Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  Stations of the Soul

  Chris Lewando

  www.chrislewando.com

  Published in 2020 by Drombeg Press

  Copyright © Chris S Lewando

  First Edition

  The author has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Action, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchases.

  Note: all views expressed in this fiction are those of the characters, not the author. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Place-names are not always reflected by physical accuracy. Any similarity to events or individuals is entirely coincidental.

  What Readers Said About Chris Lewando

  A gifted author of thrillers with a strong basis in reality, a breath of originality and a dash of weirdness. With a firm grasp of the psychology that drives individuals, Chris tumbles readers headlong into an adventure that often defies prevailing rationale

  A great read! This is a story that is very fast paced. It transports you from an artist’s studio into a mad chase following Tom’s search for identity. It leaves you breathless right up to the end! Buy it, read it, you will love it!

  Well worth a Read. This novel set in the modern day follows Tom, a troubled man with an even more troubling past. He is the centre of a large conspiracy involving everything from the army to interstellar beings. Throughout the course of the novel, more and more is revealed about our protagonist until an exciting climax. I found the novel to be well paced with relatable characters, and the story always had something exciting happening. Would recommend it to anyone

  Grabbed my attention from the start. Fast moving, imaginative, fun to read, thought provoking. One of those books you don't want to put down from the first time you pick it up. I doubt you've read anything quite like it. Great 'newish' author and I've already started another of her works, just the beginning of a long reading relationship!

  Gripping. Bought this for a friend who wants it and had a little sneaky look as I was intrigued by the title. Oh dear! have to buy another now. keeping this for myself! great read – gripping.

  Interesting and Unique. What I thought was going to be an adventure story with a strong relationship element soon morphed into something else entirely. The story unfolds with many twists and turns and interesting characters and locales. I liked the fast pace and the unexpected developments.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Jessie Running

  Night Shadows

  Death of a Dream

  Waymarks for Authors

  Prologue

  Rachel was dying. Her soul was slipping its leash from her still body, thread by tiny thread, a cobweb of effervescent light that stretched ever thinner as it sought to leave a home that would soon be uninhabitable.

  Sarah stood in the doorway of the intensive care ward, tears springing to her eyes, helpless to halt the inevitable. She had seen death before, many times, and usually was able to evaluate and compartmentalise, but this time found it impossible to separate herself emotionally from the unfolding drama. The mother’s grief tore into her, as if it were her own. Was it because the child’s unconscious face was so serene, with those golden eyelashes curling against marbled alabaster cheeks? Or was it the mother’s love, so strong it was almost a physical presence, as she willed her daughter to live?

  Rachel’s mother, Sarah couldn’t recall her name, was rocking backward and forward slightly, her voice never faltering. The cheerfully patterned dress and overlong handknitted cardigan she’d worn to work were incongruously out of place. Her hand clutched one of Rachel’s, where it rested, unmoving, on a green hospital counterpane. There was no flicker of life behind the bruised eyelids.

  Laced with desperation, the stream of words were far from the crooning of a nursing mother. ‘Mummy’s here, darling. Mummy’s here. You’re going to be all right. Mummy loves you.’

  A strand of blonde hair strayed from beneath the child’s turban of bandages, leaking onto a face still as a doll’s. She was breathing on her own; a good sign, the duty doctor had assured the mother. It meant her brain was still functioning.

  But Sarah knew differently.

  Knowing was a curse, but she couldn’t unknow the things that stole unbidden into her mind. She wished she’d been born without the ability, then she, too, would be able to provide comfort and hope, because sometimes people did recover from head trauma, especially if the voice of a loved one broke through the indecipherable barrier of coma.

  ‘Mummy loves you, mummy loves you, darling. Please let her be alright.’ The mother’s words were an invocation to some unknown deity. She wasn’t aware of Sarah’s presence. ‘Please let her live. Don’t take my child. Please don’t take my child. She’s only nine. She’s got her whole life ahead of her. She’s all I’ve got. Please?’

  Sarah understood that Rachel’s mother didn’t really believe what she was saying; she knew her daughter was gone forever. She was asking for a miracle, but between prayers, she castigated herself for failing. Her words were laced with the guilt of hindsight: she should never have let Rachel go with her father that morning; as if she could have foreseen the outcome. She flayed herself with the thought that, at the very least, after the accident she should have known her child needed her, and been here sooner. She castigated herself for carrying on teaching in innocent ignorance, while the police were cutting her husband’s body from the compressed wreckage of the car, when she hadn’t had the least inkling that he was dead, and others were fighting for her daughter’s life.

  Hours of peace that would haunt the rest of her life.

