The Time Lord: Mack's Black Satire, #2

By Mack McColl

The Time Lord

By Mack McColl

Copyright 2021

 

Synopsis

 

218 pages

48,500 words

 

Barry's life took a bad turn very early and set him on a path to a dark place. This is the story of a journey with terrible consequences for many people. The story proceeds from his youth into the ups and downs of a serial killer whose nemisis is time, and maybe DNA.

 

The story is an homage to Missing and Murdered Women in British Columbia, Canada. Most of the missing and murdered are from the northern B.C. region along Highway 16 West. None of the dozens of missing and murdered women cases has ever been solved.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mack McColl
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215844441

Mack McColl

Mack McColl was born in Edmonton, Alberta, during the height of the baby boom. He went on to become a writer, author and inventor. He lived and worked in many distinct corners of his beloved Canada, learning what makes her unique. He went to Quebec and took a crack at learning French. His career in journalism took him to over 200 Indian Reserves where he made friends in Indigenous communities from coast to coast. This life provided Mack with the grist to compose most of the characters found in the pages of his fiction. Most of his fiction is set in Canada. Interests People, stories, the pursuit of happiness

Book preview

Prologue

He stopped at the stop sign and looked both ways before turning left and accelerating the little car on the highway leading south, 250 kilometres to Campbell River. He had no time to waste. Barry looked down the long stretch of highway in front of him and sighed. He was sober, and that didn't happen often these days. Never, in fact. He made the trip alone. Tripping on a highway was part of an old modus operandi.

He drank coffee from Petro-Can and smoked a joint so the car reeked. The little dark red compact was practically invisible as dusk was upon him. He kept it slightly over the speed limit. The road was dry. It had not rained today in the temperate rainforest. Traffic was sparse, practically non-existent, at twilight. He switched on his headlights but they did nothing to light the way at this moment except allow oncoming cars to see him.

She stood like a sprite on the side of the highway under street lights at the corner of Sayward Junction an hour into his journey. She looked hyperactive bouncing on her toes when he stopped. She continued to stand on the side of the highway, arm dutifully extended, as he skidded to the shoulder and reversed to pick her up. She stood beside her little bag of shit. He flung open the passenger door. She must be the stubborn type.

At last she appeared with a huge head of rust-coloured hair. She was short and trim and healthy-looking but weathered, tired in the eyes, as she glanced at him and shoved her bag in the back seat. She climbed in, clearly suffering in the cold autumn air. She was harrassed about Sayward, she said. She was sick and tired of being abused, she said.

He didn't want to hear any sorry tales about Sayward. He wanted to talk about himself being a certified and bonifide Time Lord. It's according to his birthdate and how it fits in the Mayan Calendar. And do you know what a Time Lord has to worry about? Not a fucking clue. D-N-A, he said, with a snigger. They rolled toward the small mid-island city of Campbell River where he looked for the Oceanside Route, a branch of older island highway, to take them south along the Inside Passage.

She continued to share a few choice words about a recent experience in Sayward, kept calling herself a fucking jippo, whatever that is. Said jippos don't take no shit like that. Jippos move along. And sometimes there's a trail of blood, she said, and cackled. Barry thought about DNA again.

He planned to stop in Black Creek, Saratoga Beach, actually, to buy a large bag of weed. He said he's going to meet his friend Bob and have a few drinks so Barry asks politely if she would like to come along.

Is he a Time Lord too? she said.

He reached down between his legs and grabbed the flat side of a pipe wrench and swung in one motion heavily into her face. She screamed, of course, the women will do this, and he struck a lesser blow to the back of her head and wheeled the car to the shoulder of the highway with pipe wrench in hand. She slumped against the door. And she was out. Dropping the wrench he reached over and locked the door. He stayed stopped beside the highway for a moment to help her slump further in the seat then pulled back onto the highway with a shoulder check. It was darker. Safety first.

