The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  His reflection did not.

  Grabbing a flannel, he began to rub gently at the knuckles, making sure no glass fragments remained, as a prickling cold began to work its way up his spine, a cold that had nothing to do with the water and everything to do with creeping realisation. He slowly stopped scrubbing and simply stood, his mind unable to process what it thought it had witnessed.

  He quashed his ridiculous fear and looked up. His cracked reflection was staring back at him, same worn out face as ever; brown hair, green eyes, faint stubble. He looked left, then right. His reflection did the same. He let out with a great sigh the breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding – smiling with relief that it was only his tired mind playing tricks on him. His reflection gave him a reassuring wink as though in agreement with his thoughts.

  All in your head, Graeme. All in your head.

  Stone screamed.

  ***

  He ran, the deluge plastering his t-shirt to his bony torso, the thin, blue, Tesco own-brand jacket he was wearing no protection against the elements. His asthmatic chest heaved with exertion, his legs burned and his feet were sodden from pounding through the puddles of standing water on the pavement, but no matter how far he ran he couldn’t get away.

  The laughter; it followed him.

  He’d finally cracked. Finally gone mad. He’d put a brave face on everything that he’d gone through over the years; the emigration of his parents, the neglectful missus, the soul-sucking grind. But finally he’d snapped. But the doctors could help; they could give him something. He stopped for a second, bent double, fighting for breath, then the mocking whispers began again. With a desperate groan, he forced himself onwards and they receded behind him once more. He turned the corner and hope blazed through the rain in the form of a white and blue neon sign; NHS Walk In Centre.

  He laughed manically and powered towards the glass double-doors. He slammed into them hard, yanking on the handle, pushing, then pulling, but they wouldn’t open. The lights were on, the rows of chairs, the desk, the obligatory yucca, all seemed in order. He rattled the doors again, same result – locked! Searching around desperately he noticed an A4 sheet of paper blue-tacked to the inside of the door: CLOSED FOR STAFF TRAINNG.

  Tears began to sting his eyes as his desperation grew. The taunting voices all about him now, mocking this latest in a twenty-five year string of failures; insidious, relentless whispering that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Banging his fists in futile frustration at the reinforced glass, Stone let out a scream of rage and impotence. Gathering himself as best he could, he span and looked about like a wild animal, trying to think where to go next for help. The voices were getting loud, less whispers now and more like a conversation from across a room. They made it so hard to think. Then the sound of sirens howling in the night snapped him to attention.

  He set off at a run, in the direction of the police station.

  ***

  “We look like twats” commented PC Steve Webb, for the third time that evening.

  His traditional bobby’s helmet funnelled the rain water perfectly into his eyes, no matter what angle he tilted his head and the plastic of the rain-mac he wore on top of his uniform was that of the thinnest, cheapest bin-bag; the kind that tears to ribbons as you try to pull it out of your bin at anything over half full.

  “Cheer up, Steve!” grinned PC Rob Yearsley, walking the beat at his side. “If it’s pissing it down hard enough to wear these,” he gestured at his own mac, “then no-one’s gonna be out and about to see us!”

  Typical Rob, thought PC Webb, looking over at the tall, gangly youth. Give him a few more years on the beat, that’ll drum the misery into him. To be truthful, the grumpy Northerner was grateful for PC Yearsley’s incessant optimism, not that he’d ever admit it. The Leicestershire Constabulary was hardly the most exciting gig. As the name suggested, ‘The Heart of Rural England’ was not exactly crime capital of the world. Twenty years on the beat and now PC Webb’s every day blurred into one, each day as boring as the last. At least having a fresh face around livened things up.

  The rain intensified for a minute, driving the two officers into a shop doorway. The shelter was welcome and PC Webb pulled his helmet off for a moment, running his hand through his damp, greying hair, a look of absolute exasperation etched on his lined features.

  “Here,” he said, passing his helmet to PC Yearsley to hold. “Give us a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges, before sticking one in his mouth and lighting up. Yearsley knew better than to argue about the legality of sparking up on duty, but his eyes said everything Webb needed to hear.

