by Tony Moyle
SOUL
CATCHERS
TONY MOYLE
Also by Tony Moyle
‘How to Survive the Afterlife’
Book 1 – THE LIMPET SYNDROME
Book 2 – SOUL CATCHERS
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Copyright © 2017 by Tony Moyle
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 or scholarly journal.
First published: November 2017
Limbo Publishing a brand of In-Sell Ltd
53 The Sands
Ashington, West Sussex RH20 3LQ
www.tonymoyle.com
Cover design by Lucas Media
For Tom, Amelie and Laure
“Simply said, you put up with me, although I have no idea why.” T.M.
soul
/səʊl/
noun
noun: soul; plural noun: souls
1: the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as being immortal
2: emotional or intellectual energy or intensity, especially as revealed in a work of art or an artistic performance.
catcher
/ˈkatʃə/
noun
noun: catcher; plural noun: catchers
1: a person or thing that catches
Notes from Book 1 – The Limpet Syndrome
(Note: Contains spoilers)
John Hewson thinks he’s ordinary. He doesn’t trust scientists, isn’t particularly religious and has no interest in politics. That’s until his death changes his views on all of them. In Limbo, a massive metal sphere in the heart of the Earth’s crust, his soul is about to be put on trial. It’s the fate all neutral souls have to endure and he doesn’t understand any of it. The Arbiter, an impossibly ancient figure called Laslow Kreicher, decides that John’s fate is destined to be a hot one.
John’s soul is drawn to Hell where Mr. Brimstone, a three-foot-high demon constructed from molten rock, proposes John’s only chance of redemption. He must return to Earth to recover two souls that have succumbed to the Limpet Syndrome, an unexplained form of reincarnation. The souls belong to Sandy Logan, an old friend and the Minister for Homeland Security, and his incompetent accomplice, Ian ‘Cher’ Noble. They must be returned before the summer solstice when their presence could fracture the Universe.
Sandy Logan lives a double life, torn between a thirst for power and his secret passion for animal rights. When a bomb kills three government scientists, the Prime Minister, Byron T. Casey, wants to know why Sandy’s department has no answers. Byron is nervous that this recent development will disrupt the production of Emorfed, a drug designed to subdue humanity.
Sandy and Ian go to the Tavistock Institute to confront Violet Stokes, a co-conspirator whom Sandy must hand over to the government. Instead they discover hundreds of caged pigeons being used to test Emorfed. When Ian forgets to adjust his watch due to the switch to British Summer Time their bomb detonates an hour earlier than planned, killing them and the pigeons. Agent 15, a ruthless killer with a secret OCD problem, manifested in the need to open and close every door three times, is sent to protect Emorfed.
Sandy wakes in darkness surrounded by a smooth, round prison, escaping only to be confronted by a huge pigeon. Unsure how, he’s clear that he, too, is a pigeon, taking the revelation better than his friend Ian, who has also suffered the same predicament. John is sent back to Earth to possess the inconspicuous Edward Reece, but poor navigation directs him inside Nash Stevens, the lead singer of a famous rock band. Nash, a renowned womaniser and compulsive addict has recently slept with the Prime Minister’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Faith, making John’s possession even trickier.
Influenced by John’s need to find answers, Nash is arrested on a flight to Geneva and thrown into prison on the orders of Byron. They’re released a month later by Laslow Kreicher who reveals his knowledge of the Limpet Syndrome. John concludes that Sandy and Ian have been reincarnated as pigeons, but when he presses Laslow for more answers he grows violent, callously slaughtering the jail wardens.
Sandy starts to reconnect with the memories of his former life and his determination to remain on Earth. At the forty-fourth attempt they master the art of flight and take off for London followed by a large swarm of the pigeons instinctively devoted to their protection.
Even though Nash is the prime suspect in a massacre, John convinces him to sell his story to Fiona Foster, a small-time journalist who has revealed secrets about Tavistock. Agent 15 reveals to Byron that Sandy is ‘not alive, but not dead either’, and an unexplained link between Sandy and Nash. Byron recruits his daughter to find Nash and reveal the link. Yearning for action, and egged on by John who is captivated by Faith’s beauty and his own loneliness, Nash allows Faith entry. She discovers the link but is forced to relinquish it by Agent 15.
Ian, dispatched by Sandy, describes the dangers of the Emorfed plot to Violet. Nash and John then locate Ian and explain that his existence is threatening the Universe. Determined to make up for his earlier incompetence, Ian escapes, pursued by Nash and Agent 15, until his stupidity drives him to his death and his soul is returned to Hell.
John is forced out of Nash’s body by an exorcism, but determined to remain with Nash, and motivated to stop the oppression of Emorfed, he unknowingly enacts the Limpet Syndrome. An unidentified voice indicates John’s choices and casts doubt on his deal with the Devil. He explains how John can possess without being noticed and his ability to use the Limpet Syndrome once more. Returned to Hell, John discovers that the other souls around him emit emotions of hope. When he confronts Brimstone about the experience and the deal that they have struck, he gets no answers. John deliberates about who to possess next – Violet, Agent 15 or Byron.
