A Death Displaced
LANSIN ISLAND SERIES
By Andrew Butcher
Copyright
A Death Displaced
First Edition 2012
Copyright © by Andrew Butcher 2012
Cover design by Andrew Butcher
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance whatsoever to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to my dad for reading every chapter as I wrote it and for providing feedback and encouragement. Jenni Toes, Sophie May Denman and Mamane Mabika also provided valuable feedback; thank you.
Thanks also go to my mum, the rest of the family (and our various pets), and to my close friends for emotional support.
And finally, thank you to my partner, Luke, for supporting me and putting up with my nonstop obsession with writing this novel.
Dedicated to Monty
Chapter 1
It felt so real.
Was this actually happening? His senses alleged yes, his mind suspected no. Maybe it was a daydream or an out-of-body experience? Possibly, his imagination was unbounded, taking flight? He pondered the matter until his thoughts tumbled out of reach and fell so far that he no longer disputed its reality…
The definite coolness and damp in the air left no doubt that it was early morning. He walked towards his workplace, Creaky Crystals, in the lower grounds of Amiton town centre, his winklepickers tip-tapping on murky cobbles.
A red-headed girl spun circles near the fountain feature and fell into his path, causing him to side step. He apologised for the near collision and carried on his way. The girl scurried off to her mother who was setting up a stall for business.
He smiled. Halloween decorations filled the shop windows; an array of ghouls, pumpkins, witches and vampires. ‘Happy Halloween’ was found in orange, black, purple and white; and in one gruesome display, a blood-red dripping font.
There was a lady re-arranging her window layout in preparation for opening. She caught his eyes and gave a friendly nod. He inclined his head and waved to her.
The morning was as peaceful as a cat asleep; or like a tortoise bathing in the sun, it was quiet, settled.
On approach to Creaky Crystals, he spotted a seagull sat right in front of the store. No other birds flocked overhead; none were in sight, only this solitary seagull, squatted like it was waiting for the shop to open.
Of course, nothing was strange about seagulls in Amiton, but this one fixedly stared; directly at him. It was so still. The eeriness of it made his bones fidget. Stupid seagull.
The screeching of tyres came from above. He stopped his walk. His gaze shot to the upper grounds. The seagull reacted instantly; it smoothly jumped into flight as if it knew the harsh cries were coming.
There was no way to see the commotion from where he stood. The 50ft wall separating the upper and lower grounds had zigzag steps up the side and a low wall along the top to protect people from falling.
Echoes. The sounds of metal scraping, twisting, crunching. Police sirens wailed in the distance. He couldn’t see at this angle, but he imagined that a car had crashed into something at high speed, flipped and had begun to roll.
Then came a thud. Something finally came into view, a woman. The car must have hit her hard. She was vaulted over the wall a great distance and fell to the lower grounds. He saw her hit the ground. Did he hear her skull crack open or was it her neck breaking?
He snapped out of it.
*
Whoa, he opened his eyes and had to blink a few times. That was too real, too disturbing. It would teach him a lesson for trying to meditate at work.
He’d always been interested in meditation, out-of-body experiences and anything and everything spiritual. But that was probably because it had surrounded him his whole life. He didn’t even know what he was trying to accomplish by meditating this time.
Usually it was to try to meet some kind of deity, visualise his dream future, or ask his ‘higher self’ for guidance, but this time he just had a disturbingly realistic daydream.
I really am screwed up, imagining a woman fall to her death.
He didn’t actually think he was screwed up; he was just Nicolas Jack Crystan, or Nick for short, and what could he think of his life? He was twenty four, had no future plans, was always striving for enlightenment (whatever that was) and he worked in a crystal shop.
‘Excuse me…’ whined a lady with a scrunched-up face.
Nick’s work place, Creaky Crystals, was located in the corner of The Fallend in the lower grounds, snug against the wall. The Fallend was one large shopping street with a high wall and steps at the end leading to the upper grounds.
‘Hi, how can I help?’ Nick sat behind the counter. He tried to portray alert-and-ready-to-serve the best he could.
‘Oh, so you are working, not just taking a nap?’ she smiled sardonically, her sarcasm potent and ugly.
‘Sorry, it’s been a quiet day, what can I do for you?’ he couldn’t help but observe her choice of clothing. She looked like a witch in a kids’ school play, minus the green face paint and plus an absurd amount of jewellery. What concerned him was when he realised that she was serious in her selection of garments.
‘Do you sell any other wands?’ she asked with a widening of her eyes, ‘I don’t like the ones on display. They don’t feel right.’
‘They are all we have in stock, sorry.’
‘You’re not going to check out the back for me?’ she asked, retracting her head and creating a double chin.
‘I know what stock we have and there are no more wands.’
‘Can you go and check anyway, just in case you’ve missed some?’
‘No… Sorry, I’d be wasting your time.’
‘I’m not in a hurry.’ God, this woman was relentless.
‘Trust me, there’s no more stock out the back.’ he said with finality.
