by Paul Rice
“Had to, no choice Kenny boy, no choice!”
He was back on the street.
Burnt fruit and shattered flesh littered the ground, the fleeing survivors leaving bright red footprints in a pattern so crazy that, perhaps, it would have won some strange award at one of the Tate Galleries. The madness of the blood soaked footprints tracked to and fro in an insane red web that linked each shattered corpse to the next. People were being dumped into the empty boots of cars, laid across the bonnets and shoved onto the back seats, their blood running down the faded paintwork, flowing onto rusty chrome grills and dented bumpers, pooling on the carpets, red and dripping – their blood was everywhere. As the drivers of the cars raced away with the dead and dying on board, their departure simply added to the craziness by leaving the addition of awful red tyre marks imprinted onto the street, their terrible, bloody tracks glistening in the smoke filled, half light of the ruined market place.
He and his men had done what best they could, administered as much first aid as was possible, called for back up, directed people, reassured people, and not really done anything. There is not a lot can be done for a woman whose torso is split in two. She lies there looking up at him – eyes full of fear and knowing. He tries prevent her from looking down at the red and black mess that had been, up until two minutes ago, her own lower body. The scream of sirens and voices fades into his subconscious, Ken’s hands work automatically as he applies the shell dressings to her wounds, each dressing absorbs a pint of blood and the three he’s used are already soaked through, she’s bleeding to death and there’s nothing he can do. Radios crackle and everywhere people are running. Running like ants to an upturned honey pot, only this isn’t honey and it’s anything but gold in colour. The woman holds his hand with a wire-like strength, she blows a thin whistle of blood spattered breath onto his combat smock as she tries not to die, tries with all her might. The yellow dress clings to her sculpted shoulders, its flowing lines shattered below the waist. Bright yellow and crimson, the colours embed themselves into his mind as she utters some unintelligible plea to him, those wide blue eyes of hers looking deep into his soul. In his helplessness, Ken tells her: “Its OK, its OK, we’ll get you a doctor!”
She understands those two words and repeats them. “OK, OK, doktorrr…” Ken looks over his shoulder in vain hope – perhaps a white coated saviour was going to appear through the smoke and dust. “No chance, nobody gives a fuck around here, any doctors are either dead or up to their necks in guts dealing with the others, the ones in the blood covered cars.” Ken hears his own thoughts and looks back down at the woman. It’s too late, with a long belch of blood, which sprays onto her beautiful silken throat, she dies whilst looking right into his eyes. Ken saw himself looking down at her and the terrible feeling of helplessness washed over him once more. In his mind he became one with the scene again. He stared deeply into himself, but he still couldn’t help her. Her fingernails had remained forever seared into his palm and they were nearly as painful as the memories. “She really didn’t want to go – this wasn’t her time to go, but you just couldn’t help her to stay, could you?” The thought scrapes the inside of his head with its own, vicious, fingers. His mind had pleaded with her: “Go then, go and escape this terrible thing…” He will always have a deep, haunted feeling about those thoughts. “Did you want her to go for her sake, or was it for yours, because you couldn’t deal with it – because you’re a coward?” No, there had not been a lot he could do at all, except try not to go crazy, not just yet – save that for later.
After a while, when the madness had calmed down a bit, when all that remained were the pools of blood and a certain never to be forgotten smell, an awful stench that wormed its way into the pores and clung like glue to the nasal mucus, an odour which crept into their very souls, they had been given the revolting task of cleaning up the area. And so, with shovels grating upon the cobbles, Ken and his men had scraped up the blackened flesh that lay in forlorn lumps amongst the wreckage of reality. The gathered grotesqueness was plopped into black plastic bags, and that was that – job done and game over, nothing else left to do or to say. The moment had changed all of them in some way. For Ken it had brought about a hard edged cynicism and he never believed in anything much after that day. “It was all a load of arse, everything boiled down to the choices you made, choices and luck. Make your own fucking luck!” His mind had shut the realities away, chucked them into that black box in the far corner of his mind. The woman had stayed with him, though. Sure, she had faded a bit over the years, but she was always there, hiding behind a façade of madness and fear with those blue eyes looking into his soul. The lifeless blue eyes of a beautiful, unnamed woman – Ken could see them now and they still didn’t blink. Some of his friends had left the forces soon afterwards; they had all seen bad stuff before, people get shot and friends die, it comes with the territory, but the market bomb… No, that one had been different for all of them, it had been almost personal and had changed them all in someway, changed some of them forever. A couple of the lads had lost all sense of reality; the only relationship they wanted from then on had been a personal one with a certain Mr Daniels, or maybe his close cousin, Mr Smirnoff. If those two weren’t available, then there were several other members of their family who would be more than happy to stand-in on their behalf. Some of the boys didn’t want a relationship with anything ever again – not even life itself. Yeah, it had changed them for sure, Ken hated the bomb for that, and he hated the morons who… for some self-indulgent excuse of a cause… had planted it in the market there on that sunny day. “Did they know what it would do; did they revel in it, believing so much in their cause that it didn’t matter – did they even care?” There were no answers to those questions and they had cooked his head for years. He hated them, the bombers, and wished he could have found them and asked just the one question: “Why?”
Maybe then he would have understood, maybe.
