Rigel

by Eli Ingle

  Copyright © 2015 by Eli Ingle

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters, events and locations in this book are purely fictional and a work of the author's imagination. Any resemblence to persons, living or dead or to places or events are entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue of this book is available from the British Library

  First Printed, 2015 in the United Kingdom

  ISBN: 978-0-9934746-1-3

  eli.1@hotmail.co.uk www.eli-ingle.com

  www.facebook.com/eliingle1

  Pepino Publishing

  12 Crimicar Lane,

  Fulwood, Sheffield,

  S10 4FB,

  South Yorkshire, United Kingdom.

  A Darkness falls upon the land,

  So run, take flight beyond the sand,

  Now look, a light is rising in the east!

  And it brings us hope and peace,

  But first we must fight,

  And I’m so afraid,

  Of the Man of the Shadows,

  With his black parade.

  For my

  family.

  You mean everything to me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Have you ever felt so alone that you feel there is only empty space inside you? A hollow place that nothing could fill and left you aching with longing for something you’ve never had?

  That was how Rigel felt as he trudged home from school that day.

  That was how Rigel felt as he trudged home from school every day.

  The sea fret had washed over the town and blew in cold draughts through the rusting railings of the sea front, swirling around him and then on to the buildings beyond. The padding of his coat had long since matted and worn through, leaving him with something that did not work and looked bad too.

  … as if the other children did not already have enough to laugh at.

  Passing an old factory he heard a tapping, metal clinking on metal, as the wind whistled through the empty building, blowing pieces of the old, broken, abandoned machinery against one another. The monstrously huge buildings had been abandoned in the eighties when they were found to no longer be profitable. Their empty iron shells scarred the landscape, looming over the edge of the sea, large enough to put off potential developers from knocking them all down and rebuilding the town … although in Rigel’s opinion Brackness-on-Sea was dead in the water.

  Maybe it would be better if it just burnt to the ground.

  Maybe it would be better if it just burnt to the ground and he did too.

  Now he had passed the factories, he arrived at Brackness’s only commercial points – a small row of seaside shops, candy floss, hot dogs, rock, chips, arcade, repeated twice, standing like the last bastion against ruin, although the shutters were closed on all of them today. The only thing open was a McDonalds in the distance, the M-shaped logo raised into the sky, shining like a neon yellow beacon.

  Passing a tall plastic ice cream, he walked past the shops and around the corner to the next line of factories. Slabs of concrete, thirty feet long and slickly smooth, formed the pavement beside them; this was where he walked now. He found himself wishing, as he always did, that he had a bike or a scooter so that he could whizz along and get home in half the time.

  Not that he could afford to fix his broken scooter.

  Not that there was anything he had to rush home to.

  The open doors of the factories gaped like hungry creatures of the night, the blackness within promising things best left uncontemplated.

  Trying not to look inside in case he should glimpse something he did not want to see, Rigel looked out over the sea instead. The grey churning mass was visible just between breaths of the fog. Today’s tide was particularly high, causing waves to occasionally slosh over the edge of the sea front and slide over the concrete, slipping back a moment later, as fleeting as a waking dream. Spray from the waves flew over and brushed Rigel, beading him with freezing cold moisture. Shivering as he hurried on his way, he did his best to keep huddled in the coat for what sparse heat it would offer.

  Arriving at the end of the sea front, Rigel crossed the road and moved along the alley-way, out across the other road and then through the fields. His house was set a long way from the others in the town, although for what reason he could not divine.

  Reaching the garden he paused to examine the gate, which was broken. Pushing it open he decided he would have to fix it … before realising he had no idea how. Pulling it up, he then pushed it against the post and wedged it straight. Walking down the garden path, he stayed on the cracked paving stones, avoiding the waist-high grass.

  At the back door he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large ring of keys. Missing his mark he knocked off more of the peeling paint, exposing the worn grey wood beneath. Aiming again, Rigel slotted the key into the lock and twisted. The rusty lock resisted for a moment before turning with a loud clank. Moving down the door, he turned the seven other remaining locks and knocked the door open with his shoulder. It scraped on the floor.

  The musty smell of the kitchen overwhelmed him for a moment, but he quickly grew accustomed to it – he had lived there long enough after all. Knocking the backdoor shut he relocked it behind him. Only when all eight separate locks were engaged did he feel slightly more relaxed.

  Although not happy.

  Never happy.

  Turning on the single, shadeless bulb, Rigel peered around the dimly lit kitchen. Stacks of dirty plates lined the work surfaces and the table. Cups ringed with mould were balanced precariously on top. He would wash everything … he had tried to wash everything, but there was no hot water after the boiler broke and the washing-up liquid was all gone. After that he just tried his best to scrape everything off and rinse it.

  He realised that he was still wearing his wet coat so stood up and shook it off. Picking up several thick blankets from the floor he wrapped himself in them.

