Blackout

by Katy Mitchell

  About the author

  Katy A Mitchell grew up in a small seaside town in Lancashire, England. Katy has always had an interest in travel and she has lived and worked in various countries around the world. She is a teacher and has been working in education for the past eleven years.

  Katy got the idea for Blackout and the character of Cecily Stalks while at university. It took her eight years to complete the first book of The Light and Dark Narratives and different parts of the story have been imagined and written in several countries across the world.

  The Light and Dark Narratives: Blackout

  Katy A. Mitchell

  The Light and Dark Narratives: Blackout

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD E-book

  © Copyright 2018

  Katy A. Mitchell

  The right of Katy A Mitchell to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 784652 89 0 (paperback)

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2018

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a great deal to my family and friends, who were there for me throughout the duration of this project. It has been a long road thus far and, at times, I have needed a lot of support and encouragement to make it happen. Without you, I’m sure I would have given up on Cecily Stalks long ago.

  Many thanks to my friend, Joe Falconer, an amazing artist who illustrated the map of Bramblegate. Also to my publisher, Pegasus Elliot Mackenzie, for their belief in my writing.

  A final mention for those who have already read Cecily’s story; your support and feedback means the world.

  Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

  For those who believed

  Prologue

  The battle cries of war rang in her ears. She took a moment out of the fight to take a look around and gauge their situation. Her army had taken a massive hit. All around her lay decapitated, broken bodies. The metallic smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils as she looked down in order to carefully place her feet, not wanting to tread on one of her recently deceased comrades. As she turned around, full circle, she saw them gathering in the shadows of the tree line, a threatening black mass. This meant that he would not be far behind. She could not… no, she would not let him win this war. She could not even contemplate the disastrous consequence of such a victory on his part. Thrusting this terrifying thought to one side, she urgently scoured the combat field for her friends, inwardly praying that they were safe. She could not do this without them. She instinctively felt danger. She spun around just in time to see her cowardly attacker run at her from behind. She reached out her hand which held her long, sharp sword and hit her adversary on the head with the hilt of the powerful weapon. She skilfully twisted the sword around in both hands and directed the blood-spattered blade into the abdomen of the enemy soldier. He never stood a chance. He was no match for her.

  Chapter One

  Cecily Stalks stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Another Monday morning had arrived, an indication that life does, indeed, go on. She decided that she looked a bit peaky today. As she stuck her tongue out and examined its health in the reflection, she wondered if she was well enough to make the twenty-minute walk to work. She then considered whether she could persevere through the eight-hour shift that lay ahead. However, her conscience had already made the decision for her.

  “Come on, Cecily,” it chided. “There is nothing wrong with you. Now brush your teeth and wash your face… and for heaven’s sake, put a brush through that mop you call a hairstyle!”

  Cecily went over this same routine every morning, bound to it. She despised her job at the local tourist spot. She even more loathed the drove of tourists that poured through the doors every day of the week, rain or shine. Weekday visitors comprised of noisy, reckless groups of school children who crashed about as if in their local playground. Also, there were the well-off, middle-aged housewives who had no need of work and who had plenty of time to spare. They discussed the latest fashions and charitable causes of the moment. Cecily would often eavesdrop on their meaningless babble and in a way, she envied their seemingly trouble-free lives. Then there were the dear old folk, who would come in early and make a pot of tea for two last well into the afternoon. Cecily always wondered how they managed this feat. It was as if they possessed magical powers which they could channel into the ability of refilling a teapot at will. Cecily knew there was little hope of any tips when this happened, but somehow, she did not mind. They were kind and knowledgeable and instead of cash, they gifted her with stories about the past. If the weather was nice, they would attract students skiving from the local college. They would while the afternoon away, sunbathing and chatting in their small social pods. This, at the very least, gave the middle-aged housewives and the old folk additional conversation pieces to discuss about ‘the youth of today’. Cecily snapped out of her premonition about what this Monday held in store for her. Predictable, as always. Predictable, just like every other day. The fact of the matter was that they needed money and she would have to go out and earn it.

  Where had the weekend gone? she mused to herself. It was far too short. Cecily now stood in the bomb site that resembled her bedroom. Everything in here was familiar to her: the beaten up old rocking chair, once her grandmother’s, that now sat by the window, the three-quarter size bed which was full of lumps that she had slept in for as long as she could remember, the mismatched wooden furniture that inhabited every nook and cranny of her room. Here, she was safe. But as Cecily gazed around the room, surveying the numerous piles of clothes and subconsciously deciding what to wear, a niggling feeling probed from the back of her brain. It was like this feeling was attempting to escape that closed off place and make a run for the forefront of her mind and freedom. It was that same feeling that told her all was not well. But, of course, she was being ridiculous. That is what her mother told her anyway.

