by Julia Hughes
For a moment nothing happened. Mokey stood holding the sword aloft pouring blue light over the whole world. His assembled audience gasped with a collective breath; some falling to their knees. The pressure around Carrie’s neck disappeared. She stared in wonder at a Mokey transformed from King Rat into a knightly figure. And still no-one moved, all eyes were on the sword, its hypnotic radiance.
“Get out of here now!”
And though Carrie wanted to remain on her knees forever; her face turned upwards to bathe in the magical light, she obeyed the Angel.
On her hands and knees she crept from the arch unnoticed. When her knees throbbed she remembered she could walk; sobbing unconsciously she straightened her legs so they were beneath her and staggered forward with an uneven lurch.
Her eyes fixed straight ahead on the tyre rope swing. Without warning it began moving as though pushed by an unseen hand. Air rushed past her– sucked towards the arch, before unexpectedly rushing back again a thousand times more forcefully. Barely inside her hearing range; low enough for her to catch the echo, an earth shuddering boom reverberated.
Chapter Eleven
She didn’t want to turn around but she had to turn around. The sword was her responsibility. Carrie blinked hard, rubbing at her eyes, staggering forward again with her odd lurch, only this time back to the arch. From the stillness she thought it was empty: That Mokey and his gang had filed quietly away as reformed characters to contemplate their new personas.
As she drew nearer she saw she’d been wrong: Mokey would never leave the arch. Bodies littered the ground, a gut churning smell of burnt meat filled the air. Carrie didn’t want to move any closer but a soft blue light compelled her.
I warned them I warned them I warned them. She told herself over and over, lifting her feet to step high over the sprawling bodies and limbs; she couldn’t risk stepping on the mutilated flesh by accident, for fear it would squish and stick to her shoe like dog mess.
I told him not to I told him not to.
This bit was the worst. If any part of that charnel house could be called less gruesome. She averted her face from Mokey’s body, with its blackened and peeling skin. Clutching the red cloth she threw it over the sword as though ensnaring a dangerous animal. A tiger perhaps, or a lion. It purred, a happy sound as though pleased with itself.
‘Stop it stop it stop it! Don’t think like that. You’ll go mad.’
Carrie didn’t realise she’d spoken out-loud, but as she manoeuvred the golf bag over the sword scooping it under and upward, something stirred on the sofa. She raised her eyes terrified of what she might see, knowing nothing could be as horrific as the smirking skull dripping ribbons of flesh that had once been Mokey’s face.
‘Help me. Pl…pl … please help me.’ It was Sacha speaking through chattering teeth, curling a hand towards her, imploring.
After a second or two Carrie nodded, unable to find her voice. Finally she managed:
‘I’ll call an ambulance. I’ll send help.’
It was the least she could do. It was the most she would do. Now that she’d dealt with the worst she allowed herself to look around. Mokey and the fat man, being closest to the sword had caught the full brunt of its power. The others had gotten off lightly, or at least with their lives. Carrie doubted even these street hardened kids would ever be able to sleep through the night again after witnessing this charnel house.
‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ She repeated. Shrugging the golf bag’s strap across her shoulder once more, sensing her thuggish tormentors shrinking back, she walked away without turning her head.
Chapter Twelve
Had Hollywood existed Carrie might have identified with Ripley or maybe Lora Croft. In this world, Joan of Arc or maybe even Boudica might have sprung to mind. Had Carrie’s mind been working.
She was empty. Devoid of feeling and devoid of pain she walked on autopilot taking the most direct route out of this labyrinth, heading back to civilisation with her burden. The Angel finally explained everything. She understood now what she had to do.
‘Find Rhyllann. Stonehenge. Find Rhyllann. Stonehenge. Find Rhyllann. Stonehenge. Find Rhyllann. Stonehenge.’
She marched with an uneven step as she chanted, oblivious to the shadows forming behind her.
