by D P Wright
City of Darkness
What would you take to avoid the dark?
D. P. Wright
Copyright © 2015 D. P. Wright
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
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To Mum, Dad and Lilly –
my anchor when the clouds set in.
Contents
Cover
CONTACT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
THE BEGINNING
A RUDE AWAKENING
DOMESTIC BLISS
AN UNWELCOME DISTURBANCE
THE SKIN LAB
ST. JOHN’S
OFFICE TIMES
EDEN INCORPORATED
SUNSET IN DOWNTOWN
NIMROD HEIGHTS
THE MORAL COMPASS
PROVISIONS FOR THE DEEP
JOURNEY TO THE FRINGE
THE CROW’S NEST
A SURPRISE IN THE NIGHT
MERRYLL INC·
THE DESCENT
A LOYAL CITIZEN
RACE FOR ACHERON
ACROSS THE FIRE
AN ENGINE OF DIS
TECH OPEK
THE PLAN
FALTERING LIGHT
DANCE OF THE MACABRE
FIGHT ABOVE THE FIRE
THE DARKNESS OF LIGHT
CONTACT THE AUTHOR
Twitter
@DPWright79
Website
www.dpwrightauthor.co.uk
Email
[email protected]
Facebook
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PROLOGUE
He knew the shame would end within minutes. Deal with it. The sight of the needle, preparing its seductive payload over the flickering flame of his near empty lighter, holding it in place with a crumpled scrap of foil, the image had not lost its bite over the years.
He tried not to look at his surroundings and think about what he was doing, what he had become, but despite years of practice he still had not mastered that art. His sparse environment made haunting shapes as it danced in the flickering candlelight. The shadow’s menacing macabre jig daring him, mocking him, laughing at him. Trying to force the decaying images of his current state out of his mind, the lonesome figure just tried to focus on what was soon to come. Escape.
The rec vent gave out a constant, deep monotonous hum in the background as it battled unsuccessfully to purify the stagnant air. However, for once, the thick pollution that ate away at his lungs, laden with its heavy acidic, metallic taste that always stuck at the back of the throat, was not on his mind.
The liquid bubbled. The sweet aroma crept through the room seeming to cling onto every surface. Watching the seductive smoke skip elegantly through the air, dipping under a chair and prancing over the couch, everything in slow motion, proved extremely hypnotic. Time had left this place, leaving the nervous man in the presence of this beautiful and deadly dance, caught completely in its graceful raptures.
The colour of the murky-brown sludge began to take on a reddish hue. Finally ready. Feeding it into the syringe he waved the needle over the candle. His hands were clammy and felt heavy, encumbered with fevered expectation, so he had to take extra care not to lose a drop of the precious liquid in his fumbling grasp. It was cold, although that was not why he was shaking. He could feel the hairs standing up on the exposed skin of his left arm. A sharp draft blew into the room from an old window behind him that had been cracked for as long as he could remember. He had gotten used to its methodical clatter as it rocked in its crumbling frame, the constant clank was reassuringly always there, reliable. It never went away. Someone was shouting something inaudible in the street outside and he could hear the intermittent frazzled buzzing of Hector’s neon sign. Through the rush of the rain the sound of a girl crying crept into the room, although he could not be certain, his mind had been playing tricks on him of late and he had learnt not to trust his senses.
The slight prick of pain as the needle pierced his skin shocked him from his thoughts. Blood began to well out of the wound and a small streak of red formed down the length of his arm. With a discarded towel this was soon mopped up. The needle’s bite was a reminder of what was to come. Forgetfulness. Happiness.
There it was…
‘…missed you…’
The electric rush of numbness.
White light drenched his drab surroundings and waves of joy shot through his being, exploding from every pore, all
THE BEGINNING
The low, dim murmurings from whispered prayers were almost hypnotic. The few lonely souls that remained inside the chapel were knelt sparsely throughout the nave lost in their own prayers. Looking at their faces in the dim light, Father Jacob found the usual assortment of expressions. You could tell a lot about a person from looking at their face while they prayed. Some looked relaxed, with a slight smile breaking out in the corner of their mouths lost in the warm protection of the Lord, far away from the many troubles waiting outside these walls. Others had faces that twitched full of nervous energy unable, or not wanting to, leave their worries outside. Instead they carried their burdens with them and prayed to God to rid them of their misery. Finally, there were those that had faces which were easy to read, those whose souls were naked and vulnerable to the dangers that lurked in the dark. Weeping throughout their communion, sadness and agony etched across their faces, these poor souls looked to the heavens for some sort of relief from the agony of life, an agony that was quickly consuming them. Unfortunately these most agonised faces were the souls that most often graced St John’s these days. It seemed happiness and joy were in short supply in these troubled times. Although he did feel pangs of guilt watching his parishioners so closely, intimately invading these peoples’ lives during what was such a personal moment, this brief incursion afforded him some company in his otherwise very lonely existence.
