Dead Kids Don't Leave Camp: Jack Foxworth, #1

By Birdy Slade

"Sunday didn't start well for Seth or me. That's because I had a hangover, and Seth's dead body woke me up by banging into the dock I slept on last night..."

 

Jack Foxworth escaped the UK by landing a job at Camp Joseph in Maine, USA. He falls in love with Virginia, the beautiful 'Southern Belle' working in the exclusive boy's summer camp kitchen. Star swimmer and award-winning rugby player Jack peels away layers of guilt with the help of Virginia and the hectic life of a summer camp counsellor.

Just two weeks before his summer job ends, Jack discovers the dead body of one of the four campers assigned to his tent on the Island in the middle of a lake. No one else saw the body and didn't miss Seth, as camp Director, Monte, said the unpopular boy was picked up by his parents in the early morning.

Jack doesn't know who to trust, especially himself. Virginia said she saw Seth leave camp. Only Jason, the bright but lonesome camper, believes Jack and helps him discover the truth of the Camp, the secrets the island hides and how a long-forgotten tragedy on Camp Joseph holds the key to what happened to Seth and the other boys who never left camp.

 

'Dead Kids Don't Leave Camp' starts with a death, explores a tale stretching thirty years and ends with an explosive finish, finally revealing why Camp Joseph just couldn't let some of its campers go home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Birdy Slade
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223585848

Birdy Slade

My story began not so long ago... in 1991... when I was born in a place called Sheepy Magna, in England. The small village is right in the middle of the UK ... nothing much happens there. My father is American and Mother is English. They met on a summer camp in the USA where both were swimming counsellors. They fell in love and travelled the world before settling in London to take up jobs in a biological engineering company. They're retired now. My folks moved out to Sheepy Magna just before I was born. I'm one of five kids, the youngest and, therefore, the wildest. I went to Dixie Grammar School in a place called Market Bosworth. My dad said he chose the school for its name since he came from the deep south himself. I went to university to study english at Bristol University. I dropped out and joined the army. One day I'll write a full account of my time in the British Forces but I'm not ready yet. Before dropping out, I spent the summer in the USA teaching swimming on a really old summer camp for rich American kids. I loved it. My latest book, "Dead Kids Don't Leave Camp" is based on my experiences there. My career now is varied. I live in Maine, USA, with my dog 'Crapper' and long time other. I'm lucky as my man has a great job and does well for himself. I have a busy life writing articles and acting as a newspaper/internet agony aunt. I studied psychology after leaving the army and specialised in teenage issues. Mr Brad Slade, my partner, suggested I write my newest book based on my and my parent's experiences at Summer Camp. Besides that, I'm just a girl who loves the wild outdoors (there's plenty of it in Maine) but can put my best dress on and enjoy the city. We have an apartment in New York, so, we have the best of both worlds. My prime driver in life is to help others, especially young adults who are finding their way in the world. I had a traumatic upbringing for many different reasons. I know if I could help just one boy or girl overcome their fears and be as happy as I am now, I would have done a good job.  

Book preview

Dead Kids Don’t Leave Camp

By Birdy Slade

Chapter One

Sunday didn't start well for Seth or me. That's because I had a hangover, and Seth’s dead body woke me up by banging into the dock I slept on last night.

The day began when I forced my eyes open. The contacts I wore the night before cemented my eyelids together so firmly that only the help of my fingers could unstick them. The lake, framed by the dock's wooden planks and the deep orange of a Maine sunrise, rippled below me. The pain in my head increased with every lap of water against the kayaks lined up along the dock, ready for the morning’s activities. I'd fallen asleep after my wild night out ended on Camp Joseph's main wharf in the early morning hours.

I lay there, feeling paralysed and found it hard to turn my head before I eventually persuaded my neck to move. That's when I saw Seth's milky eyes peering up at me through the water. While my head banged with a hangover, Seth's was partially caved in and split by a deep waterlogged red gouge.

