The Collector Book One: Mana Leak

by Daniel I. Russell

  Betsy lay curled up in her basket in the kitchen. She whined in discomfort and shifted slightly, feeling full of liquid.

  Something had been wrong outside last night, something wrong with the garden. Static dominated the air, brushing and tickling her fur. She had stayed tightly curled up in her basket, not daring to venture into the garden.

  She knew better than to relieve herself inside. Previous punishments were still bitter memories.

  Giving in and releasing another small moan, Betsy slunk out of her blanket-lined basket and approached the back door.

  She barked, knowing one of the family would soon come running and let her out. If not soon, she’d have to go all over the floor.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Betsy wagged her tail as the boy walked in.

  “Want to go outside, girl?” he asked her.

  She barked again and wagged her tail with added enthusiasm.

  The boy opened a drawer and removed a large ring of keys. Sorting the large, iron back door key from the rest, he patted the dog on the head as he passed her. She patiently waited despite the pain, watching him from behind. Turning the key and sliding the deadbolt, he opened the door.

  Betsy squinted against the sudden sunlight and dashed outside. She ran straight into the grass and squatted down. The back door closed, and she relieved herself. Finished, the dog sprinted back to the door. The boy had closed it completely.

  She howled and stared at the garden.

  The patio led onto the lawn where various toys lay scattered. Further down, the grass was dispersed with colourful flower beds, shrubs and an apple tree near the fence.

  The shed stood in the far corner.

  Betsy relaxed a little. She trotted to a crack in the fence and sniffed around it. Sometimes she could smell other dogs from the street. Not today.

  She returned to the back door and pressed a paw against the wood, but it refused to budge.

  A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on the apple tree, and the plants swayed back and forth in a crazy dance. It ruffled the hair along Betsy’s back.

  She held up her nose and sniffed.

  The slight wind brought a peculiar smell, like fresh meat beginning to sour. The dog sniffed again, sucking in the juicy aroma. Her mouth watered.

  Abandoning the closed door, she headed into the garden to investigate.

  The smell intensified further down.

  She headed for the shed.

  The small wooden building, varnished a dark brown with a dark grey roof of corrugated sheet metal, contained a solitary dirt-streaked window. The door stood ajar.

  Betsy crept closer.

  The window blocked out any light. The shed stood, dark as a deep cave. The smell radiated from inside in succulent waves, and Betsy licked her lips.

  She pushed her snout into the gap and prised the door further open. Some sunlight managed to penetrate the darkness, revealing spades, a rake and other gardening tools hanging on rusted metal spikes on the walls. A bright orange lawnmower sat in the corner next to a bucket covered in cobwebs. Shadow masked the rear of the shed.

  Betsy chanced a few more hesitant steps inside, ears pricked, sniffing the air. The usual musty smells of earth and weed-killer were overpowered by the meaty odour. She snuck in further, her back legs and tail slipping through the doorway.

  Her ears twitched at the sound of movement from the dark depths.

  She rose on her haunches, hair standing on end.

  Something pulled itself along the floor, dragging across the wood in the blackness, closer…

  Betsy released a small whimper.

  The sound stopped.

  She glanced from side to side, trying to find the source. Tail hooked between her rear legs, she backed towards the door.

  A hand, white and covered in deep, red scars, shot out of the darkness and grabbed Betsy by the throat, pulling her forwards with one fierce tug.

  She howled as hundreds of mouths filled with serrated teeth all ripped into her at once, tearing through fur and flesh.

  7.

  A sullen atmosphere hung about the Harper house. Frank had again failed to make contact following his latest exit. Bronwyn sat on the dark green sofa, watching a children’s film about a talking car. In shorts and T-shirt, her visible skin was peppered with several bruises, some of which had started to heal and yellow already. Anne sat in an armchair, resting paper and envelopes on the arms, partway through a letter to her mother about the current situation. She felt a letter was the best way to go; a phone call would probably end up with both of them in tears, and her mother didn’t do email.

  Charlie entered and sat down next to his sister, pulling his DS from his jeans pocket.

  Anne placed her letter to one side and looked over at her children. She recognised signs they were starting to come to terms with what had happened the day before.

  Charlie appeared his old self. Apart from having little appetite and constantly glancing out of the window, he seemed fine.

  Bronwyn still looked withdrawn, and Anne had done her best to keep the girl occupied rather than staring into space. This had involved numerous games, DVDs and even the offer to bake a cake, which she’d declined. At the very least, Bronwyn wasn’t wincing from her bruises as much as last night.

  For Anne, despite the amount of grief to come: the first talk with Frank, sorting out the finances, getting a solicitor and so on, the mere absence of Frank relaxed her. No threats, no need to constantly check that she was in line. She could be herself. She’d even made an effort with her appearance, finding a colourful dress to wear and tying her hair back in an elaborate ponytail.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes, Charlie?”

  “When will Dad be back?”

  Anne sighed.

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t know myself.”

  “You’ve split up, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie, honestly. Until your Dad comes back and we can talk things through, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “You’re going to get a divorce, I know it.”

