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.

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.'

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.'

...