by Greg Krojac
THE RECARN CHRONICLES
OMNIBUS EDITION
The Complete Trilogy
REVELATION
REVOLUTION
RESOLUTION
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please note that this book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 Greg Krojac
All rights reserved
Language: UK English
“We are not going to achieve a new world order without paying for it in blood as well as in words and money.”
Arthur M Schlesinger Jr (American Historian)
BOOK ONE
REVELATION
CHAPTER ONE
16:40 FRIDAY 24 DECEMBER 1965
Hannah walked across the small living room to the recently polished sideboard, upon which sat a 20” black and white TV set. It was quite modern, having four push buttons for channel selection, especially useful now that BBC Two had started broadcasting. Until then there had only been two channels – BBC One and the commercial TV broadcaster, ITV. She couldn’t imagine when the fourth button might become useful, as three television channels were surely sufficient for anyone to choose from. She turned the on/off/volume knob to the right, remembering that it was a little loose, and pressing it at the same time as twisting it so that it didn’t fall off. She really should contact the TV rental company and ask them to send a repairman out to fix it, or perhaps even change the set for another one. It would have to be the same model though, as she couldn’t afford an upgrade. She’d heard that there was a chance that colour television would be introduced in Britain in a couple of years, and she’d see if she could afford an upgrade then. Her son, Simon, would love that.
Once the TV had warmed up, she pushed the button to change the channel to BBC1 and sat down on a chair that she’d brought through from the kitchen, eagerly awaiting one of her favourite programmes. A cartoon, ‘Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol’, was about to finish and then it would be Jackanory with the actress Wendy Hiller reading ‘Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas’. Hannah enjoyed watching Jackanory, even though her childhood was now behind her. The first episode of Jackanory had been broadcast only eleven days earlier, when Lee Montague read the fairy story ‘Cap-o’-Rushes’. Hannah had been hooked since that very first episode and had decided to put aside fifteen minutes each day to watch the programme, whether or not Simon watched with her.
This would be the third successive Christmas that she would spend alone with Simon; she was beginning to get used to Christmases with just the two of them now. Simon’s father, Richard, had left three years ago. Not to the day, but almost. She’d tried so many times to forget that day in November 1962 when Richard had arrived home from work, placed his briefcase on the kitchen table, and brazenly announced to his wife that he’d met someone else and was moving to Cardiff to be with his new love. Hannah had always thought the stories of travelling salesmen cheating on their wives were just clichés, but Richard had proved the stereotype to be true. He’d given her the old line that it wasn’t her, it was him. At first, she didn’t believe him, but once she and Simon had got over the initial shock, she was able to realise that it was indeed him. She’d tried to ignore her gut feeling that something was wrong but eventually couldn’t deny that her husband certainly seemed to be less committed to their relationship than previously, which coincided with the expansion of his sales territory to include South Wales. It took some time to recover but, after a while, when Hannah had decided that it was his loss and not hers, she felt empowered and able to continue her life without him. Anyway, she still had Simon and she felt that she could face anything with her boy by her side.
The house the two lived in was a typical two up, two down terraced house with a small back garden. Hannah didn’t have much money to spare but she did her best to keep their home clean and tidy and tried not to let her son want for anything. She always looked well-dressed, and that was in no small part thanks to the mail order company that allowed her to pay for her purchases by weekly instalments. It was also another source of income, as she passed the catalogue around her friends and family making a little money from the commission gained as an agent. It was a small but happy home, and she and Simon made a small but happy family.
***
Upstairs, Simon was in his bedroom playing with his train set. His mother had tried to get him interested in watching Jackanory, but at the moment he was more interested in playing with his toys. He’d told her he preferred to read books nowadays - he felt too old to be read to - but perhaps he’d give the programme a try after Christmas. He was wearing his favourite green checked shirt and a new pair of jeans that his mother had bought the week before from the local supermarket. He didn’t mind wearing the jeans inside the house, where nobody could see the label on the back pocket, but if he went outside he preferred to wear shorts – even in cold weather – rather than wear the supermarket’s own brand jeans. He was average height for his age, had semi crew-cut, dark brown hair and a pair of round NHS spectacles resting on his nose. His friends at school called him the Chocky Bar Kid, saying that he looked like the boy from the TV advert, but he didn’t mind. After all, the Chocky Bar Kid was cool.
Simon’s bedroom was directly above the staircase, and the recess that allowed people to go up and downstairs without hitting their heads protruded into his room, providing a convenient base upon which his model train layout was set up. Ordinarily, this architectural feature might be thought of as a nuisance but – with his parents’ help – it’d been turned into the foundations for a miniature wonderland with Simon’s train set as its focal point.
