Sanctuary 12 (Fallen Gods Saga) Read online

  FALLEN GODS

  Sanctuary 12

  by

  TW Malpass

  Published by Sericia

  Copyright © T.W. Malpass, 2013

  You can find news of upcoming titles by T.W. Malpass at:

  www.fallen-gods.com

  Editing: Kate Dunn

  Cover Art: Michael Buxton

  eBook formatting: Guido Henkel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

  For Damien, Jason and Jessie. Your strength and dignity breaks my heart.

  FOREWORD

  This novel features several real locations, as well as many fictional ones. People familiar with these towns and cities will notice that I have been very imaginative with their geography in order to best serve the story. I hope you will forgive this humble writer for his transgressions.

  The Tourist

  1

  Finsbury Park, London-1936

  A breeze swept through Belmoral Street, one that chilled Harold Manning to the bone. Dithering, he wrapped his chunky cardigan about his waist. The old scarecrow was approaching eighty-two, so being out in this kind of uncompromising weather was asking for trouble. Normally he wouldn’t even peep out from his front door, but today was different. Today his concern for his neighbour outweighed the comfort of an open fire. It was a Sunday morning and only a handful of children played further along the road. Aside from their scampering footsteps and laughter, no other soul could be heard.

  Just when Manning thought he might give in to the cold, a figure appeared at the bottom of the street on a bicycle. As he drew closer, even Manning’s weary eyes could distinguish this distant figure as the person he’d been catching his death waiting for. The man’s size dwarfed the two-wheeled frame beneath him. He flinched left and right, struggling with the handlebars, trying desperately to keep his balance. His oval helmet was too large for his head, and in his effort had slipped forward, obscuring most of his vision. On more than one occasion, the bike’s front tyre nearly struck the pavement, threatening to send the out-of-shape constable tumbling onto the frosted concrete. Although bitterly cold, the sky was clear. The early morning sun bounced up from the ice, catching the silver adorning the constable’s helmet, the buttons on his midnight blue jacket and the chain clinging to his pocket watch, though the flattering sunlight failed to transform him into a knight in shining armour. Manning was not impressed. The constable drew up alongside him, panting and sweating profusely from his hairline. Manning tutted. Even he, in his weakened state, would have made it up Belmoral Street with more dignity, bicycle or not. The police constable rested his bicycle against the garden wall next to him, trying to gather himself with deep, laboured breaths.

  ‘Are you Harold Manning, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I am, Constable’ Manning replied.

  ‘Obviously I’m here about your call to the station.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Manning sniffed. As far as he was concerned, the constable would need to redeem himself considerably following his entrance.

  ‘Okay, sir. At which house does your neighbour reside?’

  ‘That one.’ Manning pointed towards the red brick house with the bay windows attached to his own. The pair stood out, neo-Georgian in a street of no-nonsense Victorian architecture.

  ‘I’m Constable Brower, by the way,’ the policeman said. He readjusted his helmet, pulling on the black polished strap underneath his chin. On release, it disappeared immediately into the folds around his jowls.

  ‘Constable.’ Harold Manning replied with a curt nod. He was in no mood for pleasantries. It did not look as if this so-called policeman would be of use any time soon.

  Brower still didn’t have his breath back. ‘So when was the last time that you saw, erm…’

  ‘Mr Cradleworth—Mr Charles Cradleworth,’ Manning said. ‘It was five days ago, Tuesday morning of last week. I remember it specifically because I was standing in the living room when he waved to me on his way to work.’

  ‘And where is it that he works, sir?’ Brower asked.

  ‘In the city. He’s a stockbroker, a very good one by all accounts. He’s been very helpful to me in the past.’

  ‘Has he.’ Brower scribbled laboriously into his leather-bound notebook.

  ‘Look, Constable, I don’t mean to be pressing, but I’m sure it’s clear to both of us that there is something wrong here,’ Manning croaked with annoyance.

  Brower cleared his wheezing lungs and puffed out his chest. ‘Now you’re absolutely certain that Tuesday morning was the last time you saw Mr Cradleworth?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ Manning’s croak intensified. It didn’t take long for his patience to wear thin with anyone, and Brower’s chubby, cartoon cheeks and bushy moustache were starting to grate on his nerves. ‘Nor have I seen Nancy, his wife, or his two children, Dotty and William.’

