Hearts of England

by Anthology

  "Nice," Jack said, gazing around appreciatively. "Reminds me why I love this country."

  "You'd sooner live in a village like this than a city?" Mark asked.

  "Yeah. As long as I have a car I'd be happy to commute. How about you?"

  "Yes," he replied. "I think I would. But your average village isn't usually understanding about different lifestyles. Gays aren't always welcome."

  "I know," Jack said, sounding a little dispirited. "But I'd like to think we'll find one somewhere."

  Mark leaned across and kissed the hint of sadness from his mouth. "We will," he promised. "Hopefully without a resident ghost."

  Hand in hand they wandered between the engraved stones, until a sudden impulse had Mark turning aside. It took him to a small, ivy-covered stone buried in fallen leaves and tangled grasses not far from the boundary wall. He tugged away the tendrils and could just make out the words cut into it.

  "Janet Goodman, our angel taken too soon," he read aloud. "Eighteenth of October 1850 to the third of March 1865. Fuck it, Jack. She was a child." He smoothed the ivy back in place and crouched there in silence for a moment. This wouldn't the first time he'd encountered the spirit of a young person who had suffered a dreadful death, but it never failed to hurt his heart. Jack's hand caressing through his hair brought comfort and warmth, and he straightened and squared his shoulders. "Come on, love. Let's go and find Janet."

  Jack pulled into the layby and they sat without speaking for a while. Clouds built up from the west and the setting sun painted the sky with blood. Mist formed pale skeins along the line of the valley. Overhead a handful of rooks mobbed a lone magpie, their cries harsh in the cold air.

  "Where do you want to do this?" he asked.

  "The clearing," Mark replied. "But not in it. The fallen tree will be the best place, I think." He climbed out of the car and stretched his back, gazing around. Was it his imagination, or was the tree-cover and undergrowth a little less dense where Kevin had so nearly run into the road? Did cropmarks and tree-growth work the same? A hard-packed driveway would offer fewer nutrients than forest floor, so trees and bushes might be shorter, thinner. He should ask his archaeologist lover. Either way, he didn't intend to walk Janet's path.

  "Ready?" Jack joined him on the verge, linking their hands together.

  "Yes," he replied, and they headed into the woods.

  No matter how many times Mark did this, it never became routine. He scuffed a smooth patch on the ground so he could sit and lean against the tree, but Jack swung astride it as he had before.

  "Come on," he said, spreading his arms wide in invitation. "If it won't distract you too much, I'll be your backrest."

  "Thanks, love." Mark smiled and joined him on the trunk. Jack's arms closed around him and he felt a kiss pressed into his hair. Then he slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles, and slipped easily into an alternate state.

  Mark was a child when the voices and the images first assaulted him, scaring him into hysterical tears during the days, screams and bed-wetting in the nights. His mother didn't understand, couldn't cope, and it was his grandmother who had taught him to visualise the ideal playroom with sturdy walls, cheerful curtains over the windows, and a brightly painted door. The door had a lock and a shiny golden key to hang on a chain around his neck. He and his talent lived in that room, and only he could draw back the curtains, look out in safety and see what or who was outside. Only he could open the door.

  As soon as he'd learned to build the picture in his head and somehow anchor it in place, the voices and images fell under his control. He could keep them outside the walls, unseen and unheard unless he chose otherwise. The Playroom became the Safe Room as he grew older, and though its details changed, its purpose remained the same.

  Secure within the walls and the circle of Jack's arms, Mark opened his inner eyes. As usual, he lounged on the comfortably large couch, facing a huge wall-mounted flat-screen TV. He picked up the remote and turned on the television. A burst of white static slowly resolved itself into a blurred image of a two-storey house, starkly lit by wavering moonlight and black shadows. The sound was set to mute, so he heard nothing when the front door opened and a girl ran out.

  Janet was barefoot and wore only a shift. It hung from her shoulders, ripped from neck to waist, and blood showed black on the fabric and her legs. Her long hair straggled about her face and shoulders, and more blood trickled from her nose and split lips. But it was her eyes that held his attention; they were crazed with terror, her features twisted by it, ravaging her lovely face into a travesty.

  She fled down the drive, and a few minutes later, a horse and rider cantered into sight around the side of the house. The man didn't spur his mount to a faster pace, and by his expression, Mark knew he was laughing. Janet looked back, her mouth wide in a horrified scream. He turned off the TV, not needing to see what happened next.

  Somehow he had to break the appalling cycle, and he wasn't entirely sure of the best way to do it. So he went with his instinct.

  The golden key turned smoothly in the lock and he opened his door. The scene was sharp and clear, the air cold, the scents and sounds of the night all around him. He stepped outside, visualising the folds of a warm cloak enfolding him. He heard the door of the house crash open then her running footsteps and ragged breathing, heard the sudden thudding of hooves and a man's harsh laughter. Janet screamed and ran blindly along the drive. Just as she was about to pass him, Mark caught her arm and spun her into the screening trees. She opened her mouth to shriek again, but he pressed one gentle finger to her bleeding lips.