  Eighteen-year-old Cecily had been having the same dreams since her father died three years ago. Vivid dreams of battlefields and a struggle between good and evil forces. A tremendous weight lay heavily on her shoulders and that burden was the victory of this most significant war. And then there were the shadows; the shadows were most disturbing. Her mother had sent her to a psychiatrist when these dreams began at the age of fifteen. The doctor, unsurprisingly, interpreted these dreams as a manifestation of guilt, that Cecily blamed herself and ultimately felt responsible for the death of her father. The reoccurring dream was her anxiety playing itself out, over and over whilst she slept. But Cecily felt no guilt or blame about her father’s death. She only discovered his body; she did not kill him.

  Cecily pushed all thoughts of her father and her dreams out of her head. Aware that she was running late, she threw on a pair of old, worn jeans and a t-shirt. As C
ecily grabbed her bag, her eye caught the reflection in the full-length mirror by her desk. Cecily was so pale she was almost translucent. She had the loveliest colour of auburn hair which fell in a straight bob midway between her chin and shoulder. As was the latest fashion, she had a thick fringe cut in. When her hair caught the light, it was like a disco ball, reflecting the different natural highlights in Cecily’s hair of golden and brown. She had a small nose, dotted with a few red freckles, high cheekbones and a pale pink mouth. However, it was Cecily’s eyes that were her most stunning feature; big, wide, lustrous eyes, the colour of ripe limes, framed by long, dark lashes. Her eyes set off her heart shaped face perfectly. Cecily was very pretty and one day, she would be a beautiful woman; however, at the moment, Cecily was much the tomboy and at five feet six inches, she had a lean, almost gangly frame. She adjusted her thrown together outfit in the mirror, slung her bag over her shoulder and ran down the stairs. If she was quick, she might be able to avoid her mother. No such luck.

  “Cecily, I’m not going to be home until late tonight. You will have to get your own tea,” she called from the kitchen.

  “Right, OK, Mother!” she huffed under her breath as she pulled her trainers on by the front door.

  “But there is no food in. I haven’t had time to go shopping.” Cecily could hear from her mother’s voice that she was getting closer.

  “No change there then,” she muttered as she was tying her laces.

  “What was that?” said her mum, who was now stood behind her.

  “Nothing!” snapped Cecily. “Don’t worry about me!”

  “Cecily,” began her mother in lecturing mode, “if you have something to say to me, then spit it out!”

  “I haven’t got time for this!” retorted Cecily. “It’s ten to nine. I have to go. Don’t want to lose my job now, do I?”

  And with that, Cecily belted down the garden path, through the gate and onto the gravel track that led through the wood, her mother left standing in her wake.

  Chapter Two

  Cecily was resigned to the fact that she was going to be late for work again. This meant she could expect the usual lecture on tardiness from her boss. Time management skills were not Cecily’s strong point. In fact, she was surprised she still had a job to go to at all.

  It was a splendid spring morning. April was one of Cecily’s favourite months by far. Everything smelt so fresh and new. The woods were revitalised, free once more to share their beauty after being held prisoner by the long, cold winter. Bluebells began to raise their heads, shades of blue as magnificent as a clear summer sky. Crocus, pure and white, reflected the morning sunshine through the dazzling dew that lay delicately upon them. The grass was green once more and the trees were showing signs of life, budding after their long slumber. Cecily had always been in tune with nature. It was as if she could hear every sound in the woods as a separate entity: the blackbirds singing their spring melody, the spiders spinning glossy webs, waiting patiently to snare their prey, the squirrels digging furiously in search of sustenance, the breeze gently rustling through the uppermost treetops, the unfurling of the spring buds of wildflowers and trees alike, the babbling of the brook on its way downstream. All of these sounds came together in a wondrous harmony that thrilled Cecily to the very bone and made her calm, almost serene. Cecily had an affinity with nature. She felt as if she belonged.

  Cecily thought about her home and how lucky she was to be surrounded by such breath-taking nature. The scenery seemed to melt her troubles away. She lived in the heart of the Lancashire countryside, in a tiny village called Bramblegate. Bramblegate was old. In fact, it was very old. But, old as it was, so was it unremarkable. Cecily should know, she had lived there all her life. Her parents, both writers, had relocated from the nearby city to Bramblegate shortly before Cecily was born. They felt that the tranquil atmosphere of the country would be an inspiration for their writing and they also felt that in these ‘modern times’, it would be safer for their child.