  ‘Are you saying that since Tuesday, the entire family has vanished?’ Brower raised his eyebrows and waited for a reply.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, which is why I called the station in the first place. I’m not a time-waster, or a lonely old fantasist. I would have noticed something was wrong much earlier but I don’t get out much now,’ Manning said. ‘My knees make it virtually impossible to walk any great distance, and I’m certainly not equipped for this cold anymore—so shall we get inside?’ Brower straightened himself in response. It was obvious to Manning that this particular bobby had performed nothing more heroic in his past than helping the elderly across the road, or chasing and failing to catch mischievous youngsters.

  ‘Alright, Mr Manning, escort me to the back of the house and we’ll take a look,’ Brower said.

  With disdain, Manning ushered the constable through his modest house into the back garden, where they were able to climb over the low dividing wall. The brickwork of the classic building took on a deep red under the early morning sun and glistened as the previous night’s frost began to thaw. The Cradleworth’s back garden was small and well maintained, with a beautiful water feature at its centre. Nancy had seen it, instantly loved it, and persuaded Charles to buy it for her. Brower squinted through the glass of the window into the kitchen, pressing one of his marshmallow hands against his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. Everything looked neat and tidy around the sink and surfaces, but there were no visible signs of life. Pulling away, he noticed that the back door, rather than being closed shut, only rested against its frame.

  ‘That can’t be,’ Manning said, the colour draining from his face. ‘I came around here to check before I even called the station. The door was closed, and I’m certain it was locked. I tried to open it.’

  ‘Couldn’t this mean you may have been mistaken, and the Cradleworth’s are very much at large?’ Brower asked.

  Manning sighed, certain that Brower was hoping beyond hope his assumption was correct. ‘I would have known, I would have noticed. I’m almost always at home. I hear every sound, every creaking floor board.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Brower didn’t want to argue. He had a domineering wife at home. He didn’t want confrontations
at work if he could avoid them. He also didn’t want Harold Manning to file a complaint to the station. His reluctance to take action had already landed him in hot water with his Sergeant. Brower’s intake of breath relieved the pressure on the helmet strap that cut into the flesh under his chin. Leaning his shoulder into the door, he gave it a firm shove and it opened with a small popping sound. ‘Hello…Mr Cradleworth, Mrs Cradleworth, is anyone at home?’ His voice echoed through the quiet of the kitchen. The only sounds to be heard were the faint shouts of the children playing in the street. ‘Sir—Madam?’ The constable tried again, to no avail. With Manning at his side, he edged his way into the centre room. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the rooms in the house—sparse, cold and unwelcoming. ‘Are you absolutely certain the Cradleworth’s haven’t just gone on their holidays?’

  Manning stiffened, not looking quite as frail all of a sudden. ‘Constable Brower, forgive me, but I’m old, not senile. I have known this family for the best part of ten years. I think I would know if they had gone away on holiday. For one thing, Charles or Nancy would have told me. Besides,’ Manning pointed a bony finger at the black leather case at the foot of the stairs, ‘there’s Charles’ briefcase. There is no way on God’s green earth that he would ever step from his front door without it.’

  ‘When you saw Mr Cradleworth on his way to work on Tuesday, did he have it with him?’

  Manning paused, thinking long and hard. ‘I…I don’t remember.’

  ‘Let’s take a look upstairs then.’ The words more a request for Manning to accompany him than a statement of intent.

  On reaching the foot of the stairs, a strange smell greeted them, a potent concoction of strong cheese and dead flowers. When they were halfway up, it became much stronger still.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Manning winced, covering his nose and mouth.