  The words shook her inside, but she remained composed.

  “Slow down! Like I said, I need to speak to him first.”

  You’re probably right, Charlie. A divorce is on the cards, in my hand at least. After what he did to you and your sister yesterday…

  “Bobby Harris’ parents got divorced, you know,” he continued.

  “Really?” Anne asked, picking up her letter and trying to sound uninterested. She knew all about the Harris’ divorce, having a child in the same class meant that you had to know. It had been the gossip of the school railings for weeks.

  “Yeah. Bobby lives with his mum at his grandma’s house. He only gets to see his Dad at weekends, but he doesn’t like going.”

  “Why not?”

  “His Dad doesn’t have an LCD TV. His grandma does. She’s rich.”

  “Oh…” said Anne, trying not to laugh.

  “I wouldn’t like it to be that way for us, only seeing Dad at certain times.”

  “Whatever happens, I guarantee things won’t be that bad. When your Dad comes home, we’ll sit down and have a good long talk and decide where we’re going from here.”

  “Good,” said Charlie. “I don’t want to move to our grandma’s. It smells funny.”

  Anne smiled.

  “Me neither, hon.”

  She added to the letter to her mother Charlie has been asking about you and set the piece of paper back onto the arm of the chair.

  “Bronwyn? You okay?”

  The girl’s stare remained glued to the television. She merely nodded.

  “You sure? Do you want anything?”

  Bronwyn shook her head.

  Charlie shot her a sideways glance.

  A howl rang out from the back garden.

  “I think that Betsy’s ready to come in now, Charlie,” said Anne.

  “She’ll be fine,” he said, playing his video game. “She didn’t go
out all night, or this morning. She needs some fresh air and exercise.”

  “Yes Charlie, but I want her brought in straight away if she starts making noise. She’s caused enough trouble this week, after running in front of that man’s car.”

  She thought back to the incident, more about Eleanor’s grandson popping over later that day. Such a nice thing to do, and she regretted being so short with him. It was for the best, though. If Frank had come back, he’d have erupted. How old could the man be?

  Eleanor’s getting on a bit so he could be around my age…maybe younger…

  “Betsy’s gone quiet again,” said Charlie. “I’ll keep her out a while longer.”

  “As long as it’s just a little while,” Anne warned. “Charlie?”

  “Yes, Mum?”

  “Do you want your Dad to come back? For things to go back like they were?”

  He poked his cheek out with his tongue while he mulled over this apparently tricky question.

  “Yeah, I think I do. He’s still our Dad.”

  “You’re a good boy, Charlie.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  He turned off the DS and laid it on the sofa next to his leg.

  “I’ll go and let Betsy in like you asked,” he said, standing up.

  He stopped as a polite knock at the front door sounded through the house.

  Anne and Charlie exchanged an anxious glance.

  “He’s here,” said Bronwyn.

  “Charlie, you stay with your sister. I’ll let your father in.”

  “It’s not Dad.” Bronwyn quivered.

  “Bron? Baby?”

  Anne jumped up from the armchair. Her paper, envelopes and pen spilled onto the carpet.

  “Bronwyn? What’s the matter?”

  From quietly watching the television, the girl burst into hysterical wailing.

  “It’s him, Mummy. He’s here! Don’t let him in…I don’t want to go…I don’t want to go!”

  8.

  The Collector knocked a second time, louder, banging his fist against the door.

  They must have heard it that time. Come and answer the bloody door!

  He sensed the people inside the house close by, in the room at the front, or possibly in the hall. Too far to enter their minds and obtain some advance knowledge; he needed to be near enough to touch them, or better yet, have eye contact. He’d have to wait for the occupiers to open the door in their own good time.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me come in…” he whispered under his breath.

  The Collector struck the door a third time, his impatience flaring.

  Open this damn door!

  Noise emerged from within: a child’s crying, followed by shouts and movement. Something was going on inside. He didn’t like it. Could word have gotten here so fast? Had one of the other residents warned them about the man asking questions about their little secret? The mana had been here too. He could almost taste its energy.

  Hearing a vehicle approaching from down the street, he turned from the door. A red car swung in from the road onto the drive alongside the garden.

  “Frank Harper, I presume,” said The Collector, heading towards the car, hand already outstretched in greeting.

  The driver kicked the car door open and lurched out. His haggard face and dark bags under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept well, if at all. A small cut on the side of his forehead was dried and flaked.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  The Collector projected his mental touch, but Frank stayed too far away.

  Damn!

  The Collector decided to stick with his original story.

  “I’m from the social services, Mr Harper.”

  He realised his careless mistake the moment the words passed his lips. He could have said anything: insurance salesman, charity worker, Jehovah’s Witness. Anything!

  “Social worker?”

  “I’m just here to check…”

  “I know why you’re here. Who’s been talking to you, eh? The old bat next door? The wasters across the street? Gossips, the lot of them. They should mind their own business!”

  The Collector lowered his hand of greeting.