He found a turn leading west up the valley on the north side of the Oyster River. The headlights showed a decent gravel track until the road climbed gradually out of the forest to become a lesser road, more of a trail into a vast clearcut watershed. There was light snow at this higher elevation, and no tire tracks. He found a clearing, a loading site or turnabout for trucks, and dragged her out to lay her on a blanket in front of the car. He fucked her in the vagina and came quickly. He leaned back on the hood of the car and smoked a joint in the clean,  oxygen rich mountain air, gazing at the dark, spying a few forlorn silouettes of trees, watching the stars sprinkling the heavens.

He went to grab a spotlight, a chainsaw, and a shovel from the hatchback.

Chapter One - What Fucking Time Is It?

He stood on the toilet in the bathroom. He was barely woke enough to realize it was nighttime and wondered why he was stuck in this position. Shouldn't he be in bed? Excuse my language he thought but what fucking time is it? A sudden searing pain tore through his midsection and he was unable to breathe. He went out at the sharpness of the pain and missing air.

His 8th birthday came and he was at the centre of a big party. He was at the playground with a group of friends, and they were happy when the cake and ice cream was opened on the picnic table. There was a number of Native Indian kids in the party. Barry liked the Native Indian kids. They were friendly and playful and grateful, fun to be around. It was a mix of people and this kind of thing happened more than you might expect in a place like this, his mother might say. In fact, she would say, it happens much more often than not where she comes from too.

The only white kids were his older brother Terry and Terry's friends. There were enough soccer balls and baseball gloves anyway. Barry was playing soccer with friends on this fun day during which he was happy, ecstatic, so many wonderful feelngs and feelings frozen in time, forever pictures of a brilliant moment. Barry became happier than he could imagine when his dad's brand new red 1962 GMC pick-up truck came around the corner of the park gate into the parking lot. His dad walked across the field carrying his guitar box, Daddy!

All the children in the party turned to see Barry's dad wearing a great big smile walking across the field toward the picnic tables and Barry was instantly jealous, and he broke into a sprint to run and meet his father. Time for music! his father called. He brushed Barry's head with his hand, Happy Birthday, my boy! and he walked to the where the hotdogs were gonna be cooking shortly in a firepit.

A circle formed immediately around his smiling dad sitting on the folding chair, smiling, laughing kids sitting in a circle on the grass, a few yelling with joy while his dad fiddled with the strings, reaching to adjust them repeatedly. You need to tune a guitar, he explained, after carrying it in the truck for a few days.

Even when it's a new truck, Daddy?

Yes, Barry, even when it's a new truck, he said, proudly.

The sky was sparkling blue and the sun was hot as well as bright this Saturday afternoon in early June. His tummy was grumbling for fire-roasted hot dogs and cake. Why not cake first? Every boy and girl was happy to hear the sing-a-long begin, only a few older boys remained on the soccer field. Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O, was first.

His dad sucked in the whole crowd before embarking on a set of songs, Row Row Row Your Boat, Gently Down The Stream, gesturing to the kids to pick it up and shout the words, pointing to the lake and looking a little crazy-eyed, honestly, as he led the park in a rousing rendition of Frere Jacque. He played other songs the kids didn't know. Johnny Cash was a favourite of his dad.

Barry's mom led the clapping and his dad belted out the songs. Barry sat close to his dad, jealous of the kids with him and wishing he was the only one to sing with his dad. But he was the only one touching him and rocking beside him and the strumming guitar. The kids roared, and it was a darn good time. But the hour of singing passed too soon. His dad received a bunch of hugs from the boys, and even kisses from the girls. His mom gave his dad a last cup of coffee while he packed up his guitar. A few scattered clouds had cooled the park on this June day.

Barry believed his birthday marked the beginning of summer for his family. This time of year saw his dad working extremely hard in the forests with less time for tinkering inventively in his large shop. His dad was a forester, his job was to harvest trees and have them delivered to the mills around the region. He talked a lot about trucks and mills. Barry's mom liked to tell people her husband Frank Higginsbottom was the best forester in Northern British Columbia, in a region full of them, she would say.

