by Wood, Rick
That’s where he would keep those memories. Safely locked away where no one could get to.
Jenny kept her arm around Eddie to keep him steady as they approached the swings. A few lads walked past, sniggering at him, and Eddie was sure one of them made a comment. But he ignored it, as did Jenny. He was in no state to fight anyone, and Jenny was far too mature to rise to it.
After she had made sure he was balanced safely on a swing she perched on the next one, gazing at him.
Despite everything that had happened in the last few months, his face was no stranger to her. She recognised it; every rumpled frown line, every melancholy fake smile, every twitch of the eye keeping him from crying.
She could read him so well. They had met at three years old. She had no memories of him not being in her life. Every day, the same welcome face, and more recently, the same pained expression.
“They just miss her too, you know,” she assured him.
“Yeah, well, they have a funny way of showing it.”
He didn’t return her gaze. It was too hard. He just kept his eyes focussed on his feet, kept them away from Jenny, away from her sweet, soothing eyes.
He knew that just one look at her eyes would break him.
And he was a man. Eleven years old or not, he was a man. He would not cry.
He refused.
“But it’s all just a big mask, isn’t it?” she smiled, hoping that even though he wasn’t looking at her, he would sense it. “They mask their hurt with beer and hate. Just like you mask your hurt with… refusing to look at me. Staring at your feet so your eyes don’t break.”
“Stop reading me, okay?”
“I can’t help it. I’ve known you too long.”
He sighed. Looked up to the sky. He would stop looking at his feet, but he wouldn’t look at her yet. He would look up. That was half way between.
Surely that was good enough for now?
She reached out and stroked his arm.
“Do you think we’ll still be friends like this when we’re older?” he mused.
“Of course,” she replied without a shred of doubt.
“No, I mean, when we’re like, old. In twenty years’ time. My mum and dad haven’t kept up their friendships with people they knew as kids. Neither have yours. Or anyone else I know.”
She dropped her hand from his arm and put it in his hand.
“Then we’ll be the exception,” she assertively declared.
Finally, he returned her gaze.
And as he did, he let the tiniest of tears trickle down his cheek, drop from his face, and land on the floor.
4
3 January 2003
Three years since millennium night
Jenny lifted her hood up, but it did little to shelter herself from the rain. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and stared at the swing set before her.
They looked different from how she remembered.
The metal had rusted, the plastic seats had since been changed, and someone had graffitied obscene words on the floor.
And they looked far smaller than Jenny remembered. As a child, she would spend so much time going as high as she could off the ground, feeling like she could fly. She and Eddie laughing, exhilarated by the risk. But if she were to try it now, her feet would likely not leave the floor.
“What is it?” prompted Derek.
“It’s…” She thought deeply about what to say. “It’s nothing.”
She turned and walked down the street with Derek.
Despite the rain, he still wore his smartest attire. No hoodies for Derek – it was waistcoat, tie, shirt, and jacket, though he had allowed himself an expensive-looking trench coat.
“Have you got the list?” Jenny asked, getting straight to business.
“I have, I have,” Derek nodded. “I believe it has been posted. It should arrive in the next few days. And, what’s more, I have heard that Martin made contact with Father Douglas in Israel.”
“Good. That’s good.”
They shared a moment of contemplation, and a moment of comfortable silence. They both kept their heads down, deep in thought.
“And you think these people on the list,” Jenny asked, “they will be able to help us?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “They are incredibly powerful people. Some religious, some paranormal investigators, some exorcists, and everything in between.”
He looked up and allowed a few drops of rain to settle on his head and drip from his neat goatee.
“They should be able to help us kill him,” he continued.
Jenny froze, forcing Derek to halt, turning toward him with a perplexed expression.
Jenny’s fists withdrew from her jacket and she leant toward Derek, raising her hand, and jabbing her finger toward him. Her teeth grinded, her eyebrows narrowed, and anger erupted through her voice.
“Let’s get one thing straight, or I will block this bloody list from ever getting to you,” she snarled, louder than she realised. “We are not in the business of killing him. We – do not – kill Eddie. You understand?”
Derek sighed. “Jenny…”
“No!” she snapped. “No! You do not Jenny me. I am making this clear. We are not killing him. We are saving him. We are saving Eddie.”
Derek ran his hand over his beard and lifted his head, giving himself time to be calm, to think, to respond in sound mind.
She did not move. Her finger remained rigidly pointed in his direction as she irately awaited his response.
“Jenny,” Derek began, lifting his hand slowly and lucidly, using it to push her hand back to her side. “What we are dealing with is no longer Eddie. You must understand this.”
“Eddie’s in there.”
“No one wants him back more than I. But you see, this thing he has become, it has removed every piece of Eddie, replaced by nothing but evil–”
“No!” Jenny snapped. “He is in there. And I’m getting him back.”
