The Revenants

by Alec Dunn

  He had been betrayed. Now he knew it and the feelings were bitter and foul. He had taken it all in and was sitting above it. That may have been the painkillers the doctors were dripping into his arm.

  He felt the dreams writhing in his subconscious. They were snakes wriggling in the nest, waiting for him to sleep, waiting to slip out and infest his brain. He didn’t want to sleep. His mind was completely cut loose when he slept, loosed from the mooring of his self, dissolved into the universe. The dreams were not his own. And the dreams were filled with pain. But the drugs were strong and his body was failing. He couldn’t fight for long.

  The house is large, filled with people.

  It is dirty and used. The people are dirty and unwashed.

  The thin broken pieces of furniture from the past lives of occupants in the house litter the floor and comatose people are splayed out in different rooms. There has been a ‘party’. They have scored a hit. This is the aftermath. In each room people are separated from their own private hells. Some would have been weeping at their memories. Some would be struggling with their grief. Some would be eaten from the inside by their doubts and insecurities. For all, the drugs are their new focus. They wipe everything else out.

  The large living room with the television is sacred. It is the high altar, power cables running up through a roughly cut hole in the floorboards from a petrol generator in the cellar. The area is surrounded by overflowing ashtrays and various paraphernalia, tin foil and needles, tobacco and a plastic shopping bag of dried leaves.

  They are squatting in the house. They have been injecting heroin. They are lost and trying to forget it.

  It is the early hours of the morning and the living room is empty, except for a woman. She looks beautiful in the weak light. She had been beautiful, but her beauty is faded. Her face is worn, aged. It shows the effects of hard living. Her recent use of heroin has left her eyes wide and vacant.

  The light shining on her face is dim but constant, coming from a battered old oil lamp; the electricity has been turned off for some time. The lamplight softens the ravages of drug abuse on her still attractive face.

  A man walks in the room, an older man with greasy lank hair hanging to his shoulders. He is, a large man. He stares at her and his eyes are narrow and focused. There is a shadow inside him. It shows at the edges, like he has been badly cut out of black paper. flickering briefly before hiding inside him.

  The woman with delicate, faded beauty looks up at him from eyes as wide and empty as a baby seal pup’s, looking up without any understanding. He stares down at her and the darkness flickers around him and inside his eyes. She looks at the dirt brown syringe held in his hand.

  Her fear rises slowly, emerging with difficulty like a butterfly from the cocoon of her blank and addled mind. Understanding struggles out, but before it can spread its wings and take flight, the man is upon her.

  She is unable to fight. Murdering her is easy. He actually has very little to do to kill her. She tries to push him away, but he slaps her hands off him and pulls out her arm. His knee pushes down into her chest and he pulls her arm straight. The injection is accompanied by her pleading.

  She shakes her head. She doesn’t want this.

  The flickering blackness floods his eyes as he pushes down on the syringe and the dirty brown liquid enters her vein. The man releases her arm and sits one seat away on the dingy sofa, watching her.

  He sits and watches as the light leaves her eyes.

  He sits there and watches her die.

  He watches her intently, carefully and at her last breath he leans over to kiss her mouth. He rests his lips upon hers and drink in her final breath.

  As he pulls away from their kiss, her passive empty expression has changed. Her mouth is wide, screaming, but no sound emerges. He reaches out and strokes her cheek, he pulls her head and it falls to the side. Her hair falls across her face.

  The shadow slithers out of the man and slides up the wall and away. It is gone.

  The man rubs his dazed eyes. He looks around and stretches and yawns. Shakily he shuffles out the room. He tries to walk quietly so he doesn’t disturb the woman.

  He doesn’t realise she is not sleeping.

  He knew he was dreaming, the usual dreams of pain and death. He knew this was happening now. He knew there was nothing he could do. This was where the dreams normally ended – at their end.

  A slightly podgy teenage boy is walking down the tattered carpet on the stairs looking for his mother. He walks around the littered house, knowing which rooms to avoid. He walks into the living room to find his mother on the sofa, asleep.

