The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  The Lord of Always

  Also by David Brian

  The Strange Case at Misty Ridge

  The Damnation Game

  Carmilla: The Wolves of Styria

  Carmilla: A Dark Fugue

  Dark Albion

  The Cthulhu Child

  Kaleen Rae: And Other Weird Tales

  Gloop!

  Big Bad

  The Lord of Always

  David Brian

  Night-Flyer

  The Lord of Always

  2018 David Brian

  2018 Night-Flyer Publishing

  The right of David Brian to be identified as the author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced to a retrieval system, or

  transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written

  permission of the copyright owner, except for brief quotation in reviews.

  Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication

  may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  First published in 2018 by Night-Flyer Publishing

  The Lord of Always is dedicated to Mom and Dad.

  Their love is eternal.

  ‘But we are spirits of another sort.’ Oberon, King of Shadows.

  William Shakespeare

  Table of Contents

  Also by David Brian

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I return my gaze to the fragmented monster resting in my palm. Can this really be the remains of an angel? And if it is shouldn’t we all tremble in anticipation of what awaits at our end?

  I look in the mirror and admire the dapper figure reflected back at me. I am wearing a charcoal grey suit and a white shirt, a deep-plum tie, with black shoes, spit and polished to a point of dark reflection. I wonder if perhaps my appearance is a little too conservative, but decide no.

  It feels good to be so impeccably turned out: it reminds me of a military life; my days of being in uniform. Even though we had been plunged into a conflict fashioned by the flawed reasoning of wealthy men clinging to ideals of Empire, camaraderie was formed with men who would forever remain my brothers, and thus memories of those service years are always glowed by affinities forged. Perhaps it is simply the case that time dulls the hardships and terrors of youth, replacing them with later life visions of good days past.

  I hear voices chattering in the next room, and I know we will be leaving for the service soon. My heart flutters in anticipation of my granddaughter’s big day. She will look beautiful.

  But hasn’t it been only a moment since she was a babe in my arms?

  My smile fades as I notice the aged countenance staring out from the glass. I look blankly at this gray-haired man who, in some small way, reminds me of my father. I raise my right hand and wave, to see if the old guy will wave back.

  He does.

  I give him the finger. And he returns the gesture.

  I stick out my tongue. He reciprocates.

  I remember then. But still I fail to recognize this man.

  Not for the first time, and neither likely the last, I curse the disease raging war on my mind; hacking away at the fibers and fabric of my reality. At the moment I am still me. But there have been times when…when, what?

  This is a war I am destined to lose.

  Thankfully the onset of my dampened spirits is short lived, my thoughts dulling and drifting, as they seem so often to do, and with an ever-growing frequency returning me once more to memories of those service days.

  I smile at the irony of the situation in which I now find myself.

  I could name virtually every man I served with. But if you were to ask me what I ate for supper last night? Hell, you can forget supper. Did I even eat breakfast, today?

  I am becoming a burden, a drain on my family. They tell me they love me, and every action they perform endorses this. But I can see the truth straining their faces as they seek to clean and dress me. I have always strived to be a good man. After leaving the army I trained as an engineer and worked hard, long hours all of my life. I have been a loving, caring husband and father.

  I feel bitter.

  I don’t deserve this.

  My family doesn’t deserve this.

  It is the day of my granddaughter’s wedding, this much I know: I close my eyes and smile; she looks beautiful. She always does. I see her dimpled face, and I wish I could remember her name.

  Stretching out my fingers I stare at the back of these old man hands, lined and ravaged by age. Yesterday I had the hands of a young man, didn’t I? Thoughts continue swirling through my head. I see my own wedding, and I see Rosalind, the kind and wonderful woman who has shared a life with me.

  A tear tracks down my cheek, tracing an all too regular path.

  Then I think of Cornwall, and I wonder, was it real? All those years ago, was it possible George Smoke had been right, in that we have no concept of how things actually are?

  Certainly, my own reality seems different now.

  For reasons I cannot explain, I move to the bedside cabinet, opening the bottom draw and fumbling through years of collected clutter. The search becomes ever more intense as panic plants its troubling seed at the prospect of failure, until, from within the jumbled recess, finally I pull forth a faded, black pouch I’d all but forgotten.

  Withdrawing the object, I lay it in the flat of my hand: It is translucent, pliable, the size and shape of a marble. I close my hand around a consistency like wet compressed-sand, and an explosion of color erupts from my palm: reds, yellows, greens, violets and blue hues filling the room. I open my hand and the cessation of light is as abrupt as the spontaneity of its arrival. The object stretches out, rearranging itself from flattened to ball-like: Did this really just happen?