  “Oh, give over, Rob. I look like a drowned rat, I deserve this.”

  The other bobby looked unconvinced. Webb sighed and took a deep drag.

  “We’re walking past the chippy in a minute – give me five minutes out of this damned rain and there’s a chip cob in it for you.”

  That got a grin, as he knew it would; the younger officer’s appetite was legendary. How he stayed so thin was a miracle, thought Webb, one hand unconsciously patting the middle-aged spread beneath his uniform.

  His train of thought was broken at the sound of splashing footsteps running down the street towards their position. With a curse, Webb flicked his half-finished cigarette to the floor, grinding it underfoot, just as a bedraggled youth came haring past. The two officers put their helmets back on and ventured out again into the downpour, rain-macs flapping at their sides in the stiff wind. Yearsley cupped his hands.

  “Oi! You alright, mate?”

  The runner slowed to a halt and turned as the PCs walked up to him. His face flushed with exertion, his clothes plastered to his spare frame.

  “Bloody hellfire,” Webb remarked. “Y’alright lad? You’re running like all the hounds of hell are after you!”

  The youth looked at them with a curious mixture of relief and desperation, then opened his mouth to speak. He stood there for a second, not saying anything, confusion playing over his features. Yearsley took a step forward.

  “What’s up, mate? Spit it out, it’s pissing it down out here and none of us are getting drier!”

  The youth’s look of confusion began to morph, first to fear, then to abject wide-eyed terror.

  “W…what are you? Why won’t you leave me alone?” he cried out, taking a step back. Yearsley took another step forward, but the youth pushed him away, sending him sprawling on the ground, before sprinting off into the storm in the direction of the industrial estate on the edge of town.

  “Oh for pity’s sake” chuntered Webb under his breath as he hauled his companion to his feet. “We’ve got ourselves a druggy. Gonna have to wait for that butty. Get back here!”

  The PCs gave chase.

  ***

  Stone ran and ran, lungs screaming for air, but he couldn’t evade the - the things that were chasing him. At first he’d thought them coppers, thought himself safe, but that was just a lie. They were in league with the voices. He knew it; the tall, freakish heads, the wings. They were monsters.

  And they were only a hundred yards behind him!

  Darting into a dark alley between two factories, he stopped for a second to catch his breath. The voices crowded in on him and he fell to his knees, hands clutched to his ears.

  “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

  Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

  The mocking voices copied him like schoolchildren.

  The splashing of feet through puddles heralded the arrival of the monsters and he leapt up, adrenaline lending fresh haste to his weary limbs. Eyes darted about the alleyway for an escape route, finally settling on a ladder, and a quick dash saw him five rungs up, even as the monsters rounded the corner in pursuit. Eyes screwed tight against the stinging rain, he hauled himself up the three storeys the ladder climbed. Clambering over the parapet and onto the flooded roof, he risked a glance down.

  The monsters had reached the ladder and w
ere climbing fast.

  The lead one looked up and saw him, roaring menacingly. Stone backed away from the parapet, turned and ran. Leaping over a pipe, he looked ahead and saw some large air-conditioning units at the far edge of the roof. Acting on pure instinct he ran and scrambled up the slippy metal machinery. Sheer momentum nearly carried him clean off the edge and his feet squeaked to a stop, his arms waving in the air as he balanced precariously on the precipice before taking a step back. A bestial roar from behind made him turn.

  His insides turned to ice as his two pursuers, slowly, purposefully, stalked towards him.

  ***

  The lightning flashed, illuminating the windswept rooftop and the monsters closing in. Suddenly clambering up on the narrow air-conditioning units with a sheer fifty foot drop on one side didn’t seem such a good defensive move. The voices mocked his rash decision. They were clearer now, stronger, more insistent, as though sensing some climax soon to come and wanting to get in as many jibes as possible before it happened. The deep, booming rumble of thunder drowned them out momentarily and his shaking legs gave way. Falling to his knees, the thin metal flexed under his slight weight as, again, he clasped his hands to his ears and cried out into the night.

