Host of the Unforgiven

by G D Sheehen

  He headed in the direction from where the beat had just died out, and staggered uncontrollably, shouldering tree trunks as he went. A faint flicker soon came into focus. It seemed to grow further away with every step but he persevered, driven by the eagerness to avoid another encounter with apparitions he couldn’t decide were real or not.

  As he drew closer to the site, the flame appeared as if it were floating above the ground, infused with greens, yellows and reds. Three more flames dotted the background and he wondered if they’d lit another fire in their frenzied manic state.

  His walking steadied, breathing regulated and an air of contention began wrapping itself around him as he blew off the earlier events to the powerful effects of Redwood’s concoction. The caked soil crumbled off his face as he cracked a smile.

  He would leave this strange place in the morning, more ready and purposeful in facing his loved ones who had so long been banished from his life. His time with them might be short before he’s taken in, but at least he could pour his heart out to them without the deceptive plotting heroin inescapably puts on its users.

  His moment of reprieve was to be short-lived, however, and a numbing shock struck him full on when he realised why the levitating fire had the colours it did. The old lady’s waggon was consumed in a raging mass of flames. His first inclination was to get close and check if she was still inside but he could barely get within ten feet of it without feeling scorched all over.

  He ran towards the site where the three small fires were burnt down beds of glowing embers. He crashed to his knees when he saw what had become of the commune. Everyone lay on the ground with blood gushing out of various wounds inflicted on them. Had the bloodsuckers come here after they were done with him? He crawled over to Redwood who was lying with his brown leather booted foot resting on the bench above his splayed out body.

  Philip leaned over him and put his hands on his chest and attempted to shake him awake. His sleeve was rolled up and blood seeped from a bulging vein. Redwood shivered, showing a sign of life Philip hadn’t expected to see.

  “What the fuck happened here, Maximus?”

  “He came out of nowhere, friend. Infected us all. It’s all ruined.”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I brought him here.”

  “Just go and finish what you started,” he said and his head rolled over, eyes half-closed.

  Philip stood up and the site spun around him making him dizzy. Sally was across the clearing, her pants around her ankles, bleeding from the neck. He was about to make his way over to check on her when a figure emerged from the clearing.

  The orange light of the surrounding blazes reflected off the straight razor held at the visitor’s side. The intruder looked around, at first unaware of Philip’s return. His eyes cast down on his handy work, then he slowly raised his head and saw who he’d come for.

  Philip hesitated and considered running at Razor Ray with all his might but knew he had no chance up against such an imposing force. Shadows slanted down his face and a menacing look of anticipation and victory came across him. From the darkness behind him appeared the vampire king followed shortly by the Dearg Due. They stood at either side of Ray and looked poised for further attack.

  His only chance was to outrun Ray and lose him in the thick of the forest, so he turned and took off as fast as he could.

  “I love the chase, Quinlan,” shouted Ray as he started to run and make up ground quickly.

  Philip went in the direction he believed the car to be in and weaved in and out of the trees surprised and energised by his sudden burst of agility.

  “You’re mine, Quinlan,” he yelled then let out a grunt, Philip assuming he’d run into a tree.

  He looked back. Ray was picking himself up and shaking his head. He recognised an incline he’d come up that morning on his way back to the site and headed straight for it. Misreading its angle, he went tumbling down hard. He crashed into a tree and let out a sharp gasp of pain. His back was pressed up against the tree he’d struck and he struggled to pick himself up and looked up the hill.

  Ray stood at the top scanning the area below. Philip tried to hide himself behind the thin trunk of the pine tree.

  “I see you, you piece of shit.”

  Ray took his time coming down but did so, much more skilfully than Philip, like a skier descending a mogul speckled slope.

  Philip ran along the tree line at the bottom, knowing it would eventually take him to the small river and Kevin’s Bed. He ran until he was completely out of breath, without looking back once. He heard twigs cracking in the background but saw no sign of Ray. The hiking path was up ahead but once there, it would leave him exposed to a wide span of the forest above.

  He took his chance and got onto the path and jogged along the outer edge, trying to camouflage himself in the tree line. What seemed like a full two minutes passed and he was beginning to think he’d outrun Ray.

  He slowed to a brisk walk when he heard, “You did it Cloudcrawler. Now go and finish this.”

  Through the trees, the red eyes and unmistakable mane faded into the distance and he felt reassured of his safety, for now.

  A force like a speeding car blew him off his feet and knocked the wind out of him. The back of his head crashed hard onto the muddy path and he blacked out for a few seconds. When he began to refocus, Ray was standing over him, wiping his blade with a handkerchief.

  “I’ve truly enjoyed this, Quinlan. I don’t get out to the countryside enough. In a way, I should be thanking you. But under the circumstances…” he drifted off and breathed in a deep breath of forest air.

  He had tattoos all down his muscular arms and his chest puffed out like a body builder’s. He seemed in no rush to get this done, his prey well and truly cornered.

