by D P Wright
“It is fantastic news. God wants us to hear his voice. Truly wonderful. Have you had a chance to examine any of the items?”
“Yes. I couldn’t wait I’m afraid.” His cheeks reddened an even deeper hue, “I am sorry Father, it is so rare that anything new arrives these days and I couldn’t wait to hear his words.”
“That is ok, Brother.” There were more important things in this world to get angry about than Brother Rothery’s enthusiasm to read the word of God and, besides, he welcomed the warmth of his excited devotion. “What did you find?”
“A number of tomes relating to our own patron saint,” he looked very proud to bring such news to his mentor. “There are some exciting references to St John’s imprisonment, however the books that contain these words are in a very poor condition.”
“Will you be able to recover the knowledge?”
“Yes, for the most part. It will be difficult though, the Purging and the centuries since have not been kind to the artefacts.” He began to wring his hands, and mutter to himself in worry.
“Proverbs 13:4, the soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.”
“I understand but if only we had a digital reconstructor. I hear those machines are truly wonderful. We could possibly save some of the words that lie within those relics that are in a very poor state indeed.”
Despite his pleading looks, Father Jacob gave a sharp reply to the request, “Now Brother, if our good Lord wants us to hear his words we need to labour diligently to reap the rewards. Machinery only serves to corrupt the soul, distract us from God’s work.”
“Yes, Father.” He bowed but could not hide his disappointment.
He rubbed his heavy eyes, “I have some pressing business that I must conclude tonight. Could you finish the inspection whilst I retire to my study? I must catch the courier going up to the Bishop before I sleep and I am so very tired.”
Brothey Rothery smiled back, “Of course, Father.” He turned, extinguished another candle, and continue the evening’s inspection alone.
Opening the door to his private study, Father Jacob sat down at his desk, leafed through some paper and wearily picked up a pen. He had not been writing long when he heard a faint knock. “Yes?” He sighed at the intrusion.
The door slowly creaked open and from behind it emerged a hooded head. A small, sharp face with squinting eyes and thin lips entered the light of the room. “Sorry for missing the service tonight, Father. I had a little trouble with the broken window in the Jerusalem Chapel. No worries though, it’s all secure.” His soft voice was broken by a stammer that clung to every consonant.
“This is getting somewhat of a habit of late, Brother Glaxon. Punctuality is of great importance in the service of our Lord. If you are not here to spread the word of God the people will not hear it.”
“Yes, Father. I understand.” He bowed his head in obedience.
“No. I do not think you do. The Devil’s work is all around us. You must always remain vigilant and focused on the light for disaster awaits us in the darkness. Do not neglect your duties again, Brother.” He frowned at the young priest from behind his desk. “I hear that you have been spending time outside again. You know how I feel about that, the Bishop himself has said for us not to leave these walls at night.”
“Yes, but there is so much suffering all around us, I cannot help but reach out and offer what aid I can.” From the long sleeves of his robes thin hands were held palm to palm as if in prayer.
“You will not be much help to anyone if you add yourself to the long list of those lost. If another member of the clergy were to vanish or come to harm I believe the Bishop will insist on us all leaving this place for the safer heights and only God knows what would happen to our community if they were left all alone. It is here,” Father Jacob tapped the desk with his fist to emphasise his point, “that God’s word can be heard and his warmth spread, not out in the slums where you are so fond of going lately. There, temptation and sin lie in every corner. Remember what the scriptures say, ‘on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ The fight against the darkness starts here.” The old priest dropped his pen, leant back on his chair and stared at Brother Glaxon, “You look tired and you are losing weight.”
“I am having trouble sleeping.”
“The Devil is in your head. Fill your mind with prayer and forgiveness and God will grant you peaceful slumber.”
“Yes, peace. It’s all I want. An escape from this turmoil.” Brother Glaxon talked slowly as if a thousand thoughts weighed down each and every word.