At Trafalgar Square, Violet identifies Sandy, before both are captured by Agent 15. Byron meets Agent 15 to task him to take Emorfed to the water treatment plant, where it will be added to the water supply two days prior to a general election. Byron, the only one who recognises Sandy, reveals himself to be John Hewson possessing Byron’s body. Determined to double-cross the Devil and save himself, he tells Sandy how they can stop Emorfed. John is devastated to discover that Faith is being held as a guinea pig to test Emorfed, robbing her of her emotions and vitality.
John conducts a TV broadcast where video footage, taken by Sandy, reveals the Emorfed plot against the British people. He steps down as Prime Minister, one day before the election and two days before the solstice. John reveals himself and seeks Nash’s help to get a plane to Switzerland. Agent 15, whom John framed for the Emorfed plot, is waiting for them. When he threatens to kill him, John explains that only Byron will die. The pursuing pigeons and Nash come to John’s rescue.
When they fail to find the entrance to Limbo, John knows he must kill Sandy to return his soul. Unable to murder, the mountains vent their disapproval and they fall through the Earth’s mantel onto Limbo. John attempts to reverse the polarity and send Sandy to Heaven, but Laslow appears to stop them ‘playing God’.
Laslow reveals that John’s mission is a façade. It was always about getting him, not Sandy, to this spot at this moment. Realising the comparisons between Laslow’s influence over him and John’s own oppression of Byron, he is overcome by anger and doubt, shooting Sandy to regain control. As the solstice approaches, Laslow reveals that it was he who originally killed John. Laslow shoots Byron and uses the power of the solstice to heal his dead body.
John is dragged before Asmodeus, the guardian of Hell, and is shocked to find that Sandy’s soul has returned, co
ncluding that there is no Heaven and explaining the human need for the Limpet Syndrome to survive. His spirit is placed in an enclosed cell with only his guilt for company. As he struggles with the voices in his head he recalls his one last chance to use the Limpet Syndrome, one chance to put things right. When Brimstone is presented with John’s empty cell, the only clue is the inscription, ‘Remember Newton’s third’, burnt onto the side. John is gone, but not for good.
- CHAPTER ONE -
FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE
The tombstones stood to attention, row upon row, some faded and forgotten, some gleaming with life, as if the body inside had barely stopped breathing. Many of the inscriptions were illegible, the words appropriately faded for a long-forgotten occupant. Who would be coming to visit these ramshackle and broken monuments now? The living had no connection or memory to once-vibrant and meaningful lives. Their friends, family and descendants had long since passed on, or forgotten that these ghostly figures had actually been born in the first place. Such is the fading quality of the circle of life.
A lone finger traced the words on a cold, black stone, etched with gold font, pronouncing in just four lines a life that had consumed several decades. This grave was somewhat fresher than the others. No rough, lichen-encrusted words for these fingers. Only the deep cuts of a chisel left more than a decade before these hands became the first to follow it.
As the conflicting elements of old stone met young hand, the clean, unblemished finger made out a letter J. Slowly it traced out an O, his other hand leaping forward with excitement to assist in the discovery. The second hand found an H and with an anxious anticipation it hesitated. This was the grave that the boy had been searching for all his life. Across continents he’d travelled to quench the curiosity living in him since his very first memories. He opened his eyes once more and placed his right index finger against the final letter, N.
Even though he could see the headstone as clearly as he could see the sandals on his feet, only the feel of the word made the experience tangible. The sensation of touching an object with a genuine connection to someone that you have spent so long searching for. Decades after being buried deep beneath your feet has no impact on how much you love someone. The passage of time doesn’t stop you missing them or removing the harbouring resentment that things could have been so different.
Aching from the cramp that had settled in his knees, he shuffled his position, brushing his long, black hair from his eyes where tears were noticeable only by their absence. This was not a visit of sorrow. What was the use of tears if he could no longer influence the result? This was merely a pilgrimage that had taken him across distant countries and wide oceans to an image indented in his consciousness for as long as he could remember. The image that now lay in front of him may well have been the first picture that had ever entered his mind. Impossible as it sounded, this gravestone was his oldest memory. Certainly it had brought him to this spot and driven away eleven years of dreaming.
His eyes settled once more on the black marble. In a vase at the bottom drooped a simple collection of wilted daffodils well past their replacement date. The ceramic pot had long since dried out in the scorching summer heat, unable to scurry for the shade of the nearby trees. The sight of these miserable flowers seemed to prompt the boy. Reaching inside his green satchel, he removed his own offering. Emptying the daffodils from their parched grave, he planted a single white yarrow flower in their place.
Sacrificing his last mouthful of water, he emptied the plastic bottle into the vase. His thirst was secondary to hers. The white flower appeared to grow in its new home as it drew up the liquid through its stem. The offering was purely symbolic. There were plenty of stories surrounding this simple little flower. Its rumoured ability to heal the sick would be utterly redundant in the face of a twelve-year-old corpse with several feet of soil between it and them.
