by Paul Rice
Charlie walked up to the gang of youths, paused, and then gave the boys his special look, a look that was in no need of any further explanation: ‘Touch my car and I’ll kill you and all of your fucking family…’ They shuffled their feet and looked away. Seeing their capitulation, Charlie turned and walked into the store with a confident stride. He was more than capable of sorting-out any of them if they got clever, and they knew it. Seeing the size of the Mercedes’ driver, the gang turned and took another long look at the highly polished car. Then, deciding against anything stupid, they walked off down the street, laughing as they went.
In the silence of his car, James McBride turned the other way to watch the slow moving traffic filtering down the street past his side window. “The rat race going home for their tea of egg and chips, no doubt… screw that for a game of soldiers!” He sneered at their mundane routine and then reached for his brief case; it was time for a last look at the file that Julian had sent him last week. Hearing the driver’s door open, James lifted his head, fully expecting to see Charlie climbing into the seat with his cigars. His eyes widened – there was definitely a man getting into the seat, rather a large man, too. However, it wasn’t Charlie. McBride leaned forward, “Excuse me, but what the f…” Then the sight of the front passenger door also swinging open, stopped him in his tracks – his anger turned to fear. Swivelling his head towards the passenger door, he was just in time to take a mouthful of the aerosol that the second man sprayed into his face. It was only the tiniest squirt but the effect of the spray hit his senses like a swinging shovel. Fire and ice shot down his nose and throat. His whole being became frozen; the overwhelming smell of burning electricity filled his head. Slowly, like an unbalanced mannequin, he slid sideways and flopped onto the leather armrest next to him. In seconds, the silver Mercedes had pulled away from the sidewalk and melted into the dusk wrapped traffic. The potion he had inhaled was already beginning to work its magic upon his frozen neurons, it caused him to dream in Technicolor, vivid scenes of money and children, dead children, arrived to fill his mind. He twisted within himself, unconscious on the outside, and yet, on the inside – in his head – he was able to see those dreams. His sub-conscious writhed in abject fear, but no matter how hard he tried, James could not escape the bonds of his own, self-perpetuating remorse.
Charlie, emerging from the shop three minutes later, stood bemused under the iridescent glow of the flickering shop sign. He looked around, and then muttered to himself: “Fucking McBride, arrogant little shit!” It wasn’t the first time his boss had left him stranded, last time Charlie had been forced to get the Tube from right across the other side of the city. He shook his head in frustration and then wondered if his wife was still at work. “I need a new job,” he said, whilst knowing full well that he probably wouldn’t bother looking for one. Charlie reached for his telephone and located the speed dial for Heather, hearing the ring-tone, and without thinking, he unconsciously dumped his purchase into the overflowing bin next to him as he turned away to talk to his wife – his action was somewhat of a waste as they were rather fine cigars.
Chapter 2 - Ken’s Recovery
After awakening from his coma, it had taken Ken a further two weeks on the intensive care ward before he was transferred to a private hospital nearer to their Lodge in Scotland. Once there, bedded in his own room, the recovery he made was remarkable. Within three days of being in the comfortable surroundings, he had managed to rise from the bed and wobble his way into the en-suite bathroom. Jane had helped him, but in typical fashion he did most of the small journey on his own. Simply standing and relieving himself in a proper toilet for the first time in over eight weeks was a major achievement. He hated those damn cardboard piss bottles and the feeling of satisfaction, of being under his own steam, was a welcome one to the tall man. Laughing out loudly, Ken made a joke by spraying his urine up and down in long, golden arcs. “Check me out!” he said as he looked at his wife and smiled, green eyes shining in his thin face.
Jane shook her head and said, “Well, it certainly appears as though you’re on the mend, doesn’t it?”
“A couple more days and I’ll show you exactly how well I’m mended, baby!” Ken said, and grinned wickedly at his wife.
“Promises, promises,” she said, and then gave him an innocent, eyelash fluttering look of her own. It was just the motivation Ken needed, they both laughed again and then turned back to the bedroom, Ken leaning on Jane’s shoulder as he hobbled back inside. He still had a titanium rod inserted through his thigh bone, which the hospital staff had said would probably stay there for about another year. However, at the rate he was recovering then maybe it would be only six months, Ken reckoned on half that time, personally. The leg didn’t inconvenience him too much but it was very weak and he couldn’t wait to get some physiotherapy done. When Mike had visited him, the Australian had called Ken: “Kids legs!” Looking down and seeing at how much muscle had wasted away from the leg, Ken was inclined to agree with Mike’s sarcasms, he was glad they had removed the external fixator as the sight of its long, metal screws piercing his thigh had made him feel sick every time he looked at them, it was that and the fact they itched like hell. “Good riddance to them!” He grimaced at the memory of the itchy bolts and then gently fingered his cheek bone. It had healed well and all that remained was a small, spearhead shaped scar just below his eye. The Doc said that some basic plastic surgery would remove the scar completely, Ken thought plastic surgery should only be for those whom had been seriously scarred, or maybe had a bad birth defect, in his book anything else was just vanity and he was sure that he would quite happily be able to live with the thumbnail sized scar. Ken had looked at him in such a way that the doctor couldn’t prevent the shake of his own head. Quietly, he admired the tall man and told Jane that he wished that some of his other more self centred patients, could take a leaf out of her husband’s book.
