by Huw Thomas
Waking Broken
by
Huw Thomas
Waking Broken
By Huw Thomas
Previously published in 2012 as Thin Ice. This edition revised and with an extended ending.
Published by Engine House Press
Cover image by Teija Härmäaho. Image copyright Teija Härmäaho/Moodphoto.
Copyright 2014 Huw Thomas
http://hdthomas.wordpress.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in whole or in any part without written permission from the author. The moral right of the author of this work has been asserted.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Prologue: Dark Angel
1. This Wheel’s On Fire
2. Geese
3. Lost In A Crowd
4. Sharks
5. Shifting Ground
6. Private Investigations
Intermission
7. Disturb My Natural Emotions
8. Manor Of Dreams
9. Traces Of A Life
10. Bearding The Lion
11. Folds For Your Sheep
12. Fractured Life
Second Intermission
13. Loneliness
14. King Of Emotion
15. The Horse’s Mouth
16. Missing Links
17. Machinations
18. Reality Check
19. Monster
20. She Bangs The Drum
21. Breaking Into Heaven
22. Inquisition
Third Intermission
23. Morning After
24. Unfinished Business
25. Memory Games
26. Bad Vibes
27. Painting With Trees
28. You Will, You Won’t
29. Demarcation
30. Crows Flying Home
31. Nobody’s Baby Now
32. Watching The Detectives
33. Whispers In The Night
Fourth Intermission
34. Deception
35. Dogs
36. Long Distance Operator
37. Empty Sanctuary
38. Stairway To Heaven
39. Stop Making Sense
40. Communication Breakdown
41. If I Was Your Girlfriend
42. Out Of The Blue
43. Keep Hope Alive
44. I Predict A Riot
45. Fish Out Of Water
46. Road To Nowhere
47. Fear And Love
48. Who Can You Trust?
49. Waiting For The Man
50. Fragile Thing
Fifth Intermission
51. I Know What You Are But What Am I?
52. Some Unholy War
53. Traces Of A Monster
Epilogue: Return To Light
Author’s Note
About The Author
Prologue: Dark Angel
Sunday, 11.52pm:
It was nearly midnight when she got off the train. A thin wind sliced along the platform. Its cold edge made her shiver and she tugged at her coat, pulling it tighter.
Around her, a couple of dozen other travellers descended from the string of carriages. A garbled tannoy message announced the end of the line as, behind them, the lights on the train dimmed. The passengers moved as one towards a set of stairs leading down into an underpass. Letting herself be drawn along with the herd, she followed them into the tiled tunnel, through the barrier and out of the station.
There she stopped, uncertain. It was brighter here and more intimidating. But the arc lights and closed circuit television also made the exposed forecourt a haven: a place for a moment’s rest and thought-gathering before committing herself to the darker unknown beyond.
The other passengers all headed on without delay. Some took taxis; others headed for parked cars or set off on foot. A small knot gathered, waiting for buses. She looked at the Plexiglas booths. Their purpose was obvious and there was an attraction to their sense of orderliness and destinations known.
But the row of bus stops offered no help. She had only a few coins left and, even if they were sufficient, lacked the language and confidence to ask for a ticket — or to understand which bus she wanted.
As she stood in the station entrance, she looked around. She did not know this place; it was foreign and potentially dangerous. She had no way of asking for assistance or explanations and did not want to risk drawing attention.
Off to one side of the concourse’s main entrance, she spotted a map. Eager to have a purpose, she walked over: conscious of the remaining taxis and the eyes watching her in the forlorn hope of a last-minute fare.
The map on the wall had an overview of the city in one corner, with a large-scale plan of the centre in the main section. Around it was a selection of adverts, many for businesses that no longer existed, and a list of street names with corresponding grid references.
The words on the map meant nothing to her. However, a map was a map whatever the language. From inside a pocket she pulled a worn, much-creased piece of paper. Printed across it in neat capitals was an address. Studying the rows of letters, she matched up the second line on her sheet of paper with the name of a road from the list. Brow furrowed in concentration, she let her finger find the corresponding grid reference on the map. Then, within the confines of the box it indicated, she looked for the lines marking the road she sought: Easton Terrace.
The first couple of streets were quiet. Lights burnt behind curtains and cars were parked in neat rows. She saw no one but it seemed secure, domestic.
After crossing a larger road, she continued in the near-straight line she had memorised: station at her back, sanctuary ahead. Walking briskly, she looked more confident than she felt. Only the tightness of the grip on the small bag over her shoulder betrayed the inner truth.
The shoulder bag was all she had. Leaving had been so quick. There had been no option of taking anything else. Time only to tug a coat around her shoulders and slip out of the house: praying he would not wake too soon. The walk to the station had seemed interminable, waiting for the crack of the whip that would reel her back, her one chance blown.
But she had made it. No shouts or curses to call her back, no running feet or heavy hands. The first — and worst — part of the ordeal was over. She was free but she was not safe. Not yet. Out here she was vulnerable, alone and unprotected.