A block of red colour stirred a memory in her mind– there was something she had to do; something else she had to do. Carrie stared at the telephone box helplessly, trying to remember. Something … someone … Someone had been hurt and she’d made a promise. A weight dragged at her shoulder. She shrugged the golf bag to the ground and stared at that too, swaying back and forth. The bag; something lurked in the bag. Something with terrifying earth shattering power. A lone car approached and she raised an arm, shielding her eyes from its headlights. In that moment vivid scenes came rushing back and she sunk to the ground sobbing for all she had lost.
She could never go home. Gran was gone, her body had been violated and her mind ripped apart. Grief turning to fury, Carrie pummelled her fists at the bag, still jaunty sunshine yellow and black, tipped back her head and howled at the night sky empty of stars.
‘I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.’ She screamed, feeling pent up rage leaving her body making her light and whole again.
An elderly couple paused in their evening stroll, wrapped up in their winter coats against the fresh spring air. Incongruously, a black and white collie trembled by their legs.
‘Are you alright dear?’
The dog was beautiful and belonged to wide open spaces.
‘Dear, can we call an ambulance?’
Still hanging onto her husband the woman leaned towards Carrie, unwilling to get too close.
Clambering upright, Carrie swiped her hands free of dust and gravel.
‘No. No thank you. I’m alright. I’m going to be alright.’ She’d remembered her promise.
‘Your dog’s beautiful,’ she added conversationally, tottering towards the phone box.
The phone had been vandalised. I tried. She thought. I tried.
In any case, she didn’t even know where she was. Her arm slumped, resting on the tin brackets housing the phone directories. The chilly metal jolted her senses.
Find Rhyllann. Flipping the second binder upwards and open she flicked through to the “Js” trailing a finger down until she found the Jones entries. Hundreds of them. At least twenty with the initial “R”. Slamming it shut, she tugged at the last directory banging it open at the back. She felt faint with relief.
“Worker’s Lodge Three. Accommodation for single men and women. (Mixed).”
Without hesitation Carrie ripped the page out, folding it into her pocket.
When she emerged from the foul smelling phone booth, the couple were still waiting, standing guard over her bag.
‘Shouldn’t leave it there.’ The man scolded. ‘Someone might nick it round here.’
‘Dear, why don’t you come home with us? Have you had an accident? Did someone attack you?’ The woman’s voice was gentle with concern and nearly her undoing again.
‘There has been an accident. A bad accident.’ She couldn’t go home with this dear old couple, so brave, braver than she would be in their shoes.
‘Please, do you have a phone – can you call an ambulance when you get home?’
‘Well, our neighbour’s got a phone. I ‘spose we could ask.’
The man sounded doubtful. Had Carrie been their neighbour she would do anything for these two.
‘Course she will Frank. Don’t be silly. The girl needs help. Come along dear.’ The woman cupped a hand under Carrie’s elbow.
Carrie pulled away gently. She still had miles to go and promises to keep.
‘No, please, no. I’m fine.’ She lied. ‘I’m going home. I’ll be fine.’ Her fingers stroked the dog’s silky coat unconsciously.
‘Please. Call an ambulance. There’s been an explosion. The arches – over there.’ She pointed.
The man sniffed. ‘That pond lif
e. What’s a nice girl like you doing hanging around with them? Steer clear of ‘em missy, take my advice …’
The woman nudged him, cutting short his lecture. Carrie smiled, slinging the golf bag onto her back. ‘Thank you. I will.’
She strode off, trying not to limp. Footsteps sounded behind, and putting her head down, Carrie increased her pace.
‘Hang about; wait up.’ It was Frank. He thrust some notes into her hand.
‘You get in the first taxi you see. You hear me my girl? Don’t you worry your poor parents a minute longer.’
This time she couldn’t stop the tears.
‘Thank you. Thank you. I’ll never forget this. Thank you.’
He nodded curtly and walked back to his wife. Watching them walk away arm in arm Carrie felt bereft. She could have gone with them. There would have been soup and warm baths and grandfatherly scoldings and a collie at her feet.
Swiping at her eyes, she blew her nose on her dress hem, hoisted the bag into a less uncomfortable position, and resumed marching.
