The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  He nodded, “I know. But sometimes I feel so wretched I can’t.”

  She reached out and applied a plaster to one of the larger cuts. “It’s ok. I know how you get.”

  Wincing slightly from the contact, he felt both ashamed and confused. Why did he get like that? Why did his mind spiral out of control? When they were together, he never felt any of those paranoias that plagued him during the dead of night, so why not wake her?

  Because you hate yourself, he thought. Because a long time ago, you were taught you weren’t worth giving air.

  “I think you should try that therapist my friend recommended,” she said as she applied the final plaster. “Edgar Shelton or something, the one based in London? He’s good with complex cases. I’ll tell you what, you make the appointment and I’ll come with you, have a coffee while you go in, then we’ll get some lunch when you’re done.”

  Despite being exhausted from countless treatments in the past, he agreed. Anything to stop hurting his wife over and over again.

  She smiled, the act beautiful upon her sad face.

  “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

  And in that moment, he knew she was right. He would go to this therapist and get fixed. And then, free from demons, he could finally be the husband this angel deserved. This woman with boundless strength who kept him afloat, even when he tried to force himself to sink.

  Life wasn’t all bad. His self-hatred ran deep, but there was more to him than that. Much more, and when they kissed she banished all those thoughts away, the graze of her lips infinitely more powerful than any pill could ever be. She was more than his wife. She was his sanity.

  She held him tight, and without hesitation he held her in return; two soul-mates lamenting the flaws in humanity, determined to overcome them together.

  “Without you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’d be lost, and I’d never find myself again.”

  She pulled away and looked him in the eye, and in that moment dismissed his fears, neurosis and paranoia. The demons retreated to somewhere down in his psyche, where not even he could knowingly reach, a place where a suffocating boy was forever trapped.

  “I love you.”

  He smiled, knowing it was true. “I love you too, Grace.”

  In the depths of the ocean, as the weight of the whole sea bared down on him, the Mariner released the air in his lungs. He wasn’t screaming. Nor was it a reflex of the immense pain and strain that ruptured his internal organs.

  He was laughing.

  He wasn’t a monster, just a man who’d had all his goodness stolen and all the evil left behind. He’d been lost, and now, in a strange way, with thoughts of the love who’d been robbed from him, the love he’d been seeking without knowing, he had what he’d needed far more than truth. Because in life there is no truth. Only context.

  He was home.

  The anchor continued to descend, deeper into the chill black sea, and as the pressure crushed his skull and popped his heart, the Mariner died.

  The Pope hurried across the moors. In the distance he could see Mindless idly wandering, members of his flock sucked dry, any trace of the Wasp removed. They ignored him. Monkeys sought infected monkeys like the jealous beasts they were. Parasites like him were free to go as they pleased.

  He looked out over the cliffs perceiving the Waterfall. It was all coming to an end. The Pope had witnessed the growth and decay of many cocoons and many wasps, and although this one was particularly protracted, it wasn’t unusual.

  Stupid monkey. He had thought all the blame lay with him, and the Pope wasn’t going to dissuade him from that. Wasps awoke, it’s what they eventually did. Just because this one had woken too soon, didn’t mean it was that monkey’s fault. It was like the brain blaming the kidney for its cancer.

  True, some of the blame could fall upon the Pope himself. His children had condemned him. Oracle had been particularly harsh with her words, ungrateful wretch that she was. He’d been glad when he’d felt her die. Stupid child. How dare she, who’d only ever known one cocoon, criticise he, who’d out-lived many? How dare she condemn the way he fed? True he’d fed often, carelessly some could say, but that was how he’d amassed such a grand brood.

  It had been a splendid cocoon to feed within, even as it crumbled, and a juicy Wasp too. Sad it was now time to leave, but best to get out. The Wasp, sickly to begin with, was now dangerously ill. If it died, it might take him down with it.