Beyond the main road, the nature of the area changed. There were few houses. Most of the dark buildings on either side of the new street looked industrial: lock-ups and workshops, empty and silent.
There were fewer lights but it also seemed busier. Although she tried to keep her head down as much as possible, she was aware of others on the street. She passed a group of laughing women standing near a shuttered pub. Two men lounged, smoking, against a red car on the other side of the road. Down a side street she saw a lone figure silhouetted on a street corner, urinating against a wall.
She bit her lower lip and walked briskly past, watching the pavement. Sparkling glass caught in the lights of a passing car caught her eye and she heard fragments of bottle crunch beneath her feet. A low voice came from somewhere to her right but she walked on unheeding.
Past another couple of dead-looking side streets and the broken glass and tarmac gave way to an uneven pavement coated with gravel and dried mud. Here, the buildings to either side were unfinished, ringed by steel fences and surrounded by scaffolding. A big developer’s sign emblazoned with the letters IVH hung from the largest of the buildings.
The road began to climb and, glancing up briefly, she saw the bright lights of the roundabout at the top of the hill. She quickened her pace. On the other side of the roundabout was the start of a long avenue. Once at the end of that ro
ad, it was just a short distance to the address on the precious scrap of paper clutched in her hand.
She was concentrating on the lights ahead. She did not hear the van coming up behind her and jerked round in surprise as it went past. As she did so, her grip on her coat slipped and it swung open, giving a glimpse of the short nightdress that was all she wore beneath it. The van drove past, slowed momentarily and then cruised on.
She breathed a sigh of relief and put her head down again, not noticing as the van pulled into one of the entrances to the building site. The lights died with the engine. Seconds later the side door rolled open: a black hole waiting to suck her in.
1. This Wheel’s On Fire
Monday, 11.30am:
The ice was still crisp. Frosted undergrowth sparkled as the sun edged around the flank of the hill. A blackbird hopped warily across the path, its beak probing under dead leaves in a search for food.
A puff of breath hung around the head of the man on the mountain bike as he emerged from the trees. Mud crackled as his tyres bit through the frozen crust, adding fresh ruts to those already carved into the slope. The blackbird hopped out of the way, disappearing into a patch of rotting bracken. But the bike did not slow as it crossed the open ground.
On the far side of the clearing, machine and rider slalomed around a tangle of bare hawthorn bushes before vanishing again into a plantation of larches. The path began a long, soft descent over layers of decomposing pine needles. Branches and tree trunks flicked past before a sudden, final drop to the main Forestry Commission track below. Swerving out of the plantation and onto the gravel, the bike’s back wheel lost traction and slewed in a broad arc. Dirt and stone chippings sprayed sideways as the tyre swept across the loose surface.
‘Yaaay!’ Daniel Harper whooped for joy. He skidded nearly halfway across the track. The ground wanted to claim his body, make it slide over the broken stones. Both gravity and centrifugal force were out to get him and he wrestled with the handlebars, struggling for command as the bike bucked and twisted beneath him.
Then, with a swift click of the gears and a thrust of his legs, he managed to deliver sufficient force to get the rear tyre biting into the gravel. Contact re-established: the bike moved forward. Soon it had enough momentum to beat the forces trying to drag it down. Machine and rider were back on an even keel.
Ahead, the track ran level for a short distance before rising towards a stand of beech trees. Harper sprinted as he set the bike at the slope. At the brow, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. To his left, some crude stakes pinned a line of logs into an organic crash barrier. Beyond, the ground fell sharply. Bare soil and chalk slid towards a skeletal tangle of scrub and dead leaves while the trunks of a few stately beech trees rose in ghostly columns.
Harper bent over and rested on the handlebars. Dirt flecked his cycling gloves and sleeves. As he caught his breath, he took in the view. He was coming round onto the north side of Beacon Ridge. Looking through naked branches, he could see the river below. Its grey line slid through frosted fields, still white where the sun was yet to touch. To the east, the last rags of a thin mist hung around the old Eastern Mill and the bridge that would later take him home.
Harper bent forwards and stubbed the cigarette out with a stab, grinding the last remnants into a grey smear. Smoke hung in the air, a wreath above his head.
He should have been at work by now. The idea seemed tiresome, though, the whole business getting more tedious by the day. Every day mirrored the one before, the same words, merely a slightly different order. No real difference. Work was one more drag in a world full of irritations.
He had stopped for a coffee a couple of hours ago. After the coffee, he ordered a single whisky. Only the one: that was his intention, one to set him up for the day. And why not? The Europeans did it without batting an eyelid. Go into a cafe in Spain or France and you’d see them sitting there with a glass next to their breakfast. Admittedly, he only had the whisky and not the breakfast but he had not been hungry. And then, having enjoyed the first single so much, he ordered a few doubles to prolong the pleasure.
