The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  Whatever the man was saying, it had the rapt attention of the whole gathering. Probably lurid descriptions of his crimes, it was always the gory details that kept people hanging (to excuse the pun). She would have to ask Heidi about it later. It would be a shame to miss out.

  However, looking at the woman who’d served Mavis as a loyal captain, she was doubtful that Heidi would be able to recall anything. The young lady was beginning to twitch and shake on stage as if in the grip of a fit.

  “Oh my goodness,” Mavis groaned. She grabbed the sleeve of the gentleman by her side. “Excuse me? I think my friend up there is having some sort of seizure.”

  The man didn’t respond. How frustrating! To go one week from total power, to this! Ignored in the street. “Excuse me!” she yelled at him, anger brimming over.

  Suddenly the man’s head twitched back, juddering as if electrocuted. Mavis dropped his arm and backed away, alarmed. “Are you alright?” she asked, but like before there was no reply, just another judder and grimace, as if the man’s facial muscles were being pulled against his will.

  She turned, afraid, hoping to push through the crowd, but everywhere she looked people were beginning to twitch and growl. Heads twisted as if on wheels, eyes rolled like dice, and where there had once been silence, a low moaning grew.

  Mavis, terrified in her old years, felt her bladder give way, and release warmth down her legs. They were all around her: Anomenemies. More than she could ever have imagined! Too scared to do anything else, she looked back at the stage. The Mariner had ceased speaking, instead he looked out at the audience with regret and tears streaming down his face.

  “What have you done?” she tried to appeal, but her voice couldn’t penetrate the screams that erupted about her. The Mariner turned and ran, slipping past guards who’d dropped their weapons as their bodies gave in to spasms; as, in a strange way known only to the Mariner, they finally became fully human.

  Hands grabbed at her frail body and fingers scratched her face. Rage filled voices rumbled through her mind, until ears were torn loose and blood filled the drums. Distorted faces, like those of beasts, danced across her vision, only blotted out as her eyes were dug from their sockets.

  Gripped with terror, Mavis was plunged into a sightless, soundless void with naught else to sense but pain. Her earlier wish was granted however; it didn’t last very long.

  45

  CHRISTOPHER McCONNELL WISES UP

  A CACOPHONY OF BELLOWS ROSE above the town like distant thunder. McConnell had been sitting on a pew, idly running beads through his hands. Now they dropped to the floor with a light patter.

  Harris cocked his head, questioning the sound, but the answer was already in both men’s minds. Both had experienced the Mindless. They had heard those howls before.

  “Where the fuck did they come from?” McConnell ran to the door, pushing it wide open and looking up and down the empty streets. It didn’t take long to realise the sound was hurtling down from the central courtyard. Harris joined by his side, mouth agape.

  “The execution?” he stammered like a billionaire whose balance had suddenly hit zero. “Arthur Philip? Oh my god, what’s he done?”

  The sounds grew louder, and suddenly the north end of the street was awash with bodies all pushing and writhing against each other, struggling to be the first in line. They ran without direction, eyes searching, fingers grasping. They moved like a tsunami, a great wave of limbs and gnashing teeth.

  “Inside, now!” Harris pushed the reverend back and pulled the door closed. “Key? Key?! Give me the fucking keys!” he screamed, tugging them off McConnell as he fumbled.

  They jangled in the lock, and for a moment gave stubborn resistance, but finally clicked into place.

  “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Y-yes,” McConnell stuttered. “Through there.” He pointed a shaky finger. “What’s happened to them?”

  “They’re Mindless. That bastard Philip is some sort of Anomenemy, another Oracle! He must have done this.”

  “We don’t know that!”

  “Fuck! Of course we do, who else would do this?” The door began to shake as fists pounded upon it, furious voices screaming their frustration. “We need to go, now!”

  “Where?”

  “The dock, we’ll grab a ship and get out of here.” He turned to go, but McConnell grabbed his arm.

  “But the library? The plan? Harris, this may be our last chance to preserve what’s left! There may be others like us?”

