The Boy in the Red Jumper

Pete had reached another birthday and marked it by opening a bottle of mid-priced red wine. He was a comfortably off middle-aged man who had reached middle-management and stayed there. Life was absolutely adequate for the Senior Account Manager who played squash midweek and a round of golf at midday on Saturday trying to get his handicap below 15. Pete was comfortable and reasonably happy but as he looked around his semi-detatched home he knew something was missing.

He had never married, relationships just didn’t seem to work and he had stopped making the effort now. If he was honest he wasn’t that bothered. He didn’t feel the need for company but way down inside, in a part of himself he never chose to access was a gap, a hole, a nothing. He pondered it for years, he didn’t understand it until now. What was missing was a child. Once Pete had gone there was no Got’s left, his family name died with him, nobody would know or even care that he had existed at all. The fear of this oblivion gnawed at him and today it burst into a shroud of melancholy.

Pete sat staring at his glass. There was not much he could do about it now, late on a Thursday night. The weekend wouldn’t hold the answers either, he had promised to accompany a friend to an antiques auction. Carlo had promised to put him up in a hotel and take him golfing. While the auction was no draw, the golf and drinks were.

Bingham had a pub, a golf course and an auction house. The hotel had been significantly oversold nonetheless it was comfortable and the landlord provided good quality beer. After a pleasant round of golf followed by a hearty lunch Pete and his friend walked to the auction house to see the lots they had come to see. The dresser and bed they had driven so far to view failed to illicit any excitement in Pete, though Carlo was convinced there was a healthy profit to be made and decided to return the following morning for the auction.

As they were leaving and chatting about the possibility of getting another nine holes in before dusk Pete stopped. He was certain that from behind him he had heard his name called out. He turned and looked back into the empty auction house. He lingered expecting to see a familiar face but soon realised he was mistaken, he turned to leave when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a small wooden doll. It was seated on an armchair. It was painted rather than dressed in clothes but was faded, chipped and the wood itself had cracked over time. Standing it would have been around two feet tall but it’s arms, legs and head were jointed and on the seat it could have easily been missed. It sat with its head twisted slightly towards him as if it was looking in Pete’s direction.

Pete was intrigued by its oddness, he walked over to it to get a better view. Close up it seemed even odder. Around its neck was a tag.

“Doll. 17th Century England. Lot 1881.

Little known but story that its entirely carved from stake that was used from witch-burning, Norfolk.”

He looked at its strange crooked scowling expression, it had no endearing elements to it. It was ugly and without any charm but Pete couldn’t stop looking at it. He was only snapped out of staring when his friend slapped his hand down on his shoulder.

Sunday morning arrived and the furniture his friend was hoping to win were towards the end of the sale. Pete didn’t really pay much attention to the auction short of cringing at the price Carlo had paid for the furniture. As they stood at the desk settling the bill one of the porters walked over to Pete and handed him a large package.

“Your purchase sir.” The man said.

Pete looked at the man, thought for a moment and then looked at the package.

“Sorry, I don’t think that’s for me.” He said.

“It will be that god awful doll you bought Pete.” Carlo whispered in his ear.

“Sorry, what?”

“That’s thirty five pounds.” Said the cashier looking up from her desk.

Pete was desperately confused but did not want to cause any sort of argument and handed over the cash. He awkwardly took the parcel and left the auction house. Outside he turned to his friend.

“I don’t remember bidding on this.”

“Blimey Pete, you were really insistent. You don’t remember at all?”

“No.” He said quietly and with a degree of concern.

He walked across to the pub car park and put the still wrapped doll on the back seat of his car then returned to the auction house where Carlo was waiting for the porters to bring the furniture out to his van.

During the drive home Pete could not remove a sense of deep unease about losing a significant moment of his day. He hadn’t been drinking and there was no chance he had banged his head. By the time he reached home he had convinced himself he had a medical problem that needed a trip to the GP. His hold-all was thrown next to the washing machine and the doll placed on the kitchen table. It was late and as he had work the next day Pete chose to leave his unpacking to the following evening.

He woke with a start. His alarm had not gone off and the room was still dark. He looked over at the time. It was just past 3am and he was still tired but his heart was racing. What was that dream? He tried to grasp at the rapidly dissipating thoughts as they slipped through his fingers. It was him, at the park watching the ducks on the pond. He wasn’t alone. There was a boy, the boy was his son. He remembered a feeling of fulfilment and peace. He closed his eyes to remember more but before he could he had fallen asleep again.