  He walks over to her and shakes her. He doesn’t like her sleeping on the sofa, but it’s not the first time. He doesn’t like her new friends. He doesn’t like living here. He doesn’t like her new addiction.

  He shakes her and she feels cold.

  He looks at her from under a long fringe which covers his eyes. His grey eyes open wide in fear. He shakes her harder. There is no response. He shakes her harder again. Her face rolls around to his. They are close together so her wide open eyes stare glassily into his. Her wide open mouth screams out without sound.

  The boy staggers back from her horrified expression. He staggers back from his mother in shock and understands that he cannot wake her. She is not asleep.

  This was where the dreams usually ended, the death of the victim, the knowledge of what, where, how, when. Why was he still dreaming? His mind raced away. It was loose from its mooring and shooting away, far beyond his understanding.

  The future: the same boy is walking down an unfamiliar road to an unfamiliar school. He looks neat. He looks nervous. It is his first day at school. The school is strange, but it is also familiar and he knows now why he is still dreaming of the boy. The boy will go to his school.

  His mind raced faster, accelerating into the infinite. He had never seen so much before. He had never seen so clearly. He floated above the ten thousand different things and saw it all spread out beneath him like a cosmic jigsaw.

  Something is approaching from beyond his view. At the absolute periphery of his vision, he is aware of it. The glimpse is brief: a giant maw engulfing everything, an insatiable hunger that is close and coming closer.

  He chose to ignore it. Bitter, foul feelings welled up and enough of his individual emotions remained for him to pick out the single piece that would fit. He wanted revenge so he concentrated on his search for the instrument.

  The podgy boy with the long fringe and the eyes as grey as clouds, he shines. He can see inside him from the massive height he has risen to. He can see everything. He can see the power inside the boy. He already has the power. He is the trigger.

  It is as though he can see everything.

  The boy is strong.

  He is dangerous.

  He is revenge.

  He needs the boy to be chosen. He needs him to be the one given the gift. He needs to push the piece into the jigsaw.

  He rotates the world beneath him. He turns it looking for the way to push his piece into place. He sees that the boy is the danger. Let him destroy his friend. Let him rip his friends apart.

  He sees the way to drive him to his friend and mentor. He sees how to bully him to seek refuge. He sees the tool to move his piece.

  His mind reaches into the simple brain of Ryan Sankey. He is amazed by the simplicity. He is like a god. Reaching into the brain, he leaves the memory of the boy’s face. As simple as tying a shoelace, he ties it to Ryan’s simple insecurities and the basic emotion of hatred.

  He sees the piece will fall into place.

  Two: A Fresh Start

  The morning sun gleamed cheerfully down, warming the land, spreading happiness and cheer among the residents of Hillcrest Council Estate. Little ripples of heat rose from the tarmac. Indistinct radios and voices of television presenters bleated out from open windows. A tattooed man with large, heavy stomach pulling tightly at a stained vest, either early risen or too late
to his bed, sauntered down the middle of the path, an open can of beer in his hand.

  Today was going to be a hot day.

  The long, unkempt grass that mingled with the weeds on the verge of the road was given an explosion of life by the sun’s scorching rays, spreading out in all directions. It was already bent down by its own weight and, though still lush and moist at its dark roots where the slugs hid, at the tips it was already yellowing and dying.

  At the end of the road, marked by a graffitied sign and a tall, grey, metal perimeter fence, Hillcrest Community School lay.

  A fresh start.

  The heat beat down from the sky above and rose from the concrete beneath, encompassing everything, warming and enriching and stifling and sweltering.

  Crowds of teenagers were standing at the gates and more were arriving. Some loitered slowly, reluctant to go through the grey gates. Others were in happier moods and they gossiped and laughed in the bright sunlight. Puffs of cigarette smoke rose from a large group standing closely together beneath the name of the school, their uniforms in various states of disarray.