He caught his reflection in the shop window and ruffled his deep brown hair, then let it settle looking stylishly dishevelled. He realised that he was staring at the spot where he imagined the woman hit the ground. It was directly out the front of Creaky Crystals.
‘Just so you know. The other tourist shops around here have a wider range of items. Why is your store so limited?’ she seemed to ask with genuine interest. Please get a life.
‘I’m sorry to hear that but my manager is happy with our range of products. If you’re not happy then feel free to buy from those other shops you mentioned.’ he replied, more antagonising than intended.
She huffed and declared, ‘I will shop elsewhere!’ then stormed out of the store.
Oops, slight guilt. He hadn’t meant to upset the lady, but she was rude from the start of the conversation and he was getting sick and tired of all these witch wannabes waddling around Amiton.
This was something he couldn’t avoid due to the history of Lansin Island and the fact that he worked in a tourist shop aimed at those interested in its dark past.
Amiton was the largest town on Lansin Island and it was where all the tourists jumped off the ferry and decided to shop. Nick liked the customers who were interested in witchcraft and the history but he couldn’t stand the witch wannabes who researched Wicca on the internet, read an article on some naff website then declared themselves High Priestess of this, that and the other. Some would shove their views down his throat and threaten to hex him when h
is customer service skills sucked (which was most of the time).
‘Nicolas?’ her voice was delicate yet held great authority.
‘Yes, Mora?’ he spun to address her.
She was a short, plump lady in her late forties with a calm demeanour. She had brief, cropped chocolate hair and green eyes. Her complexion was so yellowy-white that if she laid with her eyes closed you’d think she was dead, or at least severely ill.
‘That lady didn’t seem too impressed with you?’
‘Yeah, I suggested she shops elsewhere.’
‘You sent a customer away?’
‘She was rude to me.’
‘Okay, Nicolas, but I’d prefer it if your pride didn’t affect our profits in the future.’ It was almost impossible to take offence to anything Mora said. Nick knew she was a careful thinker and spoke only her mind. He liked that about her.
‘I forgot to mention… she didn’t like your wands and she said our store is limited compared to the others in Amiton.’
Mora’s jaw dropped.
After a moment of composing herself, she came out with, ‘Stuff her then. The grumpy sod can shop elsewhere!’ they laughed together, but Nick couldn’t help think, Oh, so it’s fine for your pride to affect profits!
‘Nicolas,’ Mora dawdled off and stood by the table with divination and tarot cards stacked on top. ‘I think more items have been stolen.’ She shook her head and compressed her lips.
‘Really?’
‘I don’t remember selling any of these today, though I could swear there were a lot more here this morning.’
He shrugged his shoulders and wished he knew what to say. Mora toddled back over to him rather solemnly then said, ‘Never mind. Will you keep an eye out for me? Look out for suspicious customers.’
‘Of course.’ he gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘You can get going if you want; it’s not so busy at this time of day. I’ll lock up and there’s not much cleaning to do,’ she scanned the store and returned her eyes to him, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll pay you for the whole shift.’ she sweetly smiled and took his place behind the glass counter.
In comparison to Mora, Nick felt like a giant. She was maybe five feet tall. He noticed the height difference more when she sat down. It didn't bother him much when the other staff members were about, but when it was only him and Mora, he felt almost obliged to slouch his posture and appear shorter.
‘Thank you, Mora. I’ll see you on Friday.’
He scuttled out the back, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out of the store. He waved to Mora on his exit.
Two full time colleagues, Janet and Alan, worked nine to five and had already left. As a part-timer, Nick was meant to work twelve to six today and help Mora close up. He checked the time on his mobile: Twenty past five. Not bad. He smiled.
His black Vauxhall Corsa just about started up. He huffed when he looked at the petrol gauge pointing below the ‘E’ as usual, conjecturing that he could squeeze a few more drives to work and back out of it before visiting a petrol station.
On the drive home, all he thought about was that disturbing daydream. The sound of her hitting the ground was embedded in his mind and seemed to be on replay.
No dreams had ever matched up to how vivid that was. Even the few lucid dreams he’d had were covered in a sense of, ‘Is this really real?’ But when he was in this daydream… he was really there… until he wasn’t; until he snapped back to reality. Or was that reality and this the dream?
Uh, head ache. He needed a hot chocolate, a warm blanket and a decent film to watch. No gory films though.
Driving up Maw Street, he compared his house to the others. The fact that he couldn’t see his house didn’t help much. The evening had begun to darken already and the bungalow he lived in was hidden, shrouded by trees in the front garden.
The other houses on the street were very presentable: groomed and freshly landscaped front-gardens, features, and neatly gravelled driveways. Many of the houses were no longer bungalows but had been extended upwards and outwards.
No doubts as to who the money-makers were on the street.
Most Maw Street residents were proud of their homes. It wasn’t exactly a wealthy street to live on but it certainly wasn’t slummy either. He was pained to know that his house was the lowest valued on the street.
