Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  “Alice Nowak was his wife. She died, crushed when her school collapsed. We were unable to save her but Alex made it back in time to say goodbye.”

  “He would have just returned from seeing me born,” I say quietly, more to myself than to the Sister.

  “Alex Nowak is a Janus,” she says, ignoring, or not hearing my comment. “There are two definite sides. I have witnessed incredible violence and cruelty but I have also seen unbelievable tenderness and compassion. He is one of a kind. Be warned.” She smiles, warmly.

  Before I go, I need to ask her something.

  “Holly, the young woman with us. Did you know her father?”

  “No. We were outside the town, originally. He worked away a lot.”

  My heart starts its familiar race.

  “On the railways, I think. Michael, I believe his name is. Was. Why?” she asks.

  “I just wondered,” I say, brightly. “I need to know everything about everyone!”

  Sister Maria looks at me like I’m five years old, telling a white lie. She’s right. I leave her, sitting at the oak table. For now, I’ll keep this to myself. Raising hopes with a woman whose soul is crushed is cruel. I also know that Holly has a right to know about the journal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The heavy air turns black, with a sudden swipe, sucking out even the dullest colours. I expect darkness but it feels like the sky has been painted over with one thick stroke. Storm sleeps. A white candle stub drips onto a cracked plate as I decide to read the journal, to see if there’s anything from just before the mess. I know Mum’s stories. And Johnny’s. A few more too. These were valley tales. I want to know what happened in other places.

  The binding is still strong. It feels solid, its black cover scuffed, a faint smell of wood smoke clinging to the pages. Many pages are filled with calculations, observation, suggestions. It’s to be expected - a railwayman’s workbook. The writing’s neat, easy to read - not copperplate like Mum’s but one directional, slightly angled to the right. He’s used different pens. The switch from blue to black, even green, doesn’t detract from its order. It’s pleasant to look at, even if I don’t understand the technical language.

  Focus, Mercy. I go to the last entry. ‘Must find Holly.’ It’s a definite, clear statement. An affirmation. To write it down makes it real. Mum’s words come to mind – ‘if it is stated, it will happen,’ she used to say. We couldn’t always write things down, not like this.

  What if I just copied the words onto a scrap of paper? Say I just found it, lying there. I could keep the book. I dismiss the thought. It’s mean. There are four pages of personal writing. I start to read.

  ‘I was five hundred yards down the line. Sector 155. Checking for points wear. Checking clip integrity. I had crouched down, right next to the track. The earth literally trembled. My whole body vibrated. Shocks ran through me, from my feet to my head. I was knocked over. The air was hazy. From normal to misty in seconds. The noise was deafening. After a while I could tell what was happening. An earthquake. The mist didn’t clear but my eyes got used to it a bit. I saw wells in the distance, mashed up with huge jets of pressurised liquid spurting into the air, continuously. I hope it was just here. Localised.’

  *

  There’s a noise outside our window. I put the journal down on the floor. Cupping my eyes, I struggle to see anything. I grab the plate carefully to see if candlelight will penetrate the darkness. It does. I see Rags. Perhaps he was scratching at the ground. There’s nothing else, that I can see. I peer down, focussing on the shed. He’s restless. I head downstairs, trying to be quiet. A loose step makes a cracking sound. I see Carrie in the front room. She’s lying on the long chair, her brown, scuffed boots on the floor. The steady rise and fall of her chest suggests she’s sleeping. I move the bar from its holding hook, putting it quietly on the side.

  As I open the door, I see movement. My eyes work hard to see. I should have brought the torch. I’m armed but my sword’s not drawn. I try to breathe normally. It’s impossible, breaths coming irregularly. Harsh. It feels like I’m breathing through metal. It’s just Rags, I’m sure. I go over to him. I stroke his head while his gentle eyes focus on mine. I wish he could be inside, with us. I feel him relax at my touch. The odd stray ember flies nearby, from the boundary fires. Looking up, I try to make out shapes in the sky. There’s nothing.