  “Reverend!” he snapped, and McConnell winced at the defunct title. “Did you see the number of them out there? There’s nothing left. Nothing! We’ve got to go!”

  The two men fled to the back of the church, knocking over stands of long dead flowers and incense in their haste. Behind, the door began to shake against its hinges, cheap wood splintered under the frantic blows and mindless faces peered at them through the gaps, ever widened by torn and bloody fingers.

  Outside, behind the church, was a thin alley, secluded in the shadow of two tall houses. Both men bolted, glancing fearfully behind, waiting for the Mindless to burst forth. Beyond the protective walls they could hear the cries of a thousand madmen. Occasionally a terrified scream would join their bellows as the Mindless hunted down the few thinking left, spared from insanity by not hearing the Mariner’s words.

  As McConnell and Harris reached the street, they saw two such people; a father and his daughter, the child presumably too young to attend an execution. He was carrying her on his back whilst he ran, desperately clutching onto her arms draped about his neck. Daughter, unable to confront the horrors behind, buried her head in his shoulder, closing her eyes tight.

  McConnell watched as the pair were dragged to the ground by the pursuing horde, forms instantly hidden by the mass of bodies that clustered over them, punching and kicking and clawing.

  “To the dock!” Harris grabbed McConnell by the arm. “I jumped in the sea last time. I’ll do it again if need be.”

  The unlucky child and her father weren’t halting the crowd. Already their heads had been smashed open and brains shredded; creatures devoid of thought desperately seeking what had abandoned them. When the Wasp failed to return to their bosom, the humans moved on, traces of Wasp scented ahead encouraging their hunt.

  McConnell and Harris fled further down the street, away from the brutality taking place. Turning a corner, they got their first view of the dock.

  “Look!” Harris said, carelessly loud in his frustration.

  McConnell followed his gesture. In the distance he could see the Neptune slowly gliding away from the dock, wind in her sails taking her from the cursed island.

  “Arthur?” And sure enough it were the Mariner. Escaping. “That fuck!” McConnell grabbed Harris’ shoulder. “He mustn’t get away. He mustn’t!”

  “Then keep running!”

  The pair sprinted to the dock, making no attempt to hide, just a final desperate dash. The two designers of Sighisoara’s new beginning, abandoning her to ignorance. Others could be heard behind, feet slapping against the cobblestones, hoarse voices screeching.

  With a final push they reached the dock. Stone turned to wood, and with relief found themselves skirting along the promenade, looking for something to sail.

  “Just get in any!” McConnell pleaded, glancing towards the mainland. Already Mindless had advanced to the edge of the dock. He could feel the wooden beams below his feet judder at their approach.

  “We need something we can sail ourselves, we have no crew!” Making his mind up as fast as possible, Harris pointed to the trawler that had delivered the Mariner just a day before. “That one. Get in!”

  Harris dived on and started to fire up the motor, leaving McConnell to untie the mooring ropes. They gave his numb fingers trouble, but first one, then the rest submitted, and the reverend threw himself aboard, only realising once the ship was pulling away that he hadn’t allowed himself a breath since they’d first picked the boat
.

  Huge fearful gasps made his vision waiver, and McConnell slumped, unable to take his eyes from the Mindless as they gathered about the end of the promenade, screaming in fury at being thwarted. Some leaped into the water and swam in pursuit, but the motor was many times faster. McConnell wondered how long they would swim, and if they’d ever work out how to get back.

  “Can you follow him?” he called to Harris. “He can’t get away. Not now. Not after this.”

  “I can see the Neptune in the distance and I know where he’s headed.”

  Still unable to take his eyes off the Mindless creatures on the dock, McConnell tensed. Amongst their number he could see Heidi, just one amongst many, her noble form now distorted into that of a dumb gargoyle covered in scratches where she’d clawed at her own head. She was lost. As were they all.

  He was pleased Harris sounded as resolved as he. The Mariner must die. With the loss of everything, what else was there to do? “Where’s he headed?”