  “Frank, what just happened?”

  I turn to face my inquisitor. “What?” I ask the woman, who I remember is – in some way – related to my wife.

  “I was out in the hall and I saw all those colored lights. What the heck happened?”

  I slip the object behind my back and do my best to present a genuine smile. “It’s just the way the sun catches our bedroom window, sometimes. Beautiful, isn’
t it?”

  She seems less than satisfied with the explanation, but after a further brief exchange she leaves me alone with my thoughts. Since the onset of my illness, I’ve realized that some people are not comfortable being alone in my company.

  This thing assaulting my mind, do they fear it to be a contagion?

  I return my gaze to the fragmented monster resting in my palm. Can this really be the remains of an angel? And if it is, shouldn’t we all tremble in anticipation of what awaits at our end?

  A lump forms in my throat as I contemplate a promise once made. It was an oath George Smoke swore in a different time… in a different world. So why is it I find myself contemplating such memories now? And how is it I am so readily accepting of these impossibilities?

  How could I have ever forgotten any of this?

  The past begins to overwhelm me, as it so often does. But this time I surrender willingly, allowing the rising flood of memories to swim over me, engulfing my reality. The year is 1959, and I recall the journey down to Cornwall as though it is happening now. The hustle and bustle as Rosalind and I board the gun-metal green locomotive. The switchover in London, and from there jostling to find seats together, as the second train fills to standing room only.

  Then I remember our arrival at Camelford Station, and as my thoughts turn to what comes next, I find myself daring to believe. And somewhere deep within me something ignites. It is the smallest of sparks, but still it glows with the warm flame of hope…

  Chapter 2

  I paused briefly and surveyed my surroundings before stepping down onto the station platform, struggling to manhandle the ridiculously large brown-box suitcase on the ground beside me. I had suggested we take a much smaller case, or possibly even two, but was outvoted by my better half. I imagine the expression painted on my face was self-explanatory with regards to that earlier decision. The sun was young in its daily climb, but already the temperature on the platform had risen to a stifling level.

  Pulling a hankie from my trouser pocket, I brushed a hand through dark, Brylcreem hair, and mopped the beads of sweat damping my brow. After the confinement of a lengthy journey the sight of a cloudless blue sky should have proven a source for enthusiasm, and for the most part it was. Yet without obvious reason, I remember even then something niggled away at me. I was aware of the overwhelming sense of gloom and desperation which seemed to permeate the station.

  Forcing a smile as I heard Roz’s light footsteps behind me, I turned to offer a hand of assistance to the petite brunette disembarking the train. We had now shared three years of life, the last eight months of which as husband and wife. From the very beginning we had an uncanny ability to read each other, and now, even without an exchange of words, I could sense Roz’s mind racing as she scanned the terminal.

  Steam from the locomotive continued to fog the platform, partly because of the short length of the walkway, which was barely long enough to accommodate the engine plus three carriages it pulled, but also because the fireman was already stoking the engine in readiness for the huge machine’s swift departure.

  I clearly recall Rosalind’s first words upon disembarking the train that morning. “This is ridiculous!” There was a degree of consternation in her voice.

  Roz had been blessed with pale skin and delicate features, and although her smile remained fixed, I was aware of unease as she anxiously fiddled with straightening her blouse.

  “They must have got off at an earlier stop,” I offered as way of reassurance. “We both nodded off for a couple of hours, and by my reckoning we probably slept through four stops. It’s no big mystery, honey.” I tried to sound convincing, but Roz knew me too well.

  “I don’t buy it. And neither do you, really,” she replied, starkly. Her smile had evaporated. “There must have been at least sixty people in our carriage. Lord only knows how many more squeezed into those other cars. Are you trying to tell me that everyone, bar us, got off this train before Camelford? And then, not one other passenger boarded at any of the other stations? The train is completely empty. Your explanation doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It is a bit odd,” I conceded. I’d always had a calm nature, and more often than not this served me well. Often it acted as a foil for my wife’s more mercurial temper, but in this instance I was being genuine with my assessment of odd.

  The journey down to Cornwall had proven a lengthy and tiresome trek: We had taken the overnight, Northampton to London-Waterloo, and then on down to The West Country. Was it really feasible a trainload of passengers all decided to disembark prior to reaching the heart of Cornwall?

  “Odd doesn’t begin to explain it,” she persisted. “It’s downright bloody weird!”

  “Maybe so,” I said, looking at my watch and then gesturing across the platform, “but I think we have more pressing concerns than disappearing passengers on the ghost train.”