Father Jacob leaned forward, his brow furrowed, “God grants those eternal peace who absolve themselves of sin and accept his forgiveness.” He sighed, tired of teaching his young priest the same basic lesson time and time again, “Actions, Brother Glaxon, not just words. Show our Lord that you are a true Christian soul through how you act on this earthly plane and he will grant you the keys to the gates of paradise.”
With his head bowed and swaying a little, Brother Glaxon spoke, “That is all I want,” he repeated.
Father Jacob shook his head and sighed. His old bones ached, “I am tired, Brother. Sleep draws me towards her and I still have much to do tonight.”
A wave of his hand signified that the meeting had finished and Brother Glaxon bowed even lower than he already had been, “As you wish, Father.” The young priest disappeared into the darkness outside the study, closing the heavy wooden door as he went.
He took off his spectacles and again rubbed his eyes. Taking hold of his cross he mouthed a prayer and sat in silence staring at the flickering flame of a candle, its weak light holding back the shadows around his desk. Father Jacob let out a long and weary sigh and returned to his work.
A RUDE AWAKENING
A cough, somewhere in the distant reality, wrenched him from his stupor. In this vegetated state, his first and only instinct that remained within his wasted mind was one of self preservation. Practice had taught him how to survive the brutal, harsh reality of a chemical comedown but it did not make it any easier.
Not wanting, or perhaps unable, to open his eyes, Kessler began to listen. Hearing was always the first sense to return from the numbness. There was a persistent, piercing ring that attacked his bruised and burned-out mind. Beyond that, a tapping could be heard broken intermittently by a muffled voice. What was being said could not be understood but it was definitely a woman. Words did not register but the thick Midtown brogue with which they were said sparked a flicker of recognition which ignited a small, blurred memory. Cogs began to slowly turn, images in his addled mind began to take focus.
He only knew one woman who could carry such a thick mid-city accent which carried an attitude that made each harsh syllable hit like the hammering of a piston. Macy Duzekus. He swore to himself, unsure whether he spoke out loud or whether he was still lost in the depths of his scattered mind. That could only mean one thing, he was in his office. A hoarse moan escaped his dry, cracked lips as the disgust began to seep in. Still laden and burdened with the heavy haze, he began to painfully construct simple thoughts. First came abhorrence at the state he found himself in, then self-loathing, pity, hatred and finally anger. The cycle of emotions usually repeated itself until finally the body was ready to accept more poison, then the debauched routine began its merry dance all over again.
Kessler, still with eyes closed, not yet ready to admit the outside world, continued to search for answers as to his current situation. He could now smell a viscous odour that could be only one thing. Himself. Stale tobacco, the sickly sweet smell of cheap bourbon and the musky scent of a man who had not had a wash in days, hung in the air around him. The usual collage of aromas born from days of reckless abandon.
A click of a latch, a door screeching on its hinges and the ‘clak-clak’ sound of footsteps coming closer put in jeopardy the safety of Kessler’s prone state, threatening the very thing
which was keeping him sane. Complete denial. He was not yet ready to deal with reality and accept what was to come.
The strong smell of Macy’s coffee now invaded Kessler’s senses. He was yet to find a drink so vile as to compare to the bubbling chemical sludge that made up that lethal concoction. Another feral sigh escaped from his lungs.
“Drink it.”
His head was lifted and the thick, hot liquid brought to his lips. He gagged as the syrup-like substance made its way down his throat. “Enough!” The overpowering taste forced coherent words. His head hit the floor with a thud.
“You know the routine, Kes. It’s the only thing that gets you going.”
“I can’t stand that tar you call coffee.”
“Well, if you want to pay the cred for the real stuff then I would be happy to make you some.”
