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.'
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