  There’s no rain now, just an eerie silence. I was used to it in the valley. This is a town though. It feels like a ghost town. I hope the spirits are kind. From the corner of my eye I notice Rags looking at the sky too. We draw comfort from each other. He lets me kiss his head before I go back inside. I sit back on the floor, resting against the wall. I’m tired from the weeding but I want to read more of Michael Thompson’s journal. Michael, father of Holly. Sad Holly who has no idea what happened to her dad. Neither do I. I read on.

  ‘The rails shook. Clips dislodged, forced from their bolted bases. Some sleepers cracked, snapped. The shaking continued as here and there, iron rails buckled and twisted. Not everywhere, just in places. It’s unusable now, this whole stretch of line. I took my phone and called in. There was a signal but it was just static. I couldn’t tell if it was ringing or not. Looking down, I saw that my legs were covered in soil, flung high and around by the tremors. It became so quiet. The trembling had stopped. I got to my feet, grabbed my holdall, setting off back to the hut. I couldn’t see it so I hoped when I turned the bend it would still be there. I managed to walk just a few paces. I was thrown across the rails, not even hearing the sound before I landed, winded, hurt and breathless. The sky went dark. Raven-black.’

  I’m picturing the fear in his heart as he wrote this – it doesn’t take a lot of imagination.

  ‘The magpies I saw earlier in the day had disappeared. No birdsong. Chaotic noise everywhere. Thunder sounds filled the air. Bright flashes stung my eyes. I couldn’t tell if things were on fire or if the air had ignited. I was choking on soil. Stones had cut my face and hands. I wiped blood from my mouth with my sleeve. That hadn’t escaped either. The orange cuff of my jacket hung in ragged pieces. The ground was rumbling. I couldn’t see what was happening around me. I tried to stand but I couldn’t. Shooting pain ran through my right leg. I thought it was broken but I could move it. It had taken a battering when I landed. It wasn’t broken. The shaking, rumbling and near-deafening noise carried on for just a minute I think. It felt like longer. My head throbbed from the impact as I hit the other side of the track. I ran my fingers over it. There was blood but no serious cuts that I could feel. Then the rumbling just stopped.’

  The stuff I’m reading so far is consistent to what others say happened. The shaking. The blasts. Intense heat. Air spontaneously combusting. Mum had just given birth to me. She was with Johnny, the first wave of shocks flooring the three of us. She stayed on the ground, shielding me with her body. We were still like that as the first main blast shook the massive hospital. Much of it collapsed. It wasn’t full but the explosion was enough to instantly kill most of the staff and patients inside.

  Alex had left, only an hour or so before. For some reason, some miracle, our room didn’t collapse – my midwife survived too. From that moment, I never left the valley, until now. I wonder if Alex will return. I think of the valley, and why I left. At times like this, I wish I knew. Focus, Mercy. My eyes ache from the poor light. I must continue. I read on.

  ‘I stayed on the ground. I don’t know how long. I checked my left wrist. The cuff was still intact and miraculously so was my watch. A small chip from the glass, that’s all. An old Soviet piece, a Poljot. The time said ten past two. The second hand ticked on regardless of the surrounding chaos. Fireballs still glowed in the distance. There were pockets of flame nearby but they were dying out as fast as they started. I must have been caught at the outside. From the amount of damage that I saw in the distance, it was much less here. I headed back towards the hut. I turned the corner, relieved to see it still standing. The door was off but I fixed i
t later. I sat down heavily and tried to call Carly. There was no signal. As I write, two days later, there’s still none. I need to decide what to do. I thought someone would come. My work van is burnt out, destroyed, blown at least two hundred yards back. It looks like no one is coming. All I can think of is Carly and Holly. I pray they’re okay. Carly’s an adult, calm and sensible. If this is everywhere, she’ll cope. Holly would have been at school. Frightened. Must find Holly. I love them, so much. I hope I told them enough. I need to get to them. Somehow, I will.’

  It ends there. Poor man. One of millions, probably. Cut off, not knowing, desperate for news. I turn the last page. Those three words again. This time larger, written across the page. Underlined until a splodge of ink showed the pen collapsed under the pressure of his hand. The pressure of his fear, his heartache. ‘Must find Holly’.