  “He told me in the clock-tower. The Waterfall, reverend. Back to that bloody Waterfall!”

  Somehow, despite his lack of a crew, the Mariner was able to keep leagues ahead. As Sighisoara disappeared behind, McConnell refused to consider any other action. He didn’t know what they would do once they killed Arthur Philip, but returning to Sighisoara was not an option. Perhaps he didn’t need one? Perhaps seeing the Mariner with a bullet through his brain would be enough? Perhaps that would bring him peace?

  Harris governed the small ship onwards, giving relentless pursuit to the larger vessel. They never stopped. By night, McConnell would maintain hold of the steerage, just enough to keep the boat on target. By day, Harris would take over and allow the reverend to rest.

  “Who takes over for him?” Harris screamed frustration one morning, looking at the Neptune on the horizon.

  “He doesn’t need to sail,” McConnell replied, grim to his core. “She sails for him. She decides the way.”

  And so they continued their chase. Two after one. Day after day.

  Until eventually the Waterfall was within sight.

  It seemed squatter than before, the building had once reached high into the sky, at least eight stories up, but now it had been reduced to a mere three.

  “No, it hasn’t been reduced,” McConnell muttered to himself. “We’ve been raised. The world is filling up.”

  Indeed, it appeared as if the quantity of water falling from the top floor of the office block had increased, so much frothing out the windows that no sign of the building beneath could be ascertained through the brine. Even the top, the glassless hole through which the water fell was masked in mist. From a distance, it looked like a strange sparkling column.

  Harris slept, it was early morning and McConnell had been awake through the night, manning the boat as it blindly sailed onwards. Now he shuddered with trepidation. They were here! The Mariner had nowhere else to run!

  He turned to wake Harris, intending the shake the man from his slumber. But as he reached out his hand, a figure beyond caught his attention.

  She stood upon the waves, a tiny figure in an infinite expanse. Her frame was delicate and small, yet seemed to radiate a strength from within, a familiar, yet tragic face.

  McConnell easily recognised the child.

  “Grace?” he asked, his mind in turmoil. “Am I dreaming? Grace is that you?”

  He staggered away from the wheel, allowing it to turn gently with the currents. Walking to the bow of the ship, he leaned out, unable to shift his eyes.

  Was she an angel? A ghost? Had the Mariner led them to the gates of heaven?

  Grace smiled, though her eyes were closed. McConnell found himself smiling too, she had found peace. Whatever horrors she had lived through, in death she had peace. Perhaps there was a God after all?

  But then her hand was travelling down between her legs, crumpling in the skirt she wore.

  “What are you doing?” he cried, alarmed at the behaviour, but his words were ignored and the girl continued to hike up her garment. She wasn’t within reach, some twenty feet from the boat, but he could see her clearly enough as she exposed herself. Bruises and blood caked her legs. Semen stains fresh from the rape.

  McConnell waved his hands in front of his eyes to ward off the vision. “Please no more! I failed, I let that monster near you, I know this! So why have you returned? Why?” He looked once more at her face and saw it now bloody and bruised, though still her arms moved in a glacial dance of seduction. Tiny fingers danced around her blouse and, as if peeling a banana, curled it open.

  He looked away, not wanting to witness one he’d cared for debasing herself so. Weeping, he averted his eyes, and saw a flash of silver and brown. Some sort of eel zipped through the waters, following their boat like a dolphin.

  And he remembered the Mariner’s story.

  Was this horrible illusion supposed to tempt him in some way? Lure him to the seas below? How could it possibly do that? Unless the aim was to drive him to suicide with sorrow?

  Grace, her body covered with cuts and bruises, revealed her chest, an area somehow remaining free from wounds. Bloody lips mouthed an invite to spoil the virgin flesh.

  Bite.

  He vomited, spilling thin bile down his chin. This wasn’t right. What was going on? This couldn’t be for him. It couldn’t be.

  Behind him, he heard a moan.