  “Mr Harper, let me assure you-”

  “You can assure me nothing,” Frank shouted, slamming the car door shut so hard the vehicle rocked on its tyres. “I know all about your type!”

  He jabbed an accusing finger towards The Collector.

  “A job’s worth. Got to come and ruin other people’s lives!”

  His finger changed direction and pointed at the house.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the soft bitch in there called you. Complained I’m a bad husband, did she? Say I beat the kids?”

  “Mr Harper, please…” said The Collector, stepping forwards. He attempted to get into Harper’s head.

  Not close enough…

  If he carries on ranting and allows me to get nearer…

  “She lets them run riot,” Frank went on, poking his finger at the house with every syllable. “So what if I smacked them? Once! They need a firm hand. It’s better for them in the long run.”

  “Mr Harper…” said The Collector, taking two quick steps towards him.

  “Nobody, no one on this planet, is going to take my kids away from me!”

  “Mr Harper. Please. If you would just calm down and let me speak…”

  “Get away from here,” Frank yelled, fists raised. “You’re trespassing. Get off my property.”

  “Mr Harper…”

  Frank darted forwards and grabbed the lapels of The Collector’s black suit. The teacher swung him around and pushed him against the car. Clinging onto him with tight, white knuckles, Frank inched his face close.

  “For the last time,” he growled, pulling The Collector off the car and slamming him back down with each word. “Get-off-my-property!”

  “Only when I am good and ready,” snarled The Collector and plunged deep into Frank’s mind.

  Frank screamed and fell to his knees, sandwiching The Collector between his body and the car. His desperate grip remained fixed to the suit and stopped him from falling over.

  “What do we have here?” said The Collector, sifting and poking through the mess of thoughts and memories. Frank’s mind appeared as a red, swirling cloud of anger. “Such a tainted past for one who claims to be such a good husband and father.”

  “What’s…happening…?” Frank wailed. “My head’s…split…”

  He released The Collector, pressing his hands on either side of his head, like he held the two halves of his cranium together.

  The Collector glanced down to check his own attire. If his suit had been ripped, he’d have repaid the gesture to Frank’s brain.

  “Interesting, Mr Harper. Or may I call you Frank? Well, you’re in no position to argue, really.”

  Frank’s screams broke into a series of yelps, spiking with each mental push of The Collector.

  “Does your family know where you go on these little nights away from home?”

  Frank mumbled a pained reply through his trembling mouth.

  “That’s not very polite now, is it?”

  The Collector concentrated harder.

  Frank shrieked.

  “Answer me.”

  “No,” Frank howled. “Nooo!”

  “Of course, I know already. I just wanted to hear it from your own lips, you pathetic little man. I know all about Sharon. How old is she? Mid-teens? Approximately the same age as the children you teach. Correct?”

  “Please…stop! Make…it…stop!”

  “Long, dark hair with small, pert breasts. Neatly shaven too, I see! But that’s not all, is it Frank? No, that’s not the real attraction. There’s more to this…common whore…than meets one’s eye, is there not?”

  “Please…please…”

  The Collector laughed.

  “Begging, Frank? You’ve never done that before. But Sharon does, every time. She takes whatever you dish out for the am
ount you’re willing to pay.”

  He patted Frank on the head, beaming at him.

  “All you want, isn’t it? A punch bag and a fuck, all in one.” He spat out the words, showing his disgust. “Much like your wife.”

  Frank leapt to his feet, once again catching The Collector by surprise. His head connected squarely with The Collector’s nose. Both men sprawled to the ground; Frank still clutching his throbbing head, The Collector grabbing his nose, which dripped with blood.

  9.

  “Frank? What’s going on?”

  Anne emerged from the open front door. She looked back and forth at her husband, rolling around on the lawn clutching his head and screaming, and the stranger who sat up, a red torrent flowing over his mouth.

  “You need to control this…this animal!” he said, rising to his feet. “Look at what he did to me! Look at my suit…”

  He stared down at Frank.

  “This is outrageous.”

  The man turned and stormed off down the garden and out the gate.

  “Frank?” Anne ran over to him and dropped to a crouch, laying a hand on his back. “Frank? What happened?”

  “My…head…” he groaned through gritted teeth. “It hurts. My God…it hurts…”

  “Let’s get you inside,” said Anne, trying to pull one of his arms around her shoulders. With the difference in size and weight, she struggled. “Frank, you have to get up.”

  She felt his arm flex and fingers dig painfully into her skin. He hoisted himself up higher.

  “That’s it,” she said. “Come on.”

  With him unsteady as a bad drunk, Anne doubted they’d reach the front door. Her back ached with effort every time he fell, the pressure and weight on her trebling. Anne knew if she let him fall, he’d stay on the floor.

  His balance seemed to return as they crossed the threshold into the hall. She leaned him against the wall, closed the front door and rubbed her back, expecting her shoulder to be bruised from his tight grasp.

  Frank leaned back with his legs out at an angle, his own weight keeping him from falling. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

  “That…that was a bad one…”

  “A bad one?” asked Anne, out of breath. “A bad headache or a bad rage attack, Frank?”

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall.