Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
Chapter Eight:
Falling
As usual, Joshua threw up. It was a harsh repulsion that stretched his diaphragm enough to threaten with snapping. A fine stream of sputum and gruel dribbled from his lips, Joshua could not have cared for how it ran down his chest. He barely realised that he had vomited over the wood in his arms. The gruel hardly nourished his body, causing him to grow ever thinner with each passing day that he toiled for his masters.
Every day, by the rising of the sun, he felt weaker. His strides became smaller and smaller, and the pile of wood he could carry became lighter and lighter. Soon, he knew, the Manashe would realise that he could no longer serve them. He knew that they would throw him into the fire.
He shuffled, almost wading his way through the ash. Joshua’s eyes were raw with sleep deprivation and the effects of the Guyren’s fumes. He was a boy on the verge of collapse, and soon the Manashe would pounce on him like vultures to a rotting carcass. He could see them watching him as he passed, their hungry eyes staring at him from beneath their hoods waiting for him to slip up or stumble.
Once again, he passed through the tunnel, though this time the heat physically knocked him backward. Sweat and life evaporated from his skin, drawing yet more energy from his limbs. This is it, he thought. I can’t go on.
Joshua looked upward, on the walkway the Manashe began to group together, each of them yearning for him to stall or collapse. Some how, they knew that he was failing. Ahead of him, just beyond the exit of the tunnel, another of the masters tightened its grip on its whip.
Again, a blast of heat was thrown from the Guyren, baring its force down on him. His knees struggled with the fundamental job of keeping him upright, but with little energy left they faced an almost impossible task.
And yet, almost against all odds, he moved. He leaned into the heat, now like a blizzard in his current condition, and fought onwards. Above him, the Manashe were taught with anticipation, even hunger.
The mezzanine had never seemed so hellish. Fumes spiralled upward, forming the plume of smoke into a noxious tornado. Below, roaring with a fierce intensity, the Guyren burned with a deadly purpose.
At the edge, Joshua held the wood precariously in his arms. A bombardment of flames, fumes and gases threatened him. As he leaned forward, attempting to release the wood, he was hit by the tremendous ferocity the Guyren had taken on. The skin on his face almost boiled. Reactively, he threw himself back. He landed unceremoniously on his back, the ash not only bared the brunt of his fall, but may as well have sucked the very life out of him.
Instead of struggling to right himself, his limbs merely lolled in their sockets, hardly registering the commands that his brain was firing at them. Get up! Get up! Come on!
But he couldn’t move, there was nothing left. The world around him began to fade; he heard the rumble of the fire and the ecstatic glee of the Manashe’s caws in a muffled cacophony of sound.
A blurred, hunched figure walked towards him. Something uncoiled from its hand, dropping to the ground. Joshua blinked and the world came back into focus, and an explosion of sound bombarded his ears.
One of the Manashe stalked towards him, pulling back its whip and dribbling from its long orange beak. Its golden eyes shone with the light of the Guyren’s fire; two orbs filled with murderous intent. Its arm tensed, ready to whirl the whip about itself and bring its punishment down on Joshua.
The master was cut shot. A sharp, shrilling call cut through the air. Panic filled the tones of that call, something had the Manashe spooked. The master left Joshua alone, quickly hobbling away along the tunnel, cawing in reply. Above, the rope walkways emptied as the Manashe dropped to the ground and hurried to exit the tunnel.
Joshua managed to struggle to his feet. Looking around him, he saw the Fremani had been thrown into confusion. They called to each other in their rumbling language, causing the ground to thrum. Curiosity drove him forward and he found the energy to trot past the other slaves.
As he ran along the length of the tunnel, children and Fremani alike cowered from the sound of his rushing footsteps as they would from the crack of a whip. But Joshua did not care for this; it was the Manashes’ fear that compelled him, that drove his body beyond its exertion.
Outside, just beyond the light the tunnel cast into the night, the Manashe had huddled together on their knees. They muttered what may have been incantations into the ground, occasionally cawing into the night.
Without warning the air began to buzz. In fright, the Manashe jumped backward and began feverishly looking into the sky, their heads darting from one direction to the other. Soon the air rumbled and the sound of an approaching hurricane over powered the night.
From the sky, the clouds twisted and began to drop down, igniting with bolts of lightning. From the forming funnel, a dark unnatural object fell and raced towards them, impossibly fast. It crashed into the ground with such a force that it sent the Manashe reeling to the ground. Even Joshua was knocked over by the following shockwave. The object exploded into a black cloud of vapour that swirled in the air before twisting about itself and collapsing inward, becoming ever denser. As the cloud twisted tighter and tighter it took the form of a being some twenty feet high. At its peak a hood took form and inside, with a burst of argent two eyes ignited into the night, burning its glare onto Joshua’s retina.
‘You have failed me!’ came the Deceiver’s voice, pounding the ground with its power and causing Joshua’s ears to ring.
Joshua had met one of these creatures before, within moments of arriving in this strange land. One of them had condemned him to toil away his life in service of the Guyren’s hunger.
The Deceiver that towered before him was more powerful than that which he had seen before. Every twist of its black form seemed to radiate rage, and the air hummed with the weight of unseen power, like the charged atmosphere on an approaching thunder storm.
‘The fires have dimmed in recent days. The great war machine of Jendor Dar has slowed!’ A clawed hand uncurled a rotting finger and pointed at one of the Manashe. A golden feather clasped its cloak; a symbol that Joshua realised denoted it as the lead master. ‘You!’ the Deceiver’s voice exploded. ‘You have disgraced me.’
The Deceiver lifted the master by its neck, in protest the creature try to caw, but its voice was suddenly silenced as the air was stolen from its chest. The argent eyes of the Deceiver flashed with anger and its grip tightened about the master’s neck.
The Manashe’s body began to collapse in upon itself; its arms and legs broke and twisted into its torso. Its beak cracked as its head disappeared into its neck. The Deceiver’s hand seemed to swallow the torso and the remains of the Manashe’s cloak until all that was left was the golden leaf.
Bending unnaturally, the Deceiver brought its face down to the level of another of the Manashe.
It nearly cowered away, but, instead, a stream of urine gushed down its legs staining the ash.
‘You shall be the new Guyren-dralnala. Build me a fire worthy of Jendor Dar!’
In response the master bowed low into the ground, almost eating the ash.
‘My contempt for your race is nearly spent, prove to me that I can be wrong. Justify your existence to me!’ The Deceiver’s rotting hand caressed the Manashe. ‘Do not fail me again.
‘What is the name of your lord?’
‘Raaj Desemedon,’ the newly appointed Guyren-dralnala croaked.
‘Yes, now serve me!’
As those words reverberated from the stone about Joshua, the Deceiver’s eyes came upon him. That gaze stabbed into him like a cold blade, freezing him to the ground. ‘Foolish boy!’ its voice boomed.
Twisting through the air, with a mane of darkness, the Deceiver dove at him and lifted him into the air. With the purpose of a missile, they raced along the length of the tunnel. The spectre's grip was relentless, locking his chest shut and freezing his bones until his flesh began to burn with pain.
They came to a halt before the edge of the mezzanine. The Deceivers darkness whirled about them, excited by the hunger of the Guyren.
Buffeted between the two extremes of the Guyren’s unbearable heat, and the Deceiver’s unstoppable cold, Joshua thrashed and bolted with pain.
‘You shall fuel the Guyren, and learn to hate the world as I do, boy! You shall watch as the Great Forest burns and cheer as the Man Born of the Earth shall fall.’ The Deceivers voice was clear above the roar of the Guyren’s reaching flames, filling Joshua’s mind with its poison.
Suddenly, the Deceiver released him. In an explosion of darkness it vanished, leaving Joshua to fall. As he fell, accelerating into the heat of the Guyren, his skin began to burn. He would have screamed, but he could not breath – the Deceiver, Raaj Desemedon, had not allowed him to – all he could do was plummet downward.
Again, Joshua saw the flames manifest into clawing hands, hungry to delve into his flesh. Before his eyes could melt, he closed them shut, locking out the terrible sight of those hands reaching for him.
The face of Joshua’s mother flashed before him, he had almost forgotten her, burying her away in the numbness that had overtaken him. She smiled and reached out a hand to him, but the hand was wreathed in flames.
Joshua’s body crashed onto a stone ledge, pain exploded into his right leg. It caused him to take a deep breath and he screamed. His hands instinctively clutched at his leg, knocking his shin bone which had thrust through his skin. Again he screamed, burning his lungs on the rising fumes.
Shock over came him and he fell unconscious. The roar of the fire was snuffed out of existence and for once his body rested. His muscles did not ache, they merely melted, losing their tension. The sensation of movement passed through his mind gently, but not enough to stir him to wakefulness. In the distance he heard the stuttering sound of voices, but his mind could not bring itself to decipher their meaning. Instead, Joshua fell into a sleep so deep only the Fremani would understand.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Bumper Edition: Chapter 6 to Chapter 7
Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent two chapters in the novel, The Marsh.
As it has been some time since the last updates (life has gotten in the way of my writing time) I will treat you, Dear Reader, to a sampling of two very powerful chapters.
Chapter Six:
Lose Yourself
Thackery Farm sat at the summit of a hill, looking out across the Marsh like a sentinel sent to watch the growing town of South Hethel.
Once, the picturesque view had touched an old man's heart and fed the pride he felt for his land. But that man was dead now, and the son who inherited the farm had sold all but a single field. He kept one tired, old cow and left the once-busy barn locked.
The barn resembled an aircraft hanger sitting on a quagmire of mud. Sheets of corrugated steel had been blown off or had collapsed inside. The building had served its purpose long ago, and now it slowly rotted like the old man's final crop.
The son, Liam Thackery, rarely used the land for agricultural purposes. Mostly, he thought of the land as a source of quick cash when times were hard. And there were certain practices that could only be done with seclusion and quiet.
He had come across a wonderful young woman while he was in the pub a year before. Her name was Kim. She was a petite, green eyed, dark haired wonder of a 27 year old woman. He couldn't believe his luck when they hit it off. She had been impressed by his muscle and tough talk. He discovered she had a son. He was bright, cute and the best behaved little boy you could ever wish to come across. His name was Shaun.
Shaun and Liam got on like grease and fire. The boy looked up to Liam like a father; he wanted to dress like him, talk like him and even had his hair cut the same. Soon enough, people began to comment on how alike they were and, when told they were not father and son, they responded with: 'Really? You'd never know.'
For Kim, the change in her life was dramatic. She had raised Shaun on her own for four years; bathing him, feeding him, changing him, teaching him. The burden had sapped the life out of her, and on more than one occasion she would fall asleep in the bath after he had gone to bed, as though the remains of her energy were seeping into the water. Through all of that, the thought of her little boy’s brown eyes gazing into her own, melted her heart. She could never have hated him for the burdens he placed on her, he was her son. And now, she was glad he would have a father.
The wonderful dream, however, had begun to crack and would soon shatter. Kim and Liam argued almost every night. Plates would be thrown, sending food careening across the room to eventually rain fire down on the kitchenware. And, on more than one occasion, Liam had hit Kim.
On nights like this, Shaun would sit at the top of the stairs, covering his ears and slowly rocking himself. He would watch their shadows moving violently on the wall and would flinch when something broke or one of them would rush into the hall.
One particular night, the couple was having an especially severe argument. Ornaments were swept from their homes in the lounge and thrown across the room. Kim and Liam screamed at each other, their voices breaking with the strain. Shaun sat, as usual, at the top of the stairs and recoiled as there was a loud crash. Kim cried out in pain.
She burst into the hall, searching for more ammo to throw at Liam, and then spotted Shaun. Concern melted the anger from her brow and she raced up the stairs to him. Kim took her son into her bosom and rocked him. Into his ear she whispered: 'Oh my baby boy...'
Liam exploded from the living room, his predatory eyes locked onto Kim and his face sharpened with fury. 'Get down here! I'm not done with you yet, bitch!'
Before Liam could pull her away, Kim squeezed Shaun tightly. 'Lose yourself, little Shauny, run away in that little head of yours.'
He did as his mummy instructed, and did so more often when they began to fight. He would crawl away into some corner of his mind and when he would return, all that was left was the carnage that the two adults had left behind.
A year later, Shaun and Liam were at Thackery Farm. It was raining heavily, the water thrummed on the steel roof like a stampede of horses' hooves. Shaun rather liked it that way, it dulled the whispers in his head so that he was not distracted by them.
Liam was working under the hood of an old Buick he had bought from an old lady in Northamptonshire. His blue overalls were stained with grease and oil. He kicked his steel-toe capped boots on the concrete floor to get the blood flowing again.
Little Shaun was sitting on a sack of feed, playing with plastic cars that he had won from a box of Cheerios. Over the racket of the pummeling rain he made engine noises and the sound of squealing tyres. He would play this way for hours, lining them up or zooming them round in long arcing circles, becoming hypnotised by the patterns. The games let him fall back a little from reality and that comforted Shaun.
There was a clatter as a wrench fell to the floor. 'Fucking hell!' Liam roared and kicked the Buick's bumper. He stood back from the car, his hands on his hips. He let out a long breath as he rolled his tongue in thought.
He turned round, a sinister smile played across his lips. 'Hey, Shauny boy.'
'Hi Liam,' Shaun replied, beaming.
'How would you like to play a game?'
Shaun gave this a little thought and then jumped to his feet. 'Okay. What are we going to play?' he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.
Liam looked about himself and spotted a coil of blue nylon rope on the floor. He picked it up and tensed it between his hands, it cracked under the strain. 'How about you're a secret agent and I've managed to catch you?'
'Yeah!' replied Shaun.
Liam gave the boy a crooked smile that crept over his face like a reopened scar. 'Now,' he said, 'I've managed to capture the legendary Shaun Osborne and I've tied him to the front of this...ah...combine harvester.'
Shaun smiled and went and stood in front of the old, rusting harvester, facing Liam.
But the older man laughed. 'No, Shaun, I think it would be better if you turned around.'
The boy frowned, but followed Liam's suggestion. With the rope, Liam bound Shaun's hands behind his back. The itchy nylon scratched at the boy's wrists and he moaned a little in discomfort. Once Shaun was firmly in place, Liam began to prance about behind him.
'You've done a lot of very bad things, Shaun,' Liam said in the cool tones of an interrogator. 'And for those things, we're going to have to punish you with the most terrible sentence of all.'
Shaun laughed. 'Oh no what is it?'
'The Muscle Monster's probe.'
Shaun giggled away to himself, but Liam's face was taught with intensity. His eyes were fixed on the boy’s backside. He came closer, his footsteps echoing off the steel walls. He pulled down the boys tracksuit bottoms and undid the flies of his overalls.
'Now pay for your naughtiness!' Liam shouted.
The pain lasted only an instant. It was suddenly dulled, as though he had been given an anesthetic, like the one he'd had when he had to have stitches in his head for cutting it on the kitchen floor. Then darkness began to grow from the edges of his sight, slowly creeping in until it took over everything. He heard and felt nothing.
Suddenly, with the crack of a huge switch being thrown, a spotlight appeared before him; a single, crisp circle of light that was perfect in its brilliance. Within it sat a huge leather armchair.
Shaun got to his feet and walked into the light. He ran his hands down one of the arms, following the maroon leather until it reached one of the lion heads that adorned either armrest. Its mouth was open in a tremendous, silent roar.
It was only then that he noticed the boy sat within it. He was younger than himself, perhaps three or four. Their hair was the same colour; a dark brown, flecked with the occasional sprinkling of blond.
The boy writhed within the leather, tossing and turning, struggling to break free of the invisible bonds that held him down. 'No!' he shouted, and then went on wrestling to break free. Like the crack of a lighting bolt his eyes popped open and he let out a scream that broke his voice, a cry of sheer torment and horror. The cry of a boy who's innocence had been shattered.
That cry hauled Shaun from his trance and onto the floor. The room spun like a cheap carnival ride. The boy's face was burnt onto his retina, scorching his vision every time he blinked, appearing like a red ghost before him.
Slowly, the face faded and eventually retreated back into his subconscious. Gentle, feminine hands gripped his shoulders and stopped the room from spinning, anchoring him to the spot. They guided him back to the couch he had been tossed from, and seemed to secrete calmness into his body.
'Easy now,' the woman said. ‘I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. You have been through an awful lot.'
'What... what the hell did I see?' Shaun asked through deep breaths.
'A memory that has been suppressed in your subconscious, Shaun.'
'That was real?' Shaun's eyes were open now, staring at the psychiatrist. 'He did that to me?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'But...' the reality of it all was beginning to knit itself together in his mind, 'he was my best friend. I trusted him! I was a boy... just a little boy...'
'It's okay, Shaun. I'm going to help you.' The psychiatrist touched his arm again, warmth radiated from it. But he couldn't accept that contact any more.
'You don't understand, I don't want help. I want this all to end. I'm bored of being the world's fuck up. I know I killed those people now... the black outs. It makes sense. Do you know how it feels to wake up with blood on your hands and never know who you've hurt?'
She was struck dumb. What could you say to something like that? But it was her job to say something. 'You are not well, Shaun. You need help. Please, let me make you better.'
Shaun began to fallback into himself, his face becoming more and more blank. 'I want to go back to my cell.'
Imprisoned tears stung the corners of her eyes. 'Sure. I'll see you very soon.'
She gestured for the guard to take him away, but she didn't think for a minute that the restraints were necessary. For once in this man's life, he would gladly go back to that cell. He wanted the isolation, to be forgotten, to be away from those he had the potential to hurt.
Chapter Seven:
The Guyren
A monstrous tower of smoke, illuminated in a ferocious orange, clawed at the sky as if it were the arm of a hungry god. The plume rose from the bowels of a rugged hill rimmed with stone. At its base, a tunnel had been dug, forming a red eye that beamed into the night.
Figures, some gigantic with long, trailing arms, others, nothing more than children, ambled in and out of the tunnel. Their long shadows danced into the night, turning their forms into grotesque monsters.
Shuffling his feet with his head down, for he was too weary to raise it, was Joshua Stone, the boy who had been stolen from his own world by nothing more than a knife. He wore almost no clothes; all that remained were jeans that had been so frayed that they were now no more than shorts. His skin was stained with dirt and bloody scabs. Long scars on his back were reminders of his masters’ punishments.
Inside, he was numb. In the initial days, fear had overwhelmed him, almost driving him mad. He had seen terrible creatures, living nightmares that he had believed to be reserved to the boundaries of books. But here, in this awful place, with a sky he did not recognise, they breathed, and screamed and whipped, and fed upon those that fell. Yet, he was numb. He ambled as a zombie, unaware of his actions , unaware of the splinters that scraped his arms, drawing blood. They, the Manashe, had driven him to be no more than a drone, like the rest of the slaves that toiled here.
His back crackled as he picked up another pile of wood, leaving him a little winded. The wood itself was strange. It was almost black and aggravated the skin regardless of its abrasive texture. After adjusting the load he began his long march back toward the tunnel that delved deep into the hill.
Heat hit his face as he turned, as though it were the sun shining at him through this night. It took his breath away and he was forced to look down to catch his breath. His feet crunched through a thick layer of ash, which had reminded him of days spent playing in the snow. It fell from the sky in a constant torrent, sometimes in a blizzard, but never could it blot out the intensity of that heat.
Beside him, one of the giant slaves, like a wall of grey skin, let out a groan that rumbled the ground as it hefted a tree trunk onto its shoulder. Joshua jumped out of the way as one of its feet came crashing down, trying to balance its mighty load. After a moment the great beast began to amble on, its feet sending tremors through the ground.
He had managed to gleam from the screaming squawk of his masters, that these huge beasts were called Fremani. They spoke in a deep and rolling tongue that vibrated his bones as if they were tuning forks. He guessed that they must have been almost 12 feet high and five feet wide. Their arms, with muscles as big as boulders, would hang at their sides with hands that curved like the buckets from a digger.
But it was their eyes that had surprised Joshua, for they had none. Instead their grey lids had sealed shut over many millennia of evolution, for where they came from, deep under some distant mountain range, they had no use for them. Beneath the skin, the eyeballs rolled, searching for a light that they would never see.
Joshua made his way to the tunnel entrance, on either side stood two of the Manashe, the guards and masters of the immense fire that burned beyond the tunnel. Their hooked beaks protruded from beneath their black hoods. From their nostrils dribbled a black, oily liquid that occasionally bubbled as they breathed. Thick whips were coiled in their hands, ready for one of the slaves to trip or dawdle. Their long claws tapped with impatience as their eyes searched ceaselessly amongst the struggling slaves.
The Manashe to the right yawned, its black tongue lolling in its mouth, and then let out a terrible shrilling sound. It cracked the whip at one of the Fremani, with the ferocity of a thunderclap.
In response, the great beast merely growled with anger and sidestepped away slightly. Before the master could unleash its frustration upon any more of them, they passed into the tunnel, being drawn in by the breath of the fire as it stole air from the outside world.
A latticework of rope walkways looped above their heads. Manashe patrolled the length of the tunnel from their vantage point, occasionally cracking their whips and squawking commands down at their slaves.
The floor of the tunnel was a mixture of ash brought in from the outside and the bones of those who had fallen, now crushed into the smallest of pieces. It took five minutes to walk the length of the tunnel, made all the worse by the weight of the wood in his hands. Constantly, the heat of the fire increased until it was unbearable.
The tunnel opened onto a vast mezzanine of stone. Below the Guyren roared, its flames hungrily clawing at the air, buffeting the stone around it. It’s plume of smoke towered through a wide opening in the roof of the chamber. Heat radiated from the walls turning the entire hill into a great oven.
The slaves moved in a wide circle, edging their way to the edge before retreating back through the tunnel only to repeat their journey.
Joshua’s head swam as the heat made him nauseous, sapping his body of what little energy he had left, as though the fire itself fed from his very life. He resolved himself to keep moving, knowing that he would be whipped for stalling, for holding up the line.
The edge of the mezzanine appeared beneath his feet, the strength of the fire rumbled in the stone. He peered over the edge. The heat of the flames kicked his hair back. Almost losing his balance, he tossed the wood over the edge and pulled himself away. For a moment he believed that he had seen the flames reaching for him, forming hands that would grab him and pull him onto the mighty pyre. But then the thought was gone, he had moved on. The numbness overtook him.