The taxi driver eyed her dubiously but allowed her in on condition she paid up front. His eyes kept darting to the mirror, watching as she spat on her dress hem, scrubbed at her face, and dragged her fingers through a tangled mane to bundle it into a plait of sorts.
‘Good night love?’ He enquired.
Straightening down her dress she replied coldly.
‘No, as a matter of fact. No.’
That shut him up.
******
Carrie swayed with exhaustion outside "Worker’s Lodge Three," in a state of light headed bewilderment now she’d finally arrived. She had expected something more barrack like– not this red bricked 1920s terrace at the back end of Shepherd’s Bush. Taking deep breaths she pressed a finger against the doorbell and kept it there.
Directly above her head a window rattled open, and Rupenzel like blonde hair dripped over the window sill.
‘Piss off! Or we’re calling the police.’
Carrie tipped her head back and yelled.
‘Rhyllann! Rhyllann Jones! Get down here now!’
‘Piss off you mad cow!’ Rupenzel shouted back.
Dragging the bag from her back Carrie used it as a battering ram, determined to get inside that door or die trying.
‘Stop that or I’ll chuck summik over you! D’you hear! Stop that now! Oh for gawd’s sake! Rhyllann – go and sort her out!’ The hair disappeared and the window rattled shut.
Carrie swung the bag forward again, swaying backwards when it rebounded; falling forward to bang against the door with a woomph. She could keep this up all night.
‘Open.’ Woomph. ‘This.’ Woomph. ‘Bloody.’ Woomph Woomp. ‘Door!’ Carrie chanted. The door flew open and she fell inside, landing on top of the bag.
Wearing the skimpiest of pink lace, Rupenzel sat on a narrow staircase with a superior look on her face.
‘She’s pissed.’
Ignoring her, Carrie sat up cross legged and clutched at her bag with one hand, her bruised ribcage with the other.
Rhyllann shut the door and they stared at each other. It could only be Rhyllann, Carrie had seen photographs of him. Last Christmas, Christmas 2011, and well into this New Year his story had swamped the newspapers. In real life he appeared taller, less swarthy, more honey and dark chocolate in colouring. Dressed only in boxers and a t-shirt he had the most perfect body she’d ever seen and she’d seen a good many men prancing about in their swimming costumes. His hair hung heavy and dark around a face that seemed sculptured, high browed with well defined cheekbones, almond shaped deep brown coloured eyes looked back at her indolently. Realising she was gaping Carrie snapped her mouth shut.
Leaning against the door and folding his arms, Rhyllann drawled. ‘This better be good.’
Face to face with him, her mind went blank. Thankfully Wren’s coaching spilled into her mind and she blurted:
‘I’ve got a message for you. From your brother.’
His features hardened. ‘I don’t have a brother.’
‘Yes you do – your cousin. But you call him brawd – brother. That’s how you think of him.’
His face paled then blazed with rage. Covering the space between them in two strides he towered over her. It took all her resolve not to flinch from his anger, in a small voice she said,
‘Believe, please believe me. Wren needs you,’ raising her hands prayer like.
Picking her up like a rag doll he shook her back and forth, snapping out words through lips that barely moved.
‘You filth. You dirty low filthy scum, preying on grief. My cousin died five years ago. Susie, call the police.’
Rhyllann spoke with flat even tones as though to show even one emotion would unmake him. His eyes blazed though, red lights glittering madly, turning the brown to maroon.
Carrie opened her mouth to protest in stammering words to stop this assault; the blonde on the stairs half rose to make her own protest, when the hallway slanted then rolled away taking her with it into blackness.
Chapter Thirteen
Seven miles away the Honourable Major St. Claire surveyed the carnage before him. The local police had been stood down by his “boys”. The living had departed in ambulances, they would shortly receive visits warning them to keep quiet about this “incident”. A transit van adapted to convey several bodies at a time waited outside the estate. Civilians had been told to stay indoors in case of further gas explosions.
‘Shouldn’t we be ‘vacuated?’ One or two grumbled. They quickly found themselves spending the night in Lancaster Gate Barracks “for their own safety”.
