Read Online Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 04 - BOY ON TRIAL - A Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clifford Irving
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Amagansett rents, so every day at five in the morning he drove the twenty-five miles from Montauk in his Toyota pickup, and then drove back every afternoon at three.
“He calls his pickup ‘The Jap,’” Amy said. “He goes, ‘The Jap and my fuckin’ kidneys can’t take much more of this.’”
I’d never heard a girl my age use the word fuck before. The word sounded especially strange because, in case I didn’t mention it before, she had a high, sweet, girlish voice.
Ginette knew one of the workmen building an addition to A-1 Self-Storage. He told her that the owner needed a new caretaker. She got the job, and the family moved to the old jail in front of the units — the address was 1 Jail Road — and the kids transferred from Montauk Middle School to East Hampton Middle School.
Amy told me that her birthday was August thirteenth, which meant she was four months older than me.
I didn’t learn all this that first day at the hospital. Some of it, yes, but a lot of it I learned later. And more came out than I can tell you right now. If I told it all now, then some other things won’t make sense. I’ll tell you in the right time, and at the right place, when I learned it. I give you my word.
There’s one thing, though, that I learned right away.
Amy had to go to the bathroom, and while she was in there I wandered around the room. I’m a curious person. I didn’t open any of the drawers or anything, but I looked at whatever was out in the open, like the chart at the foot of the bed. It told when she was admitted to the hospital and who the doctor was and what pills they’d given her and what was wrong with her: laceration, 5 cm deep, 7 cm long, left anterior deltoid.
I saw that the patient’s name had been filled in by the computer as “Amy Bedford.” But then the first name had been crossed out. Another first name and a middle initial had been inked in, so that now her name read “Amnesia C. Bedford .”
Amnesia? Why would anyone give a kid a name like that? Being with Amy made me feel dizzy. It was the same feeling I’d had up on Crab Rock when I’d looked down and seen how far it was to fall.
Chapter 8
When Amy came back into the room I took out a cherry sourball and hid it in my mouth. Iphigenia stood on my head and did her trick of holding my nose with one hand and poking behind my teeth with the other to locate the treasure. Amy squealed with pleasure. She said the laughing hurt her shoulder, but she couldn’t stop.
I said, “When you’re in class, you talk to yourself. It sounds sometimes like singing. Who are you talking to?”
Amy didn’t answer.
“When you were lying by the side of the road,” I told her, “I heard you say ‘Princess.’”
Amy bobbed her head up and down. “That’s right. I was talking to the Princess,” she said. She took a deep breath, and explained in a breathy voice that the Princess was made of glass and was her friend and guide.
The Princess, who lived inside her, kept her from harm. She helped Amy not to be frightened. She advised Amy. So Amy wasn’t talking to herself; she was having a conversation. She described to the Princess most of the things she was doing. The Princess said, “Oh, watch out, that could be dangerous. Be careful of such-and-such person.” When Amy was saying something, she said it in a normal voice, and when the Princess spoke, Amy sang the words, because the Princess sang the words of comment and caution instead of speaking them. It was like an operative duet.
When Amy was stumbling down the road yesterday, after she’d been stabbed, the Princess was singing to her, telling Amy that she would be all right. “You won’t die… you have to be strong… you have to find help somewhere.”
Amy replied to the Princess: “I am strong. I’m walking along this road looking for help. See? I know I’ll be all right.”
I asked if Carter and Ginette knew about the Princess.
She shook her head and her hair flew.
“He calls his pickup ‘The Jap,’” Amy said. “He goes, ‘The Jap and my fuckin’ kidneys can’t take much more of this.’”
I’d never heard a girl my age use the word fuck before. The word sounded especially strange because, in case I didn’t mention it before, she had a high, sweet, girlish voice.
Ginette knew one of the workmen building an addition to A-1 Self-Storage. He told her that the owner needed a new caretaker. She got the job, and the family moved to the old jail in front of the units — the address was 1 Jail Road — and the kids transferred from Montauk Middle School to East Hampton Middle School.
Amy told me that her birthday was August thirteenth, which meant she was four months older than me.
I didn’t learn all this that first day at the hospital. Some of it, yes, but a lot of it I learned later. And more came out than I can tell you right now. If I told it all now, then some other things won’t make sense. I’ll tell you in the right time, and at the right place, when I learned it. I give you my word.
There’s one thing, though, that I learned right away.
Amy had to go to the bathroom, and while she was in there I wandered around the room. I’m a curious person. I didn’t open any of the drawers or anything, but I looked at whatever was out in the open, like the chart at the foot of the bed. It told when she was admitted to the hospital and who the doctor was and what pills they’d given her and what was wrong with her: laceration, 5 cm deep, 7 cm long, left anterior deltoid.
I saw that the patient’s name had been filled in by the computer as “Amy Bedford.” But then the first name had been crossed out. Another first name and a middle initial had been inked in, so that now her name read “Amnesia C. Bedford .”
Amnesia? Why would anyone give a kid a name like that? Being with Amy made me feel dizzy. It was the same feeling I’d had up on Crab Rock when I’d looked down and seen how far it was to fall.
Chapter 8
When Amy came back into the room I took out a cherry sourball and hid it in my mouth. Iphigenia stood on my head and did her trick of holding my nose with one hand and poking behind my teeth with the other to locate the treasure. Amy squealed with pleasure. She said the laughing hurt her shoulder, but she couldn’t stop.
I said, “When you’re in class, you talk to yourself. It sounds sometimes like singing. Who are you talking to?”
Amy didn’t answer.
“When you were lying by the side of the road,” I told her, “I heard you say ‘Princess.’”
Amy bobbed her head up and down. “That’s right. I was talking to the Princess,” she said. She took a deep breath, and explained in a breathy voice that the Princess was made of glass and was her friend and guide.
The Princess, who lived inside her, kept her from harm. She helped Amy not to be frightened. She advised Amy. So Amy wasn’t talking to herself; she was having a conversation. She described to the Princess most of the things she was doing. The Princess said, “Oh, watch out, that could be dangerous. Be careful of such-and-such person.” When Amy was saying something, she said it in a normal voice, and when the Princess spoke, Amy sang the words, because the Princess sang the words of comment and caution instead of speaking them. It was like an operative duet.
When Amy was stumbling down the road yesterday, after she’d been stabbed, the Princess was singing to her, telling Amy that she would be all right. “You won’t die… you have to be strong… you have to find help somewhere.”
Amy replied to the Princess: “I am strong. I’m walking along this road looking for help. See? I know I’ll be all right.”
I asked if Carter and Ginette knew about the Princess.
She shook her head and her hair flew.
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