The chill of the night was a relief, if only for a brief moment. Behind him, one of the Fremani sighed; whisps of steam vented from his nostrils and its shoulders seemed to relax a little. Joshua, busy looking at the Fremani, walked straight into one of the masters. He bounced back and hit the floor, as if the creature had been made of iron.
Joshua looked up at the Manashe, fear filling his body. The creature merely looked down at him, hate radiating from its golden-rimmed eyes. The creature opened its beak and spat at him. Quickly, Joshua got to his feet and trotted out of range of that terrible whip. For a moment, the Manashe maintained its hateful glare, and then went on looking over the rest of the slaves.
A horn sounded and the slaves stopped in unison. A little distance from the huge stockpiles of wood and trees, a series of stone tables had been set with large cauldrons heated with wood fires.
Whipped into another line, the slaves slowly ambled toward the food, with Joshua between two of the Fremani. Crouching on the rim of the cauldrons, their ash-caked claws gripping the hot metal, the masters served them their gruel.
The gruel was thin, almost more water than actual food, and it sloshed over the edge of the bowl as the master flung it from the ladle, caking the floor. Two slices of mould-ridden bread were thrust into Joshua’s hand by another of the Manashe, one hand tightening around the whip in its hand, clearly disgusted with being so close to any of the slaves.
Joshua sat a little way from the others, his buttocks sinking deep into the ash. He ate quickly, almost tipping the gruel down himself as he tried to gulp the food down. The bread he dropped onto the ground, where it would continue to rot or be carried away by one of this land’s horrid insects.
Joshua faced the Guyren, its orange glow grew into the sky and blotted out many of the stars.
For a moment, memories came back to him, and he remembered the sky of his home, of South Hethel. Many of the stars were hidden behind an orange veil of cloud and haze, only occasionally interrupted with the blink of a plane’s lights. They were similar these two skies, yet here in this place the stars were different, wrong, his mind told him.
In every direction, the silhouette of a range of razor-like mountains framed the sky, punctuating the difference between his home and this distant world.
He wept, for home was so far away, and he could think of no way to return, no way to escape the masters and their whips.
No way to see his family again.
Please note that this is the most recent two chapters in the novel, The Marsh.
As it has been some time since the last updates (life has gotten in the way of my writing time) I will treat you, Dear Reader, to a sampling of two very powerful chapters.
Chapter Six:
Lose Yourself
Thackery Farm sat at the summit of a hill, looking out across the Marsh like a sentinel sent to watch the growing town of South Hethel.
Once, the picturesque view had touched an old man's heart and fed the pride he felt for his land. But that man was dead now, and the son who inherited the farm had sold all but a single field. He kept one tired, old cow and left the once-busy barn locked.
The barn resembled an aircraft hanger sitting on a quagmire of mud. Sheets of corrugated steel had been blown off or had collapsed inside. The building had served its purpose long ago, and now it slowly rotted like the old man's final crop.
The son, Liam Thackery, rarely used the land for agricultural purposes. Mostly, he thought of the land as a source of quick cash when times were hard. And there were certain practices that could only be done with seclusion and quiet.
He had come across a wonderful young woman while he was in the pub a year before. Her name was Kim. She was a petite, green eyed, dark haired wonder of a 27 year old woman. He couldn't believe his luck when they hit it off. She had been impressed by his muscle and tough talk. He discovered she had a son. He was bright, cute and the best behaved little boy you could ever wish to come across. His name was Shaun.
Shaun and Liam got on like grease and fire. The boy looked up to Liam like a father; he wanted to dress like him, talk like him and even had his hair cut the same. Soon enough, people began to comment on how alike they were and, when told they were not father and son, they responded with: 'Really? You'd never know.'
For Kim, the change in her life was dramatic. She had raised Shaun on her own for four years; bathing him, feeding him, changing him, teaching him. The burden had sapped the life out of her, and on more than one occasion she would fall asleep in the bath after he had gone to bed, as though the remains of her energy were seeping into the water. Through all of that, the thought of her little boy’s brown eyes gazing into her own, melted her heart. She could never have hated him for the burdens he placed on her, he was her son. And now, she was glad he would have a father.
The wonderful dream, however, had begun to crack and would soon shatter. Kim and Liam argued almost every night. Plates would be thrown, sending food careening across the room to eventually rain fire down on the kitchenware. And, on more than one occasion, Liam had hit Kim.
On nights like this, Shaun would sit at the top of the stairs, covering his ears and slowly rocking himself. He would watch their shadows moving violently on the wall and would flinch when something broke or one of them would rush into the hall.
One particular night, the couple was having an especially severe argument. Ornaments were swept from their homes in the lounge and thrown across the room. Kim and Liam screamed at each other, their voices breaking with the strain. Shaun sat, as usual, at the top of the stairs and recoiled as there was a loud crash. Kim cried out in pain.
She burst into the hall, searching for more ammo to throw at Liam, and then spotted Shaun. Concern melted the anger from her brow and she raced up the stairs to him. Kim took her son into her bosom and rocked him. Into his ear she whispered: 'Oh my baby boy...'
Liam exploded from the living room, his predatory eyes locked onto Kim and his face sharpened with fury. 'Get down here! I'm not done with you yet, bitch!'
Before Liam could pull her away, Kim squeezed Shaun tightly. 'Lose yourself, little Shauny, run away in that little head of yours.'
He did as his mummy instructed, and did so more often when they began to fight. He would crawl away into some corner of his mind and when he would return, all that was left was the carnage that the two adults had left behind.
A year later, Shaun and Liam were at Thackery Farm. It was raining heavily, the water thrummed on the steel roof like a stampede of horses' hooves. Shaun rather liked it that way, it dulled the whispers in his head so that he was not distracted by them.
Liam was working under the hood of an old Buick he had bought from an old lady in Northamptonshire. His blue overalls were stained with grease and oil. He kicked his steel-toe capped boots on the concrete floor to get the blood flowing again.
Little Shaun was sitting on a sack of feed, playing with plastic cars that he had won from a box of Cheerios. Over the racket of the pummeling rain he made engine noises and the sound of squealing tyres. He would play this way for hours, lining them up or zooming them round in long arcing circles, becoming hypnotised by the patterns. The games let him fall back a little from reality and that comforted Shaun.
There was a clatter as a wrench fell to the floor. 'Fucking hell!' Liam roared and kicked the Buick's bumper. He stood back from the car, his hands on his hips. He let out a long breath as he rolled his tongue in thought.
He turned round, a sinister smile played across his lips. 'Hey, Shauny boy.'
'Hi Liam,' Shaun replied, beaming.
'How would you like to play a game?'
Shaun gave this a little thought and then jumped to his feet. 'Okay. What are we going to play?' he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.
Liam looked about himself and spotted a coil of blue nylon rope on the floor. He picked it up and tensed it between his hands, it cracked under the strain. 'How about you're a secret agent and I've managed to catch you?'
'Yeah!' replied Shaun.
Liam gave the boy a crooked smile that crept over his face like a reopened scar. 'Now,' he said, 'I've managed to capture the legendary Shaun Osborne and I've tied him to the front of this...ah...combine harvester.'
Shaun smiled and went and stood in front of the old, rusting harvester, facing Liam.
But the older man laughed. 'No, Shaun, I think it would be better if you turned around.'
The boy frowned, but followed Liam's suggestion. With the rope, Liam bound Shaun's hands behind his back. The itchy nylon scratched at the boy's wrists and he moaned a little in discomfort. Once Shaun was firmly in place, Liam began to prance about behind him.
'You've done a lot of very bad things, Shaun,' Liam said in the cool tones of an interrogator. 'And for those things, we're going to have to punish you with the most terrible sentence of all.'
Shaun laughed. 'Oh no what is it?'
'The Muscle Monster's probe.'
Shaun giggled away to himself, but Liam's face was taught with intensity. His eyes were fixed on the boy’s backside. He came closer, his footsteps echoing off the steel walls. He pulled down the boys tracksuit bottoms and undid the flies of his overalls.
'Now pay for your naughtiness!' Liam shouted.
The pain lasted only an instant. It was suddenly dulled, as though he had been given an anesthetic, like the one he'd had when he had to have stitches in his head for cutting it on the kitchen floor. Then darkness began to grow from the edges of his sight, slowly creeping in until it took over everything. He heard and felt nothing.
Suddenly, with the crack of a huge switch being thrown, a spotlight appeared before him; a single, crisp circle of light that was perfect in its brilliance. Within it sat a huge leather armchair.
Shaun got to his feet and walked into the light. He ran his hands down one of the arms, following the maroon leather until it reached one of the lion heads that adorned either armrest. Its mouth was open in a tremendous, silent roar.
It was only then that he noticed the boy sat within it. He was younger than himself, perhaps three or four. Their hair was the same colour; a dark brown, flecked with the occasional sprinkling of blond.
The boy writhed within the leather, tossing and turning, struggling to break free of the invisible bonds that held him down. 'No!' he shouted, and then went on wrestling to break free. Like the crack of a lighting bolt his eyes popped open and he let out a scream that broke his voice, a cry of sheer torment and horror. The cry of a boy who's innocence had been shattered.
That cry hauled Shaun from his trance and onto the floor. The room spun like a cheap carnival ride. The boy's face was burnt onto his retina, scorching his vision every time he blinked, appearing like a red ghost before him.
Slowly, the face faded and eventually retreated back into his subconscious. Gentle, feminine hands gripped his shoulders and stopped the room from spinning, anchoring him to the spot. They guided him back to the couch he had been tossed from, and seemed to secrete calmness into his body.
'Easy now,' the woman said. ‘I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. You have been through an awful lot.'
'What... what the hell did I see?' Shaun asked through deep breaths.
'A memory that has been suppressed in your subconscious, Shaun.'
'That was real?' Shaun's eyes were open now, staring at the psychiatrist. 'He did that to me?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'But...' the reality of it all was beginning to knit itself together in his mind, 'he was my best friend. I trusted him! I was a boy... just a little boy...'
'It's okay, Shaun. I'm going to help you.' The psychiatrist touched his arm again, warmth radiated from it. But he couldn't accept that contact any more.
'You don't understand, I don't want help. I want this all to end. I'm bored of being the world's fuck up. I know I killed those people now... the black outs. It makes sense. Do you know how it feels to wake up with blood on your hands and never know who you've hurt?'
She was struck dumb. What could you say to something like that? But it was her job to say something. 'You are not well, Shaun. You need help. Please, let me make you better.'
Shaun began to fallback into himself, his face becoming more and more blank. 'I want to go back to my cell.'
Imprisoned tears stung the corners of her eyes. 'Sure. I'll see you very soon.'
She gestured for the guard to take him away, but she didn't think for a minute that the restraints were necessary. For once in this man's life, he would gladly go back to that cell. He wanted the isolation, to be forgotten, to be away from those he had the potential to hurt.
Chapter Seven:
The Guyren
A monstrous tower of smoke, illuminated in a ferocious orange, clawed at the sky as if it were the arm of a hungry god. The plume rose from the bowels of a rugged hill rimmed with stone. At its base, a tunnel had been dug, forming a red eye that beamed into the night.
