1
Jasper: Criminal
The front gate creaks when I push it open. It’s about a hundred years old, the white paint chipping, but Senior won’t replace it. Not in his lifetime. He’s stubborn like that.
Two mulberry trees sway in the front garden, but the fruit isn’t in season now — it’s autumn, Easter time. School returns for term two tomorrow.
Senior’s front door is open. He leaves it open sometimes, even though my family tells him it’s dangerous. I think it’s a habit from the olden days, when people came around asking for a cup of sugar and all that crap.
“I’m here,” I call once I’m in the house. Framed paintings cover the hallway walls. My parents always click their tongue when they visit, and lecture Senior, telling him that if he’s going to spend so much on art, he might as well hang it up in a nice big house, not a modest cottage. He should comfortable in his old age, they say.
“Senior?” I call, walking past the hallways into the living room and connected kitchen.
Where the hell is he? I know he’s here because his car is in the driveway and he invited me over.Visit me this afternoon, it’s important. I spent the whole walk here wondering what it was. Something bad? Or just a ploy to get me to give him company? It can’t be that, because I see him often enough as it is. He’s my only family in this town, apart from my sister Juliet, after all.
“Senior!” He’s not in his bedroom, or the ensuite. I stalk down another hallway and check the spare bedroom. The door’s closed, which is unusual, so Senior’s probably inside.
I push the door open. The first thing I notice is the clothing neatly folded on the desk. It’s covered in plastic, and inside is a white button-up shirt with a pocket over the breast, and a logo over the pocket. I’m not close enough to read it, but I know what it says. Easton Grammar, with the school’s Latin logo underneath in cursive script. There’s also a navy blazer, long pants and a tie with light blue and navy stripes.
I don’t have time to wonder why Senior bought me another school uniform — I already have one, and I’m in Year 12, so there’s no point buying a fresh set. No, I don’t have time because my eye catches on the man standing by the open window who has turned around to face me.
It’s not Senior.
I shriek, and it’s not a very manly sound, but that doesn’t matter. This is a matter of life and death. I spin around on one heel and rush down the hallway. I need to call to the police. Senior has a landline in his reading room, the room at the back of the house that faces the back garden. I run there and pick up the old-fashioned phone, before remembering I have my mobile in my pocket.
Idiot. I take out my phone while my body sparks with nerves. What if that man arrives here any moment to murder me or something? I know there’s crime in Easton — you can’t live in a rural city as big as Easton without crime — but this neighbourhood is known for being safe.
My phone is ringing when the door to the garden opens. Senior enters wearing an ugly wool jumper, so bright and colourful that it almost looks like a Christmas jumper, except there’s nothing Christmas related on it. His back is a little hunched over, but that’s just his age. He doesn’t look afraid. He raises his thick grey brows at me.
“Jasper, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I take a moment to get my voice to work. “There’s someone here,” I say. “A burglar.”
“What?” Senior asks.
“A guy. In the spare bedroom,” I say, annoyed he doesn’t look concerned. My phone is still ringing — what the hell, emergency services? I could have been murdered by now. If I don’t die this afternoon, I should send a complaint about how slow they are.
Senior’s eyes go wide, but then he reaches out and takes the phone out of my hand. He ends the call and stares at me and my hanging jaw. Then he folds over and starts laughing.
“Senior?” Maybe this is it. My grandfather has contracted some sort of old-age problem that has turned him crazy. I’m going to have to call my parents, and that’s going to be a whole ordeal.
“Jasper,” he says, pushing himself upright but unable to stop laughing. There are tears in the corner of his eyes.
He’s gone insane. “Should I call a doctor?” I ask.
He shakes his head and turns to the doorway. “Pip!” He shouts, loud enough to make me jump. “Come out here.”
Someone appears in the doorway. It’s the man from before. The burglar who was standing in the spare bedroom, like it’s normal to be in a stranger’s house. Except apparently he’s not a criminal.
His thin shirt hangs over broad shoulders, and his jeans are ripped and not in the fashionable way. He’s got a shadow covering his jaw, the same chocolate-brown as his hair. His eyes are dark. He’s about as tall as me, but his biceps are bigger.
“Come closer,” Senior commands, waving him over. “This is my grandson, Jasper.”
“Nice to meet you,” He says, his voice deep, and sticks out his hand.
I look at it. His fingernails are short and clean, and two thin white scars run across his knuckles.
“Shake his hand,” Senior orders when I haven’t yet.