  Another glance at the Waterfall told him the distresses being played out. Good Monkey. If the eye of the Wasp was distracted, he should be able to slip out of the cocoon and into the Soup. It wouldn’t be long until another species was impregnated with Wasp larvae, and then another world, another feeding ground, would grow.

  He giggled and rubbed his hands together with glee. Time to start afresh.

  A growl stopped him in his tracks.

  He turned and looked into twelve separate pairs of eyes.

  The giggle died in his throat.

  “You found me,” he said, a sinking feeling in his many guts. “I thought that Monkey meant trouble.”

  Yes, they said. We’ve been searching for you.

  “Following the infection eh? Clever. Hundreds of Wasps and I’ve never been caught. How did you know he’d find me?”

  These are unprecedented events.

  “I guess, I guess,” he mused, already resolved to his fate. He was old, after all. “I’m powerful you know. I could destroy you.”

  The immune system, the white blood cells of the Wasp, didn’t budge. They knew a bluff.

  A gurgle in his seventh stomach, the most sensitive of all, suddenly drew his attention back to the Waterfall. Something he didn’t quite understand, something as never before, was taking place.

  “Do you feel that?” he asked, but the Wasp’s defence system could not be budged.

  It is not our business. You are.

  He sighed, resigned and forlorn. “At least let me observe what happens? I’d like to know. Consider it a last request?”

  No.

  “So this is it?”

  Yes, the Tasmanian devils said as they surrounded the parasite. This is it.

  47

  A STING IN THE TAIL

  CHRISTOPHER MCCONNELL AWOKE FROM HIS dream with a faint smell of dog shit wafting up his nose. He sat up, suddenly afraid he was laying in the offending mess, hastily checking his shirt and trousers. There were no faeces, just mild grass stains. Teach me to fall asleep in the park, he chided himself, distinctly relieved.

  About him, London hummed, albeit at a lighter pace than usual. He tried to remember what day it was, but found himself failing. Must be a weekend, that combined with the sunshine would have emptied London’s streets. Not that these were empty of course, hundreds were still milling about, popping into cafés, browsing shops, yet it was quieter than usual.

  And just what was he doing sleeping in a small park in the middle of town? McConnell rubbed his face trying to work it out. He didn’t think he’d been drinking, there was not a trace of a hangover in his system, though he did feel exhausted.

  Lingering in his mind were the faint remains of his dream, already dissolving into nothing. Typical of dreams, it had told a story in which he’d been a player, yet not the protagonist. In the last fleeting moments he’d been given understanding, as if all characters had been allowed to share notes after the final curtain.

  McConnell snorted, and shook his head. Typical dream nonsense, the illusion of understanding. It was similar to an LSD trip he’d had in his younger days. As the hallucinatory patterns on his friend’s face had swam and morphed, he’d become convinced that if only he could comprehend all those shifting lines at once, he’d unlock all the mysteries of the universe.

  What bullshit.

  Grinning bashfully, McConnell rose, still faintly alarmed that he couldn’t remember going to sleep in public, yet determined not to be seen as a drunk or lunatic. A newspaper fell off his chest. He glanced at it. Politics.
“Disgraced Mayoral Candidate Alcott Still Missing”. No wonder he’d fallen asleep, that shit bored the hell out of him.

  Out, beyond the children’s play area, a crowd had gathered under the shadow of an office block. There was something of a commotion, people talking in hushed voices, one or two lifting their camera-phones to take snaps of whatever held their attention.

  He strolled to join them, keeping to the back of the crowd, yet positioning himself where he could peer between.

  A dead body lay prone on the ground, face bloody and cold.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

  “I just called the police,” said a woman by his side, shaking her head, yet keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the grim sight. “Selfish isn’t it? To jump off a building in the middle of a street? He could have landed on any one of us!” She looked up into the sky at the tall office block before them. “No way he could have survived. Not from that height.”

  “Yeah...” he muttered, studying the familiar figure, something niggling at the back of his mind.

  He doesn’t look like he jumped. If he did, why are his clothes wet?