Not for the first time the world was ignoring him. The loneliness of the single mourner at peace amongst the lonely. How long had he been here? The sun was already seeking refuge behind the trees, waiting for the next region of the Earth to hitch-hike into view before continuing its tireless, unwavering duty. He had done what he wanted to do, so why was he waiting? There were plenty more jobs to complete. As the only current visitor in a cemetery overflowing with history, somehow he felt his presence was keeping the dead alive, just for a while at least. The moment he stood up and left, John Hewson would cease to be again, all deeds and achievements lost amongst the graves with only the vegetation for company, the only organisms willing to live permanently amongst the dead.
“The nerve of it. How dare you come here?”
Above the boy’s right shoulder the voice had appeared, unannounced and unwelcome. Calmly he flicked the black, sleek hair from his eyes again in an attempt to look more presentable and less hoodlum. Even as he stood up the woman’s demeanour projected her five-foot frame like an eagle extending its wingspan, rendering his six feet of height meaningless. She was never going to know, but this wasn’t the first time she had made him feel this small. David Gonzalez was about to be put on the spot with one of the last people he wanted to be tested against.
“What have you been doing this time?” said the woman, prodding a firm finger in his direction with one hand whilst the other clutched a collection of freshly cut daffodils.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know what you mean,” replied David.
The boy’s Latino accent complemented his natural olive skin, which had been reinforced by the unseasonably hot British summer. It wasn’t uncommon for a boy to look such a way in this part of the world. But in the eyes of this woman, her prejudices said foreign, and for foreign read trouble.
“You’ve been putting graffiti on my son’s grave again, haven’t you? Well, now I’ve caught you. I’m going to ring the police right now. That’ll put a stop to it.”
David doubted the notion, but wasn’t prepared to find out if the police had anything better to do.
“Don’t do that,” he said serenely. “I really haven’t written anything on John’s grave. I don’t think there is any graffiti, and if I had do you think I would be standing here talking about it?”
It wasn’t usual for these toe-rags, as she saw them, to hang around. Normally they turned on their heels as soon as she confronted them. “No graffiti! Obviously you haven’t been looking very hard, have you?”
Her prodding finger turned into a grasp, pulling him by one skinny arm to the rear of the tombstone. Daffodils directed David’s gaze to an inscription carved into the back of the stone. It was understandable how he’d missed it, the backs of gravestones being one of the most unobserved objects in the known Universe.
There are many odd activities that people participate in for fun: plane spotting, collecting engine serial numbers, and even finding visions of Jesus in bits of burnt toast. But to his knowledge there was no association for spotting anomalies on the back of tombstones. David was about to become their first and only member, because what he found on the back of this one was particularly fascinating.
It wasn’t just what was written that drew his attention. These markings were no rush job piece of graffiti. With skill and artistry the work had to be delivered with the same care and patience as the chisel that had carved the front: each letter in line with the next, straight and even. Each one bold and sharp, shouting for attention, desperate not to be missed. This wasn’t vandalism, it was clearly a four-word message for someone.
‘GOD PROTECTS THE KING’
David read it again, although there was absolutely no need. Anyone interested in cemeteries could be forgiven for making assumptions and guesses to the words eroded back to the grain whilst in search of a distant relative. There was no such assumption needed here. The words looked as fresh as ink just pressed out of a fountain pen. What they meant was anyone’s guess, but he wanted so much to understand. The words circled around in his mind, each one examined for clues, failing to meet a connection to the one that followe
d it.
The woman, surprised that the sight of the words had not forced a remorseful confession from the boy, doubted her own initial conviction of his culpability. “Are you saying this wasn’t you?”
“No. I had no part in it,” he replied, still unable to take his eyes from those four words. “I don’t think it’s graffiti, though. It’s not the sort of thing that graffiti artists write. I’m no expert but I think they go with things like ‘no ball games’ or ‘Chazza was ’ere’, or occasionally just a poorly painted representation of the male reproductive organ.”
“If someone damages my son’s grave, then it’s definitely got malicious intent,” she said.
“This must have taken hours. When did it first appear?”
“Last week. I always visit once a week and it was here then.”
“Do you have any idea what it means?” asked David politely, attempting to stay on her better side, to which he felt he was starting to drift.
“I didn’t give it any thought. I just thought it was meaningless vandalism. They won’t allow my son to rest. He was persecuted in life and now they are persecuting him in death.”
The old woman was desperate to maintain the true story of her son’s existence with the same resolve as she protected him in life. Unable to perpetuate the façade, her initial stature of strength relented and was replaced by the true frailty of age. Her bones struggled to gain permission to stoop down and place the daffodils next to David’s white flower, and were then completely refused permission to return.
“Do you like my flower?” David asked casually, as her arthritically ravaged body forced her to kneel in quiet prayer.
“Yes, although daffodils were his favourite.”
