by Paul A. Rice
Ken’s mind whispered: ‘Well, if I am mad, then I’m really enjoying it!’ Laughing at his own mildly-insane thoughts, Ken turned and followed the grey-headed one towards the new adventure, one which he knew the old guy would definitely have brought with him.
It felt as if they were in a disused underground railway station, that’s what it smelt like, at least. Diesel fumes, hot steel and smoke, the warm metallic odour of all tube stations the world over. It was a single building and no matter how hard he tried, Ken couldn’t see anything else. The red door swung open as George pushed its handle downwards, a brass bolt at the bottom of the door squealed as it caught in a well-worn groove, which thousands of similar movements had cut into the concrete floor.
Stepping into the room, Ken immediately recognised the red leather couch sitting in the centre of the square room, the huge seat was straight out of the lounge from that other place, the one from before, wherever that may have been. The only other furnishings in the room were a heavy wooden table with an ornate metal lamp sitting in the middle. Its single bulb cast a golden glow across the floor before splashing across the couch and up onto the dirty wall behind. There were no other doors and only a single, dirt-smeared window. Much like the outside, the room also smelled of the railway and old electrics.
As the door shut behind them, with a clash of wood and metal, Ken did as George bade and sat in the red couch. George seated himself at the far end, half-twisted, so he was turned towards Ken. Smiling, he said, ‘Well, I must say, Kenneth…you are looking well, very well indeed! How are you feeling, my dear chap? I don’t just mean physically, either.’ The glow of the lamp splashed onto his ruddy features, the weird light giving a somewhat ghostly feel to the whole scene.
Ken paused before replying. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Pretty good, if I’m to be honest. I’m not gonna find out I’m sick again, am I? You know…some kind of relapse or seizure, or something?’ The thought had dawned upon him as he’d heard George speak and the familiar touch of the couch caused the memories to come flooding back.
George shook his head, ‘No, my boy, you are more than fine,’ he said, ‘this is a dream, as such, but not like the ones you have become so used to. This will be, should you choose, the way in which we may meet occasionally. Think of it as our halfway house, a place in-between everything…’
Glancing at Ken he asked, ‘Have you heard from Michael recently?’
Ken had a feeling that perhaps George already knew the answer to that question. But he’d learned the rules to this game now, learned the hard way. So he replied with: ‘Yeah, a couple of weeks ago Mike texted me from some weird number, he said all was well and that I would be hearing from you – is he okay?’ He looked at George and waited, hoping for some good news.
George’s reply was good news. ‘He is absolutely fine and will be with you in a few days; Michael has quite a lot of information to pass on to you. Information, that without this little chat tonight, you may well have had some problems coming to terms with… However, now that I have seen you again, I do believe I may well have underestimated you once more.’ Laughing, he said, ‘Honestly, Kenneth, you never cease to amaze us!’
Ken just wished he knew what the hell the old man was going on about. ‘Why that particular dream, George,’ he said, with a confused shake of the head, ‘why the market, you must know it nearly drove me over the edge before, why show it to me again?’ The memories from that time in his life were ones Ken would much rather have forgotten.
George replied in a gentle voice, saying: ‘Yes, we had to think long and hard about it, but we needed to remind you about the strength of your feelings at that time, the rage which you felt toward the perpetrators of such a heinous crime.’ He smiled. ‘We have to know if you still harness that strong sense of justice within yourself, the undeniable knowledge of what is right and of that which is wrong.’ He looked at Ken, shrugged in that familiar manner, and continued. ‘For if that fire no longer burns within your soul, if the flames are but a distant memory, then the next step on our little journey will be one that you cannot take.’
Ken replied immediately. ‘It’s there for sure, it always has been,’ he said. ‘But what is the next trip, what’s going on, George?’ He wished the old man would just give it to him straight. The light from the lamp was starting to hurt his eyes and felt the frustration rising within.
