Everlong: (Book One of the Everlong Trilogy)

by Nikki Morgan

  No one.

  Great.

  Another two shots.

  And then Dan appeared; Jack Sparrow running to the rescue. He pulled the creep off Cassie by his shirt. The creep turned around, his face twisted with rage. And there was Cassie in the middle, struggling to stand. The creep threw a punch at Dan but missed as Dan side stepped him. Dan turned to Cassie and began screaming at her.

  Then the creep grabbed a pint glass and smashed it on the edge of the bar before swinging it at Dan.

  'Dan!' I screamed, racing towards them. Dan moved just in time and the glass only grazed the side of his cheek. And then Carl and a few of the bouncers arrived. They were pulling the creep backwards, the glass lying at their feet broken and splintered but still sharp.

  'Don't just stand there!' shrieked Celia, who'd appeared at my side looking like a screaming Erinye, an infernal avenger from Greek Mythology, 'Get over there, take her home!' She slammed Cassie's diamanté clutch bag into my chest.

  Cassie was leaning over the bar, her eyes glazed. I grabbed her around the waist and urged her to move but it was like she was in another dimension or something, and her body didn't want to co-operate. I pulled her away from the bar, her head crashed onto mine, her full body weight pushing down on me.

  I struggled across the club and headed out the front door. Outside was freezing, and drizzle was tumbling down from the sky, the annoying kind that soaked you to the bone in a matter of seconds. I'd forgotten my boots. I'd forgotten my helmet. But I wasn't going back.

  A black hackney cab sailed past. I stuck my arm out and frantically waved him down, Cassie still holding on to me for dear life, unable to function on her own.

  The cab pulled in further down the road and I tried to hurry Cassie along before someone nicked it. We caught up with it, the driver had the window down. 'Sorry love, can't take her. Not in that state,' he said, just as she vomited all over the path.

  Great. 'Thanks.' I said, trying to fight the tears that were building at the back of my throat. Babysitting my own mother, it had to be the worst joke ever. No, I corrected myself, that would be my life.

  By the time I'd dragged her home, nearly two hours, four cut feet and a pair of diamanté-covered shoes later, my tears had turned to anger. I managed to keep her upright as I opened the front door. I pushed her in through it, not caring if she landed on her face or not.

  She kept saying to me 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' over and over again, but it was making the rage inside me burn brighter because I knew she didn't mean it, it was a stock response to a familiar situation. Not that I'd had to deal with her like this before, but hey, I suppose I was a grown-up now.

  In the end I snapped. 'Shut up!' I shouted at her, but she was too far gone to even notice.

  I shoved her on to the sofa, realising too late that she'd wet herself. This was supposed to happen when she was older, and I was old. Not now. I wasn't supposed to be cleaning her down now.

  I couldn't leave her like that, I just couldn't, besides, it'd only make more mess which I'd have to deal with in the morning. I raced upstairs, grabbed a couple of towels from the bathroom and her dressing gown, then headed downstairs. I poured hot water into a bowl, clutched the soap and set to work.

  Thirty minutes later she was lying on the sofa, clean (ish), and fast asleep under her duvet. But the anger inside me was alive, burning with the fire Cassie had fed it. I sat on the armchair just staring at her. She looked like a baby, tucked up in the foetal position, complete with the vomit dried in her hair.

  I hated her. I despised her with a passion that I hadn't felt in such a long time.

  But then, sitting there in the silence, with only my anger and thoughts for company, I realised that I was slowly becoming normal again - whatever normal was - but that scared me; too long in the wilderness and you lose the ability to be normal. I had to learn again, had to become human again.

  Cassie started to mumble in her sleep, something about Dan and only wanting a cigarette, and the hate flooded my system again.

  She wasn't my mother. My mother was long dead. She'd died along with my father, ten years ago. I couldn't change that, and right then, there was only room for hate.

  I was her child, her blood, I'd been suckled on her breast and yet it made no difference. For once, just once, it would've been nice for her to notice me, to care about me.

  I stood up and looked down on her. I'd had it with her. If Cassie was ill in the night it was her own dumb fault. I went to bed.

