Dancing With Devils

by Scott Webster

  I went back to work not long after the funeral, to the surprise of my colleagues. Walking through that hallway, with the statue and the echoing footsteps wasn’t quite the same feeling as previously. I took the lift, and instead went to see the Chief. He welcomed me back with open arms, then assigned me the task of finding ‘the masked murderer,’ citing me as the most equipped person to do so as I had a knack for figuring out the impossible.

  I shouldn’t have let him speak first, because the reflecting had made me reach the consensus I had reached the end of my time in law enforcement. I was heading up to his office to resign. Few protests to try and change my mind did fly across the desk, but we both knew, what I’d gone through for the job just wasn’t worth it anymore. I resigned effective immediately.

  The Chief was firm in his assessment that if I ever changed my mind, he would welcome me back gladly. Michael was fortunate enough to benefit from my resignation, as he was given the open detective slot, following passing the exam. Proud would be an understatement; he’d worked incredibly hard to prove himself and not be the typical ex-jarhead. This line of work kept him focussed and he even went so far as to start a scheme for ex-military and ex-servicemen that wanted to start fresh, like myself.

  It started as a charity that I initially helped him set up, sorting out work locally, nationally, and internationally; security work, private detective work, ultimately anything that could help utilise the skills of the people we worked with. Those without combat experience were supported in other lines of work as well, inclusive of engineering and craftsmanship.

  It has been about a year since the events from that final night when I lost my wife and child. I woke up to Colin Hargreaves on the radio again today, much to my amusement. Next to me, Kirsty slept softly, groaning about the irritable man, hence my pleasure for our shared annoyance of the man.

  We didn’t act too fast following my wife’s death, I mourned for about six months, some of which was spent in that bar, asking for advice and support in where I should go. The idea for the charity scheme for ex-serviceman was actually an idea that blossomed across the bar.

  I had a chance to learn a few other skills as well. To Kirsty’s amusement, I helped pour pints rather than sink them some nights just to keep the cash coming in, and I obviously got a lot closer to her, which allowed our friendship to blossom into something more.

  She truly was a rock for me when I felt as though I had no one on any particular level. Talking in that bar until the wee hours when all the patrons had left; about my past, the case, my experiences, actually gave birth to a brand-new idea, probably the best idea that came from my time there.

  Using the skills from some of the men and women from the charity scheme we set up, Kirsty and I found a large building that used to be a small hotel in the city and started our own orphanage: Meadowbrook Homes.

  Our mission was simple, given what I’d experienced in the past, we would make a strong point of caring for the children, protecting them, and ultimately ensuring they went to well vetted homes that would continue that trend when would-be parents wanted to start families.

  Various skills from the ex-military and servicemen and women allowed us to dig deep, almost as deep as Robert did when he found the perpetrators from the Fort Rose ring, ensuring that anyone not suitable to house any of the children were reported swiftly.

  It was a highly rewarding experience setting it up and still is to this day. I go to work, still in my old Chevrolet, happy with what I have in life and fully intend to move in to the property and live there permanently once my house sale completes.

  I didn’t want to rush moving out, until I knew I had mentally closed the doors from the harrowing nights of the past when I lost Arianna. To put it in perspective, I still looked out the window every morning to see if Robert was watching from afar. If he was, I never noticed but that paranoia wasn’t really what I wanted to bring into Meadowbrook.

  My birthday at Meadowbrook was special. Kirsty and the kids we’d already taken in made it a truly memorable and joyful experience. Our receptionist was none other than Jessica McColm, whom had bought into our mission and used the place as a stepping-stone to try and get over the death of her son. She was the first person I went to see after I was cleared of any wrongdoing with Arthur.

  I never told her the full truth, but we were bound by pain inflicted by Arthur that she knew. That unspoken acknowledgement I would avenge her son seemed to bind us to a mental understanding. I felt her approval as much as anything I’d ever felt before; she hugged me incredibly tight that night. It was nice to see the goodwill in Meadowbrook bring out her smile. I was beginning to see flickers of the woman that she was before her own trauma.

  Only one thing that darkened the day was a birthday card I received in a golden envelope. It was addressed to the home, directly to me, and had been dropped off by hand, to Jessica. She had no idea that the man responsible for ending her son’s killer was inches away from her when she did. I did battle with the fact he was out there.

  My emotions the night we rekindled our lost connection clouded my judgement, irrespective of the ties and sins that bound us. I was tempted to encourage some of the private detectives at my disposal to try and bring him in but feared the repercussions of whether I sent people out to find him. Not only because the truth of that night in the basement could come out, but it ran the risk of putting the children in this home at risk.

  His birthday well wishes within the golden envelope were heartfelt, and I brushed them off by simply hiding the card in my desk.

  Happy Birthday Sebastian. It was good to see you, and for what it is worth, I am sorry. Forgive my inability to save your beloved. Forgive my actions that night of the fire. Be well, Little Brother.

  P.S. I’ve sent a donation to your site. I took The Gutenberg Bible from ‘Father’ and sold it privately. Use your share of the money to do good. I’ll be using my share to finish what I started.

  An anonymous donation would be great for us, despite the fact it was blood money tainted with the whiff of Cyril. Perhaps it could be the only redeeming factor of his wastefully evil life; a gift from the grave.