George didn’t seem to notice, the old man simply looked pleased as he smiled at Ken. ‘Good! Don’t worry just yet,’ he said. ‘We have met again, at last, and I believe you are more than well enough for the next part of our adventure, yes indeed, should you choose to come along and join us that is, absolutely more than ready.’ Rubbing his bony hands together in a faint gesture of glee, he said, ‘Just know this – everything that happened before, did so for a reason! Michael will tell you all you need to know, and we have time, plenty of time!’ He rose from the couch, saying: ‘In the meantime you should be with your wife, just relax, keep fit and make sure above all things that you keep an open mind!’ He winked and stretched out his arms in a gesture of waiting embrace.
Ken stood, the sense of calmness he felt fill his chest took away the need for any words. Instead, he crossed the space between them and embraced George – embraced him as he had done before, in some other place at some other time.
George said, ‘I will see you in a while my dear boy, do take care!’
Ken felt that strange sliding feeling wash over him again, its arrival causing him to fall back into the deep chasm of sleep.
The familiar feeling was almost addictive.
4
Rights and Wrongs
With a loving touch, Graeme Peters smoothed a final layer of soil over the small grave, running his fingers, splayed like a rake, through the loamy earth. Feeling the seeds and chestnut husks bumping into his rough skin, Peters knew that he would have to pay attention when he scrubbed himself clean later. ‘Dirty nails are the sign of a dirty little mind!’ The sound of his mother’s endlessly-preached words echoing through his thoughts made him feel safe. The feeling of the soil made him feel good, too – it almost aroused him with its dark, damp, sensual feeling. He stayed a moment longer, swirling the dirt through his hands a few more times.
Standing up, he reached into the chest pocket of his overalls and removed the surgical gloves. Snapping the gloves over his hands, Peters carried out his final ritual. Within seconds his hot seed had joined those of the ancient wood, dribbling onto the dark ground between his rubber galoshes.
Wiping himself clean with the gloves, he rolled them off his hands and carefully shoved them back into the pocket. Turning, he gathered some handfuls of leaves and scattered them in thick layers over the tiny patch of freshly turned soil. Taking the shovel, he used its blade to remove all traces of his footsteps and then, walking backwards, he continued with his camouflage until he had erased any and all signs of his presence, paying attention to every detail, eyes searching in the darkness, meticulously checking every patch of ground.
As the end of his wood appeared behind him, he turned around and followed the well-worn rabbit trail that led to the edge of the wood, walking softly on the thick grass, carefully staying on the trail until he reached the fence. Holding the top rung of barbed wire down, he gingerly eased his skinny legs over its sharp teeth and let the strand spring back to its rightful position.
Taking one last glance into the dark wood, he knelt and gently fluffed up the blades of grass his passing had disturbed. Smiling, he turned away from the woods’ interior and then took a slow walk along the main track, making sure he stayed under the dark shadows cast by the overhanging trees as he went. In the three times he had been here with his ‘Rights’ and the hundreds of other times in between, whilst planning and yearning, he had never seen a soul. It was approaching four o’clock on a dark and misty morning, and the rest of the world was sound asleep.
Not he, though, no sleep for him, not on nights like this, his need always kept him awake
, filled him with the light of knowing. So much time invested in finding them, endless days spent watching them and planning on how to make them his. So many gentle conversations and treasured moments of special friendship-making, exchanging of gifts, the bringing of treats from their homes, the telling of sweet tales, stories of the adventures they would have together. It had taken him nearly a year for each one to come to him, but in the end they always came, and came willingly – looking for something, something which only he was able to give them. But then, after coming to him, they knew that what he did next was nothing more than his Right.
He had earned them, earned all of them, and once they entered the workshop at the rear of his office, the word ‘Caretaker’ painted in bright red letters upon its varnished door, once they had entered that place, then they were his property. They knew it was his Right, that’s why they came, wasn’t it?
They came to give him his Rights.
