A/N: Short chapter because I'm sick and spent the entire weekend refurbishing a dresser rather than doing the work I actually needed to do.
Chapter warnings: a couple mentions of pedophilia, maybe child abuse? I'm genuinely not sure whether it counts.
"So … Someone got killed and dismembered in 1942. Creepy clown fucker tried to kidnap Michelle. Any other notes to add to the board?" Erin asks. Clare tried to launch a coup and suggest that maybe they didn't strictly need the corkboard any more, but Erin made it abundantly clear that the corkboard leaves over her dead body.
"Yeah, I have a note," Michelle says, from her perch on one of the sinks. "'Clown fucker' sounds like he fucks clowns. Which he might, he was fuckin' weird, but you should call him 'creepy pedo clown' so it's obvious."
"Noted," Erin says, then makes the correction. "Now, questions."
"Can we have this meeting someplace else?" James asks. "I mean, it's just sort of awkward."
It's the girls' toilets on the third floor, that no-one ever uses, and it's the only place in school where they won't get found by one of the nuns. All of them, even Clare, skipped sports to go over the evidence, and they had to chase out a pack of first-year girls smoking in here.
"No, we can't," Erin says, hoping he gets the hint and shuts up. "Any questions about the evidence?"
"Could the clown chap have been Sister Michael in disguise?" Orla asks, frowning seriously.
"Guys, I don't think it is Sister Michael," James says, for the third time. "She wasn't even born in 1942; how could she have dismembered anyone?"
"Good question, Orla," Erin says. "The answer: Sister Michael has an accomplice. Creepy clown fucker."
"He didn't seem old enough to be dismembering anyone in 1942 either," Michelle says.
"Girls, what if this really is all unrelated?" Clare says. "I mean, obviously it's impossible for someone to be kidnapping people today, and twenty-seven years ago, and fifty-four years –"
"Oh my God, they're all twenty-seven years apart."
"I was talking, James," Clare snaps.
"Yeah, shut the fuck up, James," Michelle adds.
"No, James is right." Erin points at the board. "They're exactly twenty-seven years apart. It's not random."
"It's some sort of ritual," James says, and Erin nods.
"Every twenty-seven years, they kidnap children and sacrifice them for some nefarious purpose."
"Must be at Saint Joseph's," Michelle says. "Nobody's been in there for ages, so it's the perfect spot to do ritual sacrifices."
Erin adds two more notes to her corkboard, and another piece of string. It forms a satisfying web of connections. They have all the evidence, they know what's happening. All that's left is to go save the day.
"All right. Today, right after school gets out, let's go to Saint Joseph's –"
"And murder a clown!" Orla says gleefully.
"No, Orla," Erin snaps.
"Well, we could kill him," Michelle says, and Erin sighs.
"Fine. Only if it's self-defence."
James raises his hand, and Erin points at him.
"Er, well, I can't actually do today."
"What do you mean?" Erin asks in disbelief.
"I have a dentist's appointment, and it's too late to reschedule now," James says, but he does look genuinely sorry, so Erin forgives him.
"Fine. Tomorrow after school, we all go possibly murder a clown."
"We can't do tomorrow either," Clare says, and Erin turns a glare toward her.
"And why, pray tell, can't we do tomorrow?"
"Mum and I have our neighborhood book club. It's every Friday, Erin, it's not new."
"Clare, just fuckin' cancel your old lady book club," Michelle says, and Clare scowls at her.
"I can't just cancel book club, Michelle. We're reading Jane Eyre, and we just got to the end, and I have to go talk about it or else I might actually explode."
"Fucking hell, Clare –"
"It's fine!" Erin interrupts before this turns into a real fight. "We'll do Saturday instead."
"Fine," Michelle says, rolling her eyes. "Saturday, we go kill a clown."
…
Aunt Deirdre is still at work, and Michelle "would rather die than go sit in a bloody dentist's office and wait for you", so James takes the bus across the river alone. He likes the trip, mostly, aside from the ever-present fear that there'll be a blockade or a bomb or he'll say something too English and get beaten to death. He's getting used to that fear. The fear of a cult kidnapping him and using him as a ritual sacrifice is newer and sharper.
The bus rattles to a halt and James stands up and squeezes past a few women to exit, apologizing the whole way. They barely even look at him. It's two blocks to the dentist's, through the crowded part of the old town, the street buzzing with kids still in school uniforms and old folks shopping.
James picks his way down the sidewalk, avoiding strollers and giving a wide berth to anyone in the uniform of the boys' school, and sees someone who makes him stop dead in his tracks.
His mother is a block away, walking purposefully toward him. James freezes. She didn't say she was coming to visit. Then again, she doesn't call much, and when she does she usually just talks to Aunt Deirdre. The last time he spoke to his mother was seven months ago.
Maybe she just wanted to surprise him.
"Mum!" James calls, waving at her. She doesn't seem to see him for a second, then her face brightens.
"James, there you are. Come here and give your mother a hug."
James flings his arms around her, not even caring that they're on a crowded street. She's back, just the same as before, in her pristine suit with the sharp smell of alcohol on her breath.
"Why're you here?" James blurts out when she pulls away from him. "I mean, not that I'm not happy you're here, it's just."
"I just missed you so much, love. I had to come visit you!" She smiles without showing any teeth. "Now, come on."
She links one arm through his and sets off down a side street.
"Wait, where are we going?" James asks.
"We're going home."
"Home's the other way –" James starts, trying to gesture with his free hand. She keeps walking, forcing him to follow her.
"Not that poky little house and your tiresome frumpy aunt, James, your real home."
It takes a moment to sink in. James stops dead, and his mother turns to face him. She looks annoyed.
"Mum, we already talked about this. I wanted to finish school here, remember? And you said I could stay with Aunt Deirdre." It hadn't been a good conversation, wedged uncomfortably into the back of a taxi, his mother making disparaging comments about the place and his friends at every opportunity. She had agreed, in the end, when he'd snapped at her that he was happier here than he ever was in London, and she heaved a put-upon sigh and said he could stay if it was that important to him.
"James, I am struggling. My business is barely afloat, and Paul started getting all controlling, so I had to leave him, and I have no one in London to help me. I need you to come home."
James takes a deep breath and steels himself. Remembers what Aunt Deirdre told him when he showed up at her doorstep with a suitcase for the second time.
We all have our own problems. You can't fix your mother's life for her.
"Mum, I know things must be difficult, but I don't think I'll be any help," James says.
"What do you have in Derry? A few annoying little girls you fancy in a dead town? Are they more important than your own mother, you selfish – fucking – bastard?" The last three words are punctuated with yanks on his arm, her nails digging in hard enough to hurt.
Something's wrong. His mother, even at her worst, has never laid a hand on him.
"Mum, are you all right?" James asks, and she leans in closer to him. Her breath smells like something dead, like blood and rot.
"I'm having a lovely time with my devoted son," she says, smiling, her eyes and mouth parallel slits on her face. "Aren't I?"
She yanks his arm again. James stumbles, and falls, and keeps falling, his mother's face the only thing in his vision.
They've got the plot figured out. They're very wrong about a lot of things, but they've got the plot figured out.
No setting notes today!