And what a train set it was - a real feat of miniature domestic civil engineering. The tracks were set amongst papier-mâché hills, moulded by Simon with the help of his mother. Simon had painted the hills, but anything that required finer detail than broad brush strokes had been lovingly painted by Hannah. The hills were peppered with model shrubs and trees that he bought from the local model shop (with his own pocket money), but the pièce de résistance was the attention paid to the buildings. These were bought in kit form printed on durable cardboard and then assembled and placed in position. Simon’s father had installed electric lighting in the station, sheds and houses, and at night the landscape was a small forest of glistening lights. None of his friends had such a realistic train set; it was amazing what his dad had been able to do with clear Christmas tree light bulbs and a little ingenuity. Standing on the station platforms and by the roads were several OO scale plastic figures of people waiting for trains; a person riding a motor scooter, a postman, and a man walking his dog. All had been carefully and lovingly painted by his mother’s steady hand.
Simon still saw quite a lot of his father, but it wasn’t the same as having him at home. He’d a special relationship with his father, one of love but also one of wonder at the things that Richard could do. He missed his dad.
Hannah called up the stairs.
“Simon, your programme’s about to start. It’s nearly five o’clock. Joe Brown’s on this week. You like him.”
In reality, it was only a quarter to five but Simon’s mother always exaggerated the lateness of the hour. At first, it had been a ruse to make sure that he got out of bed in time to have breakfast before he went to school, but now it had become a habit. Although Simon was fully aware of his mother’s strategy, he didn’t let on.
Simon loved Crackerjack. Five to five on a Friday afternoon was his favourite time. He would sit in front of the TV set waiting impatiently for the cry of ‘it's Friday, it's five to five and it's Crackerjack’. That night the programme was actually due to start five minutes later, at five o’clock, probably due to it being Christmas Eve, but they certainly wouldn’t change their catchphrase just because of that. Every time somebody on the show mentioned the word ‘Crackerjack’ the studio audience of children would erupt in unison, shouting out ‘Crackerjack’ and children all over the country, watching at home, would do the same. Simon was no exception. He loved shouting ‘Crackerjack’ back at the TV, even though he knew that the only person who could actually hear him was his mother. His favourite part was the little play that the presenters performed at the end of each show, shoehorning the latest pop songs into the rather dubious comedy-drama finale of the programme. He’d have liked to watch Crackerjack every night of the week, but one night a week of Simon shouting at the TV was plenty enough for his mother’s nerves. At least watching Doctor Who on Saturday nights was a much quieter experience, albeit a little more frightening.
***
Simon turned the dial of his train set control to the off position and the OO/HO gauge model of the Princess Victoria steam locomotive halted abruptly.
“On my way down, Mum,”
Simon hoisted his leg over the varnished bannister and slid down it to the bottom of the stairs. Like all children, this was his favourite way of going downstairs but he was careful to make sure he only did it when his mother couldn’t see. He thought that she probably knew what he was up to, but he didn’t see any point in putting his suspicions to the test.
***
He trotted into the living room and flopped into a soft velour armchair. He started half-watching Jackanory but he considered the ‘Little Grey Rabbit’ stories too young for him now. He’d no idea why his mother was watching either; she was a grown-up. If the story was too young for him, then it was definitely too young for her. His favourite books were the Jennings books; he couldn’t get enough of the schoolboy adventures of Jennings and his best friend Darbishire. If those books were ever featured on Jackanory, he’d definitely watch the programme.
The two-seater sofa was vacant but he preferred the way that the armchair kind of wrapped itself around him. Hannah liked the sofa, but when her back was playing her up – as it was that day – she preferred the more rigid posture that a kitchen chair forced her to take. For some reason, it seemed to alleviate the pain.
Hannah glanced over at her son, wincing as a sudden unexpected shot of pain stabbed her spine.
“There’s jelly and ice-cream in the fridge.”
Crackerjack coupled with jelly and ice-cream was a combination that her son could never resist.
“What flavour is it, Mum?”
“Go and fetch it and you’ll find out, won’t you?”
***
Simon poured himself out of the armchair and skipped into the kitchen. He was in an exceptionally good mood. He opened the door of the ageing Frigidaire refrigerator and saw two glass dishes within, each containing a generous portion of raspberry jelly. Then he opened the freezer compartment and took out a tub of Wall’s raspberry ripple ice-cream, the best ice-cream in the world in his opinion. He strolled across the kitchen to the welsh dresser and opened the second drawer down, his hand scrambling around inside it trying to find the ice-cream scoop. Scoop found, he stood for a moment looking at the freshly sharpened carving knife sitting in its block on the nearby worktop.
“What’s keeping you, Simon? Your TV programme will be starting soon.”
“Be there in a minute, Mum.”
Simon peeked through the kitchen doorway and saw his mother sitting bolt upright on the dining room chair, trying to ignore her pain, waiting patiently for her dessert.
He went back to look at the carving knife, caressing it with his eyes. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He pulled open another drawer, into which lots of plastic carrier bags had been stuffed, digging around inside the drawer, the mass of plastic bags threatening to swallow his hand, until he found what he was looking for – a particularly large green plastic carrier bag. Simon had hidden it at the bottom of the drawer several weeks earlier as it had the number one quality necessary to help him in his next venture – no air holes. From a third drawer – the knick-knack drawer - he took a length of strong but flexible wire, and two rolls of gaffer tape.