Figures, some gigantic with long, trailing arms, others, nothing more than children, ambled in and out of the tunnel. Their long shadows danced into the night, turning their forms into grotesque monsters.
Shuffling his feet with his head down, for he was too weary to raise it, was Joshua Stone, the boy who had been stolen from his own world by nothing more than a knife. He wore almost no clothes; all that remained were jeans that had been so frayed that they were now no more than shorts. His skin was stained with dirt and bloody scabs. Long scars on his back were reminders of his masters’ punishments.
Inside, he was numb. In the initial days, fear had overwhelmed him, almost driving him mad. He had seen terrible creatures, living nightmares that he had believed to be reserved to the boundaries of books. But here, in this awful place, with a sky he did not recognise, they breathed, and screamed and whipped, and fed upon those that fell. Yet, he was numb. He ambled as a zombie, unaware of his actions , unaware of the splinters that scraped his arms, drawing blood. They, the Manashe, had driven him to be no more than a drone, like the rest of the slaves that toiled here.
His back crackled as he picked up another pile of wood, leaving him a little winded. The wood itself was strange. It was almost black and aggravated the skin regardless of its abrasive texture. After adjusting the load he began his long march back toward the tunnel that delved deep into the hill.
Heat hit his face as he turned, as though it were the sun shining at him through this night. It took his breath away and he was forced to look down to catch his breath. His feet crunched through a thick layer of ash, which had reminded him of days spent playing in the snow. It fell from the sky in a constant torrent, sometimes in a blizzard, but never could it blot out the intensity of that heat.
Beside him, one of the giant slaves, like a wall of grey skin, let out a groan that rumbled the ground as it hefted a tree trunk onto its shoulder. Joshua jumped out of the way as one of its feet came crashing down, trying to balance its mighty load. After a moment the great beast began to amble on, its feet sending tremors through the ground.
He had managed to gleam from the screaming squawk of his masters, that these huge beasts were called Fremani. They spoke in a deep and rolling tongue that vibrated his bones as if they were tuning forks. He guessed that they must have been almost 12 feet high and five feet wide. Their arms, with muscles as big as boulders, would hang at their sides with hands that curved like the buckets from a digger.
But it was their eyes that had surprised Joshua, for they had none. Instead their grey lids had sealed shut over many millennia of evolution, for where they came from, deep under some distant mountain range, they had no use for them. Beneath the skin, the eyeballs rolled, searching for a light that they would never see.
Joshua made his way to the tunnel entrance, on either side stood two of the Manashe, the guards and masters of the immense fire that burned beyond the tunnel. Their hooked beaks protruded from beneath their black hoods. From their nostrils dribbled a black, oily liquid that occasionally bubbled as they breathed. Thick whips were coiled in their hands, ready for one of the slaves to trip or dawdle. Their long claws tapped with impatience as their eyes searched ceaselessly amongst the struggling slaves.
The Manashe to the right yawned, its black tongue lolling in its mouth, and then let out a terrible shrilling sound. It cracked the whip at one of the Fremani, with the ferocity of a thunderclap.
In response, the great beast merely growled with anger and sidestepped away slightly. Before the master could unleash its frustration upon any more of them, they passed into the tunnel, being drawn in by the breath of the fire as it stole air from the outside world.
A latticework of rope walkways looped above their heads. Manashe patrolled the length of the tunnel from their vantage point, occasionally cracking their whips and squawking commands down at their slaves.
The floor of the tunnel was a mixture of ash brought in from the outside and the bones of those who had fallen, now crushed into the smallest of pieces. It took five minutes to walk the length of the tunnel, made all the worse by the weight of the wood in his hands. Constantly, the heat of the fire increased until it was unbearable.
The tunnel opened onto a vast mezzanine of stone. Below the Guyren roared, its flames hungrily clawing at the air, buffeting the stone around it. It’s plume of smoke towered through a wide opening in the roof of the chamber. Heat radiated from the walls turning the entire hill into a great oven.
The slaves moved in a wide circle, edging their way to the edge before retreating back through the tunnel only to repeat their journey.
Joshua’s head swam as the heat made him nauseous, sapping his body of what little energy he had left, as though the fire itself fed from his very life. He resolved himself to keep moving, knowing that he would be whipped for stalling, for holding up the line.
The edge of the mezzanine appeared beneath his feet, the strength of the fire rumbled in the stone. He peered over the edge. The heat of the flames kicked his hair back. Almost losing his balance, he tossed the wood over the edge and pulled himself away. For a moment he believed that he had seen the flames reaching for him, forming hands that would grab him and pull him onto the mighty pyre. But then the thought was gone, he had moved on. The numbness overtook him.
The chill of the night was a relief, if only for a brief moment. Behind him, one of the Fremani sighed; whisps of steam vented from his nostrils and its shoulders seemed to relax a little. Joshua, busy looking at the Fremani, walked straight into one of the masters. He bounced back and hit the floor, as if the creature had been made of iron.
Joshua looked up at the Manashe, fear filling his body. The creature merely looked down at him, hate radiating from its golden-rimmed eyes. The creature opened its beak and spat at him. Quickly, Joshua got to his feet and trotted out of range of that terrible whip. For a moment, the Manashe maintained its hateful glare, and then went on looking over the rest of the slaves.
A horn sounded and the slaves stopped in unison. A little distance from the huge stockpiles of wood and trees, a series of stone tables had been set with large cauldrons heated with wood fires.
Whipped into another line, the slaves slowly ambled toward the food, with Joshua between two of the Fremani. Crouching on the rim of the cauldrons, their ash-caked claws gripping the hot metal, the masters served them their gruel.
The gruel was thin, almost more water than actual food, and it sloshed over the edge of the bowl as the master flung it from the ladle, caking the floor. Two slices of mould-ridden bread were thrust into Joshua’s hand by another of the Manashe, one hand tightening around the whip in its hand, clearly disgusted with being so close to any of the slaves.
Joshua sat a little way from the others, his buttocks sinking deep into the ash. He ate quickly, almost tipping the gruel down himself as he tried to gulp the food down. The bread he dropped onto the ground, where it would continue to rot or be carried away by one of this land’s horrid insects.
Joshua faced the Guyren, its orange glow grew into the sky and blotted out many of the stars.
For a moment, memories came back to him, and he remembered the sky of his home, of South Hethel. Many of the stars were hidden behind an orange veil of cloud and haze, only occasionally interrupted with the blink of a plane’s lights. They were similar these two skies, yet here in this place the stars were different, wrong, his mind told him.
In every direction, the silhouette of a range of razor-like mountains framed the sky, punctuating the difference between his home and this distant world.
He wept, for home was so far away, and he could think of no way to return, no way to escape the masters and their whips.
No way to see his family again.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Chapter Five: Disease
Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
Marie was dying. The illness that would eventually kill her had no name, for the doctors had never seen a case like hers’ before. Specialists from every department of the medical sciences had failed to diagnose a known disease; they did tell her there was one surety: it was fatal.
At fifty she was the unfortunate victim of a degenerative muscle disease that had never been seen before. It had no cure and no clear way of slowing down its progress. Her numerous doctors had tried a myriad of treatments, and had, at last, settled on combating it as a form of cancer; trying to kill it with chemotherapy. But, rather than improving anything, this only increased her discomfort and shattered her already fragile body.
In spite of all of this, she bared it well, considering she could speak to no sympathetic ear about the pain that assaulted her every day. She still worked and kept a hold on the house that she had lived in for twelve years. She did it all for her ten 'children'. All of them were orphans, each with their own terrible story to tell, but their pain had been taken away by Marie's immense generosity. There had been many before the kids that she cared for now, and they had all gone on to live successful and happy lives. The 'family' consisted of nearly thirty individuals and they all loved her like a mother.
Marie sat looking out at the river Brent that meandered its way along the flank of South Hethel, before trekking through the Marsh ahead of her. Her doctors told her not to drink, but she took a sip from her brandy. This is real medicine, she thought. They can go shove their chemo up their arses. Her feet ached, both from the disease and the strains of the day. She rubbed them vigorously.
The water was still, mirroring the brilliant blue sky overhead. A lone duck drifted across the water like a paper boat, just idling along to wherever the currents would take it.
They really have no idea, do they?, she asked herself at the thought of the next course of chemotherapy she would be given the following day. She turned her face to the sky and tried to peer at the darkness that lay behind that blue shroud. 'Am I really that annoying?' she asked aloud.
Her right leg began to twitch involuntarily; she chose not to take it as an answer. Rubbing her thigh, she attempted to calm the muscles before it could become a full blown attack. The disease affected every muscle in her body, eating them up at an alarming rate. The struggle to climb stairs, the incontinence, the ragged heartbeat and the lolling of her tongue, she could handle, but it was the attacks that troubled her.
When the convulsions came she was reduced to a paraplegic, powerless to control a single part of body as it bucked wildly. They happened every day now and during those moments she prayed to God that He would make them stop. Whatever he thought she had done, she must have paid the price by now... surely.
A gust of wind chilled her smooth scalp, and the twitching subsided. With that note, she planted a beanie on her head and left the porch.
Inside, the kids had strewn toys and scraps of paper all over the house. With the destruction complete, they sat watching Blue Peter in the living room.
Marie glanced at the television, automatically beginning to clear the table of debris. For the millionth time, the presenter was making Tracy Island out of washing up bottles and other objects that she would have to stock up on, no doubt. She gasped as she looked at the drawing in her hands. A lump formed in her throat and her body froze.
The page was caked in black crayon which had been smudged and swirled to form a hood. Beneath its brim two white eyes burned outward, like flames caught in a wind. She would not have been so horrified if she hadn’t seen the very same thing in a nightmare a week ago.
'Who drew this?' she enquired in the interrogative tone that only a mother could muster. As though she had cracked a whip, all of the kids turned around to look at her, before looking at one another to see who the guilty party was. Little Kyle stuck out like a pig in a suit, staring at his feet.
Marie's eyes locked onto him with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. 'Kyle, come here.'
He stomped towards her, his eyes never leaving the floor. The rest of the kids were silent.
'Did you draw this?' she asked.
He mumbled something and began to squirm as if he were a fish caught in a net.
'What?' That single word came down like a thunderclap. Kyle should have been sprawled out on the floor, but he miraculously managed to keep his footing. The rest of the kids sniggered slightly, but they quickly turned back to the TV when Marie's fiery gaze scanned them.
'Come on, Chicken,' she said, leading the little boy out onto the porch. If evolution had not robbed him of his tail, it would have been firmly locked between his legs.
She sat on a bench and tapped her knee for Kyle to sit on. He did so, wiping his eyes. 'So, did you draw that picture?' she asked, hugging him.
'Yes,' his voice quivered, 'but I didn't mean to.' He began to sob.
'Hey boney-bum, there's no need for that. I'm sorry I shouted at you. I was just worried. All I want you to do is tell me why you drew this picture?'
'Well, I don't know, Mummy, I just drew it that’s all. I didn't mean to draw anything bad. It just came out of my head.'
Marie studied the little boy before asking: 'Did you dream about this, Chicken?'
'No. I just drew him.'
She smiled. 'OK, little one. Hey,' she said, giving him a little jiggle with her leg, 'are we still friends?'