  Walking out of the kitchen he went to the front door and was dismayed to see another pile of letters resting on the door mat. The usual feeling of panicked helplessness rose in his chest as he looked down at the envelopes.

  FINAL WARNING.

  LAST NOTICE.

  PAYMENT EXPECTED.

  BAILIFFS WAITING.

  He did not understand what they were saying or what he could do to stop them. The boiler had broken last year so he could hardly be expected to pay the gas bill and as for the other things … well, what could he do? He didn’t have any money, unless you counted The Account. This was a hole in the wall in the front room that had several small piles of 20 and 50 pence coins. The piles would mysteriously replenish themselves and he had just enough to buy some food but that was as far as they stretched. He did not have enough to pay the bills and the idea of being able to afford something nice for himself was laughable. He had no idea where the coins came from and the money was almost useless.

  Brought out of his thoughts, he found his lip was trembling as he looked down at the letters again before opening the drawer on the telephone table and shoving them inside. It was hard work as several years’ worth of letters were stored there. Perhaps it was time for a new drawer … or a bonfire.

  Returning to the kitchen, he sat down and waited for the clock to crawl to five. At least he could start making tea then.

  There was nothing else for him to do at his house. The television did not work anymore. It had fallen off the rickety old cabinet, smashing the screen. The fire it had caused scorched half of the carpet. There was no radio or any boo
ks, really. Well, there were books, but he did not understand them.

  There were his photo albums and cassette player but he preferred to listen to his cassettes just before bed. Always before bed and only before bed.

  So he sat and waited, watching the clock go around as it grew darker outside.

  When the clock struck five he opened the cupboard and pulled out a tin of tomato soup. Dragging a semi-clean saucepan over, he cracked the lid of the tin and poured it in before placing it on top of the stove. Now came the tricky part: lighting the cooker. The gas worked fine but the button that caused a little spark on each gas ring to ignite it was broken. This meant he had to hold the gas on whilst trying to light a match at the same time. Fortunately he had had much practice over the years so managed it relatively easily. Whilst the soup heated he tried rinsing another bowl out under the cold tap so he would have something to eat out of but only managed to clear the thick of it. A greasy remnant remained at the bottom.

  Realising the soup was boiling (spoilt again) he turned off the gas and poured it straight into the bowl.

  Sitting down at the table he spooned the food into his mouth, too overcome with hunger to notice how much he was burning himself. Sitting back with a sigh, he looked down only to realise that he had spilt quite a lot on his jumper. More washing then. He had tried to hand-wash his clothes before, ever since the washing machine broke, but it only seemed to make them look worse.

  What was he going to do?

  It was this, the soup on his shirt, that finally broke him. He had been broken before, wearing down a little each time. He welled with bitter frustration and the deep well of sadness and loneliness, which was always present, overflowed and spilt. Racked with sobs he threw himself down on the table and howled. Grief tore at his heart and the reality of his miserable situation hit him with the force of a train.

  He was alone. He had no-one and there was nothing he could do.

  No parents. No friends. Alone.

  How long he cried for, he did not know. Only when he arose from the depths of his crushing sadness did he try to reassess his situation. But with another wave of grief he realised that there was nothing to change and no-one to help him. The realities of being a starving, freezing, dirty, helpless thirteen-year-old orphan crashed over him.

  Then the first meteor flared in the sky.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The golden light shone off Rigel’s tear-stained face as he gazed out of the window in wonder.

  Standing up and moving over, he rubbed the filthy glass and stared out at the sky.

  An orangey-gold ball of light was streaking slowly towards the earth. Behind it, it left a streak of gold so bright it almost appeared silver. He barely breathed or moved, fearing that the most beautiful thing he had ever seen would disappear at the slightest hint of anything.

  Its pace was almost leisurely but seemed to Rigel highly co-ordinated. It moved at a constant speed in a careful arc until it began falling to the ground. In the end its course appeared to be a quarter of a circle.

  Finally it hit the ground. The impact was slighter than Rigel had imagined it would be (although it still rattled the windows). It hit with a double boom like a firework or a flare. Erupting into the sky, a strange golden mist expanded from where it hit before fading again. Rigel predicted that it had landed in the second field along from his house. For one sickening moment he thought that he had imagined the whole thing, but then he saw that the golden-silver streak was still burning in the sky (although admittedly fading), marking its progress to the earth. His immediate reaction was to throw on his wet coat and go and look for the meteor, but then a more sensible course of action instilled itself in his mind. It could be dangerous. Then he realised that if he told someone else then they might go and look. He might be credited with the discovery and get a bit of money! Or maybe they might be able to help him!

  It was only as he rushed down the hall and picked up the telephone from its cradle that he remembered that it had been cut off some time ago – the result of another bill gone unpaid. Replacing the phone with another feeling of crushing helplessness, he trudged back to the kitchen, looking out of the window and trying to decide what to do.