  “It’s not what you think, Ray,” Philip said.

  “I’m not in the least bit interested in what you have to say, Quinlan.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “You see, people like yo-,” he started, but before he could finish his words, a hollow thud echoed up and Ray collapsed onto the ground next to Philip. Niamh stood over the two of them, a rock gripped by her two hands.

  Ray squirmed on the ground not fully out and Philip knew he had to get out of there fast.

  Niamh helped Philip to his feet and said, “That prick reminded me of me dad as soon as he came to the site. I got out of there when I saw what he was up t-”.

  Ray grabbed Philip’s pant leg, “Get back here yous fuckin’ prick.”

  Philip kicked free, got up, held Niamh by the hand and ran. After a hundred metres he looked back and Ray was still struggling to his feet.

  “Where’s the van? We need to get as far away from here as possible.”

  “I know where it is. Let’s cut down this way and double back. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  They kept up a good pace and got to the van. Niamh found the keys buried under a rock nearby and got in and started it while Philip kept an eye out for Ray.

  The sky went from black to a crimson and purple sheet draped over the valley. Philip asked her to drive them to Waterford and they’d leave the van somewhere safe. They drove through the winding roads, Philip looking back constantly to see if they were being followed by a black Mercedes. The sun came up and cast a film of eerie gold over Glendalough and the lake of his dreams turned to another scene in the nightmare of his life.

  26

  They arrived in Slieverue on the outskirts of Waterford City just before nine o’clock. They had talked at length about Niamh’s falling out with her mother and Philip convinced her that she most likely misunderstood her mother’s love for her. He convinced her to go back home, at least for a while, until things cooled down at the commune.

  She told him she hadn’t seen Ray cut anyone with his blade but vaguely remembered him talking to people and passing joints with several members and vaguely remembered seeing a syringe, but couldn’t be sure.

  This left Philip befuddled
about what he’d seen when he returned to the site and he again questioned his own ability to see the reality of certain situations. Of course, the fermented mushroom concoction he’d drunk out of a goat’s stomach didn’t help his powers of perception very much.

  They decided to park the van by the side of a residential street in Ferrybank, across the River Suir from, opposite the city centre. They hid the keys and made a deal that whoever was finished with their business first would return it to Redwood, or at least get in touch with him and let him know where his van was.

  Niamh said she wasn’t too concerned with it as Redwood had bought it with money he had borrowed (she said ‘borrowed’ fingering air quotes), from some of the more well off members of the commune. She didn’t seem to think much of their would-be leader, which wiped some of the veneer of his mysticism for Philip.

  She held Philip tight as they hugged goodbye and wished him luck with his sister and best friend. Philip reassured her that things would be fine for her and that she had her whole life ahead of her.

  Although still shook from the events of the last few days, he felt a rush of nostalgia as he walked down the Dock Road and looked across the Suir at the skyline of the city on Merchant’s Quay. He crossed Rice Bridge and headed up the quay towards the bus station. He would wait until the next bus to Dunmahon and call Julie from the village. A flutter of butterflies tickled his insides at the thought of bumping into someone from his past in the village.

  He went into the bus station restroom to wash up a little and quickly understood why he was getting such funny looks walking through the station. A horrid mess stared back from the mirror at him, pale-skinned with bulging black eyes, clumps of mud-caked into his hair and all over his filthy clothes. So, he decided to postpone the bus station for a while and head over to Barronstrand Street to find a cheap pair of jeans and a jumper. He had just about enough money to do so, and have a small bite to eat and a coffee.

  Rush hour was in full flow and shoppers were beginning to fill the streets. He immediately drew suspicious looks when he entered Penny’s and tried to appear confident as he went upstairs to the men’s section.

  He grabbed a few five euro T-shirts and was intercepted by a manager before he could reach the changing room.

  “Sir, can I help you with anything?” said the tall pimple-faced man-boy, avoiding eye contact as he spoke.

  “I want to try on these T-shirts,” said Philip, unaware of how annoyed he appeared as he answered.

  “Sir, there’s no need to be aggressive with me. I think you’d better leave or I’ll have to call security.”

  “Is this how you approach all paying customers?”

  “You haven’t paid for anything yet.”

  “I’ve got money.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket for his wallet and pulled out the package of heroin and held it out for the manager to see. He recoiled with regret and looked at the manager to gauge his reaction.

  The manager took a step back and grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Security to level two, now. We have a code purple.”

  Code purple? What the fuck it that?

  He thought better of waiting around to find out, so dropped the T-shirts, called the manager a ‘stupid prick’ then headed for the stairs, nearly knocking over a rack of shirts on the way. He started running down the stairs and came against a middle-aged, bulky security guard coming up the escalator on the way.

  “Stop right there, you little cunt,” he shouted and attempted to climb the side rail and hop on to the stairs, but he lost balance and fell back on the sharp steps and left out a grunt of pain.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Philip said as he raced down the stairs. He sprinted across the ground level and flew out the door, almost losing his footing and smacking off the pedestrianised street. He glanced up and down planning his direction out of a possibility of four when he caught the gaze of a garda on the beat.

