The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  How ironic that it is my own mind that is infecting me. I run my working fingers through my hair. I no longer have the energy to fight the guards. I would have beaten Hallam had he not cried out for help. And by beaten, I mean I would have fixed him. He was broken, but not irreparable. And then he would have thanked me and given me my mail. I clench my fist. I could take this punishment if only I was given my mail. I need something, just a line from someone, anyone, just to say that I have helped them, that they understand what I did and appreciate it. I am the one who lies here crippled and blind. Many times I told myself that I do have followers. Hallam and Todd had made that clear. But that knowledge had cooled down to a simmer too, and before long I began to doubt my interpretation of their words. I could not be sure that I had followers ̶ not without proof, not without letters.

  Hallam will have benefited from this. He has been disowned by his colleagues and is now a figure of shame. That is what he needed and in time he will be a happy man. But how then is it fair that I suffer? How many people have I helped? Hundreds, maybe thousands, and now I am the victim, stuck here with my own foreboding thoughts.

  They will deny me contact with the outside world. I will grow old, I will lose my mind here…

  47

  One thing I do, the only thing I now do, is keep track of time. It is the only thing I now do to exercise my mind. I feel it is important to do this, to have some connection with life. After all, I am alive and we all live for a reason. I do not think about things now. Thinking hurts me, fills me with grief and self-loathing. And I do not want to think what my reason for living is, because I know I won’t find it.

  Today, it is three months since I left hospital after the guards had attacked me. I am fairly sure that I am right about the passage of time. I am still astute enough to realise that all I now do is simply exist.

  Things have improved here in this prison – I have been offered suitable reading material and the chance to sit outside in the garden, but I did not want either of them and said so. I am content just to exist. My mind deserves a rest. My mind worked harder than any other mind back when I was somebody, when I was Chalk Cutter, founder of...I cannot say it anymore. Those three words, those six syllables, when acknowledged, dance around in my mind like wild flames and then stamp down hard on my entire body, reducing me to a state of exhaustion.

  I know that an unused mind deteriorates, but that knowledge comforts me. The less my mind works, the less painful it is to exist.

  There are no opportunities to kill myself in this cell. The guards are not that stupid.

  What else has changed in the last three months? I no longer need to use crutches. In fact, while my mind has been dying, my body has been healing. I am free of casts.

  Elizabeth would not be happy with me. All I do is eat and lounge about. I do not exercise, socialise or do anything constructive. I sleep most of the time. When I am awake I wait until I feel drowsy and then I go to sleep. Only when meal time arrives do I rise and that is because I am forced to.

  When I was at hospital they gave me a new set of glasses and I wear them now. They shut out a lot of pain especially in the morning like now when it is light. I listen to my deep, fast breaths. I always do this, they help me relax. I just listen to those breaths and feel my stomach rise and fall until I fall asleep.

  ‘Chalk, get up.’ I sit up as fast as I can. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’ I feel my pulse accelerate.

  ‘A visitor?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Who...is it?’

  ‘Someone who’s got a fucking nerve coming ‘ere.’

  48

  ‘Alright, Chalk?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You know I don’t work ‘ere no more?’

  I sigh and then nod. I cannot be bothered to talk to him.

  ‘You were right, Chalk. All that stuff you said. You were right.’

  I rest my chin on my hand. I am so tired. ‘Is that it? I was resting.’

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Always have.’

  ‘And you sound...lifeless. What’s happened to ya?’ I exaggerate a yawn. He continues. ‘I…I had to take time off after we ‘ad that fight–’

  I clear my throat. ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘I know you overpowered me. I don’t care about that no more, honest I don’t, I’m glad it ’appened. I needed it to ’appen to make me see sense... They’re all taking the piss out of me up there...’

  ‘You expect me to look?’

  ‘No, course I don’t. I don’t even care no more. I ain’t physical, just like you said. After you wiped all that shit in my face, I cracked up, I couldn’t maintain my fake image no more. I broke down in front of ’em. Funny how quick your work mates lose respect for ya in ’ere. They slated me and I ran out, ran out the building... I took time off for stress. I did a lot of thinking, spoke to my family about it and now I’ve got a new job.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I work for Royal Mail.’

  I have no interest. And I feel no obligation to reply out of politeness.

  ‘I...it took me a while to come back ’ere. I needed time away. To be honest with ya, I ain’t even ready now, but...I had to come here and see you, ’cause I knew you were in pain.’

  I lift up my head.

  ‘I’ve got something for ya, Chalk.’ Hallam summons a guard. A heavy man walks up to him. ‘You know about this, Roy,’ Hallam nervously informs him. ‘You know what it is, mate.’