  His fevered mind raced as it sought to understand the rapidity with which events had unfolded. It was as though his life was unravelling, as though everything he had worked for in the last twenty-five years, all his achievements, were crumbling to ash in the space of a few short hours.

  Achievements? The voices laughed, like the whispering of leaves on a windy autumn day. What achievements? The D Grades you got at school, leaving you stranded at home while all your friends went off to university to make something of themselves?

  “No!” He gritted his teeth and shook his head from side to side like a rabid dog. “Shut up!”

  Or the girlfriend you held on to for far too long, leaving you to weep quietly into your pot noodle, while all night she was off drinking, dancing, rutting with him… And not just him, but the others too, all the many others…

  “Why?” he yelled. “Why are you saying these things?”

  Why? the voices echoed. Why did you hold onto that bitch, hmm? Was it to make up for the fact that everyone else had left you? You’d rather have someone who didn’t love you than no-one at all? Think of all those who’ve left you. Your friends, all now high-flyers. Your family, now in Australia. Why do you think your parents left you behind, Graeme? Why? It’s because you’re a loser…

  The lightning flashed again and, with a stomach-churning jot, he realised the monsters were slowly climbing up the side of the air-conditioning units, making their way inexorably towards him, growling a low, measured, menacing growl.

  “What do you want? Go away!” he screamed, backing slowly away, always facing them.

  Under the trainer of his back foot he felt the metal edge of the machine and, looking down, he felt a sudden wash of vertigo at the drop below.

  We only want the best for you, Graeme. You were born a loser and always will be a loser. Do you think life will get any better for you? No; women will always abuse you. Your bosses will always use you. And your parents will never want you. Do you want that, Graeme? Do you want that life?

  The monsters were on top of the unit now, growling, wings flapping in the gusts of wind, rain pouring down their misshapen domed heads as they inched their way closer.

  These things want you to suffer that life, Graeme. They want you to stay in misery, alone and unwanted. A nothing.

  Tears rolled down Stone’s face as he blubbed uncontrollably. Unbidden, images of all his past failures flashed through his mind as though on fast-forward. Lost loves, failed exams, job interviews he’d never heard back from. Twenty-five years of constant struggle and heartache with nothing to show for it but a shitty apartment, a pile of bills and a fractured mind.

  “No,” he gurgled. “I… I just want it to stop…” The waves of depression rolled over him, powerful, as though a dam had burst somewhere and a massive back-pressure was forcing them in. “I can’t go on like this, I just CAN’T!”

  Then you know what to do…

  ***

  PC Webb blinked furiously, the rainwater stinging his eyes. Slowly, slowly he edged his way forwards towards the man, his every footstep measured on the slippery metal surface.

  “Easy, lad” he cooed, softly. “Easy does it. I’m coming to get you.”

  PC Yearsley was a couple of steps behind him, youthful eyes wide open with fear and tension. Talking druggies down from the tops of factory roofs on stormy nights was not part of basic training at Hendon. Webb inched a tiny bit closer; he was five feet from the man, now, close enough to dart forward and make a grab for him. He raised his hand a fraction. The distressed youth saw the slight movement and screamed.

  “No! I don’t want it! I can’t take it! You can’t make me!”

  He span on the spot and leapt into thin air, just as Webb surged forwards, hands outstretched and grasping. Lightning flashed close by, momentarily blinding the two officers, the rumbling soul-shatteringly loud, as though the Earth itself was being ripped in two. Slowly it faded away until the only sound was that of the rain hurling itself against the metal underfoot. The acrid taste of metal filled their mouths, as though they were sucking on a two-pence piece.

  Seconds passed.

  “Steve?”

  PC Webb turned, his face impassive, his eyes vacant. Looking down at his fist, Yearsley saw the torn remnants of a cheap, blue coat. The younger officer let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes for a second. Drawing deep, he plucked up the tattered reserves of his courage and walked to the edge of the building. He looked down.