The tired Father enjoyed the peacefulness of the church at night but he so despised the moment before the chapel doors had to be closed to the public. Those who remained at this late hour, lost in their thoughts for whatever reason, never wanted to leave. Having to cast them out, back into the world they feared where so many dangers and temptations lurked, brought a sadness to him that he found difficult to bear at times. God’s protection had its limits it seemed. The diocese had now ordered the closing of all church property during the hours of night. The streets of Downtown were alive with sin of every kind but at night the Devil seemed more determined to make his mark. The darkness of the later hours, when the pitiful amount of light was switched off, when what meagre power the Council drip fed the lower dis
tricts ceased, seemed to bring about the worst in humanity. Father Jacob despaired. He had often petitioned the local governor asking why this was happening and he had always received the same response, ‘saving energy for the good of the city’. Much more important than saving souls the priest thought bleakly. He very much doubted the likes of Hightown had such restrictions imposed on them.
It was a sign of the times. Dis, this city, was not what it once was, so hostile and resistant to anything good, like a ravaged body, disease ridden, rejecting the medicine, the hope, needed to cure it. With eyes closed and a sullen shake of the head, dark thoughts, which seemed to cling and infest every memory during these sombre times, plagued the priest. Father Jacob, as he often did at this time, thought of the many good souls amongst his congregation who had disappeared lately never to be seen again. Men, women and children just seemingly lifted off the street, ripping the heart and soul out of the community. The church’s clergy were not immune to the tragedy either. Sister Davies, a relatively new recruit at the time, could not bear to watch the suffering of those around her while she was safely housed within these holy grounds. Straying out into the darkness, what did she think was going to happen to her? She was such a beautiful child. Another good soul gone and with it the loss of hope for the future. The priest’s thoughts darkened further. In a place so in need of the love of God and the hope His grace brings, the church was hated by so many. The diocese does not now look favourably on her clergy venturing outside the church walls at night, the sickness of the city limiting God’s work to a strict timetable.
The last of the lost souls were now being ushered out the door. Peering into the darkness, Father Jacob could not resist flinching at the wretched tempest beyond the church doors. He looked up despairingly towards the heavens which, of course, he could not see. God’s blue sky and bright warming sun which he had read about in his ancient books had not bathed this part of the city in its light in many centuries. Eternal darkness prevailed. The heavens were left to his dreams and now, awake to this city, he could only look upon the dreary metallic chaos of the sprawl as it twisted its way upwards.
He coughed, his tired old lungs struggling to take in the wretched Downtown air. Not having a respirator with him, he could only shield his mouth from the elements, he could never stand long outside without it before collapsing with a hacking cough. Flinching at this intrusion, he could not hide his embarrassment as the last to leave, a man wrapped in a tattered green tunic and grubby, ripped trousers turned to look at the holy man with lifeless grey eyes sunk deep into a gaunt, yellowed face. He coughed and shuddered as the dead air took hold of his body. Respirators were expensive equipment and most of the inhabitants of Downtown did not have one. His expression was not one of anger or desperation but of bleak, grim acceptance. Father Jacob had seen this look far too many times over the years. The faces of people who knew they had no hope, believed God had abandoned them and there was nothing they could do but accept their grim fate. He paused for just a second, holding the Father’s stare, before nodding good night. With his arms wrapped around his shaking body, putting up some meagre resistance to the driving rain, he turned and disappeared into the dark innards of Dis. Father Jacob shouted after him, “See you tomorrow, friend!” If he heard he did not respond. The priest winced at the sound of his hollow, meaningless voice; the lost soul’s silence was much louder than anything the old man could muster.
The large, ancient bronze doors were heavy to close. Broken and in worsening ill health, the burden of absolute faith in God’s love weighed down on him more heavily as each day passed. Long ago he had run out of answers and only now had his faith to turn to. He grabbed hold of that belief, a small silver cross, and rubbed the worn metal, as he often did, and took comfort in the faded inscription, which he could still, just about, feel under his thumb and forefinger. His last and only comfort. Raising a slight smile and ruffling his nose so his spectacles slipped down, Father Jacob stared at it and whispered those familiar words, ‘in te, domine, speravi’. A small piece of warmth in a cold world. He pushed his spectacles back into place and shook his head, as if coming out of a trance, and slammed the doors shut with a loud thud that thundered through the now empty church as it did through his empty soul.
Standing in the doorway, leaning against the old doors, he closed his tired eyes. Silence had returned to St John’s. All Father Jacob could hear was the flicker of the burning candles which were fixed throughout the walls of the nave. That, combined with the calming aroma of incense and the varnish of the ancient oak beams, reminded him that sleep was needed.