  ‘Still have to check it out. You know the score, used to work here, didn’t you?’ The guard is patronising him. ‘And I’m not your “mate”, so don’t you ever say I am.’

  I hear shuffling and movements and then an object is slid along the table between us and hits my hand. I feel its edges. It is a hardback book. I feel letters on its cover – it is written in Braille. The heavy man walks off. I sweep my fingers to either the top or bottom of the book. ‘Is this the top?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hallam responds.

  I work my way down until I feel letters, and then I move left to the first one. It is an ‘E’, capitalised. The next letter is a small one, an ‘l’. I resist the urge to guess. That would be pointless. An ‘i’ and then a ‘z’... Elizabeth? Does this-is this first word Elizabeth? Is this a book by Elizabeth? My Elizabeth? My heart begins to race. Why else would Hallam give this to me? Stop the conjecture, Chalk, stop it now, it could kill you! ‘a’...’b’... Elizab...next will be an ‘e’, it must be!... It is! There should be two more letters in this word. I quickly rub my fingers over the rest of the word and confirm that there are two more letters. This word has to be Elizabeth, surely no other word exists in the English language? It can spell nothing else! Sweat trickles from my forehead. ‘t’...‘h’. Elizabeth! And then there is a space before the next word, which must be, which I so dearly hope must be her surname – Baxter... I skim my fingers along this second word – it has six letters. My breathing is erratic and my heart pounds like a machine. I warn myself to be methodical, warn myself that whatever I do I must not make errors, I must not misinterpret these words. Concentrating to the point that my head starts to ache, I ascertain that the second word is indeed Baxter. Elizabeth, my Elizabeth has written a book! I have a copy of it! It does not matter what it says, it is her mind, hundreds of pages of it. What a gift! What a precious, sacred gift!

  Hallam is silent. I can feel his presence. He watches me like a hawk. There is a reason he has chosen not to assist my gradual understanding of what this book is. That should be a clue, but to me it is too inconclusive and I will not lend it any thought. I will not allow Hallam to affect my mood. This is for me to discover, at my own pace and in my own way. This is indefinably important, more so than Hallam can possibly comprehend.

  My fingers are now sweaty, slippery and difficult to work with. Nervous, shaky and anxious, I slide them down to the next line, the line that will tell me what this book is about, what Elizabeth has c
hosen to write a book about. Please don’t hate me, Elizabeth – that plea replays in my head. Now I can hear Hallam’s breaths. They have amplified. Otherwise, he is silent, as still as a mountain, waiting for me to respond. I fill my lungs with air, concerned that I might faint, and aware that if I did I might not ever again hold this book. The first letter, capitalised, is a ‘T’. I move slowly to the next letter, determined not to punish myself by misreading any of these tiny, invaluable letters. Two letters on and I have confirmed that the first word is ‘The’. A space follows. I do not speculate. It would be foolish. Drops of sweat splash on the book. I try to keep my fingers steady but realise it is futile. The next letter is a capital ‘M’. I recheck this several times – it is definitely an ‘M’... The Mistake? I am speculating. I just told myself not to do that! But I am not as strong minded as I used to be. Is it ‘The Mistake’? ‘No,’ I whisper. It cannot be that. That would mean she regretted meeting me and did not value our time together. She is not like that, not my Elizabeth. I shake my head. I am not convincing myself. Sadly I cannot read her as easily as I used to. Our connection has weakened since we have been apart. My mind has gone bad and allowed cruel thoughts to penetrate it. I do not know what she has written. I cannot be certain that they have not damaged her. I do not know if I can read on. If this book criticises me I will die...

  Hallam sounds anxious. I think his head is pressed against the glass between us, that he is as close to me as he can possibly be. Perhaps it is ‘The Madness’, the contents focusing on my abnormal, deranged ideas. Or ‘The Mind Games’, following a similar theme. Worse still, it might be ‘The Mourning’, a celebration of Victor Spinney’s life...

  ‘She-she did write to you, Chalk,’ Hallam chokes. ‘... Sorry I kept her letters, but here they are...’ I face him. ‘She wrote one a week. I know they’ve kept the rest of ‘em, but I’m gonna speak to the prison governor and make sure you get ‘em.’

  Disoriented and emotional, I sweep my fingers along the rest of the letters. There are several, separated into two words. I find the ‘M’ again and then determine that the second letter is a small ‘o’. I bow my head. I know, I just know... I confirm that the next letter is an ‘r’ and shake my head. The very feel of this ethereal book in my hands invigorates me, revitalises me, heals me.