  “Steve…?” No response. “Steve!”

  “…what?”

  The younger officer turned to look at his companion. “Where’s he gone?”

  The older officer stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, then moved to join him. Looking down into the alleyway a lethal fifty feet below, sure enough there was nothing; no mangled body, no grisly remains. The empty, wind-swept alley defying all logic.

  “…bloody hellfire.”

  Chapter Two

  It was the cold that woke him. It was the kind of cold that bit and kept on biting, like a terrier with a rat. It howled at him from across oblivion, shattering the silence and bringing white, harsh light into the peaceful dark, like a diver bursting from the calm, serene depths of the ocean into the violent, foamy broth of its stormy surface. An amorphous and vague sense of self was forced into coalescence, as stinging pain outlined the shape of limbs; arms, hands, legs.

  Stone opened his eyes.

  Pure, brilliant whiteness bleached his retinas. With his newly discovered arms he pushed himself upright, hands sinking deep into the wetness of the thick, powdery snow and eyes blinking in the harsh and unfamiliar light. A strange, metallic taste filled his mouth. Looking about, he saw that he was in a crisp, sloped snowfield. All about the edges of the clearing, tall, dark, coniferous trees packed densely, rising off in one direction and, in the other, descending into the hidden depths of a wintry valley. Visibility was poor, his eyes squinting as the gusting wind carried sharp flakes of snow that stung his cheeks. His breath misted in front of him in the arctic air and with limbs stiff from lying in the cold he hauled himself onto his feet.

  A sudden gust of wind staggered him and he nearly fell, the icy chill tearing through his thin, sodden clothes with frightening ease. The shock of the cold stole the breath from his lungs and he instinctively clasped his arms to his spare frame. Another gust and a flurry of snow; the weather was taking a turn for the worse. He span about, seeking shelter, knowing that he must get out of the open field and find a place to hide from the elements and soon. He took the path of least resistance and started making his way down the slope, gravity lending a helping hand.

  Entering the treeline, the strength of the wind lessened slightly, but he carried on for another hundred yards until the clustered t
runks of the trees that crowded about formed a natural windbreak, shielding him from all but the worst of the gusts. Now, free from the distraction of the wind, he took a moment to take stock of his situation.

  His clothes were sodden through, from the trainers on his feet to his blue coat. Strangely, they smelt of rain rather than snow. His back, in particular, felt icy cold. He took off his coat and examined it; a torn hole slap-bang in the centre went some way to explaining. He threw the ruined coat to the floor and sighed, attempting to think back to before the snowfield, trying to remember how he’d come to be in this predicament. He knew his name, of that much he was sure. But all before the snowfield was hazy. He remembered the darkness before he awoke, what seemed like an unending void with no sound or light. He remembered the aftershocks of some loud noise and the strong taste of tin.

  He tried to think back even further…

  “Aargh!” He fell to his knees, a stabbing pain lancing his brain. Moments passed and it began to fade, leaving but the bitter memory. He shook his head, breathing hard and gave up trying to remember for now. He closed his eyes for a moment and leant backwards in an attempt to get a moment’s rest against a tree-trunk. Leaping forwards with a yelp he turned with incredulous eyes to examine the offending bark. It was not smooth, like that of any tree he’d seen before, but instead coated in thousands upon thousands of pointy thorns. He tentatively reached out and touched the tip of one with his finger, to be rewarded with a pinprick of blood; they were razor sharp. Upon looking at his finger he noticed myriad cuts on the back of his hand, all over his knuckles. They looked reasonably fresh, the blood barely congealed but he couldn’t remember receiving them. The throbbing echoes of his previous episode deterred him from dwelling too long on the subject.

  The bright, white snow beneath his feet was beginning to lose its lustre and, looking into the darkening sky, he knew that evening must be drawing in. He began to shiver. Soon it would be dark and he knew that his tattered attire would not see him through the night. Shelter must be his first priority. A hollow, a cave, anywhere he could get out of the wind and snow entirely.