by Wes Markin
So, despite these men’s great loss, which was torturous, and nagged at them constantly for a rash response, they’d been patient. Over several clandestine meetings, they’d formulated a plan. The pigs had been drugged by a man who had been working on the farm for the past few months. It hadn’t taken a king’s ransom to convince him. The man had seen ‘depraved acts,’ referred to his employer as a ‘vile individual,’ and had considered it his ‘solemn duty as a god-fearing man’ to assist in the plot against him.
One soldier pointed overhead at the raven. It circled and drew dark veins on the full moon.
‘Bad luck,’ one whispered.
‘In twos or threes, maybe. There’s just one,’ another hissed.
‘Even so, whose bad luck? I think the luck of the bastard farmer has just run out.’
The pack of wronged soldiers came in their uniforms. They were proud of their achievements. They’d fought for King and Country. Won for King and Country.
The least they could expect was a welcome return. One full of happiness and love.
Into the arms of their families. Except…
There was a problem. The pig farmer had taken their children.
***
2015
PAUL SAW THAT there was no reception on his mobile phone and shivered.
But really? What had he expected? The middle-of-nowhere had always been very good at cutting off contact from the outside world.
Acknowledging his foolish actions, he glanced back at his mother’s vehicle; illegally driven here because he was only sixteen and had no driving licence. He’d parked it alongside several gnarled trees.
A branch curled out the largest tree like a finger beckoning to him. He struggled to tear his eyes from it. It was a significant branch on a significant tree. Dripping with history.
This was why he came here. For history. His history.
He turned back to the farmyard. It was a cold night, but not a wet one, and the skies were clear. A large black bird rose and fell above him, etching inky black lines into the full moon.
He began his journey into the eighty-eight-acre farm questioning the wisdom of this impulsive trip. The grass came up to his knees, and shrubbery clawed at him, but despite the explosion of life that nature brought, the place itself felt long dead.
Fences that used to house the pigs lay broken and smashed. Barns looked decrepit, and the farm house that he now drew nearer to looked skeletal. Parts of the roof had fallen away, and ivy had torn through the walls.
Maybe that was all he needed? Knowledge that the place had fallen. That it was all over. That the Rays were no more?
So, why was he still going? Why had he not turned for the car?
Probably, because it wasn’t strictly true, was it? The Rays were still here.
He was a Ray.
Not his mother. No. She’d had a lot of misfortune in her life, but that wasn’t part of it; she’d only married into the diseased line and adopted the name. So, he was, potentially, the last of the Rays – depending on whether his aunt, Lacey Ray, was still alive. And, he thought, it would probably be better if she wasn’t.
As he neared the farmhouse, he started to sweat despite the cold. The weight in his left hand was becoming a real burden.
He stopped metres from the farmhouse, he closed his eyes and pictured that young nurse broken and bloody on the pathway, riddled with pellets. He turned and looked at the old barn to his left. The murderer, Thomas Ray, had been found dead and mutilated in there years later.
He wasn’t at all surprised that this place had been a thorn in the council’s side for so long now. This place would never be bought. These may be less religious and superstitious times, but the things that happened here? Could anyone really deny the existence of evil?
He took a deep breath and looked up at the circling black bird.
Now the last of the Rays was back. Back in this blood-drenched hell hole.
He marched down the pathway lugging the plastic fuel can.
***
1918
THE PACK OF wronged soldiers made their move.
Frank, the older of the soldiers, and most natural leader among them, grabbed the farmer while he slept.
***
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A LESSON IN CRIME
A DCI Michael Yorke Quick Read
Your student years should be the most carefree years of your life.
Not for Michael Yorke.
When a student party ends in violent murder, Michael Yorke begins to realise he harbours a fascination with crime which goes way beyond the norm.
Driven to discover the truth behind a series of murders which shocks the university community, Yorke turns his back on those closest to him: his girlfriend, Charlotte, and his best friend, Brandon.
With bloody and disastrous consequences
A super-fast one-hour thrill ride, which will define the relentless and compassionate police officer who stars in One Last Prayer for the Rays
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About the Author
Wes Markin is a hyperactive English teacher, who loves writing crime fiction with a twist of the macabre.
Born in 1978, Wes grew up in Manchester, UK. After graduating from Leeds University, he spent fifteen years as a teacher of English, and has taught in Thailand, Malaysia and China. Now as a teacher, writer, husband and father, he is currently living in Harrogate, UK.
Stay in touch
To keep up-to-date with new publications, tours and promotions, or if you are interested in being a beta reader for future novels, or having the opportunity to enjoy pre-release copies please follow me:
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Review
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