She had laughed and replied: “Yeah, he’s always been the same. Ken thinks he’s made of rock, but let me tell you, he’s as soft as a baby’s bum, it’s all show – just a big soft marshmallow is what he really is?” She had nodded gently towards her sleeping husband.
The doctor grinned back, but he doubted her words, he had seen the scars on her husband’s body from previous injuries and had spent a lot of time in reading the notes about his latest trauma. He knew that anyone who could come through those types of injuries and still be alive… never mind up and walking… was unlikely to have been made of some fluffy pink candy. “No, this one was as tough as they come – bloody nice guy, too!” He let his thoughts cross his face and smiled once more before heading off on his rounds again.
After another week and several intensive CT scans on his head, the Consultant had said that Ken could go home. It was one of the happiest days of his life. The hospital was driving him crazy and as much as he thoroughly appreciated all they had done for him, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. They had filled the hole in his head with some kind of resin; the plate in the back of his skull would remain with him forever, as would the physical scars which surrounded his other injuries. Apart from those scars he was basically good to go, there would be the need for an occasional check up, but in general – rest, a good diet and plenty of exercise were the only prescriptions he was given. And so, after some emotional farewells, he and Jane had left the hospital without looking back.
Three months of doing exactly what the doctor had ordered, saw Ken almost back to full fitness. The fresh air and fine food, endless walks, runs, and mountain-bike rides, turned his somewhat weakened frame back into the stringy person he’d been up until a chunk of flying metal, and the dreams, had changed everything. He had been right about the pin in his leg, too. The surgeon was very pleased with his progress and said it could be removed much sooner than at first thought, so, after another bout of surgery followed by some heavy physio, all that remained was a nice scar and a slight limp. With some hard work the limp eventually disappeared as well.
Ken had not had a single dream, not since the last one, the big one about dying. He remembered seeing Jane in the light but after that it seemed his mind’s only need was some rest, and it didn’t permit any interfering dreams to interrupt the healing process. Ken slept a lot. Long, deep restful sleeps. He remembered the dream he’d had about the Angelica Star – every detail was crystal clear in his mind about the Ship and about Red. The pebble and the Zippo lighter, which Mike had left for him, only deepened the mystery – had it really happened? He wasn’t sure, but strangely enough he felt quite logical about it, deep inside Ken knew it wasn’t over yet and half of him wondered what the next move would be. The thought was such a vivid one and wouldn’t seem to leave his mind, there would be another move, of that he was sure. In the meantime he intended to enjoy his life and have some good times with Jane; it had been a long while since they had shared so much time together. Ken spent hours watching her paint. She was a natural artist and simply watching the flowing strokes of her brushes would send him into a near trance. It was so relaxing, just sitting and watching her as the pictures appeared like magic from the finely bristled tips of her tools. Jane had quite a collection of paintings in the garage, stored under a cover next to Ken’s motorcycle. She had even managed to sell a few, mostly to friends who would not accept them as gifts, they always protested at her generosity, saying things like: “They’re way too good!” before eventually forcing some cash onto her. The rest of her pictures were hung here and there upon the walls of the Lodge. Jane’s paintings were one of life’s pleasures to Ken, and he always looked forward to watching her work.
He also looked forward to seeing Mike again. Ken had only seen him the once during his time in hospital, but at the time had been so spaced out on painkillers that he could only remember Mike giving him some abuse about being scrawny, or something? Ken hadn’t spoken to the Australian since then and the only communication had been in the form of a text message he’d received from a weird number, one that he didn’t recognise. The text message had read: ‘All well, business taken care of. Be with you soon. George will be in touch.’ It had ended with one word: ‘Mike’. When Ken had tried to return the text, the screen on his mobile flashed once, turned green, and then as he watched in disbelief, the message deleted itself. Yeah, Ken was pretty damned sure there was more to come – in fact he relished the idea. His only problem, as such, lay in the fact that he was still trying to figure out a way in which to explain everything to his wife. “She’s going to think that I’ve lost the bloody plot…” The thought worried him, but he needed to share this with her, needed to get it out of his own head. Finally, Ken decided to just give it to her straight and tell her exactly what he thought had happened, the whole fantastic tale, all of it.
The depths of winter were upon the Scottish Highlands and the frosty mornings made the beautiful place look even more like a postcard than was usual. The white peaks of surrounding hills, framing the shimmering lochs as they lay dourly below the hill’s lofty stance. Dark grey clouds scooted past overhead, bringing the promise of snow in their wake, their fantastical shapes playing tricks with the mind, conjuring up images of dragons, clowns faces, and that man on skidoo, perhaps? A moment spent watching their passing could suddenly turn into hours and one could spend as much time staring upwards as they could looking at the reflections in the glittering black mirrors of the lochs tranquil surface below. Amongst such beauty, husband and wife were out early once again, as they were every day. The steam filled breath flying in long ribbons from their mouths, the cutting freshness of icy air reaching into their souls. Racing down the gravel tracks with their knobbly tyres slipping and sliding as they fought to keep the mountain bikes from throwing them into the verges. Jane laughed behind him. “Be careful, Kenny, if you crash then we’ll back to square one, you maniac!” It didn’t stop her from trying to pass him up the inside, though. Her long legs pumping furiously as she and Ken tore back to the Lodge, bumping and jolting down the track to their house. The loser had to make breakfast – sometimes Ken truly lost the race, and sometimes he simply felt like cooking.