  "Shh," he whispered. "Look." Horse and rider cantered past them without a pause, following the fleeing white figure. Shouts and screams and the neighing of startled horses echoed back from the road then cut off as the sequence reset itself. He shrugged out of his cloak and wrapped it around her. "You're safe, Janet. He can't hurt you anymore. No one can. You're safe, sweetheart. Let it go."

  "S-safe?"

  "Safe. I swear it." But she shrank away from him, clutching the cloak around her.

  "Who are you?" she whispered, her voice shaking. "I-I don't know you, sir."

  "I'm someone come to help you," he answered and willed the scene to change to the reality he knew. "Look around you."

  Janet gazed at the encroaching trees, at the empty clearing. "It's gone…"

  "Long gone, and so is the man who hurt you. Time for you to leave as well, love. Can you see another path?"

  "Y-yes…"

  "You need to follow it, sweetheart. Time to go home now." And in the end it was that simple. Janet edged further away from him then turned and ran, quickly fading from sight.

  Mark walked back to his room and turned on the TV. This time all that showed on the screen was the same image he knew in his waking world: a deserted clearing, devoid of any threat or terror.

  * * * *

  It took four days to film the short sequence in the woods close to Neston, mainly because Dominic discovered the five-star comforts of the Royal Crescent Hotel in Bath, and of Marcia, the well-endowed actress hired to play Janet. No one minded much. The girl proved to be a trouper, running through the trees for take after take, not complaining about the cold, the repetition, or the painfully genuine scratches she occasionally collected. And she kept Dominic happy and compliant, which was a bonus in everyone's book.

  On the last day of the location shoots, Kevin shook Mark's hand.

  "Thank you," he muttered, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. "I don't know what you did or how you did it. I just know this place doesn't give me the heebie-jeebies any more. You don't have to buy another beer when I'm around, okay?"

  "Okay." Mark smiled.

  "Cut!" Dominic yelled behind them. "That's a wrap."

  The End

  About the Author

  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received
plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received—until the inventions of the home computer and the World-Wide Web.

  Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes male/female novels in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she embroiders, quilts and knits. In the past she has been a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist and a fifteenth century re-enactor.

  She currently lives in a small and ancient city in the southwest of the United Kingdom, sharing her usually chaotic home with an extended family, two large elderly dogs, fancy mice and sundry goldfish.

  Website:

  http://chrisquinton.com

  Email:

  chris.quintonwriter@ymail.com

  Facebook:

  http://tinyurl.com/67o4mrm

  Twitter:

  http://twitter.com/#!/Chris_writer

  Also by Chris Quinton

  Available at Silver Publishing

  Starfall

  Game On, Game Over

  Sullivan's Yard

  Home and Heart

  Paradox

  Finder's, Keepers

  Dark Waters

  Silver Shorts 2012, Week 6

  Silver Shorts 2012, Week 7

  "The Cameraman's Tale" in Hearts of England

  THE FITZWARREN INHERITANCE

  The Psychic's Tale by Chris Quinton

  The Soldier's Tale by RJ Scott

  The Lord's Tale by Sue Brown

  The Fitzwarren Inheritance (Print Volume)

  Available at Manifold Press

  Aloes

  Sea Change

  Fox Hunt

  FOOL'S ODYSSEY TRILOGY

  Fool's Errand

  Fool's Oath

  As Chris Power

  Available at Silver Publishing

  Argent Dreaming

  Reviews:

  4 Stars for Paradox

  "I really enjoyed this story and the way that it was woven; with the past and the present being woven together. And we are left with to wonder if did Phil's conscious really slip into the mind of a man from the past or was it really an elaborate convincing dream? Phil is fighting himself and the wanting of permanence that he feels. Phil fights until the bitter end, but he is no match for Ryan and his subconscious. Ryan really wouldn't mind giving it a go, but Phil has cast him as the baddie in his mind and Ryan has to force Phil to find the truth.

  The details of Roman England are exquisite and beautifully drawn. You can picture in your mind, the villa and the frescos and the mosaics *sigh* Chris Quinton really brings that time to life. I really liked both Phil and Ryan, but there really isn't any relationship between them until the end. But, it's a great journey to watch, as we watch the struggle between the two.

  I will recommend this to those who love difficult stubborn men, time-travel with a difference, a mystery to solve, some hot sex and the beginnings of a great relationship."

  —Pixie from MM Good Book Reviews

  By Design

  Rob gets more than he bargains for when Shane walks into his shop, photograph in hand, asking for a tattoo. He wants to know more about Shane and the man in the picture.

  By Design

  Lisa Worrall

  Dedication

  To the gang at Narcissism and to the lovely Carlie

  who likes to stab me with a sharp needle on a regular basis.

  Thank you for answering all my research questions

  and not telling me to stop annoying you.

