School Yard Stories #002 - The Wheelie Bin Mafia - Chapter 1

My nightmare began when he disappeared. I wasn't sure if it was even a disappearance at first. He just didn't come home one day. You see, we have an agreement. He only ever stays out one night a week, sometimes, in extreme circumstances, two. Never more than that. I knew, on the third day, something was wrong. You know that feeling you get in your gut? You know, the one that just churns and churns, making you feel ill in ways you never have before? Well, that feeling began, for me, at the start of that third day.

Six Weeks Ago

Before he disappeared, everything had been great. We had not a care in the world. Work was pretty easy, if not a little monotonous. I had the sort of job where you just had to stand around all day. It was comfortable, in as much as it was easy, but not in the sense of relaxing. If you've ever worked a checkout, or teller in a bank, you'd understand. Harold was moving up in the world. His bosses had taken a shine to him, and he was being given more responsibility. I was so pleased for him. He was such a diligent worker and deserved the recognition.

Despite the routine of the daily grind, we would always have something fresh to discuss each night. We like to talk and often did for hours. I can recall, vividly, how he would regale me of all the people he had met during the course of the day. He always had such tales to tell. I was amazed at just how much could happen to him over the course of a single day.

A few months before the disappearance, he was standing at his post, waiting silently, when a couple of teenagers came near to him. Being the dutiful employee he is, he watched them keenly, keeping his guard at just the right level - a mixture of nonchalont interest and razor sharp alertness. Ready for anything, but casual enough so as not to raise undue attention.

They departed shortly after their arrival without incident. They had merely stopped to finish their converstation before walking in different directions. You see, Harold was often placed in positions of great responsibility. His faithful service over the past twenty-five years had earned him the deep respect of his superiors, and it was in a position of immense responsibility that he found himself on this particular day - a position that was regarded as the most sought after in all the yard.

It had everything someone in Harold's line of work could ask for. Shade, especially handy during the warmer months; a nice lush lawn, making standing for long periods of time easier, and a regular supply of people wandering directly past him, making his life - when at this post - so much easier.

Anyway, on this particular occasion, he watched as the teenagers went their seperate ways, and was so distracted by them - something he never usually allowed himself to be - that he missed the group of four younger kids that surrounded him. He panicked briefly, but then his training kicked in. He stood his ground, not using hostility, but trying to display understanding and empathy towards them as they shouted their taunts and hurled their viscious abuse. But it was to no avail.

One of the boys - he looked to be the ringleader to Harold, stepped right up to him and began to urinate all over his back. It was completely unprovoked, and Harold reeled in disgust and shock, but the boys persisted in their jeering and ridicule of him. After the ringleader had finished his business, another of the boys launched himself in Harold's direction and levelled a kick directly at his mid-section. It landed with such a brutal force, and was administered so quickly, that Harold fell to the ground, his midriff on fire from the visciousness of the attack. He was unable to right himself without help from a sympathetic passerby who had witnessed the eintire interaction.

Harold has since told me of the embarassment that he had felt after that. The shame, of not doing his job properly, that consumed him each time he went back to that particular duty. But I reassured him that it could've happened to anyone, and reminded him of the kind stranger who had come to his aid. He was particularly bouyed when I reminded him that his boss would not have given him that duty again if he didn't think he was able to complete the assignment.

As if to confirm my assurances, later that week, Harold had been given a promotion. He had been moved inside. That was huge. Only two posts were inside, and he had been chosen after one of his older collegues had finally called it a day and retired. Harold had recieved a new uniform and most importantly, a new level of clearance, meaning that he was now certified Top Secret compared to the other posts.

It was only a day later, on his first indoor shift, Harold had been privvy to something that shook him quite badly. He had never gone into details with me, but he had elluded to that fact that things were not quite as they seemed. I chalked them up to nonsense - his nerves playing up on him as a result of his first day on the indoor patrol. But he was adamant that what he had heard was true. It seems that now, looking back, he may not have been too wrong after all.

I had thought nothing of it back then, but around the same time that he received the promotion, Harold had told me that he needed to go out one night a week. That he was required, because his new responsibilities, to be available during this time. He told me that everyone knew that this came with the top postion; that it was a badge of honour. Obviously, I was still so thrilled for him, that I didn't even think twice before giving my consent. And now he's gone, and I don't know where he is.