  A woman screamed and pushed through the onlookers, panic in her voice that made his heart sink. She collapsed on the ground next to the body, cradling it in her arms, her black hair spilling over the corpses face.

  “Oh God, look at that,” the talkative bystander continued. “Do you think that’s his girlfriend? Sister?”

  “Wife,” McConnell answered, somehow knowing.

  “So selfish to leave someone behind like that. A real coward’s way out. I don’t see how anyone could ever justify such a stupid act.”

  McConnell inched forward, pushing through the onlookers, curiosity driving him towards the terrible scene.

  “Excuse me, Ma’am?” he asked as he got near. “The police are on their way, is there anyone I can contact for you?”

  The widow turned her head to him, tears streaming down her cheeks and dragging mascara with them. He was close now, and saw the face of the man beneath her.

  It’s him. The man I dreamed of. The monster who wasn’t.

  “He was the sweetest guy,” she sobbed, and suddenly McConnell felt a powerful urge to protect this sorrowful woman. It wasn’t just pity or empathy at her loss, he would have felt the same inclination if he’d bumped into her in a coffee house; a part of him loved her. Not in a lustful or obsessive way, but as a life-long friend. Someone for whom he cared, and if pressed would gladly do anything for.

  Stepping back, confused by the sudden swell of emotion for the stranger, he gave the widow space. She accepted it, laying her cheek back upon the body of her husband.

  “All of you, back off,” he hissed at the bystanders, and to his surprise they complied. All signs of camera-phones disappeared, clearly out of respect for the grieving woman before them.

  That was the Mariner. The Mariner and his Grace, McConnell thought, slightly giddy from the madness of it. How could I possibly know that? I didn’t even dream that! At least, not until the end, when I had that strange feeling of knowing everyone at once.

  Turning his back on the tragic scene, McConnell struck away from the onlookers. Naturally, most in the vicinity were drifting over to look for themselves, the tragedy acting as a magnet. Yet one who wasn’t caught his eye. She sat alone on a bench, hands folded neatly before her, seemingly unconcerned with the nearby death.

  “Heidi!” he cried, jogging towards her.

  She started and looked up, confused. “Do I know you?”

  Slightly perturbed, he came to a halt yards from where she sat. “Er... I... guess not. Do you not remember me?”

  She looked at him, and for a moment could swear he saw recognition, yet this passed and she shook her head vigorously, pretty face marked with scratches as if she suffered terribly from eczema.

  “I know it seems strange, but...” I know you. And it has something to do with that dead Mariner and a wasp and some devils and a waterfall and I want you to agree because otherwise I think I might be going mad. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he finished, “you seemed so sad, I thought I would make sure you were okay.”

  She gave him a thin smile. “I lost my daughter some years ago, when she was merely a toddler. She died. But it feels as if it only just happened. As if I only just remembered.”

  He glanced at the floor, not knowing what to say.

  “That’s grief I guess. Having it hit you afresh every day. Wondering what she would have been like if she’d lived. If only for a little bit longer.”

  McConnell raised his head and looked Heidi in the eyes. “I think she would have loved Gone With The Wind.” And as she hastily looked away, he saw that flicker again, so brief he could have made it up, a tiny hint of recognition.

  I’ve gone mad, he thought to himself. I’m feeling strange bonds with complete strangers. First the corpse, then the widow and now this poor grieving mother, a victim whom I’m tormenting with the idea that somehow I knew her child.

  Except I did know her. I did.

  Feeling absurd and with an awkward deep breath he held out his hand. She looked at it, perplexed and slightly afraid.

  “How about we go get a drink? You can tell me about your daughter.”

  Heidi shook her head, reluctant. “I don’t think so, I don’t know you...”

  “Please, let me-”

  The words ended abruptly as an insect flew between them, and lazily landed upon his hand. A wasp. He could feel its light yet confident weight as it slowly crawled across his skin.