I remember getting the boat back to Camp Joseph Island, the boy's summer camp, the night before. The four of us must have set off from the mainland just before curfew, so that would be about twelve last night. I was loaded. I couldn't walk; my last memory was Virginia helping me into the boat. Virginia is my girl. I met her on the induction day when the director welcomed us to the Camp. She'd worked as a kitchen assistant the previous year and took me under her wing. She said she liked my English accent.

The others helped me out of the boat commanded by the ever-reliable Vance T Hamilton III. I insisted I lay down to look at the stars. Was there an argument? I'm not sure. Anyway, I've always been fascinated by the night sky, and in Maine, the Milky Way looks like an astronomical firework display. Sometimes, they say, you can see the northern lights, but I've yet to see them. My friends must have left me there. I couldn’t be angry at them; I’m stubborn once I get an idea in my head.

My throat was so dry. The taste of alcohol hung around me; I'd have to wash before I saw the campers and the director. My back felt bruised as it did after a game of rugby back in school in England. Bigger than most at school, the other boys seemed to think they'd win if they took me out. So, I attracted most of the tackles, and my back took most of the punishment. Bastards.

The four of us sat in a swanky bar the night before, drinking cocktails. I didn't pay. I'm broke. Luckily, Vance, a trust fund kid, paid for the first few drinks. Then we got talking to a lovely older couple who insisted we drink with them. Vance, our designated driver, only had one alcoholic drink: he's the sensible one.

Virginia, Chad, and me, I'm Jack, by the way, continued to drink super-strength cocktails for the next few hours. Chad is my geeky fellow counsellor friend. The couple from Kansas paid. It would be rude not to accept their hospitality. They enjoyed our company. I often saw couples in restaurants and bars barely speaking to each other, so maybe we were being paid to entertain them.

Vance drove us back to the mainland base of Camp Joe, where we parked up and smoked some weed given to Chad, of all people, by someone else at the bar, a German, I think. Partway through the night, Chad peeled off to chat with him, surprising us all as he was so shy.

I told them I'd smoked weed before, but I hadn't; it was a ‘cool’ thing to say. Chad seemed to be a professional 'spliff' maker. He was full of surprises, and I realised I needed to adjust my perception of him. I worried we would get caught with our fake IDs, but there was our buddy Chad on a whole other level.

Virginia threw up. She admitted she hadn't tried weed before and coughed and spluttered through the few drags of the herbal cigarette made so expertly by Chad. Her southern sensibilities were gradually decaying under my influence, and I remember that making me smile and laugh as everything seemed to do under the power of marijuana.

My eyes refused to connect with my brain, and it took minutes, or was it moments, before I realised the dead body was Seth; a shiver ran through me.

My brain began to kick in with newly released adrenaline pumping around my body, temporarily eclipsing my hangover. I reached out to touch Seth, thinking I could pull him out, but my arm recoiled to the safety of the dock once I saw the terrible injury to his head. I needed to think. I took a deep breath and watched Seth's body bob about in the tiny waves of the clear lake water. 

I'm impulsive and quick. Some say I'm clever. However, my brain felt wooden, like the old planks which made up the dock. Seth's eyes stared up at me, challenging me, asking me what I'd done. For a while, I froze, using the chill inside me to give me time to think.

The sun continued its ascent above the woods surrounding Moosehead Lake. Camp Joe occupied an island in the middle of the vast expanse of water. It was one of eight small islands. I'd chosen to come here because of the name. 'Moosehead' intrigued me because it was so unlike England, where we'd have some dead King’s name attached to it.

I don't have a watch or a phone, as Camp Joseph banned all technology. So, I learnt to tell the approximate time by the sun. It must have been about five-thirty to six am, a good hour before the morning bell went off. That gave me a little time to plan out what to do next.