  Bramblegate: population, 386. And this number was at an all-time high due to baby booms in the seventies and eighties. Still, it was a small village with a small population and as you may well guess, everybody knew everybody else. At times, the advantage of living in a small village was evident, like the episode outside the village hall a few years ago, when Maxine Matthews was about to wallop Cecily. Maxine Matthews was, without a doubt, the most feared school bully in years and you did not have to do much to upset her. Cecily had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And as Maxine was two years older than Cecily and distinctly taller, it was rather unfortunate that Cecily had stumbled upon an irate Maxine whilst taking a shortcut home. Luckily, Mr Jefferies was walking his beautiful Border Collie, Alfred (who did not like bullies), at the time and he had managed to call off Maxine before the blow landed. At times like these, Cecily was grateful for the interfering inhabitants of Bramblegate.

  However, she was not so grateful when Mrs Gibson-Brown caught her kissing Joel Worthington in the church graveyard. She promptly dragged them both to confront Joel’s parents about ‘inappropriate, blasphemous behaviour’. Mrs Gibson-Brown was quite certain that the once respectable, now dead villagers of Bramblegate would be turning in their graves. Incidentally, the Worthingtons were quick to contact Cecily’s parents; it would not do for Joel’s name alone to be dragged through the mud. Cecily found that she was the subject of whispers and disapproving glances for a good month after the event, that is, until the next scandal gripped the village. At times like these, it was a definite disadvantage to live in such a small village. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.

  The local amenities in Bramblegate consisted of: St Peter’s Church and its attached graveyard, the primary school, the village hall, the Bramblegate Village Store, which also housed the post office, the local pub called The Bramble Arms, which had rooms above and so also served as a bed and breakfast, Maddy’s Coffee Shop, which was actually a small café and the fish and chip shop, aptly named ‘Good Cod’, its location being opposite the church. Nothing ever seemed to change aesthetically in Bramblegate and if someone decided they wanted to change something, then there would usually be a squabble with the locals. The largest upheaval in recent years was the addition of a petrol station, just half a mile out of the village on the approach. Some of the villagers actually staged protests against the building work. However, after all the fuss, the villagers now seemed content not to have to drive five miles to the nearest pump in order to fill their vehicles.

  Cecily complained about a lot of things and as she thought about the village of Bramblegate, with its inquisitorial inhabitants and almost stagnant nature, she also thought about her affection for the place, how she cherished it and how she would not want to be anywhere else on Earth. However, on this Monday morning, there was no time to appreciate Bramblegate or to enjoy the divine spring weather. She was late and so she half-ran, half-walked the rest of the way to work.

  Chapter Three

  Cecily arrived at work at 9.04 a.m., precisely four minutes late. Little beads of perspiration were beginning to gather on her top lip. Perhaps if this were the first time Cecily had ever been late for work, then four minutes would not have been that much of a big deal. But as Cecily was late on a daily basis and sometimes more than four minutes late, it was a travesty, or so her manager, Acantha Sims, thought. With the efficiency of a hawk swooping down on its prey or the prowess of a tigress leaping in for the kill, Acantha Sims cornered Cecily in the back corridor by the staff room.

  “Cecily, really!” puffed Acantha. “How many times do I have to tell you to BE ON TIME? It will not do! We have an obligation to our reverent employers, the Bramble family. They are good to us, Cecily. You shouldn’t take advantage.”

  Cecily looked blankly at Acantha. This is the part where you are supposed to reply, Cecily thought to herself as her brain clicked into gear. She had witnessed this speech of Acantha’s a million times. She could repeat it backwards, verbatim, i
n her sleep. Cecily especially liked the part where Acantha placed her right hand over her left breast as she talked about the Bramble family, with a far off look in her eye.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms Sims. I don’t know why I’m late. I’ve really no excuse. I promise I will be on time for the rest of the week,” implored Cecily.

  “Oh, Cecily!” sighed Acantha. “You say that every time you are late. As your manager, it is my job to ensure that you abide by the rules. There aren’t that many rules, Cecily. All I ask is that you arrive to work on time. Do you know how many people would kill for your position here?”

  That last assertion of Acantha’s was not strictly true. No one wanted this job. Most of the villagers commuted the twenty-five minutes, either by car or bus, to the nearest city for work. Obviously, there was a larger variety of better paid jobs than the ones available in a tiny village. Cecily’s ‘reverent’ employers, the Bramble family, only paid minimum wage for her job and as she was under twenty-one years old, it did not amount to much for a full-time position. However, the work was easy and she was close to home. At the end of the day, it was money.

  “I’m truly sorry, Ms Sims,” said Cecily. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not, Cecily or I really will have to take action. Now put on your pinny and get to the floor. We already have customers in.”