maybe I’ll walk out through the main gate and nobody’ll notice. Then, after a week or two, not a person in the world will even remember Charlie Sykes, and I can head back to Alberta—maybe hang out at Robert’s place for a bit. I don’t know. What I do know is I’m taking off soon as I get the chance. And nobody’ll care.

Well, maybe Clare would, for a bit, but after a day or two she’d just figure I got sent to a foster home. Miz—she’d wonder where I was because it’s her job to know where I am, but after a month she’d just take my files outta her big black bag and she’d put ’em in a big black filing cabinet, and after a year they’d end up at the back of the filing cabinet. And nobody would think of me again, except maybe once in a while, just long enough to wonder whatever happened to that kid from Alberta whose dad got killed in that car accident.

I pull my backpack out from under the bed and put it right beside me, just in case I feel like making a break for it if I wake up at
3
:
30
or some stupid time like that. I put my arm around the pack and it feels nice—even if it sounds stupid. Having something else in bed with you is nice. Like, sometimes my dad, when he’d get home real late from a shift, he’d come in and lay down beside me, smelling of beer and cigarettes. But I didn’t mind, because it was nice if I woke up in the night to hear him breathing there beside me, all quiet, not angry or sad or anything. I think of that, trying to fall asleep. How good that felt.

In the morning I’m still holding that backpack, which is what Frankie sees when he comes through the door.

“Jesus,” he says, laughing. “Get a girl, will ya?”

I’m too tired to even care what he’s talking about.

“C’mon, b’y—time you was up. Almost gone eight.”

He gives the bed a kick.

“Anyways,” he says, “I just come in to say see ya. I’m getting the van into town in a couple a minutes.”

“No, you’re not,” comes a voice. It’s Billy, the driver.

“Van’s been delayed, Walsh. And you, Sykes, you need to get your arse outta that bed and up to the superintendent’s office right now. C’mon. Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, me and Billy are both sat down in the office, Mr. Delaney looking real serious.

“Charlie,” he says, “bit of news for you. Yesterday, the medical examiner’s office released your father’s remains, so there’s to be a small service today.”

“Today?”

Mr. Delaney nods. “This morning, in fact. In about ninety minutes.”

“You mean a funeral?”

“A service,” says Mr. Delaney. “Dez Fitzpatrick will explain it to you in more detail. He’s going to meet you at the funeral home in St. John’s. You remember Mr. Fitzpatrick from Child Services? That’s why the bus has been delayed—you’ll ride in with Billy here, and he’ll drop you at the funeral home.”

“For a funeral?” I say again. “With a coffin and stuff?”

“Not exactly a funeral,” Mr. Delaney says. “More a memorial service.”

“What’s the difference?”

There’s a long pause before Billy pipes in.

“There’s no body,” Billy says.

Mr. Delaney groans. “Billy—it might be more appropriate for Mr. Fitzpatrick to speak to Charlie about this.”

“What do you mean ‘no body’?” I say. “I thought you just said they were giving away the body.”

“Releasing it,” says Mr. Delaney. “That’s true—they authorized the release of your father’s remains. But since there was no family member in a position to…to…”

“Pay,” says Billy. He has a little grin on when he says it.

“To
authorize
a funeral,” says Mr. Delaney. “The province had the body cremated.”

“Burned up? My dad’s been burned up?”

“Cremated,” says Mr. Delaney, looking at me like a teacher trying to explain how come there’s an
X
in a math equation.

“Yeah,” I say, “I know—burned up.”

I’m mad—mad that nobody even talked to me about any of this before they went ahead and did it. And now it’s too late, because of all the things in the world that you can do and sorta change around if somebody doesn’t like it, burning up a body isn’t one of them. I mean, once it’s burned, it’s gone—into ashes. Right then I get a picture in my mind of the crinkled-up black newspaper my dad used to start a fire the time we went camping up north. And that’s my dad now. Ashes. And what are ashes? Something that can only ever get smaller and smaller each time you touch them, until they’re not there at all. Till they disappear. Which is what they’ve done to my dad, without even telling me about it till after it was done. Made him disappear.

“That’s not right,” I say. “To do that, without even telling me.”