'Yeah,' he returned, burying his head in her chest.
She kissed his forehead and let him scoot back into the house. Marie looked at the face on the page again. The eyes pierced into her heart like the chemo, intoxicating her body till it could take no more.
She crumpled the paper up and threw it into a waste bin beside the chair.
Over the marshland, a single seagull cried and dove, racing away on the wind.
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
Marie was dying. The illness that would eventually kill her had no name, for the doctors had never seen a case like hers’ before. Specialists from every department of the medical sciences had failed to diagnose a known disease; they did tell her there was one surety: it was fatal.
At fifty she was the unfortunate victim of a degenerative muscle disease that had never been seen before. It had no cure and no clear way of slowing down its progress. Her numerous doctors had tried a myriad of treatments, and had, at last, settled on combating it as a form of cancer; trying to kill it with chemotherapy. But, rather than improving anything, this only increased her discomfort and shattered her already fragile body.
In spite of all of this, she bared it well, considering she could speak to no sympathetic ear about the pain that assaulted her every day. She still worked and kept a hold on the house that she had lived in for twelve years. She did it all for her ten 'children'. All of them were orphans, each with their own terrible story to tell, but their pain had been taken away by Marie's immense generosity. There had been many before the kids that she cared for now, and they had all gone on to live successful and happy lives. The 'family' consisted of nearly thirty individuals and they all loved her like a mother.
Marie sat looking out at the river Brent that meandered its way along the flank of South Hethel, before trekking through the Marsh ahead of her. Her doctors told her not to drink, but she took a sip from her brandy. This is real medicine, she thought. They can go shove their chemo up their arses. Her feet ached, both from the disease and the strains of the day. She rubbed them vigorously.
The water was still, mirroring the brilliant blue sky overhead. A lone duck drifted across the water like a paper boat, just idling along to wherever the currents would take it.
They really have no idea, do they?, she asked herself at the thought of the next course of chemotherapy she would be given the following day. She turned her face to the sky and tried to peer at the darkness that lay behind that blue shroud. 'Am I really that annoying?' she asked aloud.
Her right leg began to twitch involuntarily; she chose not to take it as an answer. Rubbing her thigh, she attempted to calm the muscles before it could become a full blown attack. The disease affected every muscle in her body, eating them up at an alarming rate. The struggle to climb stairs, the incontinence, the ragged heartbeat and the lolling of her tongue, she could handle, but it was the attacks that troubled her.
When the convulsions came she was reduced to a paraplegic, powerless to control a single part of body as it bucked wildly. They happened every day now and during those moments she prayed to God that He would make them stop. Whatever he thought she had done, she must have paid the price by now... surely.
A gust of wind chilled her smooth scalp, and the twitching subsided. With that note, she planted a beanie on her head and left the porch.
Inside, the kids had strewn toys and scraps of paper all over the house. With the destruction complete, they sat watching Blue Peter in the living room.
Marie glanced at the television, automatically beginning to clear the table of debris. For the millionth time, the presenter was making Tracy Island out of washing up bottles and other objects that she would have to stock up on, no doubt. She gasped as she looked at the drawing in her hands. A lump formed in her throat and her body froze.
The page was caked in black crayon which had been smudged and swirled to form a hood. Beneath its brim two white eyes burned outward, like flames caught in a wind. She would not have been so horrified if she hadn’t seen the very same thing in a nightmare a week ago.
'Who drew this?' she enquired in the interrogative tone that only a mother could muster. As though she had cracked a whip, all of the kids turned around to look at her, before looking at one another to see who the guilty party was. Little Kyle stuck out like a pig in a suit, staring at his feet.
Marie's eyes locked onto him with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. 'Kyle, come here.'
He stomped towards her, his eyes never leaving the floor. The rest of the kids were silent.
'Did you draw this?' she asked.
He mumbled something and began to squirm as if he were a fish caught in a net.
'What?' That single word came down like a thunderclap. Kyle should have been sprawled out on the floor, but he miraculously managed to keep his footing. The rest of the kids sniggered slightly, but they quickly turned back to the TV when Marie's fiery gaze scanned them.
'Come on, Chicken,' she said, leading the little boy out onto the porch. If evolution had not robbed him of his tail, it would have been firmly locked between his legs.
She sat on a bench and tapped her knee for Kyle to sit on. He did so, wiping his eyes. 'So, did you draw that picture?' she asked, hugging him.
'Yes,' his voice quivered, 'but I didn't mean to.' He began to sob.
'Hey boney-bum, there's no need for that. I'm sorry I shouted at you. I was just worried. All I want you to do is tell me why you drew this picture?'
'Well, I don't know, Mummy, I just drew it that’s all. I didn't mean to draw anything bad. It just came out of my head.'
Marie studied the little boy before asking: 'Did you dream about this, Chicken?'
'No. I just drew him.'
She smiled. 'OK, little one. Hey,' she said, giving him a little jiggle with her leg, 'are we still friends?'
'Yeah,' he returned, burying his head in her chest.
She kissed his forehead and let him scoot back into the house. Marie looked at the face on the page again. The eyes pierced into her heart like the chemo, intoxicating her body till it could take no more.
She crumpled the paper up and threw it into a waste bin beside the chair.
Over the marshland, a single seagull cried and dove, racing away on the wind.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Chapter Four: The Faceless Man
Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
The interview room was dull, with smoke stained walls and little in the way of furniture. A metal table with a black plastic top was flanked by two steel chairs. A thick cloud of smoke hung above the table, slowly twisting and rolling under the fluorescent lights. One of the bulbs fluttered into life and, for a moment, looked as though it would stay lit, but it then went out with a faint 'ping'.
Gin sipped at a plastic cup of coffee and took a drag on his cigarette. He rolled his tongue in his mouth before letting wisps of smoke out of his nostrils. Gin studied Osborne's seemingly innocent demeanor; how his eyes were fixated on a speck of dirt on the tabletop. It made him sick to look at this man, but he should have been used to that feeling by now. His life had been full of sickness and disgust.
He dabbed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and slammed his palm down against the table. Osborne jumped in his chair, breaking his focus. 'You've done terrible things, Mr Osborne,’ Gin said calmly. 'They lock people like you away for a long time and forget about you. That gives you plenty of time to think about what you've done and why you're going to live the rest of your life in a solitary cell. And then, of course, there are the other prisoners. I'm sure they'll take a particular interest in you for the crimes you committed, and I'm not talking about a picnic in the exercise yard.’
Osborne looked up, tears in his eyes. 'I... I don't know what you're talking about.' His voice quivered and he started to sniff loudly.
'Don't play stupid with me!' Gin spat back. 'I've been in this game far too long for you to string a load of shit out in front of me. The evidence is stacked against you, and I know full well that you're as guilty as the Devil. I'm going to bring you down, Mr Osborne.'
Gin picked a file from his bag and slapped it onto the table. He opened it to reveal photos of child-victims in an array of sprawled positions and varying degrees of undress. Under the photos were their names. 'There are eight photos there. Eight children killed by your hand; Nancy Farquar, Thomas Whitmoore, William Grey, Samuel Dunn, Jessica Smith, Diana Aaronson, Claire White and Bobby Peterson. Every one of them had traces of your DNA on them; I can show you the evidence if you like. And this doesn't include the thirteen other kids who are missing. Would you like me to read their names to you?'
'No!' Osborne's tears now fell freely down his cheeks. 'I don't know what you're talking about. I've never hurt anyone in my life. All I've ever done is help people.'
Gin was close to blowing his top. Suddenly, the thought of picking Osborne up by his neck, throwing him against the wall, and strangling him ran through his mind like a freight train. He refocused his anger and formed it into a vicious verbal attack on Osborne. 'Your fingerprints were all over the bodies, we found fluids, hair and six of the murder weapons just laying around the shed you call a house. You know exactly what I'm talking about!'
'I-I think that I w-would like to speak to a lawyer,' Osborne stammered.
'A lawyer?' Gin laughed heavily, cocking his head skyward. 'What would you want with one of those? They've got nothing left to save you with. You've been far too sloppy!'
Once again the fluorescent light flickered and popped out of existence. Gin looked up at it absentmindedly. When he looked back at Osborne, the man's face was on the move again. A wave of shifting muscles stripped away that innocent mask and began to shuffle like a deck of cards. When the change was complete the face was familiar, though rewired. The eyebrows were lower, darkening those brown pools, the skin over the nose was tighter and the mouth was as taught as a whip. The sight put a chill in Gin's heart.
'They were so young, like tender newborn calves, I just couldn't help myself. Seeing them run and play made me so excited, Detective. I just had to hunt them down. It was such a pleasure to reave (rape?) them of their lives, to hear their screams die to dull groans, to watch the sparks leave their eyes... to fuck them in that silence.' The voice was calculated, solid. It never faltered or flickered. It was perfection, and it was horrific.
Gin's heart was struggling to escape from its tomb of bone, he was paralysed and he suddenly became aware of how cold the rose necklace was against his skin.
'This is what you want to hear, isn't it? You seem to enjoy throwing these images around,' he said stabbing at the file, ' but I can show you so much more. I could tell you of things that you never thought were possible. Come closer, Gin Sodan, let me look into those eyes of yours and tell you of my exploits.'
He couldn't. Gin's fear left him almost catatonic.
Osborne let out a chuckle that reverberated around the room and stabbed into Gin's heart like a thorn. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes staring deeply into Gin's. 'You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Detective Gin Sodan. A storm is coming, and when it arrives I will be free and I will come for you.'
His head dropped to his chest, his shoulders relaxed and the aura about him seemed to cool. When Osborne raised his head again, that innocent face had returned. 'I'd like a lawyer, please.'
Gin leapt to his feet and ran out of the door, racing down the hallway, crashing through colleagues and criminals alike. He sprinted to the gents and vomited into the porcelain toilet. His stomach heaved, trying to rid itself of the wrong that had invaded it. Eventually, he was reduced to dry heaving.
'Are you alright?' Tom asked as he walked into the room.
Gin spat into the toilet and wiped his mouth with paper. 'We need to get him checked over by a shrink.'
'I asked if you were alright.'
Gin brushed past Tom. 'Just do your job and get me a shrink.’
Tom watched the door close behind his partner and he ran his fingers through his blond hair. 'I think we need more than a psychiatrist.'
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
The interview room was dull, with smoke stained walls and little in the way of furniture. A metal table with a black plastic top was flanked by two steel chairs. A thick cloud of smoke hung above the table, slowly twisting and rolling under the fluorescent lights. One of the bulbs fluttered into life and, for a moment, looked as though it would stay lit, but it then went out with a faint 'ping'.
Gin sipped at a plastic cup of coffee and took a drag on his cigarette. He rolled his tongue in his mouth before letting wisps of smoke out of his nostrils. Gin studied Osborne's seemingly innocent demeanor; how his eyes were fixated on a speck of dirt on the tabletop. It made him sick to look at this man, but he should have been used to that feeling by now. His life had been full of sickness and disgust.