  Tristan Diggory Venn approached the gates of Hillcrest Community School with a serious face. He didn’t look like someone being given a fresh start. As he walked reluctantly to his new school, his head was slightly lowered and his long, brown, slightly lank hair fell over the top half of his face, covering his eyes. He looked young for a boy starting his GCSEs and the effect was compounded by the slight extra weight he carried. Of average height and build, nothing was especially noticeable about him. There was nothing to draw attention to him, apart from a tired, haunted look somewhere about his grey eyes.

  He had not been sleeping well since it happened.

  Tristan briefly looked up and scanned from beneath his fringe at the variety of stylised additions and mutations to the school uniforms on display around him: sleeves rolled up on jackets, shocking bright hair dyes, forearms of multi-coloured bracelets, jeans, skin-tight leggings, large ear-rings, graffiti on bags, in fact almost all the uniforms had been personalised.

  So that was how it was. Uniform: the word meant to be the same, didn’t it? If everything was uniform, it was meant to look identical. Well, in that case, the uniform here was to be different, make it your own, stand out, be individual… and if you didn’t make a statement, perhaps you would be noticed more.

  Without looking, he quietly reached up, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. This was how to fit in here. Heart thumping, he passed the large group of smokers beneath the sign, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  Rnnnnrrrrnnnn – the whining hornet screech of a moped buzzed through the school gate, just next to his ear. It cut through his mind like a chainsaw and barely noticeably, he jumped. Tristan steeled himself from flinching any further and hoped his tiny reaction had gone unnoticed.

  Steadily, steadily, eyes down, face forward, no quick moves.

  He was through the gate.

  His aunt had offered to walk with him down to the school, to show him the way. Perhaps to make sure he went. He knew she meant well, but his instant reaction had been to say no. He was used to doing things for himself. And now, now he had seen the school, his school for his new life, his new beginning, his fresh start, he was so glad that he had said no.

  The shabbily constructed 1960s building that splayed out before him was made no more attractive by the bright sunshine. The sun fell like a spotlight, merely highlighting the drab colours and worn out state of the building. It had been built quickly, thrown up using cheap materials. It had never been meant to last. The building was at the end of its life and it showed; it looked tired, decrepit and was being nursed beyond its allotted number of years.

  He weaved through the crowds, head down, inconspicuous new boy, dressed too neatly, looking for reception.

  Friends were meeting up for the start of the day, larger groups were forming. Taking position in their usual hangouts, their usual haunts, different groups met to talk and banter. But all seemed muted, subdued. There was little loud activity; the sun’s heat stifled any desire to move.

  To Tristan it seemed that everyone knew where to go, what to do, how to act.

  Except for him.

  A bag was being thrown around in a larger gang of boys, bigger boys, rougher humour: shouting, insults, swearing. The bag tore, contents spilled out over the floor. “Well done, wankers,” a voice called from the middle to cries of triumph and mockery.

  He saw the sign for reception, passed a tall couple in no uniform at all leaning against the sun-bleached wall, their hands groping each other and apparently trying to suck each others’ faces off.

  And then he was through the doors, inside the school, his school, his fresh start, standing in the sudden cool of the shadows.

  Inside, the building was painted a dull, sickly yellow colour, masked with sticking plasters of students display work. It smelt of disinfectant and other unidentifiable smells. A heavy second set of doors with a metal security code locking them together in the centre marked the entrance to the school proper. It was the final portal to his fresh start.

  He approached the receptionist, gave his name and the important fact that he was new, starting today, to the receptionist who gave a brief, sympathetic smile before telling him he was expected and to wait. She returned to fielding phone calls and administration duties.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  People came and went. Teachers who joked loudly with the receptionists, others who spoke in hushed voices with serious faces, students who came and went.

  Tristan watched them come and he watched them go. Nobody else stayed for long. They had places to be.