My parents are what you'd call 'light touch' and seldom set rules. Nearing my nineteenth birthday, I'd watched crime programs since I was nine. Right now, my TV education taught me what I did and said that finding Seth's body floating just inches down from me could determine my future. I'm pretty sure I didn't have anything to do with Seth's death, but I'd seen plenty of shows where innocent people like me could be locked up for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I forced myself to look away and back to the Camp. I could see tents on wooden platforms dotted around the Island. Nothing stirred. Slowly I got up. My head argued with my body, but it relented, and I got to my feet. I checked myself. My jeans were stained with something, but my shoes were on my feet, and the T-shirt I had on last night was still there. My grandfather called me a 'brick’. The curse of being six foot four and well-built meant it took much effort to get up. 

The heat was unbearable the day before. However, the slight breeze of the morning caused small waves to form on the lake, and it felt almost cold. Poor Seth's body bumped like a rag doll against the wooden dock support and now floated face down, making it easier to look at. I might sound heartless, but I've decided to tell this tale as honestly as possible. Besides, my brain felt like mush, so it was hard to feel anything. 

I didn't like Seth. No one did, really. An awkward child with a sneering manner, Seth made no friends and put in little effort to do so. His parents and the Camp Director hoped his eight-week stay would fix that, helped by Camp Joe's famous 'back to roots' philosophy. Still, Seth wouldn't get the chance to be fixed, which was sad.

I needed to do something, tell someone about Seth. My endless hours of watching TV alone at night taught me I needed a plan of action; this British Brick could be in trouble. Reporting Seth Sitell’s demise, that the scion of the Sitell family and heir to the vast mining fortune was dead, could be dangerous and my undoing if I did so.

I hunched down and took another look at Seth. I turned the body over with my foot so he could stare at me again. Seth looked peaceful, his features absent of the sneer. If I ignored the disfigured head, he looked like a nice, friendly kid.

A noise sent a shock through me. I stood, already fixing the expression on my face to ensure it showed nothing untoward. As I turned around, I almost tripped on my foot, which was not exactly 'cool.' I saw someone coming along the island shore, so I walked to the end of the dock, where it met the land. Another camper, Jason Fitzpatrick, came walking along, his head down, not noticing me or, thank God, Seth. I called him, Jason, you're up early.

Couldn't sleep. Didn't you go back to the tent last night?

I was there all night, buddy. Mind you, everyone was snoring, I lied.

Jason stopped and looked at me from twenty feet away. He was a great kid, sporty, witty, and quick-witted. Jason was a loner, however. That is why his father sent him here; he told me that on our many early morning chats. I often met him staring out at the lake. I am an early bird, too, so we got into a routine of meeting and talking while Camp was quiet. He's the sort of boy I'd like to have as a son. Shit, where did that thought come from? I'm nineteen; I shouldn't be thinking about that! 

He smiled at me, a sort of adult smile, full of confidence and very assured. Right, none of us snore. You snore, and your campers told me you are louder when you've been out cavorting.

I taught him the word 'cavorting'. Jason drank up my English phrases daily. He'd end up bi-lingual in the eight weeks he would spend at Camp Joe. His Dad wouldn't recognise his accent.

I hoped for a few more minutes to think through my story, but Jason's arrival meant I needed to think quickly. I've been looking for Seth, I woke up early, and his bed was empty. So, I thought I'd come and look for him.

Now only a few feet from me, Jason said, He's probably annoying someone right now in another tent. He does that.

I needed more time for my story, the tale I needed to spin, so I didn't get landed in this mess. Come on. I'm headed back to the tent. It won't be long before the morning call. Seth must be wandering around somewhere. He's probably near the canteen; he likes his food.

Fat bastard.

Jason! I tried to clip him around the ear as we set off for tent 2C, my tent, but he moved too quickly for me.

As we walked along, Jason talked while I wished for silence. Someone would need to discover Seth again. They'd need to raise the alarm. Yes, that's the best course of action. I could work on Jason before he went back to his tent and then deal with the other campers in tent 2C; Ben, Jonny and Adam. Hopefully, they'd still be asleep, and I'd get them to believe I returned to the tent last night. OK, a weak alibi, but all I had to work with.

Don't ya think? Jason said, looking up at me again.

Sorry, what?

Man, haven't you heard anything I said?

I stopped in my tracks. Then, looking at Jason seriously, I said, I wasn't taking much notice, Jason.