She was right, it did its job. Without having to taste the evil brew, the smell alone began to bring feeling back to Kessler’s broken body, forcing full consciousness upon him. Opening his eyes brought a shock of light painfully to bear on his fragile psyche. They stung raw, as if claws had raked their surface. Squinting and trying to focus, his blurred vision began to clear. His head was resting on the hard floor. He continued to lay prone, not wanting to try and engage his aching joints and muscles. From this position he could see, beyond the dirt and rubble that caked the floor of his office, a door was slightly ajar and through it he could make out the edge of a desk on top of which was a computer and a large red plastic flower. He took a couple of deep breaths. His eyes moved across to the right. Shiny, black stilettos gleamed in the low electric light that came in through the window from the city outside. Long, slender, tattooed legs towered above him. One of the stilettos began to tap the ground noisily.
“Emm, Kes? Hello? I was wondering, do you want me to cancel all your appointments today? It’s just that if you do, that’s fine, but you know what that Mrs Grubaker is like, she will be calling the office all day. She never takes a hint. Too much time on her hands if you ask me. I remember the time she needed…”
“Ugh.” Kessler grimaced as reality took hold. His mouth felt as if it was filled with dust, his tongue swollen, and his throat was as dry as sandpaper. All he could muster was a primitive growl. Still, it had the desired effect of stopping Macy’s constant chatter.
Trying to move proved difficult. Kessler seemed to have been prone, crumpled on the floor, for quite some time by the feeling, or lack of it, in his right arm. With his left, he waved half heartedly in the direction of his desk trying, without much success, to turn off an alarm that had begun to buzz continuously. After a few failed attempts, which only succeeded in knocking it further away from him, Macy grabbed the alarm and switched it off.
“Kes.” Macy sighed, “I don’t know why you insist on getting so wasted, and at work too…”
“Not now, Macy.” Kessler’s voice rasped and cracked as it tried to form words. He had no time for one of Macy’s lectures. Grappling onto the edge of the desk he raised himself, somewhat unsteadily, off the floor before falling heavily back to his original position. His head spun, the strength within his large frame gone, he found it impossible to get up.
Macy sighed, stooped down and, struggling to take some of the large bulk of her employer in one arm, she helped him up to his feet and onto a red plastic chair by his desk. It creaked as it strained to take his weight.
He could smell the sharp aroma of Macy’s perfume. A quick glance out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes revealed the immaculate image of his secretary. Her short, spiked blond hair, typical Midtown fashion, full rouged lips and tight-fitting red and black body suit making the most of her slender figure, all made Kessler more aware of the filthy state he currently was in. He pushed her away and turned his head from her stare. He knew what lay waiting for him in those watery blue eyes of hers and was not in the mood to face that just yet, he would be reminded about it enough in the future he was in no doubt.
Macy shrugged and turned to leave. Kessler, looking out of the window trying to avoid any eye contact, mumbled, “Macy, ugh, thanks.” Stopping in the doorway, she turned her head slightly and, with pursed lips, nodded before leaving.
Reaching down to an already-open drawer, Kessler fumbled through papers and an assortment of discarded ration packs and Nutri Bar wrappers before finding what he was looking for. A half empty bottle of Piper’s bourbon. Unscrewing the cap and taking a violent swig of the noxious liquid, he jerked his head back in one quick movement and screwed his face up as the strong, cheap whiskey burnt its way down his throat. He swung his arm across the desk, sending the alarm clock and Macy’s still-steaming coffee clattering onto the floor.
The intercom began to buzz.
Slapping the button hard, Kessler growled into the com, “What is it?”
“Kes, it’s Mrs Grubaker on the line for you, I told her that you were in a meeting but she insists on speaking to you, she says it’s a matter of life or death.” Kessler stared at the panel, the light on the receiver flashing crimson, waiting for his answer. The thought of dealing with Mrs Grubaker’s menial jobs disgusted him. Life or death, he thought cynically to himself, she didn’t know the meaning of the words. However she was a regular client that provided good money, something that, especially after the last few days, Kessler was aware that he needed.
“Put her through.”