Derek understood how she felt all too well. He wanted the exact same thing; he wanted the man he had trained back at his side. The man he had watched become such a powerful exorcist, such a brilliant force in the world of defeating demons.
But that’s not who they were dealing with anymore.
Eddie was no longer his right-hand man.
He was Satan’s.
“I grew up with him.” Jenny vehemently shook her head, seeing Derek’s hesitance protruding from his terrified eyes. “You’ve known him for a while, sure. But I was with him when we were three. I can’t…”
She broke up. She couldn’t. Where was Lacy when she needed her?
Lacy was always so good at being cool whilst Jenny was anxious.
Eddie had pointed it out within moments of meeting Lacy – what a calming influence she was.
“Jenny, I will do everything in my power to restore the old Eddie. But you need to understand, that may not be an avenue open to us.”
“Then the world burns,” Jenny growled. “Then the whole world burns by Eddie’s hand, and us with it. Everything we know, everyone we meet, will be dead. I don’t care. We do not kill Eddie.”
Derek smiled sympathetically and put his arm on her shoulder.
“Come on,” he spoke resolutely. “Let’s gather our army before we decide on our strategy.”
Jenny nodded and they carried on walking.
Just before they turned the corner, Jenny had one last glance over her shoulder at the swing set. She could swear she saw a young boy and a young girl sitting on them, sharing a fragile moment.
Dear Martin,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that you have successfully begun your training in Israel.
Things are looking bleak here. I am awaiting Stella Clutching’s list with keen anticipation. As soon as I have this list of people, we can begin assembling our army and combining skillsets.
Fortunately, I won’t have to explain too much to these people. They shouldn’t be hard to recruit. When an event such as this
occurs, it causes a ripple, and anyone in the know will have felt this ripple and be aware of what the omen means.
The only frustrating thing is that they won’t perhaps fully realise how morbid a situation we have.
Edward King was one of the greatest exorcists, and one of the greatest men, we have ever known. What we must realise is that this man no longer exists. That piece of evil that was put in him since before birth has taken over now. What we are dealing with is the son of the devil, the bringer of the apocalypse, the most dangerous demon to be facing this earth.
Jenny is convinced this is just some demon inside him that we could exorcise, same way we exorcised all these other demons throughout our quests.
I only wish she was right.
And his quietness since this entity within him found its feet on the earth is most unsettling.
So work hard. Learn what you can. The world is on your shoulders, and you may feel this pressure on you. And quite rightly, considering what is at stake.
Just remember to be prepared.
We never know when he will strike or how he will do it.
You will become a powerful sorcerer yet. Cassy will be there to support you, and Father Douglas will teach you.
Keep me updated, my friend.
Take care,
Derek Lansdale
5
5 January 2003
Martin stumbled to his knees, howling from the pain of his sore limbs and bloody skin.
“Get up!” demanded Father Douglas, frantically waving his hands. What little hair he had left around circular bald patch stuck in the air with an aerodynamic static. He was a short, podgy man, but could convey his hostility with utmost ease.
“We have been at this for hours,” Martin begged through gritted teeth and tired tears. “I ain’t no born hero. Gimme a break, would yuh?”
Douglas seized Martin at the collar with a firm hand and shoved him against the large stone bricks of the church – built so long ago, yet so rough and steady it submerged Martin’s back into throbbing jolts.
“The devil will not wait for you to be ready,” Douglas snarled. “Wake up and smell what you’re facing!”
Martin pushed Douglas off him with everything he had. He had such little energy left, his grappling caused only a stumble from the old man. Martin dropped his head, feeling a tinge of humiliation.
In further retaliation, and to preserve some masculine integrity, Martin charged forward at Douglas. Embarrassingly, Douglas just swiped Martin’s ankle from beneath him and sent him sailing onto his back.
Beaten up by a bloody priest, Martin thought, shaking his head to himself.
He stayed down, hoping this would mean Douglas would give him mercy and back off.
“Really?” Douglas stood over Martin, his hands sturdily poised on his hips. “This is what they send me? I ask them to give me a man who understands what’s at stake, who could acquire the ability to become a great sorcerer and take on the worst evil the world has ever seen. And this is what I get?”
“Fuck you,” Martin gasped, forcing a croak out through his rapid panting. “I’m sixteen. I’m a kid. My ma fucking died. I ain’t shit.”
Douglas nodded in agreement. Muttering further irritancy under his breath, he waddled away. Back inside to pray, or ruminate, or bitch on the phone to Derek, or whatever it was Martin predicted the arsehole was going to do.
Martin sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees and burying his head, staring at the gravel beneath him.
Travelling for weeks. Sleeping on the streets. Then, arriving at some church to get battered by a fat, celibate, Bible-loving knobhead was not how he had imagined his life going.