It took a while to secure the doors with their many locks and bars, a telling sign that God’s house was not immune from the dangers of the city. St John’s had been robbed and vandalised numerous times over the years, greater security was needed in these uncertain times. Another coughing fit took hold of his body.
“Are you ok, Father?”
Brother Rothery stood in the centre of the nave, a look of concern across his chubby face, the few hairs left on his balding scalp falling down across his forehead. “Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Another spasm gripped him.
“I’ll send someone out to get the apothecary, that cough is getting worse. You take too much on, Father. Allow me to attend to some of your…”
Father Jacob waved the approaching priest away with his hand and through hacking coughs interrupted him, “Thank you, Brother, but that is not necessary. I assure you that I am of sound health, it will pass.” Despite the priest’s assertions he leaned shakily on Brother Rothery’s shoulder for support as he prepared himself to inspect the church, just as they did every night at this late hour, making sure that all doors and windows were secured and the many precious possessions held within were accounted for. He always looked forward to this time. This chapel had been a part of his life since he was a boy and he knew every room, corner, carving and statue as he would any beloved member of his family. Every part of the old building had history and a tale to tell and the priest felt with some comfort that he was part of that story.
“The old girl still looks as beautiful as she ever did.” Brother Rothery had walked these floors with Father Jacob on countless evenings and he always took great pleasure at seeing the weight of the world briefly lifted off his mentor’s shoulders. He looked up at the large vaulted ceiling and the many beautifully carved stone guardians that stood perched along its perimeter. All gazed down towards them in various poses, some dancing, some playing musical instruments and some praying, all were smiling, dimples softly pressed into plump cheeks, curls falling across wide, excited eyes. The sound of the driving rain could be heard outside, battering against windows and the slate of the roof. The building creaked and groaned against the onslaught. “It makes my heart warm to know that they look over us.”
“Yes, despite all they have been through.” He looked at Brother Rothery’s concerned face and immediately scolded himself. He should know better than to be down of heart in front of his clergy. Hope is what they needed and only the confidence of their faith would see them through the darkness. He composed himself and rested a hand on the worn bronze of the church’s entrance, “She will be beautiful for many more years to come.” He smiled but despite his intentions, was still unable to hide his many worries.
“You bear the weight of too many souls,” the young priest spoke with a creased brow. “Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” His voice became almost musical as he spoke, each word dancing from his tongue and seeming to bring him more warmth and happiness, ridding the worry from his face.
“Matthew 11:28.” Father Jacob smiled, “Very good, wise words indeed.” He turned to glance at the doors which he was still leaning on and rubbed the cool metal lovingly with his gnarled hands. Despite having lived with them for many years their beauty was
not lost on him. In the dancing light of the candles he could still make out some of the faded images. The life of St John the Baptist had once been depicted so beautifully on the bronze panels but most had been worn away over the centuries by many a parishioner’s loving touch. Only a few could still be clearly seen. The old priest’s eyes rested on the image of Hope, a young robed girl holding aloft a candle, and closed his eyes briefly in a silent prayer. “Come Brother, it is late and we still have much to do.”
With one hand leaning heavily on Brother Rothery’s shoulder, Father Jacob, with his back stooped, walked through the nave extinguishing candles as he went. “How goes the restoration work?”
“Well,” the priest scowled and tapped his chubby finger against his lip, “although we have encountered a particularly resilient type of critter that rather enjoys eating its way through some of our more ancient pieces. It’s quite fascinating, it seems to derive from…”
“And are steps being put in place to eradicate it?” Father Jacob greatly appreciated Brother Rothery’s love for his role as custodian restorer of the church and all its ancient contents. His skill and patience were the reason why so many treasures remained beautiful to this day however, in his enthusiasm, he would often ramble on about his obsessions and he was too tired this evening to listen.
“Oh yes. Rather ingenious really. Our ale, they hate it, finishes them off very quickly. So, if you don’t mind, I procured myself a couple of bottles from the cellars, strictly for the Lord’s work of course, and have rigorously been applying it to great effect.” A broad smile creased his face and his cheeks reddened as he spoke of his success.
“Excellent.” The old priest chuckled to himself. He enjoyed these late, peaceful walks, they distracted him from more weightier problems which seemed to bear down on him on a daily basis. “I hear that Brother Zachery has managed to bring us another load of relics from down below.”
“Yes.” Brother Rothery’s eyes lit up at the mention of the recent delivery, he could not hold back his excitement. “I thought we had seen the last of those but, praise be to God, he has managed to get some more of the Lord’s work up to us. I don’t know how he does it, I really don’t.”