  Roz’s eyes followed to where I was pointing along the platform. A timber-frame building ran the length of the terminus, its panels painted in Royal-blue. The doors, windows and fascia of the waiting room were also painted blue, but of a Naval tone. Adjoining this was another wooden shack, decorated in the same uniform colors, but with bold gold lettering above the door identifying it as the ticket office. A short, plump fellow with a face as full and red as a blood-moon was standing to military at ease in the doorway, but I was looking past The Fat Controller, on toward a set of ten steps edged by a white-granite balustrade, leading up and away from the station.

  In spite of the wafts of smoke sporadically ghosting the platform, it was possible to see the bus stop on the opposite side of the road.

  “Oh,” Roz said her voice barely a whisper.

  “Oh indeed,” I answered, tapping my watch as if doing so would somehow confirm the accuracy of the timepiece. “It seems our train got in three hours late.”

  “What? There is no way we slept for that long.”

  “I know. It all really does seem a bit weird. But more to the point… our bus left two hours ago.”

  “Bugger! What are we going to do?”

  “Not sure, Tub.”

  “Maybe we should start by having a word with Sir Topham Hatt, over there.” Roz gestured toward the rounded figure standing by the ticket room door.

  The station master greeted our approach with a warm smile; his arms held open as though looking to embrace returning loved ones.

  “Hello, young ‘uns. Welcome to Camelford Station.”

  The man’s tone carried genuine warmth; although it wasn’t lost on me that the solitude of the station master’s job probably accounted for his overly enthusiastic reaction to our approach.

  I had spent my National Service years in the army, and in all my considerable travels I’d never encountered such a desolate station as Camelford. I knew, having previously scoured the timetable, only four trains a day passed through here. Just two of which headed down into the bowels of the West-Country. Therefore, any opportunity to engage in meaningful conversation was doubtless something of a luxury for the rotund little station master. Being sole guardian of Camelford Station looked to be a lonely and Godforsaken occupation.

  “Hello, sir,” I said, although any extension to my greeting was cut short by the master, who threw his outstretched arms around the both of us and held us tight, in a warm, though vice-like three-way-embrace.

  “Greetings, greetings, greetings,” offered the excited rail man.

  My wife attempted, and failed, to stifle a giggle. The vigor of the grip which entwined us, along with the man’s pronounced belly, forced her off balance and she found herself standing on one leg. If the station master had chosen that moment to release his hold on us, Roz would likely have toppled over. But the real cause of her amusement was the look of surprised horror on my face.

  As I said previously, I have always considered myself to be of a laid-back disposition. I’ve usually managed to approach the worst of life’s woes with a smile on my face. But the speed with which the little ma
ster embraced us was exceptional, and he showed no desire to loosen his limpet grip. Roz found herself succumbing to an unstoppable fit of giggles as she watched me struggle for freedom. Later she would agree with my assessment that – somewhat worryingly – the warmth of the man’s attentions was quite obviously inclined toward me.

  It took some moments before I was able to pry myself away, placing one arm firmly around Roz’s waist, while forcing my forearm across the man’s chest and, with a push and a pull, levering both Roz and myself free from the unwanted and overly attentive clasp.

  “Apologies,” offered the rail man with a tip of his cap, and something of an exaggerated bow. “My word, you’re a solid young chap. Work out much?”

  “No,” I said; dusting myself down, while trying to ignore the titters escaping my wife. “Not much.”

  “Hmm,” he mused, his busy eyes ignoring the attractive brunette at my side. “Impressively firm.”

  I cast a sideways glance at Roz. She was enjoying this a little too much.

  There was a lengthy pause, bordering on uncomfortable, and then the station man seemed suddenly to remember the obligations of his employment. He clapped his hands gleefully.

  “It’s not often I get the chance to engage with such fine young people as yourselves. This place is something of a backwater – I sometimes wonder quite why they bother keeping us open?”

  I raised a quizzical brow. “I must admit we’re a little surprised. We expected a hub of activity, at least during arrivals and departures.”

  “Why so?” asked the rail man, and this time it was his face showing surprise at my assumption. “This station has been all but deserted for years.”

  “But I thought Camelford was a sizeable town? And with this being the nearest rail link to the northern coastline, surely you contend with plenty of through traffic?”

  The station master coughed a spluttering laugh, and then just as quickly attempted to stifle what he perceived to have been an ill-advised response. “My dear young man, Camelford may once have been a sizeable town, but that was before Jerry bombers ravaged the place. And as for the coastline around here, farther down toward Newquay and Padstow they might see a summer influx, but Boscastle is just too isolated to receive many tourists.”