Now, he was more than just late for work; the morning shift was halfway through. The trouble was, work now seemed a very difficult concept. Easier to admit defeat and sit here for a while longer. He would ring in sick later: spin another yarn no one would quite believe. But no one would challenge him. It was funny but the more blatant you were the less likely it was people would do anything about it. They would joke about him, maybe roll their eyes, but part of them would also secretly admire him and wish they possessed the confidence to act the same way. The truth was, in order to get away with liberties you just had to act like you did not care about the consequences. And he had stopped caring months ago.
A woman came in and he watched her looking around. At a distance, she looked a bit like Kate. When she came closer though, he could see the looks were mostly make-up. She looked worn underneath the mask.
He lit another cigarette and continued to stare. The tousled mass of dirty blonde hair and the tightly confined curves still did the trick even if the woman had seen better days. Looking at her through a fog of smoke he smiled. There was something a bit sleazy about her and he wondered what she did to earn a living.
Harper had been riding most of the morning. His day had begun early. After snatching a quick breakfast, he had left the flat before the sun was even up, wheeling the bike quietly through the door so as not to wake his fiancée.
Outside, in the pre-dawn chill, he paused to take in the moment: the city still quiet, a pale glow beginning to filter into the sky. Then he was off, pedalling fast to get his blood pumping and to keep warm. A good three-mile start to the ride as he cycled through the suburbs. Crossing the river to the west, he chanced a quick sprint along the dual carriageway. A few lorries thundered past, making him flinch from the blast of fume-filled air in their wakes; otherwise the traffic was a fraction of the volume it would reach later.
Taking the dual carriageway on a bike was normally to be avoided. However, ten minutes dicing with HGVs gained Harper a half-hour advantage and he was through the last of the urban sprawl well before rush hour really began. A few miles further on, he turned off onto an old Roman road, now a quiet country lane. On reaching the car park at the southern entrance to Beacon Woods, he stopped for a quick snack and a drink. He also shed a couple of layers before jumping back on the bike.
It had been an exhilarating morning: more than four hours riding the network of tracks and looping forest rides. Apart from a handful of birds and one roe deer, he’d had the woods to himself.
Now, with his bike and cycling gear crusted with mud, Harper stood and stared down from the hill. The air was crisp and its bite tasted clean. The city was still lost in the distance. Alone in the woods, he felt content: well pleased with himself and his day. He was starting to tire but there was still energy in his legs for the return journey. He would be home in time for a late lunch. After a shower, he could collapse for a couple of hours before going to meet Becca from work. They planned on catching an early showing at the cinema before going on to a new Mexican restaurant in Cecil Street. They had both been looking forward to a night out; it would make a welcome break from the wedding planning and house improvements that seemed to be taking over their lives.
Harper grinned to himself. He reached down for his water bottle, then straightened up and stretched. Life was good.
On his way out, the smack of the cold air in his face made him giddy. Harper grabbed the door of the cafe in order to keep his balance. After blinking a couple of times to get his bearings, he laughed sourly before looking around at the busy city street, wondering which way the woman had gone.
It took him a few moments but then he saw her. She was still on the same side of the road and fifty yards or so ahead but moving slowly, her legs looking almost as unsteady as his. He watched her for a moment, the weave of dark stockinged legs beneath the tight black skirt and snug-fitting jacket bringi
ng a smile to his face. He wondered what she had done last night to leave her still so wobbly on her feet this morning.
He had meant to attract her attention while she was still in the cafe but she had left while he was paying a visit to the gents. By the time he straightened himself out and re-emerged there was just a lipstick-ringed cigarette butt in the ashtray next to where she had been sitting.
Taking a deep draught of fresh air, he straightened the collar of his old denim jacket. He set a course down the pavement, weaving to avoid fellow pedestrians and other obstacles like lampposts and cracks in the pavement. He had been starting to feel a bit fuddled sitting in the warmth of the cafe: brain made bleary by the combination of whisky, an empty stomach and central heating set too high. But out in the cool air again he felt brighter, more sober.
Harper followed the last section of track in a bone-jarring descent between high grassy banks. At the bottom was a field gate and then he and the bike were out onto Slocombe Lane. It was still shady down here and cold, several degrees below the temperature in the sunshine.
Harper shivered and switched up a couple of gears, hoping to warm up by making his legs work harder. He put his head down and concentrated on building up speed. White tarmac, unsalted and unthawed, rolled underneath his wheels. Each breath was sharp, the cold air verging on painful as he gulped it down. But the effort was making his thigh muscles start to burn and the excess heat they generated began to spread up into the rest of his body.
Bare hedges slipped by on either side and then the road swung to the right, sandwiched between the bulk of Beacon Ridge and the river. Ahead, towards the Eastern Mill, Harper could see bright sunshine. First though was a long curve where the road ran beneath a row of yew trees. Despite the effort of his pumping muscles, he shivered: the thick canopy of the yews seemed to soak up the light, making the air seem even colder here.
Harper was less than a hundred yards from the sunshine when he heard the car coming the other way. He looked up at the sound of the engine to see it appear around the bend, coming off the bridge. It was a red Peugeot estate. Turning into Slocombe Lane, the car’s windows flashed in the sunshine.