The one thing he had definitely lost, amazingly, was the desire to smoke. He had been a heavy smoker for years, but now it never even crossed his mind. The hospital had said it was probably the length of time he’d been without a cigarette, but could also have been as a direct result of the accident. He laughed about it with Jane. “Now there’s a good business for us, the ultimate smoking cure, we smash ‘em on the head with an iron bar and then they give up smoking, simple… we could make a fortune!” She gave him such a dry look that he burst into laughter again. Gradually, over the weeks, he had begun to tell Jane his tale, and little by little he let her in to his mind. Then, before he realised it his story had become a rush and Ken couldn’t stop telling her. He spent a lot of time explaining to her about the hyenas and their greed – he talked about water and oil, and of the device that George had said would have cured all their problems. He told her in detail about George, and of the Angelica Star, in fact, he told Jane everything. She always sat motionless as she allowed his tale to enter her deepest thoughts, occasionally she would ask a question or, perhaps, get him to clarify something in particular. Generally though, she mostly sat and simply listened.
When Ken told her about the Zippo and the Stone, she raised her eyebrows and said: “I wonder what they mean, seeing them in the dream was one thing, but now?” She looked across to where the two very real items sat on the mantelpiece.
Ken glanced at them and replied: “I have no idea, sweetheart, George told me the lighter was like a token, you know, something real to hold onto? But the Stone, Jesus… it’s even got the mark where Red spat on it!” He looked up at her in disbelief.
Jane said, “When Mike left them on your table at the hospital, I didn’t realise their significance at all.” She had shown them to Ken soon after he had awoken, in the hope that maybe they would cheer him up a bit, but by the look on his face at the time, Ken had been anything but ‘cheered up’.
Ken looked at her and said. “Don’t worry, this time I don’t have the fear like before. It was just the shock of seeing them, I guess.” He smiled at her, and nodded towards the Stone and its guilty partner. Those two items had definitely made him think, yes, Ken thought about them right enough, thought about them a lot.
Jane smiled back. “Fear, I didn’t think you got scared, my love?” She knew there were things that she still didn’t know about Ken – things that she would probably never know.
Ken looked at his wife, thought for a while, and then said, “Yeah, it was fear, but not really? All the time, last time, I had this deep sense of unease, you know… I knew it was wrong, the whole thing felt bad in my gut. It just felt like it was all gonna go to rat shit at any moment. I could hear myself, inside, and I wasn’t very happy!” He laughed and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Now, well I don’t know that it did go wrong, I’m here and I feel good, better than I’ve done for a long while, to be honest. Mikey is alive and kicking, although God knows where, I wish the bugger would call me!” He looked across at where his mobile telephone lay on the side, then shrugged once more and lay back on the rug. Jane threw some more logs on the fire and they talked for a while longer until Ken reached the end of the current tale, then he smiled at her, yawned, and slumped back onto the cushions where he soon dozed off. She looked down at him and shook her head, the way in which he managed to just fall asleep anywhere and at any time, was amazing. It was later that night, whilst doing some more sleeping, that Ken had a dream. It was the first dream he’d had in a long time and it had been even longer since the last time he’d encountered this particular dream. It was the one from his past, a nightmare from long ago and one he was kind of hoping that he had forgotten.
He smelt it coming…
Chapter 3 - Past Odours
It seems as though he hadn’t forgotten those days after all, especially no the smell. It was an odour that Ken remembered vividly, one he
had tried to shut out of his life without success. He knew what that particular smell meant and where it came from too, a place he hadn’t been for many years, a place from his past, an awful place he used to visit in his nightmares. With reluctance he let his eyes open, let himself be propelled by the Dream Maker through the blackened door in front of him. The one marked ‘Bad Memories’…
He heard himself deny it. “Please, not this again! I’ve finished with this, dealt with it, and it’s over, finished, please…” He heard his voice echo forlornly in the blackness of his own mind and then he was running – the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears – sprinting towards the cloud of smoke and dust as it rose above the market place. The distant screaming of voices bounced around his head and mixed with the pounding of his feet. They, and those of his comrades, hammered the cobbles as they raced into the square, raced headlong together into hell once more. It was right there and then, back then, back in the real world all those many years ago, when the young Ken had decided that ‘Life’, as such, was shit. As he had stood amongst the remains of bodies and fruit, standing and watching the blood and juice run in thick rivulets between the cobbles, that Ken had known his life would never be the same again. The smell of cordite and death had filled his nose with its awful, burnt, visceral stench. Right now, right here in this dreaming present, he had to go through it again.