Sweet girls hanging off his arms, an overflowing cash account in the bank, a sick pad where he could entertain and give the best house parties ever… That was his dream.
Not being trained like a bitch in the back garden of some crummy church by a relentless priest with no life.
“He’s not that bad,” came a soothing, feminine voice from behind him.
Martin felt a familiar hand gently pressing his shoulder, filling his body with hope, soothing his anger with instant clarity. A smile unknowingly presented itself on his face as he turned around and gazed at Cassy with eyes of adoration.
“Were you watching that?”
She sat down and crossed her legs, sitting beside Martin, leaning against the wall of the church, affectionately grazing her hand up and down his back. She glowed with luminous beauty, long, flowing hair, and a white dress far brighter than humanly possible.
She was the epitome of an angel: gliding, gracious wisdom with every soothing smile she gave.
“No,” she smiled. “You think too loud.”
“So, you’re reading my thoughts now?”
“Reading them? No. But they are giving me a headache.”
He stood in a moment of frustration, and the pain in his legs instantly reminded him why he had sat down. He knelt, grabbing his calves that burnt like rubbery coal.
She placed her hands either side of his face and lifted his eyes toward hers. As soon as her smooth skin touched his filthy cheeks the pain went, replaced by giddy pins and needles.
“You are waging a war,” she reminded him. “And you are the soldier I have chosen.”
“Why?” he scoffed. “Why me? A screw-up, a loser?”
“No. A champion. Someone who knows what it’s like to be on the outside, looking in at the world.”
He took hold of her arm and removed it from his cheeks. The pain was restored to his legs.
But he preferred the real pain, rather than the false illusions coming from the touch of an angel.
“You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He turned away from her and limped back toward the church.
The church, with his small, square, stone room, without any air conditioning, and rats scuttling around his feet.
He thought about Ma. Thought about what she would say to him now.
What lecture she would give. What moans, bizarre anecdotes, and unsolicited advice.
But she was dead. Gone. No more.
As was his foreseeable purpose.
He couldn’t do this.
He wasn’t a hero.
6
The moon glittered idly in the steady lake. It was the kind of evening that made one think deeply, consider philosophy, and gain a translucent clarity over their view on life.
Stella Clutchings lived for such nights. Such serenity in nature was crucial for reflecting with a quiet mind; something essential in her line of work. She always made sure that, at least once a month, she witnessed a sunset and a sunrise. It helped her realise that there was something out there, looking over her. It made her feel importantly small. That, despite the many lives that have lived and died, her insignificance could still create a ripple in the waves of time.
Unfortunately, her time to create such a ripple was limited. And she felt it. Something fluttered in her belly, lucidly firing through her bones.
That’s why she wasn’t stressed. Not allowing her anxiety to take hold of her. Not giving in to the feelings she had spent her whole life controlling.
If she had managed to control her mind for her whole life, then why give in now? Why give in at her final moments?
She finished her letter, writing her final words and signing it.
Remember, this comes to us all eventually. I may as well face it with dignity.
Yours in mind and spirit.
Stella Clutchings
Psychic Extraordinaire
She chuckled to herself at her label of ‘psychic extraordinaire.’ Death was no time to be modest. She may as well go out with an amusing flourish.
It was her community, after all, that considered her the most established, prominent psychic in generations gone – not her.
If she was indoors, this would be a time for her to scour her bookshelf for new literature to devour. That is what she always imagined doing in her final moments. Sitt
ing there, holding a book in her hands, her corpse harnessing a comforting smile to those who found it.
Maybe she’d even hold one of her own books for the irony of it. Psychic Phenomena for the Modern Century would look rather amusing in her hands, as they had to pry it out of her stiffened clutches, secured in her grasp like stone as rigor mortis set in.
Is this really what her final thoughts were going to be?
Silly things to think about, really. To most, it would be a morbid thought to consider yourself with stiffened rigor mortis. To Stella, it was a beautiful kind of irony. A last chuckle at the world that did nothing to defend her from what was to come.
Where was God now?
The one she had fought in the name of, doing nothing to intervene.
Thanks for nothing.
She knew the devil’s heir was rising. Anyone who had any kind of power or experience in the field of paranormal could feel it.
Something was coming.
And it wasn’t something good.
But she also felt the other side of the equation balancing itself out. Balancing itself as an act of deception to the devil in the form of a sixteen-year-old wayward boy.
Everything rested on that boy’s shoulders.
Trust in that boy was the final thing she wrote on the final line of her final letter. She placed it into an envelope, sealed it, and placed it on the table next to her. The calm evening fluttered the envelope’s edge in the cool evening breeze, so she finished off her wine and placed her glass on top of it, so as to keep it still.
She took in the moment once more. The darkness of the hours, the magnificent faded green of the fluttering leaves, the slight, shady ripple through the lake that had never brought her anything but happiness.