  McConnell turned his head to look.

  “Harris?”

  Rumbling of the 67 bus gave a pleasant tingle to Aiden Harris’ anus as the vehicle pulled away, continuing its jaunt through central London with a familiar sluggish determination. The midday warmth, pleasant whilst in the open air, transformed for those within, creating a stifling closeness, instantly turning all those present into ripe sources of stink. Fortunately for Harris there were few others on the upper deck of the 67 that afternoon; an old lady sat by the front windows, her hair thin and backlit, creating the illusion of her head being a planet with silvery aurora. A snoring drunk dozed a few rows behind, stinking of body odour. Harris wondered if the man was schizophrenic. Weren’t eighty percent of London’s homeless schizo? Where had he heard that? True or not, he suspected this man was schizoid, only a mad fucker would allow himself to fester like that.

  Just the four of them: old lady interstellar, a schizo, himself, and the customer.

  “How much is on this one?” his customer asked, stiff frame looking cramped despite having the whole back row to himself. Harris sat in the penultimate chair, tuned sideways with a leg stretched out into the aisle. “You said last time there would be three gigabyte, but there was only two and a half.”

  “You serious?” For a moment Harris thought the man was joking, but his stern and cold demeanour but a stop to that. “Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t believe you’re kicking up a fuss over a few hundred meg!”

  “I’m paying, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah you are,” Harris spat, his hackles raised by his customer’s business-like manner. Just where the fuck did he think he was? Starbucks? This wasn’t a ‘customer’s always right’ situation. Shit! It wasn’t even as if Harris needed the money, he just... liked to share the videos. “Listen, if you don’t want to see what I’ve brought you...”

  “I didn’t say that!” the stiff man snapped, gripping Harris’ back-rest with bony fingers. “I just don’t want to get ripped off, that’s all.”

  “Listen, I’m not ripping you off, but let’s face it, where else are you gonna get this stuff other than the internet and me?”

  The man nodded grudgingly, leaning back, bodily relaxing, though his eyes continued to rove nervously. Harris could understand why. Buying child-porn on a public bus was bound to loosen the bowels. The first time he’d sold the man a data DVD they’d chosen Clapham Common for the swap. In retrospect that was about as dodgy a place to meet as it was possible to find. Second time round Harris had used his smarts: public place, nonchalant.

  “Why don’t you use the internet? I just pulle
d all this off torrents anyway.”

  “Internet’s not safe. Everything is permanent. They might not find you today, but they’ll come looking.”

  “And buying it in person is safe? Giving your name to a stranger? Showing him your face?”

  The technophobe looked at Harris with a mixture of disdain and pity. “The focus is always on the internet, not a street meet like this. Besides, it’s not as if I gave you my real name.”

  “Tetrazzini’s not your real name?”

  “Of course not!” the customer laughed. “You never read William Burrough’s Naked Lunch?”

  Harris shook his head, feeling dumb.

  “Don’t tell me Harris is your actual name?”

  Fuck! Fuck fuck double fuck! He’d told the truth and this other bastard had lied! “Of course it is. It’s my alias. Rolf Harris.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tetrazzini raised a cocky eyebrow, seeing through Harris’ lie in an instant. In that moment all the pleasure of the meet drained away. “Are you trying to arouse suspicion?”

  “Fuck you,” Harris grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm. “Let’s get this done, it’s too damn hot in here.”

  “Here’s the money. We agreed eight gig this time, yeah?” Tetrazzini handed a small pink envelope to Harris. To anyone who looked it might appear a birthday card. “Inside you’ll find your pay and a brief note thanking you for landscaping. If you’re caught you’ll be charged with tax dodging, nothing more.”

  Harris accepted the offering and in return handed the doctor a small USB stick. “Can’t get eight gig on a DVD.” Tetrazzini nodded, and put the small device in his breast pocket.

  “Listen,” Harris began, voice trembling slightly and heart rate beginning to rise. “If there’s anything else you want, I can always... you know...”