He dabbed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and slammed his palm down against the table. Osborne jumped in his chair, breaking his focus. 'You've done terrible things, Mr Osborne,’ Gin said calmly. 'They lock people like you away for a long time and forget about you. That gives you plenty of time to think about what you've done and why you're going to live the rest of your life in a solitary cell. And then, of course, there are the other prisoners. I'm sure they'll take a particular interest in you for the crimes you committed, and I'm not talking about a picnic in the exercise yard.’
Osborne looked up, tears in his eyes. 'I... I don't know what you're talking about.' His voice quivered and he started to sniff loudly.
'Don't play stupid with me!' Gin spat back. 'I've been in this game far too long for you to string a load of shit out in front of me. The evidence is stacked against you, and I know full well that you're as guilty as the Devil. I'm going to bring you down, Mr Osborne.'
Gin picked a file from his bag and slapped it onto the table. He opened it to reveal photos of child-victims in an array of sprawled positions and varying degrees of undress. Under the photos were their names. 'There are eight photos there. Eight children killed by your hand; Nancy Farquar, Thomas Whitmoore, William Grey, Samuel Dunn, Jessica Smith, Diana Aaronson, Claire White and Bobby Peterson. Every one of them had traces of your DNA on them; I can show you the evidence if you like. And this doesn't include the thirteen other kids who are missing. Would you like me to read their names to you?'
'No!' Osborne's tears now fell freely down his cheeks. 'I don't know what you're talking about. I've never hurt anyone in my life. All I've ever done is help people.'
Gin was close to blowing his top. Suddenly, the thought of picking Osborne up by his neck, throwing him against the wall, and strangling him ran through his mind like a freight train. He refocused his anger and formed it into a vicious verbal attack on Osborne. 'Your fingerprints were all over the bodies, we found fluids, hair and six of the murder weapons just laying around the shed you call a house. You know exactly what I'm talking about!'
'I-I think that I w-would like to speak to a lawyer,' Osborne stammered.
'A lawyer?' Gin laughed heavily, cocking his head skyward. 'What would you want with one of those? They've got nothing left to save you with. You've been far too sloppy!'
Once again the fluorescent light flickered and popped out of existence. Gin looked up at it absentmindedly. When he looked back at Osborne, the man's face was on the move again. A wave of shifting muscles stripped away that innocent mask and began to shuffle like a deck of cards. When the change was complete the face was familiar, though rewired. The eyebrows were lower, darkening those brown pools, the skin over the nose was tighter and the mouth was as taught as a whip. The sight put a chill in Gin's heart.
'They were so young, like tender newborn calves, I just couldn't help myself. Seeing them run and play made me so excited, Detective. I just had to hunt them down. It was such a pleasure to reave (rape?) them of their lives, to hear their screams die to dull groans, to watch the sparks leave their eyes... to fuck them in that silence.' The voice was calculated, solid. It never faltered or flickered. It was perfection, and it was horrific.
Gin's heart was struggling to escape from its tomb of bone, he was paralysed and he suddenly became aware of how cold the rose necklace was against his skin.
'This is what you want to hear, isn't it? You seem to enjoy throwing these images around,' he said stabbing at the file, ' but I can show you so much more. I could tell you of things that you never thought were possible. Come closer, Gin Sodan, let me look into those eyes of yours and tell you of my exploits.'
He couldn't. Gin's fear left him almost catatonic.
Osborne let out a chuckle that reverberated around the room and stabbed into Gin's heart like a thorn. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes staring deeply into Gin's. 'You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Detective Gin Sodan. A storm is coming, and when it arrives I will be free and I will come for you.'
His head dropped to his chest, his shoulders relaxed and the aura about him seemed to cool. When Osborne raised his head again, that innocent face had returned. 'I'd like a lawyer, please.'
Gin leapt to his feet and ran out of the door, racing down the hallway, crashing through colleagues and criminals alike. He sprinted to the gents and vomited into the porcelain toilet. His stomach heaved, trying to rid itself of the wrong that had invaded it. Eventually, he was reduced to dry heaving.
'Are you alright?' Tom asked as he walked into the room.
Gin spat into the toilet and wiped his mouth with paper. 'We need to get him checked over by a shrink.'
'I asked if you were alright.'
Gin brushed past Tom. 'Just do your job and get me a shrink.’
Tom watched the door close behind his partner and he ran his fingers through his blond hair. 'I think we need more than a psychiatrist.'
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Chapter Three: Writing on the Walls
Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
'Shauny,' a soft feminine voice whispered. 'Shauny, it's time to wake up now.' It was the voice of his mother, the same voice that had encouraged him to sleep, and shushed his tears. 'Shh, little Shauny, my precious boy. Everything is going to be alright now.'
But she had died five years ago. Blood had swirled in the bath water around her naked body, like crimson tendrils that had come to steal her away from him. Her vacant brown eyes stared into his. The mouth that had uttered such wonderful words to him, that had helped him win against his nightmares, slowly opened. A blood-soaked snake twisted from between those lips and dropped between her pale breasts, splashing into the water. It danced through the water towards him, curling left and right, its head held above the water, its eyes fixed on him. As it lunged, fangs lashing out at him, he screamed and woke up.
He shot upright, lost his balance and fell to the tiled floor. His head was heavy and pain drummed into his skull with the rhythm of his pulse. Concussion spun the room about him and the light above stabbed harder at the tenderness of his brain.
Something was wrong. He was familiar with the feeling of losing time, that disorientation and fear of what he may have done. This was different. Something was missing. Quickly, he realised what it was. That warm embrace that had let him sleep all these years was gone. He was forced to live again, to feel pain and suffering all over again - to hear that damned choir of voices in his head... to sit in that God forsaken chair again.
Where had that comforting person who had soothed his hurts and told him he was not a freak gone? The one that had said: 'The world just does not understand you, Shaun. I do. I can stop your pain. Come, come closer, my boy, so that I may look into those beautiful brown eyes of yours.'
Shaun had slept for a long time, longer than anyone ever had. He could remember the bed that had been presented to him. Thick black bed posts supported a sumptuous mattress and duvet. He had laid there, his mind lost in the folds of those wonderful sheets, in complete comfort and solitude. 'Rest,' the man had said, 'I will deal with everything else.'
Young Shaun looked about him, he was in a cell. He knew the smell, the usual single bunk and the tiny barred window near the ceiling. A toilet stood in the corner, a single roll of toilet paper sat on the seat. The walls were sanitary, plain, all but for a patch above his bunk. A string of red symbols had been painted across the wall in a perfect line. They were unlike anything he had seen before and to look at them twisted his stomach and made the pulsing pain only worse. As he looked closer at the alien runes he realised that they were drawn with blood, his blood. Shaun's left wrist had been badly scratched and fresh blood still glistened in the cuts. The nails of his right hands were black with dried blood. Oh god, he thought, it's all started again.
He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the toilet roll. He's left me, I can't do this again. 'I wont!' He studied the white paper and began to tear huge pieces off and shoved them into the back of his throat. He gagged straight away. His mouth dried instantly, but it didn't stop him. He was frantic, tearing at the roll and slamming the pieces into his mouth, shredding his lips, dribbling blood down his front. Not again.
Suddenly, he wretched and spluttered. His body jerked and writhed as it began to fight. Whether his mind wanted it or not, his body wasn't giving in so easily. His face became purple, veins popped out of his forehead and his eyes were blood shot. The room spun and darkened. He slumped to the floor, the toilet roll falling into the bowl, and there he slowly began to fade away; his legs, now the only thing that twitched.
From the hallway, the guard heard the commotion and burst into the room. He fell to his knees, sliding some of the way to Shaun's side. He took the young man by the neck and shoved his hand into his mouth, using two fingers he scooped the paper out of his throat.
Shaun gasped and wretched at the air before falling unconscious.
'Frank! Frank! For fuck sake, get in here!' said the guard.
Another guard sped down the hall and ran into the room. 'What the-' he began.
'Just get the bloody nurse will you!' As Frank sped back down the hallway calling for the nurse, the guard looked up at the runes on the wall and back down at the man in his lap. 'Haven't you been busy,' he said.
Shaun slept that night on suicide watch. 'Watch that fucker like a hawk,' Gin had said on the phone with the guard. 'I don't even want him taking a piss without your say so. He's going to be in prison for a long time. I'm going to make sure of it.'
...
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
'Shauny,' a soft feminine voice whispered. 'Shauny, it's time to wake up now.' It was the voice of his mother, the same voice that had encouraged him to sleep, and shushed his tears. 'Shh, little Shauny, my precious boy. Everything is going to be alright now.'
But she had died five years ago. Blood had swirled in the bath water around her naked body, like crimson tendrils that had come to steal her away from him. Her vacant brown eyes stared into his. The mouth that had uttered such wonderful words to him, that had helped him win against his nightmares, slowly opened. A blood-soaked snake twisted from between those lips and dropped between her pale breasts, splashing into the water. It danced through the water towards him, curling left and right, its head held above the water, its eyes fixed on him. As it lunged, fangs lashing out at him, he screamed and woke up.
He shot upright, lost his balance and fell to the tiled floor. His head was heavy and pain drummed into his skull with the rhythm of his pulse. Concussion spun the room about him and the light above stabbed harder at the tenderness of his brain.
Something was wrong. He was familiar with the feeling of losing time, that disorientation and fear of what he may have done. This was different. Something was missing. Quickly, he realised what it was. That warm embrace that had let him sleep all these years was gone. He was forced to live again, to feel pain and suffering all over again - to hear that damned choir of voices in his head... to sit in that God forsaken chair again.
Where had that comforting person who had soothed his hurts and told him he was not a freak gone? The one that had said: 'The world just does not understand you, Shaun. I do. I can stop your pain. Come, come closer, my boy, so that I may look into those beautiful brown eyes of yours.'
Shaun had slept for a long time, longer than anyone ever had. He could remember the bed that had been presented to him. Thick black bed posts supported a sumptuous mattress and duvet. He had laid there, his mind lost in the folds of those wonderful sheets, in complete comfort and solitude. 'Rest,' the man had said, 'I will deal with everything else.'
Young Shaun looked about him, he was in a cell. He knew the smell, the usual single bunk and the tiny barred window near the ceiling. A toilet stood in the corner, a single roll of toilet paper sat on the seat. The walls were sanitary, plain, all but for a patch above his bunk. A string of red symbols had been painted across the wall in a perfect line. They were unlike anything he had seen before and to look at them twisted his stomach and made the pulsing pain only worse. As he looked closer at the alien runes he realised that they were drawn with blood, his blood. Shaun's left wrist had been badly scratched and fresh blood still glistened in the cuts. The nails of his right hands were black with dried blood. Oh god, he thought, it's all started again.
He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the toilet roll. He's left me, I can't do this again. 'I wont!' He studied the white paper and began to tear huge pieces off and shoved them into the back of his throat. He gagged straight away. His mouth dried instantly, but it didn't stop him. He was frantic, tearing at the roll and slamming the pieces into his mouth, shredding his lips, dribbling blood down his front. Not again.
Suddenly, he wretched and spluttered. His body jerked and writhed as it began to fight. Whether his mind wanted it or not, his body wasn't giving in so easily. His face became purple, veins popped out of his forehead and his eyes were blood shot. The room spun and darkened. He slumped to the floor, the toilet roll falling into the bowl, and there he slowly began to fade away; his legs, now the only thing that twitched.