  The garda didn’t hesitate and poised for the chase. Philip thought his best chance would be to take a left and have a go for Red Square shopping centre. He entered and had a quick look back to see the garda was right behind him making a call, no doubt for back-up, as he ran.

  He remembered, from his last visit there as a teenager that the third floor led out to the multi-story car park. He would take his chances there if he could make it.

  The escalators didn’t have too many people, so he dashed for the nearest one and long strides took him up two or three steps at a time. At the top by the time the garda hit the first step, he followed suit with the second set of steps and then the third, passing unrecognisable shops as he ran to the far end of the shopping centre.

  The garda had made up some ground by the time he got to the third floor. Weakness was now overcoming him. He hadn’t eaten since the stew in the waggon twenty-four hours before.

  Philip staggered out to the car park and saw a fire hydrant where he could hide the heroin. He stuffed the package behind the red box and went to the stairs to get as far away from it as possible before he gave himself up to his pursuer.

  When he reached the middle of the car park floor, he collapsed to the ground with exhaustion. The footsteps of the Garda neared him from behind and he was struck hard on the shoulder by his baton.

  “What the fuck was that for?” he cried at the panting garda who was fresh-faced and terrified looking.

  “That’s for making me chase you all the way here for nothing. Now, lie on your front and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then, why were you running away from me?” shouted the garda.

  Before Philip could answer, he was on the radio giving his location to another garda. After he finished, he knelt down pressing his knee hard into Philip’s back and handcuffed him. All his groans and protestations only made his nervous captor more forceful.

  “I’m goin’ to search you now. Have you any needles or weapons in your pockets?”

  “Of course not,” Philip moaned squirming involuntarily with discomfort.

  His captor patted him down before searching all his pockets, pulling out Philip’s wallet, his prescription and some paper in a zip lock bag.

  He examined his PRSI card. “What’s your address, Quinlan?”

  “I don’t have an address. I’m homeless.”

  Two more gardaí landed onto the car park floor, looking deflated and disappointed that there wasn’t more action. Philip refused to answer any more questions and a few minutes later a squad car arrived and took him to the station for processing.

  27

  The stench of piss in the holding room was overpowering and Philip gagged twice. The once white walls were stained with human waste and specks of blood dotted the floor in parts a mop couldn’t get to. After forty gut-wrenching minutes, he was brought out to the front desk for processing.

  The Garda behind the counter was a towering figure with grey hair, a massive gut and several scars decorating his war-torn face. He looked at Philip with utter contempt.

  “Name?” he asked in a cigarette beaten croak.

  “Philip John Quinlan.”

  “Address?”

  “None.”

  He looked up from his clipboard and bit his lower lip, looking poised to strike.

  “Next of kin?”

  “None.”

  “Listen, you druggie scumbag. One way or another we’re going to find out all about this-”

  “I was released from Mountjoy Prison a few weeks ago. I was staying in a halfway house but left. I’m originally from Dunmahon. My parents died years ago, so I have no next of kin.”

  “They shouldn’t have wasted the time it took to sign your release papers.”

  “Would you mind telling me what crime I’ve committed?”

  “If you don’t watch your fuckin’ mouth, I’ll find plenty of crimes for you.”

  They stared each other down, neither in a state of mind to give in.

  “So, is there anyone I can contact to
verify your story?”

  “My counsellor, Paul Walsh, in the Matter Hospital.”

  “Okay. Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Philip sighed in resignation.

  “Do you understand why you were brought in here today?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I was chased because of how I look. It’s sheer fuckin’ prejudice, just because I’m homeless. You’d think with all the paedos and violent cunts out there you’d have your hands full without coming after the likes of me.”

  “Very smart, aren’t ya? The manager of Penny’s said you had a bag of drugs and were stumbling around the shop trying to steal clothes.”

  “He’s a fucking liar. I was going to the changing room to try on some T-shirts and he pounced on me and called the security. You have my wallet. You know I have the money to pay them.”

  He laughed before he could get out his quip, “You look like a dedicated follower of fashion, alright.”

  Philip stared, stony-faced.

  “Where are the drugs?”

  “There are no drugs. I’ve been clean since I was in prison.”

  The guard chuckled. “Who the fuck do you expect to believe that? You look like you’ve been dragged through a heroin den kicking and screaming. Your eyes look like two black snooker balls, so don’t bullshit me.”

  “I don’t have, nor did I have any drugs. Can you read my charges to me? I believe I have a right to know.”

  “We’ll get to that, soon. Don’t worry.”

  They went through the rest of the formalities and Philip was eventually brought to a cell on the second floor of the station. He was given a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich which he devoured in three mouthfuls, prompting the duty guard to bring him another. He was told a state appointed lawyer might take a while to show up as today was a court day, so he lied down on the cold narrow bunk and fell fast asleep.