by Ade Grant
The Mariner wanted her. It had been a long and lonely time at sea. He thought he’d managed to drink his desire away for good, but now it was back. Perhaps he had the doctor to thank for that as well?
There was no eighth drink. The seventh would last all night. Gone were the glasses; the Mariner cradled the bottle in his lap, sucking deep as he watched.
After a while he found it easier to imagine fucking her if he closed his eyes. The result was as agreeable as the bourbon. Sordid images danced across his vision and he chuckled at them, coaxing them along. Once again the sounds and smell of the room became distant, a dim shadow behind his fantasy, a sexual playground that had no limits.
But suddenly he was abed. The sexual illusions gone. the images of copulation and sordid union – erased! He was unaware of such things; after all, he was just a boy, afraid and alone.
There was a voice, somewhere in the dark, sounding distant and muffled. He tried to discern the source as he wanted to call them forth from the darkness and speak with them, but for some reason he was silent and immobile. It was then he realised why they sounded so far away; there was something covering his face. Suffocating him.
Raw panic. He had to move, to push back or face death. But his limbs were weak and there was naught to do but wait.
He felt like he was drowning, being dragged deeper and deeper into the ocean. It was a fear he’d often felt in the midst of a storm, when lightning flashed overhead threatening to burn his ship in one quick blaze. The Mariner lived on the sea, and there was only one death suitable for a man like he.
Except none of that was real. It was nonsense.
There weren’t monsters or Mindless or empty ships that carried devils.
-Suffocating! I can’t breathe!
The world hadn’t splintered into a billion pieces adrift in an endless sea.
-Let me go!
He wasn’t a Mariner. He was just a boy.
Drowning!
Besides, thought the boy as he spiralled down into the darkness, the Mariner didn’t even have a name. So he couldn’t possibly be that man, because his name was-
The Mariner’s eyes snapped open to the reassuring gloom of the gambling den. The bourbon bottle lay in his lap. At some point it had slipped from his grasp spilling its contents down his leg. He didn’t mourn the loss, he’d drunk his fill for the night and then some. The smell, only hours before so welcome and sweet, now seemed rank and rotten. It made him want to hurl, but his body couldn’t muster the resolve. Instead a small pocket of bile climbed high up in his throat, just enough to coat his tongue, before skulking moodily back below.
“You think it’s about the fucking money?”
An angry voice. With several others growling in agreement. These are what had awoken him from his nightmare. He would thank them, if they were the sort who’d respond well to kind words that made little sense. Perhaps not, instead he would hold his tongue; there was a drunken meanness in that tone that the Mariner wanted no part of.
“Just take it all, please, I was playing for fun, I don’t even want it.” A woman’s voice. Scared. Threatened.
“So you think you’re above us? Our goods no good?” Another nefarious voice, not as gruff as the first, but slyer. Not the alpha male, but a member of the same pack all-right. A coward suddenly feeling bold.
“Of course they are!” Crying now. The sound of prey cornered by wolves. “But I’d rather we just went our separate ways, and forget this happened at all.” Dead already. “Please, I’m not well, I need to get back to the clinic.”
The fog fell from the Mariner’s drunken head. It was Rebecca! The room swam into focus; the game had gone sour and her opponents had cornered her, four in total. Her back was to the table whilst they stood around, blocking retreat.
Not that retreat looked likely, even if she managed to bolt past them, entrapment seemed certain. The Mariner glanced about the room. Drinking and chatter in the dark recesses had stopped, all eyes were now on the central altercation. Anticipation in the air. They were in a beasts’ den. How had he not seen it before?
Rebecca gathered her chips together in her hands and offered the bounty, though they didn’t even elicit a glance, not even when the coins caught the light and shimmered; cold eyes were too busy sizing up their victim, planning how to violate her first.