“So Mr Kessler, how did it go?” Mrs Grubaker’s Hightown shrill screeched down the line.
“How did what go?”
“Your meeting, Mr Kessler. I’ve been trying to get through to you all day and your incompetent secretary has been telling me that you have been attending some meeting of Dis-shattering importance. So how did it go?”
“Erm…”
“What I would like to know is, have you saved the city yet? Because that is the only outcome I would expect from a problem that would distract you from something that, right as we speak, is destroying my life. And I like my life, Mr Kessler.” The nasal quality of Mrs Grubaker’s Hightown voice reverberated around Kessler’s head, like a hammer pounding away at his skull. Fighting the urge to tell her exactly what she could go and do with her life, he forced himself to remember how much he needed her right now, or rather her credits. He always found it difficult to deal with her. She represented everything that had gone wrong with his life and everything he hated about it, it was just never meant to be this way. How had it come to this? A thought that Kessler often found himself pondering these days.
“Sorry ma’am, it’s been a long night. You know how it is, with the city the way it’s going. I’m very busy at the minute, always problems to… solve,” he lied. Above the constant low hum of the rec vent, Kessler could hear the city’s cry clawing at his window, threatening to pull him and his crumbling life down into the maelstrom. Dark thoughts, mixed with the last remaining traces of chem, swirled around his mind.
He did not know how long he was staring at the flashing red light of the com before he realised that her voice was barking at him, “Hello? Are you still there, Mr Kessler? I have no time for your daydreaming. Now, will you or won’t you?”
“Erm, will I or won’t I what, Mrs Grubaker?”
“Go straight over to that little hussy’s house and catch that rat of a husband of mine right in the act.”
Fantastic, thought Kessler, another fine day ahead for him. “What’s the address and I’ll get right on it,” he sighed.
“District 5, Hightown, 66 Keblako Drive, Duma Sector. I’ll expect a full report first thing tomorrow morning.” With that the intercom went dead, static from the empty line filling Kessler’s ears and irritating his already growing headache.
Taking another couple of long gulps from the bottle of bourbon, he rubbed his forehead before getting up from his desk and stumbling towards a grimy basin that clung to a wall in his office. Damp clothes lay rolled up in a ball in sickly green and brown stagnant water. Throwing its contents to the floor and, with his fingers, removing whatever
sludge was blocking the plug hole, Kessler filled the basin with water and submerged his head into the dark cloudy liquid, letting out a howl as the biting cold reminded his nerves how to feel again. After what felt like an age, he raised his head out of the sink and looked at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror which was balanced precariously on the side against the wall. What stared back at him was what Kessler had come to expect. He was used to the ravaged image which now greeted him. Greasy black locks, shoulder length and now flecked with grey, shallow, red raw eyes that contained, somewhere beyond the bloodshot, piercing light blue pools now dulled with experience. The chemical coma from which he had just woken from was the closest thing to sleep he had had in what felt like weeks, however he did not feel any benefit from it. He pulled the skin down from under both eyes to reveal more of his shattered pupils. He looked particularly rough today. His square jaw was hidden behind days of stubble, his scar, a jagged memory across his right cheek, as always, seemed to angrily glare at him. No amount of stubble could hide that dark blemish.
Grabbing his black plastichem coat from the back of the chair, he ran his hand through his hair and pulled down his large hood to just above his eyes. Kessler began to move towards the door when he stopped just as he was about to punch the switch. He turned, walked back to his desk, opened another drawer and from it pulled out his plasma carbine, its metal gleaming silver and its power cells pulsing a faint blue glow. He paused for a brief moment looking down at the weapon in his large, grubby gloved hands, before holstering it. He pulled his coat around him and exited the room.
In the small corridor outside, Macy was chatting on the com, filing her nails and taking long draws from a nic stick which was balanced between bright red lips, “Cancel everything for today Macy, I’ll be out dealing with Grubaker all day.” He doubted he had any appointments but it kept up the pretence.