Oh, that's splendid, thank you very much.

Despite the situation, I laughed. Jason's use of another typical British expression seemed funny coming out of his mouth. I'm sorry, mate. I'm just a little worried about Seth. I'll wake the others when we get back and ask them if they noticed where he went. You get back to your tent.

Jason gave me a look which still told me he didn't quite buy my story but said nothing. After a few steps, I ran, leaving Jason behind. In my last six weeks at the Camp, I learnt that nearly all Americans were born competitive. If I were talking to a British fourteen-year-old and ran off, the boy would raise his eyes, wonder what possessed me and let me get on with it. American children like Jason saw everything as a race, so I wasn't surprised to hear him desperately trying to catch me as I raced toward tent 2C.

Chapter Two

The island on Moosehead Lake, shaped like a giant banana, stretched slightly over half a mile. It was covered with large pine trees, but you could see one end of the island from the other. The two points were joined by a sheltered cove used for swimming and launching the boats used for sailing and boating tuition. The ridge in the middle of the island was the focal point for the Camp. The large canteen was halfway up the hill, and at the top was the 'Hooch' - a massive log cabin used for morning assembly and camp meetings. Sometimes we used the Hooch in the evening, but we'd gather around the campfire on the beach overlooking the small bay most of the time.

Eight pine needle-laden paths led to the lakeshore, fanning out from the Hooch. Along each trail, large tents stood on wooden platforms. The accommodation looked basic, like an Army camp, except for lighting and electricity; Camp Joe, as we called it, had neither. The idea of the Camp was to leave the electronic world behind, focus on what nature gave us and make the campers appreciate a simpler lifestyle. That said, we did have a few battery lights in the kitchen area, mainly for safety.

Camp Joe, despite its rudimentary comforts, catered for rich kids. The fees were north of $10,000 per camper for an eight-week stay. Many boys - no girls allowed - were from homes where every comfort and convenience was available. As far as I could see, the only comfort missing from many of the camper's houses were warm and loving parents.

As is typical for me, I hardly researched the role of a counsellor on a summer camp in the USA. I was given the job at Camp Joseph after a brief interview in the UK. Google, of course, gave me a great breakdown of camp life and what would be expected of me. The reality of camp life wasn't too far from the pages I read on the internet, save for the complex and challenging characters I found at Camp when I arrived. 

There are four types of life forms on Camp Joe. The biggest group, of course, were the campers. Most were from big cities like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. A few Japanese boys came to Camp Joe, but it is no lie; the four who stayed in tents spent most of their time crying. That's a real feat of endurance, given how long they were left there by their parents.

The campers were aged from ten to sixteen. Some looked younger, and others had more hair than me on their chests. A few were nearly as tall as me. The prepubescent and mature hormone cocktail meant there was an underlying rumble of angst much of the time. One older counsellor explained that we needed to keep the boys busy and tire them out. Without the days of almost constant activity, there could be a war.

The other group on the island were the counsellors. We aged from eighteen to their early twenties, although a few seemed to turn up yearly until they were in their mid-thirties. The older counsellors are the elite, and I don't talk to them that much. Over half of the thirty or so counsellors were 'old' boys who first attended Camp as paying guests and then graduated to a paid role. The homegrown counsellors reflected the campers, mostly from wealthy families grown used to carting their kids off to Camp Joe. The other counsellors were mainly specialists who had something to offer. I was a swimming teacher, my preferred sport, even though my Rugby career showed greater promise now that I was getting older. I also sailed, so the UK recruiters said I'd be in demand in the US. The pay was poor, well below minimum wage, so the 'experience', as my recruiter put it, was the cherry on the cake.

I had to get out of England. I'd spent one year at university, and the taste of freedom away from home gave me a hunger for more. Besides, my best friend at Bristol University, Karen, ran a club that supplied students to US summer camps; she forced me into applying to get her numbers up.