You just have to do something about those awful trees, Aimee Price from number 42 once passed by to tell Nick. The American lady lived alone and was a practicing Wiccan. She had frowned at the prevalent weeds in the driveway and stated that his house put Maw Street to shame.
Miss Price didn’t hesitate to add that she couldn’t stand the thought of her relatives from Los Angeles visiting and being subjected to passing his house on the way to hers.
Nick defended that the enormous sycamore maple trees in the front garden were practically impossible to do anything with and most of the evergreen conifers were too tall to maintain. He couldn’t be asked to trim the shrubbery or to de-weed the drive, and it was the Council’s job to cut the grass out on the front, but most importantly, it wasn’t any of her business.
In his head he also thought, For a Wiccan, you don’t seem to like trees much!
His retaliation must have been unexpected to her. She stalked off after mumbling something along the lines of, ‘I’m not the only one on this street who thinks you need to sort it out.’
Nick signalled and pulled into his drive. An overhanging branch rattled and scratched against the roof of his car.
Okay, maybe I should cut that branch at least.
The drive was carpeted with fallen leaves. At this time of day they were simply shadowy mounds, but in the daylight, the red and orange maple leaves were luscious and vibrant.
When he stepped out of the car, he grumbled at the fact that there was nowhere in the drive he could leave his vehicle without it gathering leaves and sap. He loved and hated the sycamore trees, but right now, all he could think of was how much he detested their sticky sap.
He locked the car then headed inside his home, number 16 Maw Street. The neighbours may not have liked the trees but Nick sure liked the privacy they offered.
He was glad to be home. It was safe here.
After having a ready-made microwave meal, he flopped onto his bed. He had no energy these days. Before he knew it, he woke up three hours later. Urgh! Now he’d struggle sleeping tonight. To help him fall asleep, he read a get-rich-quick book until his eyes were strained.
Wednesday morning, nothing could tempt him to leave his house, apart from that it was probably warmer outside than it was inside. As he’d expected, it was tough getting to sleep. The cold didn’t help but he couldn’t afford to put the heating on too often.
He found a comfortable position in his room and decided to meditate. He quickly cleared his mind and got into some rhythmic breathing. Lately he’d been feeling agitated by the smallest things and kept boxing them off to the corner of his mind, but now they seemed determined to claim recognition.
When he noticed how not peaceful he felt, the irritation bugged him and the more he tried to find peace, the worse his state became.
He fidgeted.
Whatever position he sat in, it created uncomfortable tight areas from his clothes, or he became itchy, had to scratch.
Ignore it, it will go, clear your mind.
A noise interrupted him. The wild beeping of a car horn. Idiots. Drive down my street sensibly, I’m trying to meditate!
He found it again, a clear mind. But then he was annoyed at himself for thinking, ‘My mind is clear.’ Surely his mind wasn’t clear of thought if he was thinking it was clear of thought?
Why don’t I feel peaceful?
The frustration steeped and he lost it. He picked up a smiling Buddha ornament and smashed it against the wall. He tore down posters of tranquil landscapes. He pushed over his open storage cabinet. DVDs clattered on the floor. Self-help books clunked alongside them. About to thump the wall, he stopped, not brave e
nough. He stomped a heavy foot instead.
Fed up, completely and utterly fed up. He could have seen this coming, he knew all these spiritual, religious and self-help ideas weren’t working for him, but he’d kept on deceiving himself.
Maybe the Law of Attraction can help me, what about CBT, what about Affirmations, how about Witchcraft, EFT, Buddhism, Wicca, Yoga, Laughter-Yoga, Meditation, Visualisation, Divination, and every self-help book under the sun?!
Yeah, sure, they all seemed to work for a while but they never kept him happy for long. He brought together the fingertips and thumb tip of his right hand and used them to repeatedly tap the centre of his left palm. As he continued this he mentally repeated, I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m calm, I’m focused.
It took a while but he eventually composed himself. He looked to his room. Ornaments he’d had for years were broken beyond repair. Visceral regret made a sudden, disheartening appearance in his body. He hated rash outbursts of anger like this, it was like consequences were illusions, and all that mattered was his rage getting its cup full of destruction. And in this case, its room full of destruction.
His morose mood occupied the evening. At least there was something to look forward to the next day. Kind of.
‘Hello, Nicolas.’ Thursday at the local surgery, his therapist greeted him, ‘Come on in, have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ he sat in his usual place, a bog-standard chair turned at a slight angle to his therapist’s seat. She closed the door and sat down. He envied how she never rushed about or huffed and puffed.
‘How have you been this week?’
‘Err, okay mostly.’ It was true, he’d felt good for a few days after he saw his therapist last week.
‘Okay,’ she nodded gently. It was apparent that she was waiting for him to expand on his answer. If anyone else had done that he would have been annoyed.
‘Well, I got a bit angry last night. I feel like I’m trying so hard to succeed at something but I don’t know what I even want to succeed at. I’ve tried out so many self-help books and so many new things that surely I deserve to be happy about something. I see other people who don’t even seem to try, yet they have everything they want and they are happier than me.’
A Death Displaced Page 1