***
Simon quietly slipped out of the kitchen, crept up behind his mother and with one swift movement he had pulled the plastic bag over her head. She started flailing around, panicking, wondering what on earth was going on. He pulled hard on the bag, securing it by wrapping the wire around the entrance of the bag, causing Hannah to choke as it tightened around her neck. He was pleased but not particularly surprised at the success of his plan so far; he’d been practising this manoeuvre for weeks using his old, dilapidated, but rather large teddy bear. Continuing to pull the wire taut, he braced his feet against the chair legs to help him fight against the resistance that his struggling mother was putting up. After a brief struggle, the lack of air caused Hannah to lose consciousness. Satisfied that he hadn’t accidentally killed her – that wasn’t part of his plan yet - and that she wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon, Simon removed the bag and looked at his mother slumped on the chair sitting there, not lifeless but certainly helpless.
He ripped off more gaffer tape and carefully bound her ankles to the chair legs and her wrists behind the upright of the chair-back so that she couldn’t escape when she woke up. He had plenty of gaffer tape left over and decided that he might as well use it all up. He continued wrapping the tape around her calves and forearms, pinning her limbs to the chair in a vice-like grip. Then he tore off the last strip of tape and pressed it over her mouth.
Simon stepped back and admired his handiwork, looking very pleased with himself. He’d done a very professional job; Hannah certainly wasn’t going anywhere. He went back into the kitchen and returned seconds later, dragging another kitchen chair behind him, pulling it past his unconscious mother and placing it in front of her, at a distance of about three feet. Spinning the chair round to face his mother, he sat down, toying with the carving knife. On TV, Leslie Crowther was telling a losing contestant that she’d won a Crackerjack pencil. The responding roar of ‘Crackerjack’ interrupted Simon’s concentration for a couple of seconds and he felt a compulsion to join in. He couldn’t stop himself. Pavlov would have been proud of him.
“Crackerjack!”
Somehow his shout didn’t wake up his mother but a few minutes later she did regain consciousness and was bewildered to find her movements severely restricted. She tilted her head downwards to see that she was tied to a chair. Who had done this to her? Her eyes darted around the room looking for signs of an intruder but all she could see was her beloved ten-year-old son sitting opposite her, his intense gaze burrowing into her head. Surely Simon couldn’t have done this? But there was nobody else around. She felt decidedly unsettled at how remarkably composed and unfazed her son seemed to be in these surreal circumstances.
Simon looked Hannah up and down and took a deep breath.
“Hi, Mum.”
Hi Mum? His mother was secured by gaffer tape and that was all he could come up with?
Simon’s glasses had slipped forward a little so he pushed them back onto the bridge of his nose. It happened so often that it was an instinctive reaction.
“Wondering what’s happening to you, Hannah? Well, I’ll tell you. This is when you pay for your past sins. You’ve wronged me, Hannah, you’ve wronged me very greatly indeed.”
Hannah was confused. Simon had never called her by her first name before. Of course, he knew her real name, but she was his mum and he always referred to her as such. She’d always done her best for Simon, she’d made sure that he never went without, no matter how tight money became. She knew that he wasn’t overjoyed
with the jeans that she’d bought him, the label on the back pocket announcing to anybody and everybody that she’d bought them from Tescos supermarket, but she couldn’t afford the fancy brands like Levi or Wrangler. What could anger a ten-year-old boy to make him do something like this? Simon pointed a finger menacingly at his mother.
“I want you to think back to before Hannah was born. In fact, think back to long before you were born - about 150 years ago. Not so easy for you, is it? But I remember it as if it were yesterday. You see, we knew each other in a past life, Hannah. In those days you were Joseph Grimes, an overseer on a cotton plantation in Louisiana. You were a monster, a hard and unfair taskmaster and way too fond of the booze. A violent and drunken bully.”
Hannah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What had got into her sweet, loving son? He’d gone crazy. Was he possessed or something? How could he know about her previous lives? What previous lives? He wasn’t making any sense. He’d obviously gone insane.
Simon took a deep breath and continued his explanation.
“My name was Ruth and I was a slave on the plantation. I was a good worker. I always brought in my quota of cotton. Hell, I often surpassed my quota. Of course, my conditions weren’t that great – I was a slave – but I did have a family. A family that I loved with all my heart. I had a wonderful husband and a beautiful little daughter, Mary. One night, a few months after my husband had fallen ill with a fever and passed away, you came to my hut and battered on the door, demanding to be let in. I was frightened and hid behind my daughter`s bed, huddled together with her, hoping that you`d get bored and go away. But then I heard an almighty crash, a crash loud enough to awaken my poor dead husband, and I saw you stumbling into the house, saliva dribbling down onto your chin, the door barely hanging on its hinges. You were stinking drunk.”
Hannah wanted this nightmare to be over, but she was in no position to do anything about it. She wanted to shout at him, to beg him to let her go, to promise that they’d find someone to help rid him of this dreadful sickness or whatever it was that was afflicting his mind, but the tape over her mouth was stuck fast. She was powerless to do or say anything.