  *

  The front door opens, banging against the wall. I hear David’s voice. It’s louder than usual. It sounds a bit different, still nasal but harsher. There are two voices now. Carrie’s woken. I’m not surprised. Storm woke with a start too, her hands automatically reaching for Ghost. I wave my hand to her. I just mouth, ‘David’.

  Storm lays back on the floor. Rough carpet keeps much of the cold out - I’ve slept on worse. I tell her about the contents of the journal.

  “Nothing new there,” she says.

  I ask her about showing it. She just shrugs.

  “It’s not our concern. Keep the book, it’s nice.”

  I know Storm’s not saying this from maliciousness. She’s right in a way. Our mission. Our focus, is to find Alex, seek his help. Where we should go. To help others. To move forward. It’s why she’s dependable. One problem at a time. Then wait for the next one. Tangents are unhelpful, I know that. I wait until it’s quiet downstairs. Taking the book with me, I go down the stairs. I will ask David. I hope he’s okay. I’m sure he sounded a bit cross when he came in. Probably exhausted. Carrie is curled up tight at the far edge of the seat. Her dad has his back to me.

  “I found this,” I say. “In a shed by a rail track.”

  When he turns, his eyes are different. Even in the low light I can see a dim glaze. He stares at me. It isn’t friendly. I wonder what I’ve done and start to change my mind. He’s already grabbed the book, turning it over. He mouths the name on the cover, his lip curling into a sneer. He opens it, reads a few lines before roughly shoving the journal back at me. I stand still. Shocked.

  “I see he’s still useless,” he says, his tone nasty. “Always was.”

  As he turns away from me, I catch a stringent smell from his breath. Stale but harsh. It smells strongly of alcohol. Johnny likes to drink but he doesn’t smell like that. It’s horrible. Carrie just looks at me before looking away. I turn and climb the stairs quickly. I’m not even careful. I hold the book tight to my chest. That was a bad idea, showing it. Maybe Storm’s right. It’s detracting from the whole point of this trip. Focus, Mercy. I’m worried about David. Not about what he said. How he said it. It’s given me the creeps. I go to the window. I can’t see a thing.

  *

  I dream of demons. Even in my sleep I know I thrash around. I feel awake. A figure stands in the doorway. She wears a mid-blue dress with cornflower-yellow petals. Long dark hair hangs loose. Limp. She’s silent. My mouth opens and words come out that aren’t mine. ‘Go. Away.’ I shut my eyes. I dream again. I’m in the street. This street, out the front. I fall and the blue dress lady hovers above my head. ‘He did it to me. Him’. I crouch tight on the damp cobbles as her madness envelopes me. ‘Who?’ I ask in a small, tiny, terrified voice. ‘David,’ she shrieks. ‘They think I turned. Became one of them. It’s a lie! David shut me out. When I needed help. They killed me! He killed me!’ ‘Who are you?’ I ask. ‘Carly,’ she whispers. She disappears. I wake with horror in my soul.

  The doorway is empty. I’m on the floor. A nightmare. A vision. I pray it’s not a revelation. A raised voice brings me fully to my senses. It’s David, shouting at Carrie.

  “I don’t care!” he screams. Storm is awake now. Listening.

  “She brings me that! That business is finished. Buried. I didn’t shut her out. She turned. One of them.”

  Carrie is silent. I hardly dare breathe.

  “I want them out,” he says, quieter this time but loud enough for us to hear the steel edge in his voice.

  Silently, we check our sacks. Organise. Pack. Storm strips Ghost, cleans and reassembles. My heart beats too fast. I focus, try to control my breathing. My chest hurts. I feel my top teeth dig into my bottom lip. I stop before I draw blood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We wait an hour. The house is quiet. We head down the stairs, quietly but not secretly - we won’t stay where we’re not welcome. David has freaked me out. The dream made it ten times worse. Make that a hundred times.

  David lies on one of the front room seats. He sleeps loudly - a drunk snore. Carrie looks at us as we pass. She doesn’t speak. I’m holding it together but inside I still feel shaken. Storm stands tall. Ghost is loaded and ready. She wouldn’t hesitate. She’s not reckless. I trust her calmness. She’ll do what needs to be done. I remove the bar to the back door. Rags stands there, waiting. He follows as I turn, barring the door. We reach the front, pull open the heavy steel and walk out into the early morning darkness.