St. Claire turned as heels click clacked towards the arch. He raised an eyebrow as the trim figure of Captain Gabriel Pollok approached, mouth curling in a knowing smile as his eyes met hers.
‘Seems your vicar was right all along.’ He admitted, before she had time to gloat.
Her smile broadened, her gaze flickered over scattered debris and body parts, before resting on the most damaged body and surveying it with gleeful satisfaction. St. Claire repressed a shudder. He’d grown hardened to limbless bodies and body-less limbs. To his knowledge, the woman before him had never been outside the country, let alone involved in a battlefield. And that’s what this waste ground now resembled. Yet she had risen through the ranks with breath taking speed. Honourable by nature as well as name, St Claire refused to listen to rumours about how this brittle looking woman had achieved such swift promotion.
‘Will you walk with me Major, we can speak more comfortably in my car.’
Tucking an arm through his, without waiting for an answer, she twirled to walk him away, back in the direction she’d come from. Catching sight of a gleaming Rolls Royce, and the ensign fluttering on its bonnet, St Claire resisted shrugging her off, and swallowed down a protest.
Tinted windows obscured the Roller’s occupants from prying eyes. A dark suited man with his eyes shaded by a peaked cap, closed the door soundlessly after St Claire and Pollok clambered in. The woman snuggled next to a bulky figure, faceless in the interior gloom. St Claire scrabbled behind him to pull down a jump seat, unwilling to squeeze onto the leather bench seat. A hefty gold watch strap rattled as Pollok’s male companion reached to open a fitted drinks’ cabinet close to St. Claire’s feet. Pouring amber liquid into a glass, he extended it to St. Claire. The Major took it gingerly, careful not to brush against the podgy fingers, and waited while his unseen host poured for himself.
Pollok shook her head, murmuring a refusal, leaning forward expectantly as the shadowy figure spoke at some length. St Claire kept his eyes downcast as he listened. With an abrupt nod to confirm he’d understood, he replaced his unfinished drink carefully on the floor, and ignoring Pollok’s outstretched hand let himself out of the car.
Gabriel Pollok watched the ramrod straight back marching away, nibbling her lower lip with her teeth.
‘Teddy-bear, d’you think he’ll …’
She broke off as her knee was
covered by her companion’s hand. Whiskey fumes engulfed her as he leaned in to cut her off with a lingering kiss. Gabriel tolerated him for a heartbeat or two. Feeling her resistance, the man who controlled most of Whitehall grunted reassurance.
‘He’ll do as he’s told if he knows what’s good for him.’
This time, Gabriel Pollok allowed the Chief Mandarin’s hands to wander further. Soon she would be the one giving orders, and it would no longer be a case of who would allow her to command. Oh no. Once she had that sword and understood its secrets completely, it would be a question of who would dare stop her taking total control. The thought of so much power acted as an aphrodisiac, and a surprised but happy Teddy-bear sunk a little deeper under the spell of his blonde temptress.
Chapter Fourteen
Regaining consciousness with a jolt Carrie found she was laying on top of two single mattresses piled together. Someone had removed her dress and covered her with a patchwork quilt. She seemed to be in a store room of some kind, packing boxes surrounded her makeshift bed. The only light came through an oblong pane of glass above the door.
A yellow and black golf bag propped against the wall caught her eye, and she nodded towards it as though it was a living entity to be acknowledged. Sitting up, she waited for her head to stop swimming before climbing off the mattresses, curling her toes when they encountered bare floorboards. The door led onto a tiny landing with another door leading off. Turning the handle slowly she peeked in. This was a twin room with two single beds under two sash windows.
Amazed by the room’s light and space, Carrie drifted barefoot through the chilly emptiness to peer out of one of the windows. A police car was parked directly below. At that moment a constable emerged onto the path and Carrie ducked before cautiously raising her head to peep above the sill. The copper practically skipped down the path, replacing his cap, turning his head towards Rhyllann’s blonde who followed, wrapping an ankle length dark blue dressing gown around herself. As she tugged hip length golden tresses free of the dressing gown’s collar, they exchanged a few pleasantries, the constable brayed at something she said; got into his patrol car and drove off.