He had been careful, never greedy, and always made sure that he had taken care of them afterwards, often he would come and visit their secret little place. He bought the gloves with him and always left a little something for them, left it splattered on the grass and weeds above them, just a modest token to show how much he remembered them. ‘After all, I love them and they love me!’ His whispered sickness caused a slight tendril of steam to rise from his breath – it wafted around his face, hanging in the still cold air.
It was his Right to love them.
Just lately a new fire had begun to burn within him, it wasn’t usually like this – perhaps he wouldn’t wait so long for the next one, the blonde child, maybe. ‘Yes, she’s nearly ready to come to me now! Perhaps I can take her sooner…’ Peters let his mind think of the tantalising possibilities for a while. He imagined her in the darkness of the wood, the thoughts aroused him and he caressed himself through the hip-pocket of the overalls, rubbing and walking, mind thinking of the future. He would go home, clean up his clothes and boots, shower… scrub himself spotless… then have a cup of tea and perhaps some toast and marmalade. The lemon one in the tall jar with the paper lid, the one Mrs Williams had given him.
Peters smiled again, before making his silent, unseen journey away from the waking wood, his passing disturbed the light mist and the movement of his body left it curling behind him like a wraith. The only sound to be heard was a soft thumping noise made by the hidden rabbits, drumming their feet in warning of the passing danger. Some distance away, he stopped, bent down, and slid his shovel into a half-buried, concrete pipe that lay concealed by the deadfall and brambles. Standing once again, he continued on his way home with selfish thoughts of food, and other things, idling through his mind.
Within thirty minutes he reached the cottage, the wooden gate creaked as he lifted the latch and stepped onto the old stone pathway. Peters closed the gate behind him and made his way around the side of the whitewashed walls of the house. The dawn light was only now breaking, its faint rosy hue rising over the dark woods to the east. Daybreak had arrived, but it would still be some time before it was fully light. This was his time, the time when he felt most alive – the dawn of a new day exhilarated him.
Feeling totally refreshed, he hurried toward the outhouse, stopping at the outer door to bend and remove the rubber over-boots, hopping from one foot to the next whilst he slid them from over his old green training shoes. Whistling softly, he plopped the galoshes into the bucket of water, as it sat cold and dirty by the coal bunker. Chuckling as a few air bubbles escaped with a gurgling ‘ploop’ sound, he turned to his right and lifted the latch on the door to the old brick building.
Entering the room, Peters reached up to his left and flicked on the light, the ancient Bakelite switch crackling in protest as the surge of electricity powered through its old wires. He stepped into the room and closed the wooden door behind him, the movement making the rusty latch rattle as it fell back into place. The room was almost dark but he was able to make out the strings of onions hanging on the walls, their smell filled the room.
There was another smell too, an alien odour, a smell of burning electricity.
He turned and looked at the light switch and then back to the bulb that hung from the low ceiling above him. Both appeared to be fine. Sniffing deeply, he paused, then shook his head and undid the buttons on the front of his dark-green overalls. With belly rumbling, his thoughts turned once more to the breakfast he would soon prepare himself. As he slid the collar over his shoulders and wriggled one arm out of the overall’s sleeve, the strange smell became much stronger. Panic hit his gut and he turned toward the door with thoughts of the cottage’s thatched roof foremost in his mind. ‘Something’s on fire!’
As he spun around, Peters just caught the sight of a shadow, his eyes widened in surprise, the shadow belonged to a man, a man who had appeared like magic in the doorway to his outhouse. Fear raced through his mind and he literally jumped with shock at the sight of the tall man who had somehow entered the building without a sound. For one second they stood staring at each other, and then the intruder raised his hand and shone a small torch at him.
As the beam of light fell upon Peters, it did a lot more than simply illuminate his face. No, this was a bolt of pure power, a green electrical current so strong that it really did make all the hairs on his body stand to attention. He felt his eyeballs cooking. It stunned him with its power.