  It was no surprise that Celia was pounding the front door early the next morning. I'd only got to bed at four, silly witch. The clock was now flashing seven-sixteen. I jumped out of bed, nearly tripping over the stupid Storm Trooper costume. I'd only got the the top of the stairs when she let herself in.

  She looked up at me, 'Didn't you hear me?'

  'Yeah,' I said, the anger still raging inside me.

  'And?'

  'And?'

  'Where is she?'

  'I dunno.'

  'What?'

  'Was the music too loud for you, has it damaged your hearing or something?'

  Celia sneered at me before she turned and waltzed into the living room. I left her to it and went back into my room. I needed sleep. I slammed the door, grabbed the chair from my desk and shoved it up the handle. They weren't going to disturb me.

  I fell straight back to sleep, that was one definite improvement since taking the tablets. The shadows now only haunted my dreams which had become vivid, bizarre and surreal.

  The raven flew through my dreams, heralding the pitiful cries of a child which always cut deep into my soul. From where I lay I could see the full moon through the window, and then it was gone, obscured beneath a blanket of cloud. I climbed out of bed, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet, filled with the desire to look outside, to search for the source of the child's anguish. But, when I got to the window and looked out, I was staring into a void, a huge whirling mass of cloud and debris that devoured the babies cries. I stood at its edge, fear running through me. It was calling to me, urging me to step into its vortex.

  I jolted awake, the echoes of the dream still swirling around me. I lay still for a moment, my body sweaty and trembling, my breathing ragged.

  I rolled over. The clock flashed one in the afternoon; no wonder my stomach was angry at me for not feeding it, but did I dare go downstairs? Did I want to face what was down there?

  My stomach told me I had to go, so I pulled my dressing gown on and made my way downstairs. I relaxed when I entered the living room and saw that Cassie and the duvet had gone, but my joy soon turned to dismay as I went into the kitchen to find her bent over a glass of water with a couple of aspirin in her hand. She looked up, her eyes were red and puffy.

  'Oh, hi Hun,' she said.

  I just smiled weakly at her and made my way over to the coffee machine.

  'It looks like I've got some making up to do,' she said, to my back.

  I put a pod in the machine, pressed the button and waited. I noticed I had a black bruise around my wrist, a perfect set of finger marks, probably off Cassie when she'd grabbed me in the club.

  'I got it all wrong,' she said, cutting into my thoughts, her voice ragged and cracked like she'd been screaming for hours on end. 'It wasn't Dan...I thought I saw him outside, snogging a leggy blonde, but it wasn't...'

  'Oh,' was all I could manage.

  'Yeah, it turns out Carl's mate, Simon, had also gone as Jack Sparrow. It was him that was...you know.'

  I could hear her fighting back the tears, but I concentrated on the smell of my coffee. I was not going to turn around. 'No, I don't know. What?' I asked, my knuckles turning white as I held onto the worktop.

  If she heard the venom in my voice she chose to ignore it. 'It was him that was snogging the blonde. Celia told me, earlier, when she came around. What if Dan won't speak to me? What if I've lost him?'

  'I'm sure you'll work it out,' I said, through clenched teeth. I couldn't look at her.
I just couldn't. I piled sugar in my coffee, stuffed the biscuit tin under my arm, and then said, 'I need a shower,' and stormed out of the room.

  There were no apologies for me, no thank you, no nothing. Don't worry about me bringing you home safely, cleaning up the vomit and the piss, I wanted to shout, but instead I said nothing.

  'He's coming around later, to talk,' she shouted after me.

  There were two scenarios that could happen and neither filled me with joy; The first - that she'd make up with Dan (which was highly likely as he was completely smitten, with her and her money) - filled me with dread because they'd be at it like rabbits for the foreseeable future and I'd feel uncomfortable in my own home making me want to throttle them both, or, secondly, they'd split up. This was even more horrendous as Cassie couldn't cope on her own, and more of last night would be the way she'd go. She'd drink and drink and disappear for weeks on end and I wouldn't know where she was until she turned up with some random and they'd be at it and I would feel uncomfortable in my own home.

  Both scenarios were lose, lose for me.

