by C. J. Waller
Just as dusk turned over to let the night in, a pair of headlights twinkled in the distance. For the first time in what felt like months, they allowed themselves to smile and chatter as they stuck their thumbs out and hoped. The Land Rover sped past, and for a heart-stopping moment they feared it would just pass them by, but it slowed and stopped a few yards ahead of them. Despite their exhaustion, they found strength to jog up to it. The driver’s door opened, revealing an older man clad in scruffy overalls and Wellington boots.
“You need a lift?” he said.
“Oh, God, yes – thank you. Thank you so much,” Paul said.
“Stupid question, I suppose. It’s a long way from anywhere, here. What the hell are you out here for?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if we told you,” Paul said. “You know Dùisg a' Pheacaich-”
“Dùisg a' Pheacaich?” the man frowned. “Och, why in all that's holy were you out there? That town's been nothing but ruins for decades. And out there dressed like that?” He rolled his eyes and muttered “bloody tourists” under his breath.
Paul made to say something, but stopped before the words could form. What was the point? Judging by the way Yolanda's shoulder's slumped, she pretty much felt the same way. There was no point.
They clambered into the Land Rover, luxuriating in its warmth. The man introduced himself as Sean and that he was a local crofter on his way to Wick. He chatted to them about nothing much until their eyes felt hot and heavy and it became a struggle to stay awake. Slowly, Sean's chatter became a soft buzz and they both gave into their exhaustion. It did cross their minds that sleeping could be a dangerous thing to do, but considering everything they'd gone through, they simply didn't care.
Their doze was broken by Sean asking them if they wanted him to take them to the train station. True to his word, he had driven them to Wick. Paul felt a rush of gratitude and said he'd rather he took them to the bank so he could pay him, but Sean shook his head, saying he wouldn't accept a penny from them; it looked as though they'd been through enough and it was the least he could do as a good Christian. At that, Paul had to bite back a snort of amusement. The people of Dùisg a' Pheacaich had thought themselves good Christians, too.
The trains from Wick were sporadic and the guard surly, but eventually Paul managed to buy two tickets to London with his credit card; his wallet was mercifully still in his pocket. He sat opposite Yolanda, who refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she stared blankly out of the window, watching the countryside flash by in a blur of green and grey. He stared at his hands. They were filthy. To the outside world, it might look like mud, but Paul knew the truth. The gritty residue that collected in the creases of his palms and under his nails was all that was left of Decker. Furious tears scalded the back of his eyes. He blinked, trying to force them back, but their onslaught was merciless. He sobbed like a newborn babe into his hands, the tears washing away the ash, cleansing them. Yolanda offered no comfort, but continued to stare out of the window, her expression glassy.
The train stopped and started again many times before Paul managed to wrestle himself under control. He glanced out of the window, catching sight of his reflection. A ghost glanced back, pale and gaunt with red, staring eyes. No wonder no one sat near them. He would have avoided him, too.
Outside, the world had changed from one of heather and hills to a more familiar vista of concrete and brick. A tea trolley, dragged by a bored-looking youth, rattled past, but neither he nor Yolanda took any notice of it.
At Edinburgh they changed, lost in a sea of suits as people went about their daily business, chattering and laughing, treating the day just like any other until Paul screamed at them to stop, to have some respect, that they were ignorant fools living on borrowed time, didn't they know he was dead, that he died for them? People shrank away from him as he ranted until a steady hand was laid upon his shoulder and Yolanda guided him away, just in time to avoid the security guards who were making a beeline for them. Luckily the crowds masked their retreat and they managed to duck on a train heading south before they could be detained. Again, they sat opposite each other, avoiding each other's eyes, lost in their own personal world of torment.
Stations came and went. They presented their tickets when prompted, ignoring the looks of revulsion from the guards, and changed trains when told. At Peterborough, Yolanda wandered away, melting into the crowds before Paul could follow her.
He never saw her again.
He continued on to London alone. The carriages became fuller and noisier as they drew closer, but no one sat with him. It was if he exuded a physical barrier that no one dared cross; his wild eyes and dishevelled appearance frightening them. He could tell by the looks they shot him, by the way they scuttled past him, choosing to stand rather than sit with him. All of this was just fine by him. Let them scuttle. Let them judge. He didn't care. Not any more.
The train pulled into King's Cross. Paul hauled himself from his seat and sleep-walked to the tube. The journey was now so familiar he didn't have to think; he just had to trudge, down the stairs, down the escalator, cramming himself into a clanking metal tube that smelled of stale sweat and dust. Change. More stairs. More escalators. Dodging commuters, then outside. After the open moorland of the Highlands, London smelled of smoke and tasted of metal, a testament to the lives that thrived there. Usually, he would have relished it. Now, it meant nothing to him.