From the hallway, the guard heard the commotion and burst into the room. He fell to his knees, sliding some of the way to Shaun's side. He took the young man by the neck and shoved his hand into his mouth, using two fingers he scooped the paper out of his throat.
Shaun gasped and wretched at the air before falling unconscious.
'Frank! Frank! For fuck sake, get in here!' said the guard.
Another guard sped down the hall and ran into the room. 'What the-' he began.
'Just get the bloody nurse will you!' As Frank sped back down the hallway calling for the nurse, the guard looked up at the runes on the wall and back down at the man in his lap. 'Haven't you been busy,' he said.
Shaun slept that night on suicide watch. 'Watch that fucker like a hawk,' Gin had said on the phone with the guard. 'I don't even want him taking a piss without your say so. He's going to be in prison for a long time. I'm going to make sure of it.'
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Chapter Two: 27 Monroe Street
Spoiler Alert!
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
Chapter Two:
27 Monroe Street
Twenty-seven Monroe Street was barely more than a decrepit shed. Most people never even noticed that it was there. A thick blackberry bush grew high before the house, like a moat of thorns and forbidden fruit. Long grasses and towering weeds flourished about the house, the scene of a battle fought long ago. Here and there, buried amongst the long arcing blades of grass, were rusted cans and gardening tools. An ancient lawnmower that had once been green was now no more than a forgotten Russian tank left to the desert's harsh embrace.
The house itself was held together by mismatched sheets of wood nailed precariously together in a scattering, like a house after a hurricane. It was a confusion of conflicting colours and alternating shades, mixed with a hundred different types of mould. There were windows, but they were clouded with great cataracts. The door had once been racing green, but it had faded, and the brass handle had turned black.
It is strange that the kids did not trespass on this land, as though a stark warning had been posted telling them of the dangers that lay inside. This house had truly been forgotten, like a memory that has been locked away for the damage that it could do, were it released.
But like any repressed memory, at some point someone or something comes along and awakens it. There is always someone daring enough to throw stones at the resting leviathan.
Gin Sodan sat at the wheel of his car. It was midday, sweat dripped from his brow in a slow but steady torrent. A warble of heat pranced on the bonnet. His eyes were fixed upon the house on Monroe Street. Every bone in his body told him it was wrong, everything right down to its crumbling foundations. Flood gates would open if he went in there, big damn flood gates.
He took a final drag on his cigarette, the cherry glowed vibrantly and then died away before he dabbed it in the ash tray. He held the smoke deep in his chest, savouring every last bit of it.
'All teams are in place - over,' came the voice of Tom Saunders over the radio. Gin let the smoke out through his nostrils before he reached over and picked it up.
'Roger,' was all he could manage. Gin took one last look at the house; his muscles had tensed in anticipation for what may lay inside. He rolled them. This was his job, what he woke up and breathed for, what he put up with the nightmares for. This was his purpose.
'All teams move in - over,' he croaked into the radio as he hauled himself out of his blue Mondeo. As he made his way toward the house, Tom appeared from across the street carrying a heavy iron ram. A yellow face smiled politely at the ram's nose.
'You all set?' asked Tom.
'As well as I can be.'
Tom took the lead as Gin flicked out a metal truncheon. They both broke into a trot as they passed two brick pillars where a gate would have hung. Their feet crunched over ancient gravel and brushed through long grass that reached out trying to tangle itself around the two men's ankles.
The ram pulled back and froze in the air, like the longest breath before the storm. Tom threw it forward, wood splintered and cracked, the door flew open. Shock waves rattled through the house, but the precariously held together building did not crumble.
Gin grabbed hold of Tom's broad shoulder and followed his partner through the tight turns of the house. 'Police!' they both shouted, their call was repeated by other officers who entered from all sides of the place.
The ram hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Tom flicked a truncheon into being. As they entered the living room they halted, then spread themselves out.
The lounge was pitch black, but for a stream of light that shone through the sullied windows. Dust danced in the beams of light, like horrified angels. Damp filled the air, the smell clawed at the lungs, making them tighten with revulsion.
The rest of the officers converged on the lounge. In the centre of the room, illuminated by a single beam of light, was a sofa. A figure lay on it, sprawled out.
A leather aviator jacket, red bra, poker-dot skirt, scarf and stained white shirt were twisted about the person, as though it was confused as to its gender and had dressed accordingly. On its feet were two perfectly polished loafers that shone in the window’s yellow glow.
'What the fuck is that?' asked one of the officers.
'A mess,' said Gin. 'Pick it up.'
Two officers took the figure by the arms and hauled it off the sofa. The sheer weight of an adult uncooperative human forced them to slump to the floor in a clatter of uncontrollable limbs.
'Come on, mate,' said one of the officers, as the pair struggled to get back to their feet and haul the person with them.
Groggily the suspect’s eyes opened, it groaned and began to slowly take in what was happening. The figure's brown eyes locked onto Gin and Tom standing across the room, batons in hand. A wave of fear passed over the its face. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the face began to change; muscles relaxed while others contracted, creating a surge that traveled from one cheek to the other. It was as though the entire face was being re-wired.
The figure's body language had also changed dramatically. Every angle, posture and movement spoke of only one thing: Rage.
The two officers reeled back as they were shed like a great coat. The figure's fatigue has dissolved away and now what stood before them was a man who was ready for anything.
He turned upon the group of officers across from Tom and Gin. They flinched, but held their ground, more stunned than afraid.
A stocky lad came forward, his weapon held ready before him. The figure lunged in a single stride and was well in range to strike the young officer.
As the truncheon came down the man flowed about the officer's arm and at a critical moment, shifted his weight, breaking it.
The sound bit into Gin's heart and made his stomach clench.
The young officer dropped to the floor, cradling his arm. His empty hand lay useless at the end.
The suspect, as there was no doubt this was, tested the truncheon's weight before flicking it about his wrist. In his hands, it seemed deadlier than a gun.
'Take him, all of you!' Gin bellowed.
Twelve men rushed forward, yet the odds still, somehow, seemed stacked against them. With a boxer's deftness he avoided their clumsy attacks. With effortless skill the bat danced in his hands as he picked the men off, one by one. Cheek bones cracked, eye sockets popped and blood flowed freely. Standing among the fallen officers, the suspect was calm, his breathing slow. He was a predator amongst his prey.
Yet more officers came at him. He punched, dodged, threw furniture and spun into kicks that sent his attackers flying across the room. But eventually, reality returned to this small forgotten house. The scales began to balance again, the furious angels dancing in the diffused daylight through the windows slowed. Instead of meeting his skill, the officers used their sheer weight of numbers to smother him.
It was too much for the suspect and he let out a tortured cry of frustration at his physical failure. The sight Gin saw was that akin to bees defending their hive from an invincible hornet.
Just as Gin believed that they had finally mastered him, the suspect roared and heaved at the pile of men on top of him. His head popped free and the tight mass of men began to slip and crumble. Desperate cries filled the room as the officers struggled to keep him contained. The suspect screwed up his face, a thick vein traced vertically down his forehead and his roar reverberated in all their hearts.
Gin leaped on top of the scrum, his truncheon held high. He cried and brought the weapon down with all the force he could drive into that one movement. As the baton cracked over the suspect's head, a thunderbolt seemed to pass through the mass of bodies as the tension snapped, sending them all collapsing to the floor.
Shock and the resulting silence that filled the house froze everyone. No one took a breath; no one breached that barrier of silence. The broken room resembled a battlefield, bodies and ornaments scattered everywhere.
The suspect, Shaun Osborne, lay unconscious on the floor. A trail of blood trickled from the gash in his forehead. About him the battered officers struggled to their feet, and began to look down upon the body before them. They were tense, as though a lion lay there, sleeping, yet potentially dangerous all the same.
'I'm glad he's chosen to exercise his right to silence,' said Gin. He held a pair of handcuffs in his right hand and looked up, meeting Tom's eyes. His partner let out a sigh, and it said one thing. 'Fuck.'
...
Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.
Chapter Two:
27 Monroe Street
Twenty-seven Monroe Street was barely more than a decrepit shed. Most people never even noticed that it was there. A thick blackberry bush grew high before the house, like a moat of thorns and forbidden fruit. Long grasses and towering weeds flourished about the house, the scene of a battle fought long ago. Here and there, buried amongst the long arcing blades of grass, were rusted cans and gardening tools. An ancient lawnmower that had once been green was now no more than a forgotten Russian tank left to the desert's harsh embrace.
The house itself was held together by mismatched sheets of wood nailed precariously together in a scattering, like a house after a hurricane. It was a confusion of conflicting colours and alternating shades, mixed with a hundred different types of mould. There were windows, but they were clouded with great cataracts. The door had once been racing green, but it had faded, and the brass handle had turned black.
It is strange that the kids did not trespass on this land, as though a stark warning had been posted telling them of the dangers that lay inside. This house had truly been forgotten, like a memory that has been locked away for the damage that it could do, were it released.
But like any repressed memory, at some point someone or something comes along and awakens it. There is always someone daring enough to throw stones at the resting leviathan.
Gin Sodan sat at the wheel of his car. It was midday, sweat dripped from his brow in a slow but steady torrent. A warble of heat pranced on the bonnet. His eyes were fixed upon the house on Monroe Street. Every bone in his body told him it was wrong, everything right down to its crumbling foundations. Flood gates would open if he went in there, big damn flood gates.
He took a final drag on his cigarette, the cherry glowed vibrantly and then died away before he dabbed it in the ash tray. He held the smoke deep in his chest, savouring every last bit of it.
'All teams are in place - over,' came the voice of Tom Saunders over the radio. Gin let the smoke out through his nostrils before he reached over and picked it up.
'Roger,' was all he could manage. Gin took one last look at the house; his muscles had tensed in anticipation for what may lay inside. He rolled them. This was his job, what he woke up and breathed for, what he put up with the nightmares for. This was his purpose.
'All teams move in - over,' he croaked into the radio as he hauled himself out of his blue Mondeo. As he made his way toward the house, Tom appeared from across the street carrying a heavy iron ram. A yellow face smiled politely at the ram's nose.
'You all set?' asked Tom.
'As well as I can be.'
Tom took the lead as Gin flicked out a metal truncheon. They both broke into a trot as they passed two brick pillars where a gate would have hung. Their feet crunched over ancient gravel and brushed through long grass that reached out trying to tangle itself around the two men's ankles.
The ram pulled back and froze in the air, like the longest breath before the storm. Tom threw it forward, wood splintered and cracked, the door flew open. Shock waves rattled through the house, but the precariously held together building did not crumble.
Gin grabbed hold of Tom's broad shoulder and followed his partner through the tight turns of the house. 'Police!' they both shouted, their call was repeated by other officers who entered from all sides of the place.
The ram hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Tom flicked a truncheon into being. As they entered the living room they halted, then spread themselves out.
The lounge was pitch black, but for a stream of light that shone through the sullied windows. Dust danced in the beams of light, like horrified angels. Damp filled the air, the smell clawed at the lungs, making them tighten with revulsion.
The rest of the officers converged on the lounge. In the centre of the room, illuminated by a single beam of light, was a sofa. A figure lay on it, sprawled out.