Barry knew things were good with his father who was surrounded by admirers, children and adults. Barry was growing up with lots of toys. Barry's was a brand new soccer ball the kids are kicking on the field. Barry wore new shoes and new clothes and during winter he and his brothers had new sleds, and hockey skates that fit, and gear. His dad was generous to kids who needed equipment. He was a regular visitor to the local outdoor rink where he shoveled snow or flooded the ice with a giant hose, or painted the lines and circles on the hockey rink. These were community events and Higginbottoms were part of it. Barry was fairly sure community was important. Here in the beginning of summer he reflected on the beginning of winter because he was happy in the late nights helping paint the lines and holding the heavy hose to flood the rink, and Barry knew his dad's effort, holding the frozen hose, breathing out clouds of steam to hang in the air, filled an important role in place of the useless deadbeat fucking part-time janitor, the town hired each winter to maintain the community centre. Frank was like that, a monument to human kindness and higher values standing alone on the ice waving the big hose back and forth.

Everybody loved his dad for doing the work on making a great community centre in town. His dad spent money on buildings like dressing rooms with big woodstoves at the centre. Teams from other towns would change from boots to skates and troop in and out on the cold nights. It was cold in winter but some nights were colder than others. Barry had learned to skate as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him, but Terry was the hockey player in the family and a recognized team leader. Gordon was too young for this activity and stayed home with their mom most of the time.

Barry's dad packed away the guitar, Got to go back to work! he  bellowed, and Barry figured this meant his dad was going to the hotel to meet friends and people who worked for him. Frank Higgensbottom was a guy who mixed business with pleasure with everybody in Berns Landing. Barry knew his dad was a popular guy, but also an important one. He had friends and many weekends when he came home from the bar he brought a crowd. Barry's mom loved the parties on the weekends and she had lots of food prepared, and Barry's dad had what he called a well-stocked bar. There was lots of singing and a few guitars. In summer, the parties were in the big fenced backyard until the late setting sun was gone. Even the neighbours joined in the fun, and never complained, they were welcome, nobody complained and everybody got along.

In winter the parties were in the large front room of the big house, and all night men and women climbed the stairs to use the bathroom. It was noisy and sometimes hard to sleep for he and his brothers but it was fun, and everybody was laughing and singing until the parties' end, nobody was shouting in anger or fighting. Barry believed there would be an outside party tonight and he might be able to join in, it was his birthday after all.

He circled the firepit and enjoyed the music. More than one guitarist was in the group and usually this was the case. There were breaks, people talking and drinking, barbequed steaks and bowls of potatoes, and he loved the smell of meat cooking. The night fell even as the light at night stayed so much longer and Barry was allowed to mix with his mom and dad's friends and he was excited and restless, not tired in the slightest, when his mom took his hand and led him away with his dad singing Folsum Prison by Johnny Cash.

The pain stabbed his behind and he was wide awake and looking down at his feet from an exalted position standing on the toilet seat. Blood was running down the inside of his legs as far as his knees on both legs, he was standing but felt like he was floating above the seat of the toilet, airborne, but still rooted on something holding him in place and he began desperately squirming to wiggle away from the pain, which sort of stopped. He looked around and remembered it was his birthday, but at the moment it seemed it was over. He whispered, I want to play guitar and sing like Daddy.

He wiggled away from what pierced him behind and he reeled on the toilet and looked up to see his father wearing what looked like a mask. It was not a smile. It was an awful look. Barry glanced down at his father's blood covered penis big like a sausage and Barry struck a fighting pose, like a boxer, You'll never do this to me again! he screamed,  He was spun sharply, a hand smothered his mouth and nose, ''No! his father barked at him, I'll do it whenever I want. You won't play any fucking guitar and sing any fucking songs. You're too fucking stupid!"

The air was trapped in his lungs by the big hand covering his mouth and nose and Barry blacked out. In the morning he awoke to a different awareness of life. He wasn't a great skater