  Wasps were shits. He’d known this for years, ever since his little compassionate experiment in which one had betrayed his trust. Ever since then, he’d killed every wasp he’d seen without mercy.

  But now, looking at this small bug, he couldn’t help but feel enthralled by its alien gait. Hadn’t he dreamed something about a wasp?

  The creature stopped its slow crawl and looked up at him. In his heart he knew that the wasp had no concept of minds, or human beings, it couldn’t look you in the eye and convey an emotion. Yet he could have sworn that was exactly what this wasp was doing.

  It was staring him right in the face. A challenge to a worthy adversary.

  “Go ahead punk,” he growled.

  And it did.

  The wasp plunged its stinger down into his hand, throwing its whole body behind the strike, eager to exert authority over the stupid monkey who’d dared to taunt it.

  Nothing happened.

  Two black eyes looked up at him, and despite their insectoid nature, he could have sworn he saw an emotion. Confusion.

  Shocked, the wasp hopped an inch or so forward and tried again, being even firmer with its barbed behind.

  Still, nothing happened.

  Furious, the wasp rolled around, trying to sting any surface it could find, until, unsuccessful, it lost its grip, slid from his hand and dropped to the ground with an angry buzz.

  Wasps won’t sting...

  And suddenly he remembered.

  He looked around, back at the widow who grieved for a man who’d woken the world and then put it back to sleep. Around her, the crowd had retreated to a respectful distance. Some had offered their jackets to lay across the body, others merely waited, keen to offer any assistance she might need.

  They love her, just as I do.

  And as he watched, it seemed the very land around them bent towards her, straining to be close, and a sudden certainty filled his heart: this woman would never grow ill, suffer crime, or feel deep pain. This was the last suffering she would ever endure, there would be no other. The world would not allow it.

  “I hope she gets the support she’ll need,” Heidi said, looking fondly at the Mariner’s true Grace.

  “She will,” McConnell replied, certain to his core. “I know it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because the world looked through his eyes.”

  “What did it see?”

  “Her.”

&n
bsp; And suddenly he was laughing, legs buckling as he slumped to the floor, vision waving as if about to faint. He laughed because he remembered thinking that poor wretch had been akin to Jesus Christ, someone who could sew the world together. He’d been wrong. But he’d also been right.

  Perhaps saints didn’t exist? Perhaps the most angelic of men are those who are willing to acknowledge their demons? Perhaps the best of men are those who believe they’re the worst?

  On the pavement, the wasp looked up at the crazy monkey, now dangerously close, and deciding to cut its losses (and reassess a life without a sting) flew off into the London sky.

  Heidi got to her feet, embarrassed at the sudden reaction of the strange, yet charming man. “Sir? Sir are you ok?”

  But he couldn’t stop laughing, because the absurd memories still filled his head and although they were beginning to fade, the brief truth they told was too much to bear.

  “People are looking! You can’t laugh when someone’s died!”

  Tears streamed down his face as he looked about his home city, wondering just what else the Mariner might have changed.

  “Christopher? Can you hear me? Christopher?”

  But there was no stopping him. He laughed at the absurdity of belief. He laughed at the fragility of thought. And he laughed because although depression strips a man of his all, love will remain, even if he does not know it.

  And after a while, Christopher McConnell stopped. He’d completely forgotten what he was laughing about.

  48

  BEFORE, BEFORE IT ALL

  HE OPENED HIS EYES TO the harsh glare of the sun. It cooked his skin, sea water evaporating, leaving large chunks of itchy salt, and yet he welcomed the rays. Deep down in his muscles there was a chill, a cold ache that needed banishment, and this sunlight was just the medicine. He closed his lids, relishing the notion for a moment longer, distancing himself from the impending pain.

  Agony was coming. He knew it. That ache was just the vanguard, sooner or later the main force would be upon him, a multitude of cuts and wounds, breaks and sprains. They would band together to overthrow their cruel master, the fiend who had unleashed them.