The Mariner knew he had to act. The thugs thought he was passed-out, dead-drunk, and that was fine by him. They could go on thinking that until he put a bullet through each of their heads, but he had to be careful. No doubt they would be keeping an eye on him as her accomplice. When he made his move, he had to do it fast and without warning.
In the corner of his eye he could see the barman making his way to the den’s front door. Any hope of the large man calling for help or rousing whatever served as the local peace-makers was short-lived. With a well-practised motion he placed a wooden beam across both door panels, sealing the room shut.
“If y’struggle, we’ll just fuck y’worse,” said the alpha. He stepped forward, closing the gap between her and him, imposing even more with his great height. It made her drop the coins and they scattered across the the floor beneath. None bent down to pick them up; poker chips were no longer the focus of their desire. “And if we can’t trust you, we’ll have to remove your teeth.”
“De-fang the fucking bitch!” cried one of the others, a scrawny weather-beaten rodent of a man. Sniggers came not just from the jackals, but the carrion birds who watched from the side.
“Now that would be a shame.” Alpha held out a large hand to take Rebecca’s chin, but she pulled away. Shaking, she backed up against the table so hard it juddered momentarily, letting out a screech that echoed off the walls. The sudden noise made her scream and the men pounce, the whole scene suddenly set in motion.
The Mariner moved his hand slowly to his side. He had a gun there, hidden beneath his coat. It was a vicious little device that could spit out bullets in quick succession, unless it jammed, which it was oft to do. The boy who’d traded him a full case-load had told him they were Mausers, though that seemed a strange name for a gun. Sounded more appropriate for a dog.
Whatever the name, the Mauser might just spew enough bullets to take down the gang and whoever felt gutsy enough to move from the shadows. Did any of them have guns? The Mariner had no idea. The ocean was endless and some he met had never seen a gun, others had them falling out their arse.
A quick punch to the stomach sent Rebecca double, her scream going silent as the wind was knocked from her lungs. Further blows pushed her against the table, her head striking the wooden edge with such force an ugly red gap opened on her forehead.
“Hold her down,” Alpha commanded one of his underlings. Both he and a second grabbed Rebecca by the arms and pulled her across the poker table. Face down against the hardwood she once again found her voice and begun to scream. Blood formed a pool in front of her eyes, the gash upon her head making her hair form thick scarlet clumps. Several pairs of hands gripped her trousers and pulled with such force her legs were lifted clear off the ground. Buttons, torn free, dropped to the floor, mingling with the discarded chips. As the garment disappeared down her legs, it revealed pale white skin, eyed lustily by the onlookers.
The Mariner watched as the Alpha pushed both her legs apart, her muscles spasmodic with terror. He had his hand on the Mauser now, it would take less than a second to draw it and put a stop to this horror. The Alpha too reached for his weapon, eyes fixed on Rebecca’s buttocks as she struggled under the gangs grasp. Just like the Mariner, Alpha’s was primed and ready to use. He took Rebecca’s underwear in hand and tore it to the side. The item didn’t fall free completely, but hung around her waist, misshapen and loose. The whole gang watched intently as the Alpha moved his erection between her legs, ready to penetrate.
Now! Whilst they are distracted! No-one will notice. Put the gun to their heads and shoot! If he acted, it may just be in time.
Alpha pushed his hips forward.
Rebecca’s scream found new depths of agony.
The Mariner watched as the beast enjoyed himself, goaded on by his accomplices, each relishing the thought of their own turn. Rebecca still screamed, but now through gritted teeth. It was difficult to see the precise expression upon her face through the mask of blood, tears and snot, but the Mariner could guess. It was one he was sure he’d seen before.
Why hadn’t he saved her? He’d wanted to, what was happening was monstrous, a crime beyond comprehension, but he’d been unable to act. Was it the drink? Could he blame the bourbon? No, that would be a lie. Some part of him had wanted to put a stop to the rape, but another part, a far bigger part, had wanted to watch. The same part that now enjoyed the show, just one of many other leering gargoyles.