  Growing restless he took a closer look at the artwork on display. Gaunt faces stared out from large canvases, red, brown and black streaks of congealed paint that created odd, off colour, distorted three dimensional effects of open mouths frozen in silent screams and wide, staring eyes. The signature at the bottom was unreadable but followed by the number eighty two. The year? Nineteen eighty two? He shuddered.

  The work reminded him of some artist he had seen in a free exhibition his mother had left him at once, or taken him to as she would have said.

  Mother, the image came too swiftly: wide mouth twisted open as though she had died screaming. It was the image from his dreams.

  A man’s voice interrupted loudly from behind him and brought reality back. “Good morning. Tristan, is it?”

  He turned and let his long hair conceal the emotion his face might show, “Yeah.”

  “Good to meet you, Tristan. My name is Mr Jones and I’m Head of Year Ten. Follow me and I’ll take you to your new form.” And he was walking. “I’ve printed off your timetable,” Tristan had to follow or be left behind, “and we’ll pick up a planner from my office on the way for you to put it into.” Mr Jones’s fingers flicked over the security pad.

  “Now, I’ve put you into ten RK. That’s with Mrs Parks,” and they passed the set of doors into the dark guts of the school. “You’ll be with the form for morning and afternoon registration so you to can get to know some people, make friends and such, but otherwise you’re going to be in the PRU.

  I understand that you were home-schooled, so we need to do some tests to check what sets you should go into for the core subjects, English, Maths and Science.”

  Mr Jones turned abruptly and they went through a pair of doors into a large room with a few randomly placed chairs and tables set on a thinning and stained carpet. Tristan wrinkled his nose slightly at the smell. “This is the Year ten common room. You can be in here at break or dinner, but eating is not allowed.” On the other side of the room was an office with the name, Mr S Jones, inscribed on a metal plate on the door. Next to the office door was a bin overflowing with crisp packets and drinks bottles spilling onto the floor next to it.

  Just outside the office, two boys lurked. One was thin with a pointed, weasel face. The other was a large, square shape with a jutting under-b
ite that was proudly topped off by the soft, fuzzy shadow of a moustache. “Ryan, Samuel, stay here. I’m going to be back in two minutes and have fresh reports for you both. It’s not good enough to keep losing your reports and Mrs McIntyre tells me that you ripped them up.”

  The dark looks of the two boys held nothing but contempt. “She’s a liar. I never ripped up nothin’.” The square blasted back. “She’s always goin’ on at me for nothin’, just makes it up ‘cos she hates me.”

  Mr Jones’s voice was serious but calm. “Ryan, I’m not going to argue about this. I’ll be back with fresh reports in two minutes. And sort out your uniforms while I’m gone.”

  “Ask Sam, right, she’s always pickin’ on me, eh, Sam?” The weasel nodded. Ryan was getting louder, working himself up. “An’ I’m tired of it. I don’t reckon she can even teach. Just has a go at us ‘cos she don’t know what she’s doin’. Stupid bitch.”

  “Right, you’re in isolation for the rest of the day.” Mr Jones’s voice half sounded as though he was angry and half resigned to the decision, as though he went through this scene regularly.

  “Good. I’d rather be in isolation than in lessons, anyway,” Ryan continued belligerently. “Stupid school. I don’t learn nothin’. Why don’t you just exclude me? I can’t wait for that. Just exclude me.”

  “Don’t push it Ryan. I’ll be talking to your dad after school and we both know how he feels about you getting excluded, don’t we?” Mr Jones left the threat hanging in the air.

  “Whatever. I don’t even care.” But he did, and the grumbles subsided into angry mutters.

  Mr Jones swung the door open to reveal his cluttered office. Piles of paper were stacked precariously. Cigarette lighters, matches, elastic bands, an old fashioned spud gun, lad’s mags and other random objects were strewn over what must have been a desk. He disappeared briefly inside, the office door started to close and the glowering Ryan looked with unexplainable hatred at Tristan. Tristan mistakenly looked up and made eye contact.