  I got to my room, plonked my coffee down on my bedside table and fell back onto my bed. I yanked the lid off the biscuit tin. Custard creams. I hate custard creams. I grabbed one and dunked it in my coffee, knowing my life was just going from bad to worse.

  Evie

  12th August 2002, 2.38 pm.

  The exact moment my happiness came to a crashing halt, when the threads of my life began to unravel. I mean the pure happiness you feel when you're young and evil still hasn't entered your world and everything is good and wonderful and simple. The place where Princesses are made and the monsters are slain and someone always comes rushing in to save you. The place where there is no grey, just black and white, good and evil. But evil never wins.

  My father had been ill for ages, growing weaker and weaker as the cancer devoured him from the inside out, robbing him of his strength, of his dignity. But even as I sat at his bedside, his breathing becoming more laboured, the bruised skin hanging from his bones, I still thought someone, somewhere, would save him, that a doctor would come riding in on a white horse and tell us they'd found a magic cure.

  Even after he'd gone, when his golden soul finally floated away from his body, I still didn't believe he was gone.

  But he was.

  Reality came crashing down on me a long time later, delayed maybe by my Gran's insistence that I shouldn't cry, that my dad was watching over me from his spot just behind the North star and he wouldn't like to see me cry; he wouldn't have wanted that. Not at all.

  So I didn't.

  I would never hurt my dad.

  But how did Gran really know he wouldn't have wanted that?

  She couldn't ask him, could she?

  Only now do I see the elegant deception, the beautiful lie.

  I would've done anything for my dad. I would've fallen on a sword for him. That was a fundamental truth, as day follows night or the sun follows the moon, and she knew it.

  And still she used it as her weapon.

  I don't hate her for it; she had a lot of mess to clean up after dad died, and at least Gran was there for me, not like Cassie. When Cassie was out enjoying herself, having her Second Coming, or whatever it was she called it.

  ‘Hun,’ she'd say, ‘life is for living. As a wise man once said “eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we may die”. Look at your dad, he was a good man and they still took him didn’t they? You never know when your time is up, so enjoy every day like it’s your last.’

  And then she was gone, off out with the first of many of her male friends.

  That was ten years ago, and nothing has really changed, except, now I don't have Gran and I don't believe in happy-ever-afters.

  Josh

  Threatening Evie's life? What a masterful stroke Death had played!

  The bitch had me in the palm of Her hands.

  I was trapped, set on a collision course with Hyperion, but what was in it for me? Nothing. Not even the chance of becoming a Fallen Angel. That's if I could believe what Death had actually told me, because, let's face it, I could trust no one.

  Except Obadiah.

  Going to see him would give me a perfect opportunity to find out about the Fallen. One way or the other I would find out the truth. Obadiah was the one certainty, the one angel I trusted. For I had seen it, in his memories, in his life story.

  It seemed like an eternity had passed since I was last at Obadiah's, but it had only been a few weeks, and yet, so much had changed; the air was colder, the snow deeper, Obadiah's celestial music was weaker and my heart, my heart was now encased in stone.

  I knocked Obadiah's door three times and waited.

  I heard him shuffling behind the door and the sound of locks clicking. The door opened, revealing his bent silhouette in the doorway. He didn't say a word but signalled for me to enter with a flick of his crooked finger.

  The old angel looked weak, much more fragile than when I had last seen him. 'Are you okay?' I asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder. The pain hit me before I'd even touched him, like a violent static shock, and thousands of images once again burned in my head.

  I stood silent for a few minutes, waiting for the pain to subside and let Obadiah's memories settle into me.

  'I'm good, what about you?' he asked. The smile on his face was tender, his milky white eyes warm and welcoming.

  'I'm,' What was I exactly? I didn't know anymore, but settled on 'fine. Thanks.'

  'I didn't expect to see you so soon, I haven't sorted out my affairs...'

  I noticed the piles of books stacked all over the place. 'No, no,' I said, feeling a pang of guilt. I hadn't even considered how Obadiah might've mistook me visiting again. 'I haven't...I mean...I've just...Death's sent me, I need some information.'

  'Oh,' said Obadiah, the sadness in his voice cutting me to the bone.