That evening Pete ate dinner then threw his washing in the machine and turned to the doll. He unwrapped it and sat it up on the kitchen table. It’s painted clothes were a faded red and it was clear that this wasn’t a work of great craftsmanship but was also very old. What was most unusual was the face. He had remembered it having quite an angry expression but now, when he looked at it, the face seemed happy and content. He picked it up from the table and put it onto the second armchair in his living room and he settled down to watch the television.

He woke up to his alarm the following morning, he had slept long enough but he did not feel rested and had dreamt again. He dreamed of the boy again. They were playing with a ball at the park, his memory was hazy but he remembered the boy’s red jumper and him running over to him, embracing him and asking:

“Am I a real boy father?”

To which he replied “Of course!”

Pete dragged himself from his bed and readied himself for the day ahead. As he headed for the door he looked back into the living room where the doll sat on the chair it had been left on the night before. It still stared off into the room but it seemed somehow to look slightly less happy than before.

The following evening was as mundane as Monday night had been and Pete chose not to dwell too much on the doll. However as he woke the next morning he realised he had dreamt of the boy again. This time they were walking down a path and the boy in the red jumper had turned to him and spoken.

“Please father, don’t lie to me, am I a real boy?”

Pete remembered answering positively and the dream ending. Instinctively he jumped out of bed and the doll’s face had again changed and seemed even sadder. He chastised himself for being so ridiculous and resolved to take himself to the GP before the end of the week. But every night for the next three sleeps he had a similar dream. He was there with the boy, happy in the park, then came the question and in the morning the doll’s expression had changed again.

When Saturday morning arrived Pete, not having to go to work, sat in the living room staring at the doll. Its mouth was downturned and the eyes had a heaviness. He was certain on Monday it was beaming with a smile. He might have sat looking at it all day if his phone hadn’t rang and a reminder that he had a game of golf arranged that afternoon.

Pete returned home late, he had dined with his golfing partners before joining them for drinks. He was slightly inebriated as he bundled into the house knocking his golf clubs against the door frame. He pushed them into the coat cupboard and threw himself down onto the chair. Immediately he remembered the doll.

“I’m going to bed. And you’re not even a real boy anyway.”

He lifted himself up and went to bed.

That night there was no dream. He woke on Sunday morning and headed downstairs to make a cup of tea. As he passed the living room he noticed something wrong. The doll was not in the chair. Pete stepped in the room and checked down by the side, it was nowhere to be seen. He began to feel panic. He did not know why but he was terrified, not for him, but for the doll. He rushed back upstairs dressed quickly and headed out. He spent the whole day combing the streets with no success. By dusk he knew he had to head home but his anxiety was growing.

He had a wretched dreamless sleep that night and rose early. At half seven he called his manager who was surprised but sympathetic when he told her that he had to look for his lost son. After three days his colleagues who had started by offering their support, had now realised that something was quite wrong. Those who had turned up to his house had not found him there. He was out from sunrise to way past sunset combing the streets and roaming around the park. By Thursday Pete realised he hadn’t eaten and barely slept. He hadn’t spoken to anyone and was exhausted. He had ignored the increasingly irritated messages from HR that had started with concern and now contained threats. He returned home and kicked the piles of letters and handwritten notes aside as he walked into the living room slumped onto the armchair and fell into a deep sleep.

He began to dream. It was the boy. He was there, looking across the pond in the park straight at him.

Pete woke with a start and tore out of the house racing on foot to the park. It was still misty and still dark but he could see the pond. Breathing hard he made it to the edge of the water and looked. The boy was not there. His heart sank, then something caught his eye, he looked at the water, in the middle, floating, was something red. Without thinking Pete jumped into the water striding deeper and deeper. As the freezing, inky black water reached his waist he could almost reach the object. He stretched out his hand and just as he grasped at it he felt something grab both of his ankles. In seconds he was deep under the icy darkness thrashing his hands to try and get to the surface. In the centre of the deserted park the pond spat and flailed. A few seconds more and the thrashing stopped.

On the bank of the pond, watching as the water settled back to stillness a young woman with blackened, scorched skin, wrapped in a tattered cloak watched on. She wrapped her hand around the small hand of the boy next to her, then they turned and walked into the mist until the redness of his jumper could no longer be seen.