With a grunt the Alpha ejaculated, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside her. The act seemed to jolt the Mariner into action. Unnoticed, he stood, striding forwards, closing the gap. Alpha’s sweaty head only turned slightly when the cold barrel was gently placed against it.
The gun did not jam. Six quick blasts sent hot lead through the heads and throats of each member of the pack, blood showering the bar behind in wide crimson arcs. The flashes of the gun lit up the room, showing seedy faces the Mariner was sure had looked just like his own.
Shocked silence descended upon the den, broken only by a vague murmuring from one of Rebecca’s rapists. He lay on the floor, the top of his head broken open by a passing bullet, and muttered senselessly as his life departed. Visions unknown to the rest haunted the dying man’s vision as his eyes read invisible books.
Using his free hand the Mariner pulled Rebecca up against his chest, trying to support her limp body. He swung the gun wildly, making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any movement. His action served another purpose too, it kept his crotch away from the girl, afraid the hardness hidden there would give away his darkness inside.
“Open that fucking door,” the Mariner growled at the barman, who raised his arms in surrender. He trembled, but made no move towards to exit. The Mariner, in no mood to be resisted, shot the man in the face. His body, head caved in where the nose used to be, jolted back till it hit the wall and then slowly slid to the ground, twitching erratically.
“You,” the Mariner said, pointing the Mauser at another shadowy spectator. “Open it.”
Guilt followed Jesus as wolves do the lame. He had failed Judas. Instead of finding forgiveness, as his own preaching taught, Jesus had succumbed to revenge. He needed to repent.
The Road Messiah no more, Jesus fell onto his knees and asked God for guidance. He had travelled the world preaching and he had travelled the world punishing, and neither had saved mankind from its own wickedness. Neither had saved him.
But God didn’t answer.
So Jesus boarded a small rowing boat and took himself out to sea. For forty days and forty nights Jesus rode the waves without food nor drink, hoping to be granted the sight to save his fellow man.
It was during this time the Devil came to tempt Jesus.
“Jesus. You’ve been ten days out at sea. Are you not hungry? Let me feed you.”
“No,” said Jesus. “I will eat when God wills me. Not you.”
“Jesus. It has been twenty days out at sea. Are you not thirsty? Let me refresh you.”
“No,” said Jesus. “I will drink when God wills me. Not you.”
“Jesus. It has been thirty days out at sea. Is there nothing you desire? I can give you anything, any yearning born of heart, guts, or loins. See what I bring you?”
And then the Devil showed Jesus a great many sights designed to lure him away from his rowing boat and into the depths, but Jesus refused them all.
“Devil, leave me be. I do not want your promises. They do not convince me. I do not want your bribes. They do not tempt me. I do not want your love. It does not warm me. Only God’s forgiveness will make me leave this boat.”
On the fortieth day Jesus still had not received God’s forgiveness nor his guidance. “I have not suffered enough,” he declared to the heavens. Taking a knife from his pouch, Jesus plunged it through both feet and both palms, mirroring his disciples’ wounds. Blood flowed freely from the cuts and as the first drop hit the ocean the sky turned dark.
“Why has my Son’s blood been spilt?” God’s voice was great and his fury sent tsunami’s in all directions.
“Father,” cried Jesus. “I have failed you, failed my disciples and failed my people. I am sorry. But I have suffered in this boat for forty days and forty nights, yet still you will not forgive me!”
“But Son,” spoke God, his anger quickly waning. “I was waiting for you to forgive yourself.”
And then Jesus realised he’d forgotten his first teaching, forgiveness comes from within.
With this wisdom he forgave himself, then he forgave the Devil for his temptation (though the Devil hated this act and resented him for it), and so finally his Father was able to give him the forgiveness he so desperately desired.
“Now will you save my people, Father?”
“No Jesus, but I shall tell you what to do.”