The third group on the Island were by far the most interesting. The kitchen crew of six were all women. I won't introduce them all now, apart from Virginia, my official girlfriend. Like the others, Virginia came from one town, Greenville, South Carolina. Her wonderful southern accent, blond hair and graceful manner caught my attention from day one of our introduction week held before the campers arrived.

At first, I felt it difficult to integrate with many other counsellors, so clicking with Virginia saved me from missing home. Six weeks on, I'm still outside the popular groups of counsellors, and Virginia felt the same for some reason. I put my 'difference' down to my being English. Also, I'm the tallest 'adult' in the Camp except for Monty, the Camp Director. Due to my size, I'm physically imposing, so I may have scared some of my co-workers.

I said there were four groups in Camp; Monty was alone in the fourth group. The Camp Director towered over me, so he was at least six foot eight or more. Unlike me, he seemed to have very little muscle mass, and sometimes I wondered why he didn’t simply blow over in the wind, often whipped up towards the end of the day across the lake.

Monty ran the Camp for over fifteen years. Before that, he was a counsellor. He was also from the same town in South Carolina as the girls and some counsellors. His deep southern drawl seemed to command respect in most and fear in a few. I found him intimidating. As far as I could tell, he didn't get my English sense of humour or any humour. 

Monty inherited his position and the Camp from his father, who ran the Camp for over forty years. Camp Joseph is one of America's oldest surviving summer camps and is considered one of the most exclusive in the USA. Generations of boys from the same families popped up everywhere on the award plaques covering the far wall in the Hooch called the 'Honour Wall'. The ‘Best Camper’ award listed Brent Hoberman, Brent Hoberman II and Brent Hoberman III. It made me laugh, like seeing sequels on some internet list of films. The third Hoberman was now a counsellor and an obnoxious one at that. I wondered what turned him from 'Best camper' to 'Worst Counsellor' in just two years.

Each of the tents held four campers and a counsellor. The single metal-framed beds, uncomfortable at first, were good enough for a night's sleep, especially after the day's activities which kept everyone on their feet.

We were supposed to bring a warm sleeping bag, and the Camp provided pillows, sheets, and blankets. I made a big mistake with mine and blamed it on my grandfather. He ordered a sleeping bag online, devised, they promised, for the space program. It fitted into a bag no bigger than a box of tissues and contained a mystery foil to keep the body warm. It didn't. Foolishly, I unpacked the bag for the first time when I arrived. I'm a big lad, and while it came up to my chin, my body looked like a sausage wrapped in foil ready for the oven. The campers allocated to tent 2C laughed when I told them about its thermic properties. Silently I cursed my grandfather, who loved gadgets and new inventions that would invariably fall far short of their write-ups in 'Gadget Magazine.'

As with all tents, we were asked to rename tent 2C after a brainstorming session among the counsellor and four campers on the first night. My camper's ages ranged from thirteen, Seth was the youngest, to Adam, who turned sixteen in the first week of Camp. In between, there was Ben and Jonny, both fourteen.

They thought a huge hairy English man wrapped in tin foil meant the perfect name for the tent should be Reynolds Wrap. So, of course, within days, we merely referred to our tent as 'Reynolds.' It meant nothing to me, but it was a well-known brand of aluminium foil in America. They loved the name, it didn't matter to me at first, but it began to annoy me as people constantly asked why we'd chosen the name, now painted in red paint on a plank, pinned roughly to the tent deck.

It was some time before I realised there was a pecking order to camp life in almost every way. Tents along paths one and eight were considered the best. They fronted the lakeshore and were occupied by counsellors who worked at the Camp more than twice or whose families were 'good supporters' of Camp Joe. For 'supporters', read money. The counsellors who were campers with the wealthiest families got the best tents. It didn't bother me as it did some of the other counsellors relegated to less desirable tents located away from the shore.

I've mentioned Jason. Jason Fitzpatrick is a bright fourteen-year-old lad who swam competitively, like me. However, Jason was worldly-wise and seemed to know more about life than I did in many ways. He was based in another tent but seemed to spend more time in ours talking to me than my campers. 