Finally, the journey ended and he found himself standing in front of the scarred front door that led to his flat. Their flat. He paused, his hand half way to his pocket. He still had his keys – his habit of putting everything he might ever need in his pockets had never left him, even in his fear and panic – but now he was here, he was reluctant to enter. Everything about home would remind him of Decker, of the life they shared, of the life they lived, and he wasn't sure he was ready to confront it quite yet. He let out an exhausted sigh and rested his head against the frosted glass. But what else could he do? Where else could he go? Sure, he had friends, but that would lead to questions, questions he had no hope of answering.
He dug out his keys. The lock was stiff, warning him not to enter. The hallway, stuffy and carpeted with junk mail, greeted him. That used to annoy Decker, that no one would take responsibility for it and tidy it away. At the end of the hallway, a set of stairs reared. They led to number 3. His home. Their home. He placed one foot on the bottom step, but he may as well have been climbing Everest. He ascended, his breath came in juddering sobs and his heart hammered, making him feel dizzy. He fumbled with his keys, dropping them once, twice, three times before he managed to guide the right one into the keyhole.
He pushed the door open.
The scent that emanated from the flat overwhelmed him and he almost fled. It wasn't strong and it carried a stale element, but still he drowned in it. Across the hall he could see the door to their living room was open, and beyond that, the mantelpiece upon which a large, framed photo stood: Decker and him, laughing, their arms around one another as they stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon. The memory surged up: the swooping sensation in his stomach as he looked down; the dry, dusty quality to the air, the sense of security he gained from Decker's arms about his waist.
He groped for the wall, his throat tight. Those arms were gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He slid to the floor, his face buried in his hands. He felt something crumple beneath him. He pulled it out and examined it through tear-stung eyes.
A letter.
It was addressed to Decker in handwriting he recognised. Only one person added such ridiculous loops to the B and D in his name.
Decker's mother.
He tore the letter open, his hands shaking. Inside was a sheaf of papers, all handwritten. He tried to read, but the words blurred together in a sea of blue, forcing him to blink.
“My Dearest Brandon,
I know things have not been right between us in a while and this pains me more than you will ever know. I'm writing to you in the hope that
you might listen. I would phone, but I'm afraid you would refuse to take my call. I'm sorry for everything that has happened, for all the secrecy, for the lies, for my behaviour... I know you don't believe me, but in truth, it had nothing to do with you or your life choices. My darling son, please believe me when I say I don't care who you love, who you live with, as long as you love and you live. What drove my outburst was fear, pure and simple.
When you were a boy, I could keep you safe. I could soothe away the nightmares and protect you from harm. But now you're grown, you're beyond me. Yes, I know this is normal and should be encouraged, but I couldn't help it. I held on too tightly, I can see that now, and that is my biggest regret. I should have let you go, let you fly... and told you the truth. But I didn't, and now I fear you are in more danger than you've ever been in before.
I know you're angry, Brandon, but please, please listen to me. I don't want anything from you, not even a phone call – I only want you to take care and read this. After that, you can make your own mind up. Over the last few weeks, you've been having dreams. Nightmares, I would guess. I know, because I've been having them too. If yours are anything like mine, then they will be stirring all manner of memories that should have remained forgotten – memories of your father and of the village of your birth.
I will be honest, I am struggling to put all of this in words that make sense. It isn't just the memories, but the desire to go back there, to Dùisg a' Pheacaich. I can't say this enough – don't give in. Don't go there. Please, Brandon, resist it. There are things there that you don't understand, things you won't ever understand. To put it bluntly, I believe if you go back, you'll die. I know this sounds crazy, but I can't put it any other way.
I know I told you Sadie Decker was your grandmother, but that isn't strictly true. She's your ancestor, your many-greats grandmother, born in the 1800s. She is also mad. Nearly two hundred years ago, she and her husband, your I don't know how many greats Grandfather, Callum, made a bargain with a demon. Yes, I know how that sounds, but there is no other way to describe it. I don't know what drove them – greed, curiosity, insanity – but together they sought every avenue they could find to discover the secrets of the universe. I don't know where they went or what they experienced, but it all ended in that village. They are the reason for its name – it means Sinner's Wake. They learned too late that demons are not to be trusted, and only Sadie's devious mind stopped them all from being devoured and the evil they courted from being unleashed to roam free in our world.
That place is cursed, just as your blood is cursed, cursed by Sadie Decker and doomed to repeat forever. Every few years, blood must be offered to appease the beast. Every twenty five, that blood must come from our line. This allows Sadie to summon it so she can trick it again and keep it from escaping. I suspect she could offer her own blood and stop it for good, but she won't entertain the notion, preferring to sacrifice her own kin to keep the cycle going. The demon holds Callum, you see and this is the only way they can be together, for while the beast lies defeated, her husband returns to her – until it gathers strength and he is once again doomed to his fate. What that fate is, I don't know. All I do know is that this time, it's your blood she will want, just as she wanted your father's all those years ago. That is the reason I am writing to you, Brandon – it will call you, but you must not answer. No matter how enticing it may be, you must resist it. You must stay away, or you will be next. I know it sounds callous, but they'll find another victim, another sacrifice amongst those who live there and you, my boy, my life, will be safe. That is why I took you from that accursed place. To keep you safe and to stop history from repeating itself.