‘I…’ was the only sound to escape his pallid lips, before he collapsed where he stood. He sank to his knees and then toppled forward, head clonking like a coconut on the stone floor. He lay there, half-kneeling, face on the ground, arms behind his shoulders. The green fire pulsed viciously as it raced down his neck, the pain caused by its invasion was excruciating, but there was to be no respite.
Although Peters was immobilised, he remained conscious, and through fluttering eyelids he saw the boots of two men as they approached him. He tried to speak but not a sound passed his lips, he felt as though he had been frozen, frozen in fire. The scream, which had built up in his throat, found its only escape and exploded like a firework on the inside of his head, the overpressure caused by the silent explosion of fear made all the blood vessels in his eyes burst at once, filling his eyes like tiny red lava flows. Half-blinded and paralysed, Graeme Peters prayed for some release, but there was to be none, not ever.
He was doomed.
5
Reunited
Ken and Jane shared two more weeks of blissful, undisturbed relaxation with each other. Two weeks in which they toured the countryside, walked the dogs, and in general had a great time together. During this period, Ken managed to get almost all of the things he had experienced into some form of logical order. It still baffled him and he continued to feel like it wasn’t finished, not quite yet. And then, of course, there had been the latest dream, and his bizarre meeting with George. Yes, Ken pretty much knew that things weren’t finished.
Jane seemed to manage quite well with the stream of crazy information he gave her, remaining fairly stoical about the whole thing. His story was beyond bizarre, yet she weathered it without complaint. Jane became his rock, and many times, when the tale became too stormy, Ken clung to her.
One sunny, yet icy-cold, winter’s day, whilst they were walking down the slope behind the house, Ken saw the glow of brake lights coming from a car that had obviously turned off the track and onto their driveway.
‘Looks like we have visitors,’ he said, raising his eyebrows and turning to glance at Jane. Before she was able to reply, both the dogs barked and tore off down the hill. ‘Bugger, here we go!’ Ken murmured, starting to jog down the hill after them. He had a sudden vision of the local Policeman being savaged by the Ridgebacks, not a good welcome for someone on a courtesy visit.
As the thoughts rushed through his head, Jane came bounding past him. ‘Come on, slow-coach, last one there’s a loser!’ she said, black hair flying as she half-ran and half-slipped down the hill, laughing crazily as she went.
Ken shook his head an
d ran after her, murmuring: ‘First one there does the medical treatment, you mean. Those bloody dogs will have whoever that is for breakfast!’ He let the momentum of the slope carry him and raced past his wife, shouting out as he went.
‘Hello the lodge, watch out for the dogs, they’re on the way down, be careful, they’re not very friendly with strangers!’ As the sound of his voice rolled across the valley, Ken saw Leon leap the tall back gate as though it wasn’t there. Jessica, the somewhat smaller bitch, was hot on his heels.
The visitor’s sarcastic reply rolled up the slope. ‘Yeah, I know…but I have chocolate and these pooches are as soft as…Oh shit!’ This was followed by a chorus of deep barks from their so-called guard dogs. The voice rang out again. ‘Hey, ya canine bastards, watch the bloody paintwork!’
The Australian’s twang was unmistakeable to Ken, whose free-falling plummet from the slope had just sent him crashing into the dry stone wall at the bottom of the garden. One-handed, he leapt the gate and raced around the side of the lodge. Two steps behind him, Jane let out a shriek. ‘Mikey!’
Sure enough, there upon their cobbled driveway stood the tall Australian. He had his hands full and was busily fighting off both the dogs, who, now that they were up on their back legs, stood nearly as tall as he did. The Ridgebacks were both desperately trying to lick Mike’s face.
‘Get off me, ya damn mutts!’ he implored, whilst glancing helplessly at Ken. ‘You can bloody help any time you feel ready, I’m losing this one, help me out here, man!’ he growled. Two, untouched, chocolate bars lay discarded at his feet.