  There had been no signs of other meteors and, he reasoned, there was no-one around here for miles. Perhaps he was the only person who had seen it. Yes, that made sense. The more he thought about it the more he believed that he could have been the only person to see it. That way his money and possible help from someone would be safe.

  Thus reassured, he moved away from the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Creaking and groaning, the house settled for the night.

  In the bathroom Rigel changed out of his sweaty, grubby clothes and into his sweaty, grubby pyjamas. Brushing his teeth without paste, he rinsed under the tap and managed to get his face at least a little cleaner.

  Moving to his bedroom, the pre-night routine could commence.

  He shut the curtain and then his door before turning on all the lights. He had moved all the spare ones from the other rooms into here. Several standing lamps, four table lamps, torches, glowing colour boxes, wall light and even night lights, tucked into the spare plug sockets, were all clicked on.

  Once that was finished he felt safer still. Rigel was very uncomfortable in the darkness and scared of it. It did not concern him that the other children would have another thing to laugh at if they found out he was scared of the darkness, because he felt he had a good reason to be.

  He always saw things moving in it.

  Things that stayed at the edge of his vision and disappeared when he looked straight at them. Things that lurked, waiting for him to close his eyes.

  That was why he had all the lights in his bedroom: so he could make sure there was not one centimetre of darkness there. At all. Nodding once as the first part of the job was done, he then moved over to the desk where the cassette player was. Opening the tape case, he pulled out the cassette – Bernard Cribbins’ A Combination of Cribbins – and loaded it into the player. Closing the side and pressing play, he turned up the volume to seven and then jumped into bed before the first song came on.

  The first song began to play just as he had settled under the covers. He nodded again; the next part of the ritual was completed.

  Finally he pulled the photo albums off the bedside table and opened them. He was not entirely sure that they were pictures of his father, but he liked to believe so. Even if the man in the photo, tall, radiant, and smiling, was his father though, there were no pictures of his mum. Maybe she had been the photographer? But still he was not convinced. His father looked like he did now but older. How did that work? Maybe it was just a close resemblance … .

  He looked through all three photo albums twice. Setting them down, he nudged the corner until they were in perfect alignment. Then he shut his eyes and thought.

  For as long as he could remember he had had no parents. No-one else seemed to be related to him … or even notice him. Teachers and others of that sort seemed to barely notice him. He had only once plucked up the courage to confide to someone that he was an orphan with no-one to look after him or feed him.

  They had forgotten he had spoken to them.

  After that he just tried to muddle through on his own. It was too painful to reveal what he was living through. He preferred to keep it to himself.

  He dared not talk to a social worker or anyone like that. The prospect of being taken into care frightened him even more than living alone did. He had almost come to accept it. Sometimes he thought that so long as he did not die then he was fine … sometimes he thought that if he did just die then that would be better altogether.

  He just wished there was something … else. More. Life seemed to have little to no meaning to him. Without family or friends, what was there to live for? Material possessions held very little value to him (although he would have liked some central heating). So if that did not matter, what did? What was the point in
life if there was nothing to live for?

  Then another flare ignited the sky. Glaring through the closed curtains and Rigel’s eyelids, it shone as brightly as the last. Another meteor. Opening his eyes he was startled to see that the lights in his room (usually looking like a flare themselves) seemed dim in comparison to outside. Rushing to the window he flung the curtains open, squinting against the blaze from outside.

  Like the first meteor, it was falling in an arc towards the same spot as the last. Golden, orange, and silver. Beautiful. Excitement at the prospect of telling news crews about his discovery welled up for a moment, but then he was overcome by the sight of the meteor.

  The golden silver light shone on his face, upturned in wonder.

  He made a wish.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, Rigel’s eyes snapped open as anticipation coursed through him. This feeling sometimes took him when he woke, only to be replaced by the crushing realisation that there was nothing. Today however, it remained; there was something to be hopeful for – the meteors!

  Jumping out of bed he dressed before rushing downstairs, pausing just long enough to grab a slice of stale bread for breakfast, and then went outside.

  The grass was damp with dew, leaving wet brush strokes against the bottom of his jeans. Shivering, he ran in the cold air. Reaching the back of the field he clambered over the dry stone wall and then through the trees separating the fields. His house looked small now.

  In the next field he ran slightly slower as the uphill climb took its toll.

  The third field was where he had been aiming for. They should be here. He willed himself not to become overexcited as he stood there but he could not help it. Here was something extraordinary that could change everything.

  He walked slowly through the field, scanning the floor. However the nearer he got to the middle, the more disappointed he became. Where was the impact? Something that size ought to make a crater. He had actually seen it hit the ground … so where was it? Disappointment crashed over him and for a moment he feared that he would be overwhelmed. Fortunately, reason overcame his emotions and he decided that he should look again and in the other fields to find out for certain.