  A light rain throws silver strands through the air. We head left, towards the sea for five hundred yards then turn right, parallel to the beach, aiming for the old hotel. I don’t know anyone else. To come all this way and be forced to leave would be a disaster. The Sisters work in shifts, by day and night - I know we’ll have to wait until Sister Maria turns up.

  The closer we get to the hotel, the brighter the fires from the beach. The tide is out but the firelight illuminates an angry sea - the roar reaches us even here. Around fifty yards from the water-healers is a circle of wood and fuel, covered in weighted-down plastic - an extra barrier in case the main boundary is breached. The most important place in town. Without it, life would be near impossible to sustain. We take the curved path to the entrance, past the pipes, crude filters, and finally, the troughs that bring the water for purification.

  Solid wood doors are closed against the night cold and rain. Around ten feet tall, they’re patched in places. Holes on each side of the large frame show where heavy hinges have been moved. It’s likely to be barred so I knock, not too loud to frighten but enough to draw attention. A spyhole at five feet allows those inside to appraise any visitors - useful in the middle of the night.

  We wait. I hear the soft padding of feet on the marbled floor - apart from long, thin cracks it’s largely intact. A momentary pause. We’re under scrutiny. The bar allows the right-hand door to open a couple of inches. A soft female voice asks us how she can help.

  “I’m sorry for the late hour,” I say. “We hoped we could wait to see Sister Maria. We have nowhere to go.”

  “I see,” the Sister replies. “Please wait. I will try to rouse her.”

  Before I can protest that it won’t be necessary in the middle of the night, that we just need temporary shelter, she closes the door. We stand to the side - a broken portico supported by reinforced stone columns keeps much of the rain from us. We wait. The three strangers. The sound of the metal bar’s removal gives me hope. Sister Maria doesn’t invite us in. She steps outside with us. A heavy, dull yellow coat covers her small body but fierce green eyes suggest a hidden strength.

  “We shall talk once we find shelter for the dog,” she says. “He cannot come inside.”

  I nod as we follow her around the side of the hotel. We’re still inside the unlit fire barrier. At the back of the building is a long metal shed. I shudder but thankfully a wooden hut sits nearby. It has a protected opening.

  “The dog can stay here, he will be dry at least - it used to be for a guard with a dog. That was years past. The dog and owner died.” She doesn’t elaborate.

  Rags goes inside, looks at me and
sits, looking like he belongs there.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We follow her back to the entrance where she beckons us inside. A wood fire burns in a small hearth, removing some of the chill. It’s still cold. The same number of Sisters are at work. We’re invited into the back office I visited twice already. The old Sister nods at me. She wants the story. I explain David’s behaviour. How we no longer feel welcome or safe. I wasn’t going to but I mention the nightmare. Sister Maria turns her face upwards, muttering something while moving her hands. She surprises me by what she says next.

  “I am glad you came here. Not everyone is who they might seem. You can rest in another room.”

  She’ll also return to her sleep. In the morning, she’ll find us somewhere to stay. We lay on a cracked wooden floor. Covered with old pieces of thick wool carpet, it’s comfortable. I look at the high ceiling, full of holes where light fittings would once cast a majestic glow. Storm sleeps.

  Sunlight tries to pierce the room. Weak rays bounce off the plastic, the change in colour enough though to wake me. The door has been opened but only enough to see when we’re rested. I’m grateful yet eager to know our fate. We’re invited to wash in an anteroom - it’s a luxury to be able to dry with clean cotton towels. We head to Sister Maria’s office. Although I trust the elderly woman, my heart races.

  There are two Sisters. The other has identical dress and is introduced as Sister Anne. She looks at us. Smiles. She’s much younger, late thirties at a guess, with an unlined slim face and pale aquamarine eyes. Dark brown hair stops short at the tips of her ears. It’s as if her eyes were made from the best of the ocean - just beautiful. I try not to stare at them for too long.

  Sister Maria looks at the three of us in quick succession but addresses me.

  “I have briefed Sister Anne,” she says quietly. “We have agreed that both of you can stay with her until you decide on your next course. She has a small house, further to the south-east than David’s.”