  I was angry with Robert for putting me into the position where I would accept the money, begrudgingly. The fact he called me ‘little brother,’ and tried to act as though we were all young kids, happy in our own company again was quite frustrating. The fact he set foot in this building, a building full of hope, dreams, and goodwill, vexed me even more. More so than the fact he was obviously still watching from afar. I knew, that one day, I could very well close the chapter of Fort Rose once and for all by bringing Robert in.

  I’d danced with devils for most of my life, even coming close to losing myself in the process. He was a devil arguably worse than Arthur given the body count he’d alleged to accumulate. Driven by a false sense of righteousness taking out the scum of the earth that had evaded justice was mildly pleasing, but still not right.

  If anything was to ever draw me back to that night and that tainted basement, it would be to turn in another monster to the scales of justice. Only this one was one that I knew quite well. Perhaps I’d speak with Kirsty first.

  Either way, see you soon. Big Brother.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank my partner Katharine, who just let me get on with this without interruption when I was in the creative zone. More than that, you are my rock and were integral to me staying sane in the months leading up to this story. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, or someone that just ‘gets’ me. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and the words alone don’t even do the statement justice. We can talk about everything and anything, as best friends and soul mates. Words just cannot describe how I feel or can ever thank you enough for what you do for me. In truth, I’ve never felt like I belonged until the day you said ‘yes’ at the top of the London Eye and I inadvertently joined your family. Hopefully immortalising this brief acknowledgement in text is enough to suggest how grand
a gesture this is.

  I want to thank one of my best friends, Kayleigh Ford – she says she is my ‘bestie’ and it’s a sad reminder of how few true friends I have when she gets a mention... Joking aside though, you’re incredible, you and your little family. You were the person who kept me laughing and joking when I was going through my antisocial slump of 2018 and dropped off the map. You were too loud and always found a way to break the silence, which wasn’t a bad thing. I shall refrain from reiterating the kind of things you sent me in the event you eventually grow up and learn the art of embarrassment. Is that enough for ‘ee’? Additionally, a thank you for allowing me to probe and question your anxieties as they are ultimately what helped build up my main character, amongst my own personal thoughts.

  Ryan Webster, the brother. Don’t really need to say much as we just get it and we always have. We are eerily similar in many respects, but you’ll always be known as the one that took and ruined my trousers that fateful night. Bollocks if you believe they were yours. I said that I would stand by that until the grave, and you did too, so our equal stubbornness is to be commended. Just know, now the words are immortalised into eternity — and the discussion will forever continue beyond the grave. Keep being you: simple, effective, and never beating around the bush. Casing point, “That’s your gran ‘deid,’ what are you going to do, eh?”

  Other family members — too many to mention.

  Richard Williams, Iain Murray, Dean Purves, Haydn Meredith — all reprobates and the harsh truth of my ‘patter being shite as I wasn’t around enough,’ was enough to instigate changes in work/life balance. Just know that if it happens again and I drop off the map, it’s because I’ve come to learn that your patter is as equally shite and it won’t be work related. It’s why we are all friends. We all seem to work for each other and help one another in our own way. Friends like you are my real family I guess.

  Stephen Logan, Gavin & Jo Burton, Craig McMichael, Elaine Brachtvogel, Brad Symcox, Antoni Saunders, Laura Casey, other admins/mods — and the people in the Touchdown House group that kept things ticking over as I wasn’t around, but still checked in with me. This story actually started growing arms and legs around the time of our last sesh, at the SB party when I was in the hotel feeling worse for wear (self-inflicted).

  I want to thank the ‘F-n A-Team’ of Kerry Worgan, Joe Griffiths, and Lou Barnett. You were all amongst a group of people who kept me sane in the workplace during the ‘washing machine,’ long working days in 2018. Kerry, you specifically encouraged me to share the first few chapters of this story with you when I was just playing with the idea of doing it. Your love of the character and the story are probably what made me stay true to the project and ultimately whip through it in such a short space of time.

  Robert T C Rooney, an old friend with similar creative outlets. You once put me in the acknowledgements of your book. It’s only fair, right mate?

  And anyone else that ultimately had a hand in reading early drafts or helped me to create this in whatever capacity.

  About the Author

  This is Scott Webster’s first venture into writing a novel. He does have other comedy writing experiences under his belt: a play with a friend, a few concepts for a TV series, small stage shows, and some radio sketches, but this is the first serious piece.

  He looked into the proverbial mirror and realised he wasn’t being disciplined, or versatile as a ‘self-proclaimed’ writer. He has a terrible knack for being easily distracted and not completing creative projects, so he told himself he was going to write a novel.

  The beginning and end, cover to cover is the perfect beginning and the perfect end. Additionally, he considered it a bucket list item: something more lasting and immortalising than something one would do for fun, like the comedic outlets.

  Scott mapped out the story into chapters and bullet points, then sat down on February 2, 2019, and began writing. He would tick off the bullet points as he went along, one chapter at a time. He finished the first draft on March 23, 2019, in a hotel room in India, incredibly ill.

  This project, out of anything creative he has ever produced, is definitely the one he is most proud of. He set out with two targets in mind: to write a novel and to ensure, at least, one person enjoyed it.

  The fact you are reading this means he succeeded in one of those objectives. Enjoy, and help him achieve the second.