You know how sometimes there is a defining moment in your life? One where if you could go back and switch one action or decision for another, everything might have been okay? Well, for me, it was that moment. What if I had've said no? What if I had've said, I don't know, anything? Maybe Harold would still be here. Maybe he wouldn't have disappeared. Or maybe, to play Devil's Advocate, maybe, he still would've.

Five Weeks Ago

All the major news shows ran with the disappearance, airing stories and theories about it for days after. Not because Harold was famous, or anything, but because there had been a spate of them across the state. People were baffled. No one could understand why they were happening, but one thing was for cretain. Fear was slowing sinking its claws into the general population - panic gripped the city like a vice. People speculated as to why this might be happening, or who might be behind this. I'm not too sure if we will ever find out.

I was interviewed by the police on more than one occasion. I think, that for a while, they believed me a suspect. I know that this is how they always act, it's protocol after an abduction (or so they told me), but it didn't make for sleep filled nights. I lay awake for hours, just staring at the ceiling, fearful for the safety of my Harold, and fearful for what was going to happen to me. Selfish, I know, but I couldn't help it. Try being accused of kidnap, or murder, or whatever it is that they believed I had done, and tell me you don't suddenly feel a little worried about the future.

They eventually cleared me, but only because of the package.

It came two weeks after the disappearance. It was in a box. A brown, non-descript box, with packaging tape holding to securely closed. A delivery driver dropped it off at my front door. Simply rang the doorbell, and was gone before I was able to get to the front of the house. I saw the tail end of his van as he, or she, I guess, made a careful turn onto the main road. It was yellow, and it didn't appear to me that they were making any sort of high speed getaway, I figured tham a plain old vanilla delivery driver. That's what I told the police. That's all I had for them.

Remember that feeling in your gut I spoke about earlier? Well, that feeling had never completely dissipated, it lingered in the back of my consciousness, and it came rushing back with such a ferocity that I remember listing as I stared blankly at the box on my doorstep. When I finally opened the it, I did so with a growing dread. I think I might've instinctively recoiled before I had even got it completely open and taken a good look inside.

I dialled the number of the detective who had been speaking with me since the disappearance. She answered on the second ring. From the beginning, she had been so lovely, despite the circumstances, and accusations. But once she received my phone call about the package on my doorstep, her whole demeanour changed. The calculated 'niceness' that had been interspersed with the cool judgmentalism disolved into nothing less than complete compassion.

She made it to my house quickly. In record time, I would've said. She busied herself with following protocol, barking orders at other members of the force who arrived after her. She motioned left and right in a ferocious manner, taking no prisoners as she led me aside to ask some questions. Most I couldn't answer because, as I've already said, I didn't really see anything. She was particularly interested by the colour of the van, writing this down furiously in her notebook. I remember being a little ammused at the idea that in this modern era, she was still using a pen and paper-based notebook.

Only a couple of hours passed before the police had finished their order of business, and promptly packed up, leaving everything pretty much as it had been when they arrived - sans package, which they took with them. I stood alone in the garden. Rigid. The afternoon's events on replay in my head. I still had no clue as to the whereabouts of my Harold, and the detective had offered no insights. I guess that that's not good - it probably means that she has no idea either.

If I had known the letter was in the box, I would've taken it before I called the police. It was written to me, and I don't like the idea that they got to read it first - or that they kept it for so long before returning it to me. Not to mention the thin layer of white dust that stained every centimetre of it. It made the letter feel slippery, and difficult to hold. It was from Harold. I knew this before I opened it.

Harold could always write so well. He was just as good at writing, as he was at talking, maybe even better. Either way, I couldn't wait to read it.

As I stood there, letter posied to be read, I heard Harold's warning from one of his stories: Things are not as they seem. I once wrote those words off as being condured by his nerves, a ghost fabricated by his desire to fulfil his duty to the absolute best of his ability. But not this time. This time, I would take his story seriously.

And so, I began to read.

Well, thanks for reading. I hope that you enjoyed the first part of this story. Any comments and suggestions are always appreciated, and accepted. Please do so below if you feel led.

Before I head off, I just need to thank @jaynie and the #steemitbloggers family for the excellent text dividers. You can find these by reading this post.

It should also be noted that all images are from Unsplash, and edited slightly by me.

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