I am sorry I didn't tell you this before. I'm sorry I kept secrets. I am hoping that now the truth is out, it might go some way to rebuilding the relationship we once had. I miss you, Brandon – I miss you every day and I just want to know you're safe. Again, I know this all sounds like insanity, but look deep within yourself and you will know that I am telling the truth. The nightmares... the memories... that incessant call that pulls you back to that accursed village... it's all there, all buried within you.
You don't have to visit me or call me or even acknowledge that you have received this letter... I don't mind. Just, please, do not go there. I have already lost so much to that town. Please don't let it take my only son from me.
Love you, forever and always,
Mam.
Xxxx
Paul stared at the letter. Reread it again. An anger like none other welled up within him.
She'd known. She'd known, but she hadn't told him.
He looked at the top of the page. It was dated three days before they left.
She'd known. None of this needed to happen.
Would he have listened to her? Paul didn't know. Decker's relationship with his mother had always been complicated, but then again, whose wasn't? Would he have believed her, or just put it down to her obvious mental health problems? The anger shrank back, smothered by a black fog of despair. Decker wouldn't have listened. Paul wouldn't have let him. He would have encouraged him to ignore her – look, demons? Really? I know you've been having nightmares and everything recently, but that happens to us all, come on, let's go, it's a chance of a lifetime... Guilt joined the despair. Oh, they still would have gone, because he would have made sure of it. Because he was that selfish.
He closed his eyes, the back of his head resting against the wall. The letter dropped from his hand, fluttering to the floor.
It was his fault.
And that was all there was to it.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Imagine a scene. The camera pans across an open plan flat; once tidy, but now littered with filth. Bottles are strewn across the floor, half eaten meals left to fester on discarded plates. The focus zooms in on a sofa, once a pristine white, now stained. On it, lies a man. His clothes are crumpled and filthy. His hair is unkempt and a good growth of stubble had been allowed to grow, framing a mouth paralysed by grief.
One arm is thrown up over his face, hiding his eyes. The other dangles uselessly to the floor. From it, a bottle has fallen, empty except for a couple of pills that spill out on to carpet.
Here lies Paul Ryan.
It was his fault.
EPILOGUE.
The clouds raced above them, chasing down the ever-present drizzle that shrouded the hills. The walker shielded his eyes with one hand and gazed across the water whilst his friend checked their map.
“Is this it?”
“I don't know. I think so.” He frowned and studied the map further.
The walker sighed. Despite the weather, it was beautiful out here. Unlike other lochs in the area, the water was crystal clear. He drank in the vista, an enormous sense of well-being swelling within him. This was how it should be, away from the hustle and bustle of modern life. Peaceful and... wait.
What was that?
He leaned forwards, as if that would help him focus before bringing his binoculars to his eyes. Yes. He was right. There was something there. Something sticking out of the loch.
“Would you look at that...”
His friend looked up from his map reading. “What?”
The walker handed him his binoculars. “Over there. What's all that about, I wonder?”
The walker's friend adjusted the focus to clear the fuzz of blue and grey. He gasped.
“My God. Is that a church?”
“I think it is.”
“Wow. A drowned church. You'd think we would have heard of that, wouldn't you?”
“I know.” The walker took the binoculars back and took another look. Now he had his eye in, he could see every detail of the spire that stuck out of the water. It just went to show, even in this hyper-connected world, there were still things to discover if you just went out and looked for them.
“I wonder what the history of this place is?” His friend tore off one glove and fumbled in his pocket for his smartphone. “Damn. No reception.”
&nb
sp; “Must be connected to that derelict village we passed,” the walker said. “I wonder how old it is?” He glanced at his friend. “Shall we go and take a closer look?”
“What – go down there?”
“Why not? There might be more ruins near the water's edge.”
They grinned. Why not indeed.
o0o
In this merciless universe, life is but a blip, a mistake, a fleeting moment that will be soon usurped by rock and fire, something the void barely acknowledges and will all too soon forget, dooming it to repeat these mistakes time and time again.
From deep within its lair, it felt their arrival, small specks of red in a never-ending vacuum of black.
It stirred.
They thought it dead. But how can something beyond time, beyond life, die? All it could do was wait.
Wait for the cycle to begin again.
THE END
Read on for a free sample of Dead Sea
Prologue: Devil of the Deep
1
Three days, then.
Three days adrift in that fetid cage of fog.
Fog that stank like wind blown from the throat of a corpse.
Styles was in the little dinghy, alone. Not a man anymore, not really, just something silent and waxen and waiting. Something small and existential, something that was afraid to look into the fog and something that was afraid to listen, because if you listened there were sounds out there. Awful, terrible sounds that
But Styles was not listening because he was alone and there was nothing in the fog and he had to remember that.
The reality of his shipwreck and exile into that stillborn sea was this: no food, no water, no hope of the same. Just that silent becalmed sea and the mist and his throat swollen and red from screaming, screaming for help and knowing there was none to be had.