A leather aviator jacket, red bra, poker-dot skirt, scarf and stained white shirt were twisted about the person, as though it was confused as to its gender and had dressed accordingly. On its feet were two perfectly polished loafers that shone in the window’s yellow glow.
'What the fuck is that?' asked one of the officers.
'A mess,' said Gin. 'Pick it up.'
Two officers took the figure by the arms and hauled it off the sofa. The sheer weight of an adult uncooperative human forced them to slump to the floor in a clatter of uncontrollable limbs.
'Come on, mate,' said one of the officers, as the pair struggled to get back to their feet and haul the person with them.
Groggily the suspect’s eyes opened, it groaned and began to slowly take in what was happening. The figure's brown eyes locked onto Gin and Tom standing across the room, batons in hand. A wave of fear passed over the its face. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the face began to change; muscles relaxed while others contracted, creating a surge that traveled from one cheek to the other. It was as though the entire face was being re-wired.
The figure's body language had also changed dramatically. Every angle, posture and movement spoke of only one thing: Rage.
The two officers reeled back as they were shed like a great coat. The figure's fatigue has dissolved away and now what stood before them was a man who was ready for anything.
He turned upon the group of officers across from Tom and Gin. They flinched, but held their ground, more stunned than afraid.
A stocky lad came forward, his weapon held ready before him. The figure lunged in a single stride and was well in range to strike the young officer.
As the truncheon came down the man flowed about the officer's arm and at a critical moment, shifted his weight, breaking it.
The sound bit into Gin's heart and made his stomach clench.
The young officer dropped to the floor, cradling his arm. His empty hand lay useless at the end.
The suspect, as there was no doubt this was, tested the truncheon's weight before flicking it about his wrist. In his hands, it seemed deadlier than a gun.
'Take him, all of you!' Gin bellowed.
Twelve men rushed forward, yet the odds still, somehow, seemed stacked against them. With a boxer's deftness he avoided their clumsy attacks. With effortless skill the bat danced in his hands as he picked the men off, one by one. Cheek bones cracked, eye sockets popped and blood flowed freely. Standing among the fallen officers, the suspect was calm, his breathing slow. He was a predator amongst his prey.
Yet more officers came at him. He punched, dodged, threw furniture and spun into kicks that sent his attackers flying across the room. But eventually, reality returned to this small forgotten house. The scales began to balance again, the furious angels dancing in the diffused daylight through the windows slowed. Instead of meeting his skill, the officers used their sheer weight of numbers to smother him.
It was too much for the suspect and he let out a tortured cry of frustration at his physical failure. The sight Gin saw was that akin to bees defending their hive from an invincible hornet.
Just as Gin believed that they had finally mastered him, the suspect roared and heaved at the pile of men on top of him. His head popped free and the tight mass of men began to slip and crumble. Desperate cries filled the room as the officers struggled to keep him contained. The suspect screwed up his face, a thick vein traced vertically down his forehead and his roar reverberated in all their hearts.
Gin leaped on top of the scrum, his truncheon held high. He cried and brought the weapon down with all the force he could drive into that one movement. As the baton cracked over the suspect's head, a thunderbolt seemed to pass through the mass of bodies as the tension snapped, sending them all collapsing to the floor.
Shock and the resulting silence that filled the house froze everyone. No one took a breath; no one breached that barrier of silence. The broken room resembled a battlefield, bodies and ornaments scattered everywhere.
The suspect, Shaun Osborne, lay unconscious on the floor. A trail of blood trickled from the gash in his forehead. About him the battered officers struggled to their feet, and began to look down upon the body before them. They were tense, as though a lion lay there, sleeping, yet potentially dangerous all the same.
'I'm glad he's chosen to exercise his right to silence,' said Gin. He held a pair of handcuffs in his right hand and looked up, meeting Tom's eyes. His partner let out a sigh, and it said one thing. 'Fuck.'
Friday, 24 April 2009
Prologue and Chapter One: Joshua Stone
Smoke trailed above him as he dragged on his cigarette. Large vents in the wall he propped himself against allowed the sounds of the factory to belch into the sky. Inside, silicon chips churned out at hundreds a minute, filling the air with a choking, plastic smog.
The length of the cigarette paper denoted the end of his break. He sucked the last of the tobacco into his lungs, holding back a cough as the filter began to burn. With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he sent the butt careening to the rain soaked concrete.
He pushed himself off the brickwork and turned to the staff entrance, yet as he did so he felt as if the world had become a thick molasses. His feet were heavy as he dragged them to the doorway. A hand cast out for the brass handle, the last breath of smoke trailed from his mouth in a thin yet constant wisp. His palm made contact with the cold, freezing handle and he used all of his strength to turn it.
He was sprinting, panting, retching for air. Bewilderment took hold of him and his legs suddenly forgot their purpose. Buckling beneath him, they sent his body into the hard tarmac path. His hands skidded along as they reached out instinctively, breaking his fall.
He rolled and screamed, clutching his hands to his chest. So cold. So much pain.
He brought them up to his face, studying the damage. Flakes of useless skin jutted out at every angle at the end of deep grooves. He might as well have put a grater to them. But the blood surprised him. Apart from that which seeped from his new wounds there was more. It covered his hands, his arms, his chest. It was dry.
It's not my blood.
This was not the first time he had woken with blood on his hands.
In the late eighties it was the hope of a local borough council to build a perfect community in the South-East of England. The people who would live there would be meek, happy, social individuals who would share casseroles with one another.
This never happened. Instead, the people of South Hethel hid behind SUVs, satellite dishes and microwavable dinners.
It was true that South Hethel was a wonderful place to live, but like most towns in England today, the people were not interested in one another. They feared their neighbours, and avoided even the slightest show of recognition that these other people even existed. When a child waved at a stranger, his parent was always quick to put his little hand down and shuffle him away. Crime was low and the schools won awards. The town had its good and bad points.
South Hethel and its pristine, expensive houses sat before the Marsh; fourteen miles of unconquered water, grass and mud. It was a haven for animals and plant life, and through it ran a white gravel path, like a scar on nature's bosom.
For Joshua Stone, the town failed to interest him. He had too many ideas and too few friends to find comfort in that suburban maze. Instead, he preferred to act out his fantasies within the Marsh. There he could be anything, and no one would tell him that he was a fool, or to grow up. No, the Marsh protected him from the outside world, the world where nothing happened.
On this day he was a rally car driver. Gravel clanked against the frame work of his bike, and a huge white cloud bellowed behind him. He pumped the pedals with all of his energy, making himself pant with exhaustion. He still made the effort to produce the sounds of the engine as it screamed through the gears.
He was half way through the race as he tackled a series of tight bends and catapulted into a straight. His engine began to clank and splutter, and eventually died altogether. Joshua allowed the bike to coast to a stop and let it fall to the ground.
From his backpack he produced a wrench and a set of allan keys. He set about working on the car, making the sounds of other cars rushing passed him.
Joshua had been working for five minutes when he had to stop and drink from his bottle. The sun was baking, reflecting up at him from the gravel.
'I'll have to get moving soon,' he said to himself. He took another swig of his water and a white flash popped in the corner of his eye.
He started, dribbling some of the water down his front. 'Shit,' he cursed and rubbed at the wet patch. He looked back up in the direction the flash had come from. He waited.
There it came again, weaker. A reflection from some polished object. It sat on a mound of grass some way off in the fen-lands, on a little tiny island amongst a sea of mud. A number of similar islands bridged the gap between himself and what ever
it was out there.
It took Joshua a moment to think of what he should do. Either he could ride on and continue playing his game, or he could find out what was sparkling. Curiosity, as they say, always kills the cat.
He hopped to the first island, a distance no more than a large bound. His trainers quickly sank into the wet mud, caking them. He hopped like this for twenty yards when the inevitable happened.
He missed an island and landed in the mud. Instantly, he was up to his knees, but he was quick and reached out for the long grass of the island he had been aiming for. His right leg came out easily, but the left was held too fast by the mud.
'Come on!' he screamed and yanked again, pulling at the grass. His ankle popped and his leg came free. He cried out in agony as he landed in a pile upon the grass. Joshua's hands did their best to comfort his sprained ankle, but the pain was still excruciating.
After a few minutes, he wiped at his eyes. The initial pain had subsided, but he knew that it would be a very long trip home. And then he remembered what he had come all this way for.
He cast about and saw it, the next island over, gleaming like a wonderful jewel in the high summer sun. Luckily the island was but a footstep away from the one he had landed on.
With a painful leap he collapsed onto it, nearly landing right on the very thing he had gone through so much to find. He picked it up and turned it in his hands.
It was a knife. Its blade was perfectly polished so that it could even have been a shard of a mirror. The handle was pure silver and had been crafted into the head of a serpent. Black jewels were set in the snake's eyes, yet their darkness seemed unnatural, as though they sucked the light into their nothingness.
Between the serpents eyes was a single rune and as he turned the knife to take a closer look at it, the rune began to glow.
A golden light pulsed from it. Looking at it made his stomach lurch, and his head pulsed with pain. His hands knew instantly that what ever this thing was, no good could come of it. He tried to drop it, but his fingers were locked to the metal.
The light was growing, outdoing the sun's luminescence. A low pulse buzzed through the air, rippling the water. With a sudden explosion of golden, sickening, terrible light water rushed into the air and began to spin about him, about the light.
He closed his eyes and felt himself turning in the air, being dragged somewhere else. The noise was unbearable, as if a jumbo jet were passing over his head. 'Help!' he tried to scream, but there was no air; only noise and the golden light.
Then it was gone.
He opened his eyes and that sickening golden light filled them, yet this time it flowed from multiple runes etched into a black stone that towered over him.
Whipping his head about him, Joshua saw that he sat in a circle of stone surrounded by these large monoliths, and standing between them were hooded creatures with beaks that protruded beneath their hoods and talons that should have been hands. They clucked and squawked a horrendous rhythm that would turn Joshua insane if it did not stop soon.
He reacted naturally and tried to run, but he fell as soon as he got to his feet. His ankle couldn't take the weight. The creatures dove at him, holding him with their talons, pinning him to the ground. Joshua could do nothing but scream as they clucked and snapped their beaks at him.
Before him, the air warbled and the darkness of this other world's night seemed to take on another shade of black, like the abyss he had seen in the eyes of the serpent.
Forming in the air was another hooded being. It towered above him, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet. Its long black cloak undulated in the air and inside its hood was a terrible darkness. With a burst of flame the being's eyes ignited and burned white hot. They looked into Joshua and he felt a coldness take hold of his very being.
He could do nothing, the beaked monstrosities held him pinned to the ground, one of them sent a long trail of saliva into his lap, but Joshua could not feel this. All he could sense was the specter's malice.
From beyond the circle of stone came another of the hooded creatures and bowed over one outstretched leg toward the specter.
'O Servant of Tretchery, most cunning of all the Deceivers, what is to be done with the human child?' Its voice was rough, alien; it failed to form some of the words fully as though its tongue struggled to do battle with such a form of language.
Whispers filled the air and then a thunderous voice ripped through the circle of stone, cutting through Joshua's mind. 'Take it to the Guyren. The fires must not dim!'
Joshua could only cry as he was carried away towards a bloodshot tower of smoke in the distance.
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