It was hadn’t been long after the incident when Ken had decided to apply for duties with the Special Forces. He had been a natural and had flown through the selection process, he loved the job and the job loved him. He was made for the life, and besides, it gave him more of an opportunity to get closer to the types of people who planted bombs, much closer. Over the years, many such people came across the wrath of Ken’s market bomb memories.
In the depths of his dream, Ken was filled with those violent emotions once more, he was back on the big black, roller coaster ride again, the one he had managed to stop and disembark from a long time ago. He sat and let the feelings wash over him whilst he waited for it to stop. Ken knew he wouldn’t have any problems getting off this time, he had managed it once before and he would do it again. He had too much to live for, other things to do and other places to go. Of that he was certain. Yeah, he would get off at the first available stop – he let his inner thoughts take charge. “Just stay calm and see what else the damned Dream Maker has in store for you this time, old son?” Getting off was his choice and it would be an easy one to make, especially since he could see George standing at the siding and waiting for him.
The old man stood with hands thrust deep into the pockets of a dark brown sheepskin coat, the white woollen collar turned up against the bitter cold. As Ken spiralled towards him, George turned and his ruddy face broke into a genuine, wide grinned smile. He opened his arms out wide and Ken almost saw the words he uttered. “Kenneth! Greetings my dear boy, how good it is to see you!” They hung within the breath as it escaped his lips in a pall of steam.
The men embraced and the familiar George smells were there, whiskey and some sort of spicy cinnamon aroma, both reassuring but somehow overwhelming. Ken felt the blood rush through his chest and a whirlwind of emotions flutter through his head. Fear of the unknown, perhaps? There was also kind of joy. The feelings churned his mind. “But it’s not unknown is it, I’ve been here before, did what I had to do; what does he want me for now, stay calm mate… stay calm, it’s onl
y a dream.” His mind raced. There was excitement, a sense of recognition and no real feeling of madness, either. He knew this game now, was familiar with it and felt exhilarated by the anticipation it brought. Ken knew that he couldn’t be mad as he remembered too much. His mind whispered: “Well, if I am mad then I’m really enjoying it!” Laughing at his own thoughts, he 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, it’s what it smelt like to Ken. Dirty 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 brass handle downwards. A brass bolt at the bottom of the door squealed as it caught in the well worn groove, which thousands of similar movements had cut into the concrete floor. Stepping into the room, Ken immediately recognised the big red leather couch sitting in the centre of the square room. It was straight out of the lounge on the Angelica Star. The only other furnishings in the room were a heavy wooden table and an ornate metal lamp sitting in the middle of the table. 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 or windows, and 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 he was bade and sat in the red couch.
George seated himself at the far end of the couch, 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 dear chap, and I don’t just mean physically, either?” The glow of the lamp highlighted his ruddy features.
Ken paused, before replying. Taking a deep breath he said, “Pretty good if I’m to be honest, George – 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 had fetched the memories flooding back.
George shook his head and said: “No my boy, you are more than fine – 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.” 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, and learned them the hard way, so he replied with: “Yeah, a couple of weeks ago he text me from some weird number, he said all was well and that I would be hearing from you – is he OK?” 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 have no idea about how much you never cease to amaze us!”
Ken just wished he knew what the hell the old man was going on about, shaking his head he said, “Why that particular dream, George… 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: “Yes, we had to think long and hard about it, Kenneth. But we needed to remind you about the strength of your feelings at that time, the rage, which you felt towards the perpetrators of such a heinous crime.” He smiled, “We have to know if you still harness that strong sense of justice within yourself; you know, the sense of right and wrong?” He looked at Ken, shrugged in that familiar manner, and continued. “For if that fire no longer burns, if the flames are but a distant memory, then the next step in our journey will be one you cannot take.”
Ken replied immediately: “It’s there for sure, it always has been, 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 he could feel the frustration rising within himself.
George didn’t seem to notice, the old man simply looked pleased as he smiled at Ken again. “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. “In the meantime, you should be with your wife and 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… then the blackness came upon him and he floated back into the waiting arms of his slumbering reality. His thoughts floated down into the darkness with him.
“Ah, just like old times…”
Chapter 4 - The Rights of Mister Peters
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. He could feel the seeds and chestnut husks bump into his rough skin, 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, almost arousing 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 own 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, moving slowly 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 and carefully staying on the trail until he reached the fence. Then, holding the top rung of barbed wire down, he gingerly eased his skinny legs over its sharp teeth and slowly let the strand spring back to its rightful position. Taking one last look back into the dark wood, he knelt and gently fluffed up the blades of grass, which his passing had disturbed. Smiling, he turned away from the interior of the small wood 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 mo
rning and the rest of the world was asleep. Not him though, no sleep for him… not on nights like this… his need always kept him awake, filling 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, each of them looking for something – that something special, which only he could 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, to give him his Rights? He had been careful, had never been greedy and had always made sure that he’d 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, which wafted around his face and remained hanging in the cold air behind him. It was his Right to love them.
A new fire burned within him, it wasn’t usually like this and most times he was more patient, willing to wait, happy to play the long game… but the feeling filled his thoughts with light, 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 anyway – 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 again 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 nice 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. “Yes, that would be good!” The thoughts aroused him even further and he decided that after his shower he may well have another little play with the hardness, the one which was currently pressing so nicely against his lower belly. Peters smiled again, before slowly 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 then slid the shovel into a half-buried old 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.