  Sarah felt these emotions as if they were her own. Empathetic tears trickled down her face as machines vibrated, hummed, and blinked impersonally. Day had receded towards the darkest hour. Lights were dim. Black windows reflected the
interior, locking out the night. The exit sign above the door bathed the room in an eerie green light.

  Rachel’s eyes fluttered open, gradually focusing on her mother. Her smile held the almost unbearable knowledge of what her mother would suffer. ‘Don’t be sad, mummy,’ she said. ‘The angel has come to take me home.’

  Sarah had never felt so helpless. Not through all the hours she’d been waiting had she experienced anything like the welling tide of anguish that filled the mother as the child’s soul released its last connective thread and drifted. For a fleeting second, she caught a glimpse of something so pure and lovely it stole her breath. She held out her hands in welcome, providing comfort to the dead that she could not provide to the living.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right to die.’

  Realising something beyond her understanding was happening, the mother’s head snapped around, then she threw herself bodily at Sarah, screaming, as the machines blared warning, and the crash team exploded into the room.

  Chapter 1

  The alarm intruded into Robin’s dreams. He thrust out a hand, missed, and his mobile flew across the room and lay there bleeping. He curled up, and pulled the covers briefly over his head. Today would start with the Consolidarity Team Meeting, a grand title for the weekly buck-passing session, when all the senior managers blamed all the junior managers – of which he was one – for everything that wasn’t right in the world of banking. Why couldn’t today be tomorrow? Then the bother would be already over and done with, one way or the other.

  The sun was licking around the edges of the blind, the room hot and airless as he shoved back the single sheet, wincing at the sweaty scent of his own body. Jaws scratched at his bedroom door, and let out a piercing yowl. The confused remnants of dream slithered away as he rubbed at crusted eyes, and rolled out of bed to recover the phone and silence the alarm. He showered quickly, and hauled on the shirt that hung from the wardrobe door.

  Jaws was clawing insistently at the bedroom door. He opened it irritably as he grabbed his tie from a chair. The slender tabby stalked in, tail up, purring loudly as he raised his chin before the long mirror. She wound a cat’s-cradle of affection around his ankles, and when that had no effect, gave him a brief nip.

  ‘Bitch!’ he yelped, hopping, then reworked the knot on his tie.

  Jaws sat washing herself, watching warily through the slit of one eye as Robin heaved on his trousers, shoved the shirt in and zipped up. Humanity began to assert itself. He flung the jacket over his shoulder and leapt down the stairs two at a time, the cat suicidally darting between his feet to skid on the wooden flooring of the kitchen area.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Robin muttered, recovering his step. ‘You’re a damned liar,’ he told her, cracking a can of food in the tiny kitchen. ‘You live in my house, sit by my fire, eat the food I provide, and then go tell the neighbours I don’t feed you. And not only that,’ he added, slapping the dish on the floor, to her steam-engine sound of appreciation, ‘You bite my bloody ankles every morning. I ought to send you to the factory.’

  Jaws condescendingly let him stroke her briefly, then returned to the food bowl with single-minded determination.

  The routines of a normal weekday took over. By the time Robin had donned his jacket, gelled his hair, and discovered where he’d thrown his briefcase the previous evening, Jaws had slithered through the cat flap, to stretch in the dusty flower-beds, claws extended, before creeping into green shadows to sleep away her day. ‘Hell of a life,’ he muttered, smiling faintly.

  He wasn’t unhappy as he strode out to the garage, though. He would handle the damned meeting as he always did, with confidence and the sure knowledge that one day he’d be the one in the driving seat, giving the junior managers hell. And damn it, he was going to enjoy that moment.

  He swivelled, aimed the gadget like a gun, said, ‘Pow!’ and the garage door rose with a faint whine of motors. His eyes cast around to make sure the neighbours hadn’t seen, and he pressed another button with more reserve. The central locking system of his company car clicked open. He climbed in, settled his weight into the ergonomic seat, and whistled as he drove away, leaving the garage door to glide closed behind him.

  Robin switched on the CD player, and sorted through the discs as he drove along. What sort of mood was he in today? Operatic, choral, or orchestral?

  There were plenty of other cars on the road heading into the city, like him. Nine-to-five desk jockeys, number crunchers, paper pushers, computer operators, shop assistants. As he accelerated onto the Motorway, he shoved Brahms in the slot, waiting with exquisite anticipation as the first ethereal strains of the choir eased into the air-conditioned silence. He breathed out slowly as the music soaked into his soul.