  ‘After Chalk and I parted ways, Paul was the first boy to show an interest in me. He knew who I was. Everyone knew who I was, that became obvious to me soon after the kidnapping. Perhaps the media coverage had encouraged him to approach me. Perhaps it had helped him form the comfortable conclusion that I would not dismiss him as I had Chalk. Before Chalk came along, I would not have liked Paul, I know that. Although I no longer evaluate a person by his appearance, all I can say is he would not have satisfied my vile standards...’

  Thanks for reading The Mortal Religion. You can share your thoughts on it by leaving a review wherever you downloaded it. I really appreciate any feedback.

  You can also leave a review on Goodreads.

  All my books are free. Quite simply, exposure is more important to me than profit. I want readers to experience my work and, if they like it, tell their friends about me.

  If you want to make a financial contribution, I suggest a donation to Kidscape, a charity that strives to protect children by preventing bullying.

  About the Author

  Marc was brought up in Dartford, England. Nothing much happened there - landing a job as a banana packer was the highlight - so he spent most of his time lost in his imagination.

  Seeking change, he became an airborne soldier (not airborne germ, as a friend once called him) and had to parachute out of the first plane he ever went in. The boring days were over.

  He's drawn to stories of hardship and survival. Carlin announcing he's 'The Daddy' in Scum; Brendan fighting for his family in Warrior; David searching for answers in Vanilla Sky.

  Marc doesn't hold back when he writes. Much of his work contains black humour. Some might call it a sick sense of humour, but whatever it is you had to have it in the army - you laughed or you cried.

  He's into writing psychological thrillers that offer the reader something fresh. He likes to depict thought-provoking, controversial situations and in some cases to make people more aware of uncomfortable but important topics.

  Marc has written three novels. THE MORTAL RELIGION has been awarded Rabid Reader's Best Books of 2013; E-thriller's Thriller of the Month in April 2013, and is also listed on 42 Books to Love for Towel Day. PERSONA is a Kindle number 1 bestselling psychological thriller. CUFFED, is listed on Rabid Reader's Best Books of 2014.

  He has also just released TIMER, a series of sci-fi novellas, described by the BBC as a 'High-concept and compelling sci-fi series, reminiscent of past hits such as "Logan's Run".'.

  He loves sixties music and studying lyrics, meditation, skiing, off-road cycling, repairing bikes, martial arts and chess. Stay informed about new projects by signing up to his mailing list. Just click the banner and scroll to the bottom of the page.

  * * * Also available * * *

  CUFFED

  Best Rabid Reader’s Reads of 2014

  'Horn's talent for writing beautifully brilliant characters that are truly disturbed is terrifying. Razors may be the best example of his work yet.' (Rabid Readers)

  With a clairvoyant-like ability to hunt down criminals, Razors is a police asset. To his supervisors he's a liability; a brutal street cop who makes his own rules.

  But Razors' skills are about to be severely tested; he's investigating mankind.

  He's formed a mind-blowing theory about existence, and if he proves it's true, it threatens everyone.

  Busting gangs was easy. Now he's up against 7 billion of us, all fighting for survival...

  Get it here.

  PERSONA

  #1 Kindle Bestseller in Psychological Thrillers

  “Persona” was a fabulous read. A brutally raw psychological thriller, Horn’s characters are worthy of Bret Easton Ellis and “The Last Days of Disco” by Whit Stillman. (Rabid Readers Reviews)

  To live with no regrets, Ryan vows to try it all — even murder.

  Creating a different persona for each pursuit, he soon loses himself in his own dark labyrinth.

  Best friend Dave struggles to bring him back — but first must face the darkest side of all.

  From readers: 'Impossible to put down'; 'A real page turner'; 'Masterful'; 'Has more layers, digs deeper into the human psyche, and is far more involved than any other psychological thriller.'

  Featured on 42 Books to Love for Towel Day

  Top 5 bestseller in Kindle Store

  Over 35,000 copies sold

  An edgy, riveting thriller packed with black humour, inspired twists and gut-churning suspense.

  Persona portrays a dark world different and yet alarmingly similar to our own, where personal demons cannot be kept at bay.

  WARNING: This novel contains graphic sex scenes, violence and bad language. DO NOT purchase if you’re easily offended. If this isn't the case, you'll find a gripping and unique story that will keep you guessing.

  Timer

  The three blood-red numbers suddenly branded on our chests has given us incredible insight.

  We now know how long we will live.

  Welcome to a world of paranoia, mistrust and uncertainty, to the darker side of humanity.

  Revolutionary novellas from award-winning author Marc Horn, described by the BBC as a 'High-concept and compelling sci-fi series, reminiscent of past hits such as "Logan's Run".

 

 

 
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