  And if you could make sure you only have cola flavoured

  lollipops for the famous person, it would be appreciated ;)

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Dettol: Reckitt Benckiser (UK) Limited

  Eastenders: British Broadcasting Corporation

  Land Rover: Land Rover

  Liberace: The Liberace Foundation for the Performing and Creative Arts

  Vaseline: Unilever PLC

  By Design

  "O M G!"

  Wincing at the sounding out of the letters, Rob forced a smile onto his face as his client studied the tattoo he had just completed for her. When she'd handed him the design she wanted on her shoulder blade, he'd had to resist the urge to groan. The headstone with the Grim Reaper standing behind it, complete with scythe and glowing eyes, wasn't exactly the first paranormal tattoo he'd undertaken. But then what did he expect? After all, he'd opened a tattoo shop in the centre of York—purported to be the most haunted town in England. Not that Rob had ever seen a ghost himself, but if it kept sending tourists and locals alike into the shop to get their spook on, he wasn't complaining.

  "Rob, it's perfect… just perfect," Chloe—he had to search for her name for a moment—squealed. "I'm going to recommend you to all my friends. They'll be fighting to get under your needle."

  Rob tried not to flinch as she ran her scarlet red nails through his purple tipped, heavily gelled hair. It had been a long day and he knew it was far from over. He wanted to slip into a nice warm coma, but he had a client scheduled for eight-thirty in the morning that he had to come up with a design for, not to mention the four other tats he had promised to have drawn up for various others. If he got out of here by midnight, he'd be very surprised.

  Extricating himself from her talons with as polite a smile as he could manage, he helped her on with her shirt and pointed her in the direction of the reception desk. He held back the chuckle at the annoyance on her face at his dismissal… but she really wasn't his type. True, he could tell her he was gay and had been in a relationship since college; but he knew with one look she was part of the ninety per cent of women who were sure he just hadn't met the right girl yet. And she was, of course, totally convinced she was that girl.

  Slumping down into the chair at his workstation, Rob swallowed his sigh and inclined his head with a stiff smile as she blew a suggestive kiss across the shop before leaving. He was knackered. The deep kind of tired that seeped into his bones and made his body feel fifty pounds heavier than in reality. He opened his mouth wide in a heartfelt yawn, longing to go home and crawl onto the couch beside the warm body that would be waiting for him and close his eyes. To let gentle fingers soothe away his working week and strong arms hold him tightly until Monday rolled around again. But that was not going to happen. He had two Buddhas, a calendar girl, and an eagle to draw up before he could even think about anything else.

  Rob pulled his mobile out of the pocket of his skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, his inner voice scoffed, more like a denim torture device! He ignored the intrusion but winced as his not unimpressive length and girth added its two penneth. You're telling me! If you ever wear these again I'm going on strike. I can't fucking breathe in here! Finally having wrestled the thin sliver of metal from the confines of the stupid trousers he'd forced himself into, Rob stabbed at the speed dial and waited for the line to connect.

  "Hey."

  Rob smiled and ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers were stilled by the amount of product covering the strands. "Hey," he said softly, knowing the warmth in that voice would rapidly cool when he finished his sentence.

  "How late?"

  "How—? I only said hey," Rob grumbled, hating how predictable he was obviously becoming. The only response was a heavy sigh and the sound of a door slamming. "What was that?"

  "The oven."

  "Shit, babe, I'm so—"

  "Don't worry about it. You can reheat it when you get home… whenever that's likely to be."

  Rob stared at the phone, listening to nothing after the call had been disconnected at the other end. Fuck. He'd been ma
king far too many phone calls like this one lately. Sighing again, he tossed his phone onto the counter and picked up his pen. It wouldn't surprise him if he got home and his dinner was in the dog. Metaphorically speaking, of course, because they didn't have one. He grabbed a fresh sheet of tracing paper, smoothed it over the photograph of the Buddha his client had given him, and began to work.

  Rob was halfway through the second Buddha of the evening when the bell above the shop door heralded the arrival of a very late customer. His pencil momentarily stuttered on its journey around the outline of the Buddha, but he didn't look up. Clearing his throat, Rob said loudly, "Rainbow, customer!" He shook his head at the lack of response and tried not to grind his teeth together—which had been his want since he'd hired her three weeks ago. Where the fuck was she now? And what was with the stupid fucking name? He recalled her interview when she'd informed him, "Rainbow, no last name." He'd raised an eyebrow and told her that in order to pay her he'd need her real name. Of course, after she'd blushed and written it down for him, he'd understood why she didn't use it. Sighing heavily, he yelled the only thing guaranteed to light a fire under her arse. "Maud, customer!"

  Rob rolled his eyes at the tell-tale click-clack of the ridiculously high PVC boots she wore as they sounded from the direction of the bathroom in the back. What the fuck does she do in there? His inner voice hissed in his ear. I'd be going to the doctors if I had to pee that much. Rob couldn't help the twitch of his lips as she stormed past him wobbling on those perilous heels and throwing him a stony glare on her way across the shop to the reception desk.