by Sean McMahon
“There’s no way this guy is the one.”
It never was.
And yet, as he was wheeled unceremoniously into view looking like he’d caught a bad case of the deads, her mind was once again drawn to the cow-leather bound journal.
The dates stacked up. That much was true.
And that meant that the second diary would be delivered to her later today.
So it was written.
Foretold in the etchings of an imaginative individual, years ahead of his time.
But not once, until now, did she assume it would be literally.
“Ahead of his time,” she repeated to herself, and scoffed.
Even though she knew in her heart the scoff was for the benefit of the dead who would no longer care either way if she bought what was being sold to her or not.
‘Lodge is clear, detective Hawthorne,’ said an overly keen Special Constable.
‘Hmm,’ she said idly, feeling an intense wave of Déjà vu. ‘It’s Steph, Tom. Call me Steph.’
‘Yes…Detective,’ said Tom, doing his level best to break a habit of a lifetime.
She winced, and passed her cup to him.
‘Hold this, would you,’ she said, kicking herself away from the support of the van and making her way to the threshold allegedly belonging to the man who had called them here.
“Kevin Barker,” she thought.
It may have seemed like a fast response on her part. That her team got here so swiftly. That the licences had been approved for so many firearms, and the whole squad had made it to the arse-end of Norfolk in less time than it took to reach the control room when dialling 101.
My god they had response time issues. Everyone knew it. And no amount of tax rises seemed to change it.
“Pot-holes over plods,” she thought, reaching the doorway.
And yet there were still so many potholes…
But then, she’d had all of that sorted well in advance. She’d staked her reputation on selling this to her superiors.
Sargeant Holtzmann wasn’t one for hunches. She’d had to dress it up as an anonymous tip.
She cringed at the thought of the paperwork she’d have to embellish.
Steph heard a screech from down the road, and ducked her head back out from the doorframe, her brow furrowed.
She thought she could see Kevin Barker, clearly still in shock, speaking to someone in a car. She imagined the occupants were rubber-necking like there was no tomorrow.
Armed coppers, big ol’ vans. Perhaps even a rumour of a murderer.
She couldn’t blame them.
This was Netflix level stuff.
She made her way back inside and immediately took stock.
It was very twee. Not really her style of décor. Or building. Or…okay she hated it. But she wasn’t here to judge.
Her eyes fell upon the basement door, and off she popped.
*
Each step creaked under her weight, and she descended carefully.
The lights were on below, but the glow was dim, and she retrieved her pen-sized torch from her trouser pocket, clicking the switch on the end, allowing the light to dance in front of her like a searchlight looking for escapees from Alcatraz.
Her feet finally reached terra firma, and she couldn’t help but whistle at the paper cuttings, nor the knife that had been marked with a small yellow cone with a number 3 on it, signalling it was evidence, as two lads in blue plastic onesies took their photos.
She called the Scene of Crime Officers “Onesies” to their faces too. They didn’t seem to mind.
‘Well, shit,’ said Steph to the closest of the two SOCO’s. ‘We’ve even got some syringes over there! Leather satchel and everything. Are we sure they weren’t just shooting a movie?’
‘We should be able to tell what’s in them by end of working day Monday,’ replied the onesie wearer.
‘Tox reports be what they be,’ said Steph.
‘You really think it’s him?’ said the younger of the two men in literal blue, voice muffled thanks to his fetching mask.
‘It’s never him,’ she said, smiling weakly.
And then she saw it, hidden by shadow, the white corner catching thanks to her relaxed torch-wielding arm resting by her side.
She squatted down, popping her pen-torch between her lips, and reached down for it.
‘You find something?’ asked the keener-eyed of the two Onesies. ‘Don’t touch it or we can’t use it as evid–’
She picked it up anyway, shooing them away to focus on their photography.
‘That’s not possible,’ she whispered to herself, her gut instinct flaring wildly.
A simple receipt.
Not in itself all that miraculous.
Coffee shop.
Not local.
But it wasn’t any of that which sent a chill down her spine.
It was the date that was printed on it.
An impossible date that read;
“October 6th, 2018, 10:29am.”
And in that moment, she knew it was true.
All of it.
If this really was the killer she had been looking for, it was all just the beginning.
Now she had to find herself the real cause behind all this mess.
A man destined to become the killer of everyone on board Flight MAL651. Followed by thousands more, if not millions.
A man who would go down in history as being the cause of an eternal darkness. One that would restart, over and over, until everything unravelled.
She had to find him before the girl died. Or rather, the young woman that went by the name of “Kara”.
That’s how it started. If she could prevent that from happening, if the journal was as accurate as it had been today…
But all she had to go on was a name. That and a receipt, which might have meant nothing at all. Tills needed date recalibration all the time. It was hardly concrete.
But that didn’t stop her believing what she knew in her heart to be true.
She shivered, wondering if he was here with her right now, out-of-phase…kneeling next to her…staring into her face with the manic eyes of the murderer he was destined to become.
A killer armed with the ability to travel through time.
A master of the afterlife who currently went by the name of “Hal”, but would forever be remembered by his countless victims as something else entirely.
“The Dark Restarter,” thought Steph, her blood turning to ice as she reached to the hidden chain around her neck that rested beneath her shirt. Her fingers pressing idly against the bullet it supported, which vibrated softly thanks to the swirling blue energy contained within.