It was about two weeks in before I 'got' Jason. I found him by our tent during one of our few resting periods, looking at a photograph. I asked him who he was looking at, more out of politeness. I'd snuck back to the tent for a laydown. That day I hit my head on the dock post and saw stars. By then, I'd learnt that no one showed weakness in Camp, so it would be best to wait for the pain to pass.

Jason climbed the wooden stairs to the tent deck as I lay on my iron bed. There were tears in his eyes, and I felt like bolting right there and then, bugger the ache in my head. He went to say something and stopped. I told him there was no need to tell me, and I turned over on the bed and glanced out of the open flap, which looked over the other tents and then onto the lake. The summer heat increased daily, making the tent feel baked and musty. Unexpectedly Jason seemed to want to tell me. I heard him move and stand by me. I had no choice but to turn around. 

My Mom, Jason said, showing me the photograph.

English people say 'Mum,' not 'Mom', but I knew who he meant. He held the picture out to me, I reached out, but he stepped back. I guess he didn't want my grubby hands on the image. The woman's hair was rich and dark, like Jason's. I could see a smaller Jason by his mom, holding her hand but standing close, as if he were scared for some reason. Your mom is pretty, I said. What else was I supposed to say, 'nice tits'?

She died.

Oh. For fuck’s sake, my head hurt, it was hot, and now I had a dead mother to discuss. When?

Jason said nothing immediately and lay on the floor, pausing as was his way of thinking about what he wanted to tell me. I kept quiet. I knew it would be at least fifteen minutes before the bell rang for the afternoon sessions, so I had no choice.

She just dropped down in front of me. We were the only two at home, not at home but in our Park Avenue place where we sometimes stopped if we wanted to shop or go out in New York.

She just dropped dead?

Yes, my dad said it was an aneurysm, a blood clot on her brain. They scanned mine soon after, but I'm OK. She never was. It was like having an unexploded bomb in her head.

Oh. I struggled. Unfortunately, I have an overactive imagination and a sick sense of humour, so my mind was doing cartwheels as Jason spoke. I could see the woman in the picture next to Jason, her head exploding like a watermelon splattering blood over her lovely tits and her son. I knew I was close to a giggle, a laugh. It is my issue. I know it's terrible, but it is how I deal with awful news. I buried my head in my pillow to hide my face. It looked strange, but I needed a moment to compose myself.

I'm not sure Jason knew what I was doing, but he continued, I lived with mom. So, my dad was pissed because he had to take me back in with his new....

Jason stopped talking, but now he had me hooked, New what? I said.

Um, a new partner. So, I moved in with them. Dad said he'd take care of me, but, you know, he'd got his shit together, and I ruined it all for him. That was two years ago, and we've sorted it out, I guess. I'm at boarding school, a good one, great for my swimming, and I come here in summer.

I sat up from my bed and looked at Jason. So, how much time do you spend with your dad?

I stay with dad and Len for one weekend every month unless I'm here. They go away to Europe for the summer.

Who is Len?

Lennard, my dad’s partner.

Oh... Fruity, I said, my mouth speaking ahead of my aching head.

Jason laughed. Ha-ha. That's so cool. You're the only person who ever said that once they found out. FRUITY! he shouted, Yes, very fruity.

I felt relieved. I was here to teach swimming, not to relate and heal. I seemed to have gotten away with digging any deeper. Unfortunately, my mouth continued, So, your mom’s head exploded, you're never at home, and your dad's gay? 

You got it, Jason said, smiling. Come on. I could beat you to the buoy if you give me five seconds to start.

I jumped up and ran out of the tent, relieved by the challenge. Jason followed, and we made our way down to the lake. I let Jason dive in and swim to the blue platform out on the lake. I didn't give him quite five seconds; the lad was bloody fast.

––––––––

That was a month ago, and now I continued to run towards Reynolds Wrap with Jason trailing behind. I continued to run to make sure Jason couldn't catch me up. My mind was buzzing with images of Seth, and I didn't know what to do next. 

Inside the tent, I lay on my bed. The others were sound asleep, as I