  He was a closet classical music buff. Quite where he had discovered his penchant for the classics, he couldn’t say. It certainly hadn’t come from his parents, and he’d been careful not to give his peers reason to jeer, but as he worked his way up through the echelons of bank hierarchy and met others like himself, he became gradually less ashamed of the fact. One day he’d come out. He would no longer pretend to enjoy a noisy Friday night pub just to belong, or the stroke-inducing thrum of a night club that left his nerves jarred for days. It was simply what you had to do if you didn’t want to be left out, ostracised. You had to be seen to be a pack animal. At least, until you showed them your teeth, and he wasn’t quite there yet.

  A sleek silver Merc, six months older than his, cut in front of him, too close. He instantly eased off on the throttle, annoyed, and slammed his hand on the horn, knowing it was a waste of time. The other driver swung out into a narrow gap, achieving another near miss. Robin wouldn’t mind if the daft sod killed himself, but he’d likely take a few people with him, and Robin didn’t want to be one of them.

  His career was on track, laid out since before university. Graduating top in his class, as planned, he knew exactly how old – or how young – he would be when he achieved the primary goal of Branch Manager. A real Manager, and not a Borrowings Manager cum Acting Under Manager which was his present position. That was just another fancy title for not-quite-there-yet. His dream wasn’t so far distant. He was one of the youngest Acting Under Managers in the city, and was destined for bigger things. He knew it, and so did they. He was one of their golden boys, a graduate trained and nurtured in modern business methodology.

  He was lucky, too. He’d been a runt for years, then overnight, it seemed, had shot up to six foot two, with a classic profile, and dark lashes around pale blue eyes. People he didn’t know shot him a second glance in passing. It wasn’t supposed to matter, in his line of work, but it did. Being tall and good-looking was useful, and he used the gift unashamedly to woo himself into people’s good graces. What was the point in being shy? He wanted to rise fast, live high, maybe get a family – not that he had a girl in mind yet, but he’d choose one from the right circles – generate a healthy pension, and retire early, before he was chucked. It was all a matter of timing. He didn’t feel bad about waltzing in and taking the jobs from under the heels of older men; they had to accept that times had changed. Expectations had changed. Businesses needed to be injected with energy, vitality, new ideas; all sadly lacking in older people. He was destined to walk in circles where women wore cocktail dresses, men wore designer suits, and classical music played softly in the background. Driving into London, imagining the Porsche he would one day own, he could see it now.

  Robin wallowed contentedly in the angelic chorus and his meteoric rise in the bank. Everything was as it should be. He’d been accused of complacency by his last trial girlfriend, and she had been right. But why had she minded? He’d worked hard to be where he was now, and his present self-satisfaction was just reward. She hadn’t been the right kind of girl, anyway; she didn’t have class.

  The motorway was seriously packed, but not back-logged down to walking pace, thank goodness. He didn’t want to be late. At first, he’d minded having to li
ve quite so far out of the city, but then cottoned on that all the directors lived in the commuter belt, too, and being so far out wasn’t a bad thing. One day, soon, they’d be inviting him over for those meetings disguised as social soirees, introduce him to their daughters.

  Besides, he enjoyed driving, especially now he had a decent car. It was a fairly recent acquisition, arriving with his last promotion. He loved the smooth ride, the expensive feel of it, and presently his speedometer read over eighty. That was good. He’d be there well before his specified starting time, as always. It was no good just being efficient, you had to be seen to be enthusiastic. Getting on in life wasn’t an accident, it was a design, and those who grumbled about cliques and favouritism simply weren’t prepared to play by the rules.

  As he was congratulating himself, a car in the distance rose and spun through the air, turning over, glinting in the sunshine. The packed lanes of vehicles before him twinkled urgently with brake lights. He experienced a long second of pure disbelief even as he reacted: his foot slammed on the brake, he leaned back, rigid, his hands squeezed tightly to the wheel. His eyes flitted wildly, seeking an exit, but he was in the fast lane. Before him, cars were sliding out of control. The middle lane was filled with the slab-side of an articulated vehicle, the driver’s mouth still widening with horror before the cab did a shimmy, and rocked beyond Robin’s vision. On his other side were the central barriers, designed to knock you back into your own lane.

  Before him a sea of vehicles was piling like pebbles smashed by waves, and all around, the squealing of tyres, the distant thumping of metal and plastic scrunching in on itself. Every instant of the next minute burned into his mind like the still frames of a silent movie. Vehicles lost control, sliding, turning, crashing into each other, with the strangely absent blaring of horns. Tyres squealed, the air filled with the screech of rending metal, the hot smell of burning rubber on tarmac, and the spattering hail of exploding glass.