A bullet with Hal’s adopted name metaphorically etched onto it.
Entirely unaware that the consequences of her actions were about to change everything.
The Restarters will return.
I’m here, Hal.
Acknowledgments
Howdy, Restarters! Thank you so much for investing your time on the second instalment of the Restarter series!
This acknowledgement section is for everyone who has helped me to achieve one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever faced; that of writing a sequel. For cereal. In many ways it was so much more challenging that writing Fir Lodge.
Firstly, thank you once again to my wonderful returning editors; Amanda Gliddon, and Christopher McMahon.
In order to give you all what I hope is the best possible final version of this story, I upped the ante even further by head-hunting a further two editors; Rebecca Greenwood and Katie Hagaman. And, oh boy…am I glad I did. Thank you all for your honesty, advice, and invaluable input. Not to mention being the quickest readers I know. I owe all four of you more than I can ever repay.
Onwards to the readership! Or as I like to call you, the real Restarters. When I started this journey, I had no idea Fir Lodge would resonate with so many of you. Your support and kindness has changed my life in more ways than you know.
To everyone who has left a review, taken part in a competition, and reached out to me just to say “hey”, thank you. It truly keeps a writer going.
Thank you once again to my photographer, Russell Whitcombe, who exceeded my wildest dreams in terms of getting the shots we needed. Without his commitment, perseverance, and sheer skill, we never would have got those shots for the cover and trailer.
Which brings us to Roy Clark…you are all closer to him right now than you may realise. A man who, despite the sweltering heat on the hottest day of the year – not to mention a particularly rambunctious wasp nest – picked up a blade, donned a rubber apron, and took on the role of Malcolm with such enthusiasm that…honestly…he frightened me a little bit. You can see him in the trailer, as well as on the cover of The Dark Restarter.
Speaking of covers, special shout out once again to Sam Moore, who worked tirelessly with me to create the cover for TDR. Your ability to translate the words I’m dispensing and transform them into the images from my mind is nothing short of remarkable.
To my writing group, whom I speak with daily (if not hourly) Katie, Sarah, Corry, Gil, Paul, Kenny and Jordan. Your support has been phenomenal.
Thank you to Christina Alvarado and to Pearl Khatri for featuring Fir Lodge on their respective YouTube channels. Seeing Fir Lodge in that context was…mind blowing. So many feels.
Special thanks to Mike Chapman, a man who not only agreed to interview me, but has now interviewed me twice. Thank you, good sir. Your kindness and support to both myself and the indie community in general is a privilege to be a part of.
And Marnye Young…the Audio Sorceress. Who, with the support of Silverton Audio, brought me onto her podcast for one of the most fun and rewarding experiences becoming a writer has afforded me thus far. Thank you.
Thank you to Sam Jenkins and Rebecca Braybrook for allowing me to gatecrash Hospital Radio Chelmsford, and for making me feel like a superstar.
High five to Zev Good, a fantastic author and friend who took me to school on the differences between Bar Mitzvah’s, Bar Mitsvoth, and B’nai Mitzvah. Who knew plurals could be such tricky dragons to tame?!
To the forever awesome Danny Wyatt, owner of Fir Lodge – who I’m now lucky enough to call a friend. A man that, despite me blowing up the joint in Book One, was still on board for the sequel. None of this would exist without you.
Not forgetting the Reverends of Saint Mary's Church in Bocking, Essex. Namely; Reverend Rod Reid and Reverend Mark Payne who allowed this plucky nobody to not only film footage and feature it in the trailer, but also gave me their blessing, so to speak, for me to feature the location in my work. If anyone is wondering what it’s like to be left alone in a church? Well, it’s an eerily beautiful experience.
Lastly, thank you to Steve Gore, Kerri Muldowney, and Rebecca Greenwood for their Restarter-themed artwork, which has taken pride of place above the work station in my War Room.
So…what next?
I hope I’ve delivered on my promise to you all and you’ve enjoyed the second part of this story. And that perhaps you’ll join me for what’s next, all the way to the last restart. We're in this together now, you and I. All the way to the end. Until we reach the beginning…
There’s just one more thing I need to tell you. It's imperative that you follow these instructions to the letter. The secret to everything rests not in the future, but the past. The only way to–
Wait…can anyone else hear the sound or rushing air?...
Onwards to Book Three.
Your friend in Time,
Sean
Become a Restarter!
For news, giveaways, exclusive content, or even just to reach out to me, you can find me by visiting the Restarter’s Lodge
at:
www.restarterlodge.com
Thanks to the internet, you can also follow the Restarters by punching the above website into your communicative weapon of choice, and clicking on the Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook icons.
Thanks, internet!
About the Author
Sean McMahon has only managed to save the world once this year.
Having single-handedly defeated the Sinister Six, Sean lives in Essex with his family, and was totally going to copy and paste this section from his last book, but decided against it, reasoning that if a reader got this far, they deserved one last Easter egg.
Wait!
What’s that behind you?!
Just kidding. You’re okay.
Probably.
Sean still claims to be an avid gamer – despite having no time to…ya know, game – and loves walking his rambunctious dog, Mindy.
Because she’s a good girl. Aren’t you girl?
Mindy will wag her tail happily every time someone reads the above sentence out loud.
Sean also once took a leak standing next to Simon Pegg at a press event. Since the release of Fir Lodge, several people now care.