  I'd done it again, hadn't I?

  'Sorry, I-'

  'No, no,' said Obadiah, raising his hand. 'You are welcome anytime. It's my fault. Please come in, sit down.' He gestured to the only wooden chair that was not struggling under the weight of dusty books.

  'Thank you,' I said, tumbling into the chair.

  'Coffee?'

  'Yes,' I nodded, 'please.'

  'Did you find what you needed at the Vatican?' he asked, shuffling over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room.

  'Oh, I found Hyperion,' I said, unable to keep the venom from my voice.

  'Am I to take it he found the Necrodemonicon?' he said, placing a steaming carafe of coffee on the table with two mugs.

  'I don't know,' I said, moving the pile of books on the chair next to mine so that Obadiah could sit down, 'but he destroyed the Castel, taking all of the Forbidden Library with it.'

  Obadiah slid into the chair next to me. 'He destroyed it?'

  'It was carnage. All of it, gone.'

  Obadiah leaned forward, picked up the carafe and poured coffee into the chipped mugs.

  'It's a very sad day when knowledge is lost.' He pushed a mug over to me.

  'Thanks,' I said, wrapping my hands around the mug; it felt good to have my cold hands around something so hot.

  'I remember them Nazis burning thousands of books,' he said, shaking his head. 'Once they're gone, they are lost forever. All that knowledge-'

  'They'll be found,' I said, 'It'll take time, but all the books are still there, under the rubble.'

  'Maybe,' he said. 'When I saw them books being destroyed by the Nazis, it ripped me in two. I vowed to myself, and to God, that I would save them, that I would rescue a copy of every single book that they tried to wipe out of existence.'

  'Every book?'

  Obadiah nodded. 'Yes, of all the thousands and thousands of books destroyed, Obadiah has found a copy of every single book, 'cept one, a book by Theodore Weiss. For that I am still looking. I have also been collecting other lost books, like them supposedly destroyed in the burning of the library of Alexan
dria. Over there,' he said, pointing to the shelves by the front door, 'are books by Anaxagoras, Eudemus and Prodicus.' He gestured to the far wall, 'over there are copies of The Book of the Dead, the lost plays of Aeschylus, and the Classic of Music by Confucius.' He slumped back in his chair and sighed.

  All these book around him and he could not read one.

  I wanted to ask him about The Fallen, I wanted to know if there were any answers in these books of his, if there was any hope at all, but all I could manage was, 'Death thinks Hyperion wants to re-unite the Apocalyptic Relics, that he wants to destroy God.'

  'And you don't?' said Obadiah, his head tilted, as though he were listening carefully for my answer.

  'It doesn't matter what I think. I've been sent here to find out what I can about the Relics. I don't come into it.'

  'Sounds like someone has got himself mixed up in things he don't want to be?' Obadiah fell silent, his forehead wrinkled as his mind drifted off to another place.

  'I saved the life of someone I shouldn't have.'

  Those words brought him back to me. 'An Angel of Death saving a life? I hope the girl in question was worth it 'cause - and I know this only too well,' he said, with a wink, 'you're going to be repaying that debt for a long time.'

  'A girl? Who said anything about a girl?'

  Obadiah smiled, 'You know that whatever Death says, nothing will be good enough for Her. She won't let you go, no matter what. She'll follow you around like a smelly black dog.' He took a sip of coffee, before continuing, 'Yep, take it from Obadiah, She's like a dog with a bone.'

  'You talking from experience then?'

  A cloud descended over Obadiah, a heaviness had invaded his heart. 'Do you know what the Apocalyptic Relics are?' he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  'Nothing. Only that, when re-united, they can bring about the End of Days-'

  'No, they don't bring about the End of Days in themselves. Don't they teach you angels nothing no more?'

  'But Death said-'

  'Yeah, well, as we know She says a lot and most of its shit.' Obadiah sighed, 'Let's start from the beginning. Grab that book on the end of the table. Over there,' he said, pointing to a stack of fragile books, their spines wrinkled and decaying, 'the one with the black cover. I think it's called Reliquiarum Sacrosanctum, Volume One.'