- The Shattered Testament by The Reverend McConnell
16
REHAB BEGINS
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD these dreams?” Tetrazzini asked, showing not a trace of guilt at using the cliché.
The Mariner shifted uneasily, despite sitting in an astonishingly comfortable chair. The scrutiny reminded him bitterly of sharing a cigarette with Absinth Alcott, a memory he loathed to recall.
“I don’t know. Years? I don’t have a way of keeping time.”
“Oh come now,” dismissed the doctor. “We have the only mechanism to measure time we could ever need at our disposal: the sun. Day and night. What’s to stop you noting down every time the sun sets? What you don’t know are dates, but the amount of time passing is easy to assess. You just don’t want to.”
The Mariner was puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I want to know how much time has passed?”
“I don’t know.” Dr Tetrazzini smiled and stared intently at the Mariner. Outside, the sun blessed the town with another cheerful day, as if eager to put the nastiness of the night before to distant memory. Small songbirds joined the plot, dancing amidst the trees, singing joyfully as if no horrors had occurred.
“Tell me what happens in this dream.”
The Mariner hesitated for a moment, vulnerable. “I dream I’m a boy in my parents’ bed. Only my father isn’t there, it’s just my mother, and she’s upset.”
“Why is she upset?”
“I don’t know.”
The songbirds suddenly scattered as Grace ran through the garden, hair an earthy blur passing the window. It distracted the Mariner briefly, and he blinked rapidly as he tried to keep focus.
“I think she’s disappointed with me.”
“Why?”
The Mariner shook his head, unable to answer. Tetrazzini persevered. “What happens next?”
“She wants me to be quiet, I’m breathing too noisily. So she places a pillow over my face.”
“That must be very frightening.”
“It is, I can’t breathe.”
“Do you struggle?”
“I’m afraid to. Instead I wait and hope that she realises for herself that she’s being too forceful. I hope she takes the pillow off.”
“Does she?”
“Eventually.”
The doctor’s face was solemn and serious. “Is she trying to kill you?”
“Does it matter? It’s just a dream.”
Tetrazzini leaned back in his chair and flicked through his notebook, making a theatrical gesture of checking previous notes.
“You said earlier that you can’t remember beyond a certain point in your history, a relatively recent point?” He scanned the words written before him. “You awoke upon your boat with a sense of purpose, but no knowledge of who you were and how you got there.”
“Yes.”
“My frien
d, is it possible that this dream is actually a memory from your life before this incident, this ‘rebirth’ upon your boat?”
“Why would the memory only come to me in dreams? Why don’t I recall anything else?”
“Trauma perhaps? Damage done to the brain from chemical abuse? We’ll get to the cause eventually, but first I want to press upon you something that I think is quite remarkable.”
Tetrazzini leaned forward and licked his lips. Suddenly the dispassionate veneer fell away to one of effusive excitement.
“I’ve met many people who’ve forgotten things. Sometimes they’re small: song lyrics, recipes, spellings, flag colours. Other times the missing segments can be vast chunks, whole areas of their past gone, totally erased! And I’ve found, through bitter experience, it’s best not to push them too hard to remember what they’ve lost. I can see from your face you know what I’m talking about.”
The Mariner did, Tetrazzini was talking about the Mindless. He nodded confirmation, but didn’t speak.
“But here I have you, a man with no memories of the world before at all. And not only are you without violence, but you’ve remembered something. A memory has come back!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Tetrazzini shook his head, genuinely enthused by the mystery and grinning from ear to ear. “But if we can unlock the reasons for this early memory forcing a return into your mind, then perhaps we can understand where people’s memories have been disappearing to, and restore each and every one!”
Flinching, the Mariner’s face darkened, defences thrown hastily up. “I don’t want more memories!”
“My friend, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Memories are shadows, imprints of a time, a situation, a circumstance that no longer exists. We are in control of our memories, not the other way around.”
The patient’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of the concept he struggled to grasp.