  ‘I’m really not sure. Never smelt anything quite like it before,’ Brower replied. The bushy hedge of his moustache managed to filter out some of the stench, yet it still hit the back of his throat. He covered his face with the cuff of his jacket sleeve. At the top, the landing forked. To the left was the bathroom and guest bedroom, and to the right, the family’s bedrooms. The door to the children’s room was painted white with a small porcelain plaque fixed at eye level. A bear and a doll skipped through a summer meadow beneath the words, William and Dottie’s Room. The door was already ajar, so with the slightest nudge from Brower, it creaked open. Inside was immaculate, as if untouched for years. Various toys and books sat on the shelving above William’s tightly sheeted bed. On Dottie’s bed between her pink fluffed pillows sat a large porcelain doll dressed in eighteenth century garb. It seemed to stare back at them with the most disconcerting realism.

  ‘Well, there’s not much to see here,’ Brower said. He was right—it looked undisturbed. Even so, the charge of unease that ran through the bodies of both men refused to dissipate. As they moved out onto the landing and towards the master bedroom a few steps away, the smell became increasingly aggressive. This door had no plaque attached to it, and unlike the children’s room, it was closed shut. The constable crept forward, Manning’s spindly frame tucked in behind him, peering over his shoulder. The severity of the stench was sickly, almost burning the nostrils. Brower pushed down on the gold handle and the door opened, juddering slightly on its hinges. The room seemed much larger than any other in the house. The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn, shrouding the place in darkness. Their eyes adjusted enough to see that the top sheet of the bed was a pale colour, precisely tucked into the mattress. On the surface of the sheet, right at its centre, lay something even more curious than the overpowering smell—a circular patch of black dust.

  ‘Do you see that?’ Manning asked, pointing around Brower.

  ‘Of course—looks like coal dust,’ Brower said, confused.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to check it?’ Although unnerved by the eeriness of the empty house, Manning wasn’t about to see the constable shirking his duty.

  Brower gave Manning a reluctant look before approaching the left hand side of the bed and leaning over it. He ran a chubby finger through the middle of the black dust, ploughing a clean line. Holding the end of his finger up to his face, he sniffed the substance, careful not to actually snort it through his nose. He ran his finger through it again, intersecting the first line to create an x-shape. ‘It seems to be some kind of ash,’ Brower said. He moved over to the window and pulled the curtains back to let in the daylight. There was no sound from Harold Manning at first, and then Brower heard his whimpering.

  ‘Good God—please no, no, no. Oh, no.’ Manning’s voice had thinned, subdued by intense fear and revulsion. The frail old man had shrunk even further into himself. He clasped his hands together, as if in a prayer for salvation. He was cowering, his eyes transfixed on something above the bed.

  The sheer terror in Manning’s face made Brower want to run from the house without ever looking back. He forced himself to stare upwards, and what he saw there at number sixty-six Belmoral Street, would haunt his every dream until the day he died. A blackened tapestry of scorched and twisted bodies hung above them. Brower struggled to make some sense out of what he was seeing. It was Nancy Cradleworth, her two children at either side of her. They had been crucified to the high ceiling with thick iron pegs. Nancy had a peg piercing each shoulder blade and both of her feet. The children were skewered either side of her, their arms left free, and they clung desperately to their mother. The flesh of all three was burnt to a crisp. In their cauterised expressions lingered horror and profound pain. Even through the coating of black frost, the heartbreak of seeing her children reaching for her was etched upon Nancy’s face. Their mass of entangled limbs had begun to meld themselves to one another, almost as if out of fear, and not fire.

  Manning continued his wailing, fixed in place. A relentless trembling coursed throughout his body.

  Constable Brower groped his way back to the old man, hypnotised by the demonic work of art leering over them. A tracing of ash drifted down from the petrified corpses onto the bed-sheet. From the corner of his eye, Brower could see the old man being violently ill. Brower curled his lip in disgust, a sense of revulsion breaking him from his dark trance. ‘I’m calling the station,’ He gave the horrendous vision one last glance before hurrying through the door and down the stairs.

  Manning fell to his knees, eyes drawn back to the ceiling. His whimpers became sobs. He wrapped his arms around his body in a desperate bid for comfort, oblivious to the strands of saliva hanging from his quivering chin.

  Alice in Wonderland Syndrome

  1

  Cavity, Arizona-2006

  A dirty green Buick swung onto the straight road that led into the belly of the massive trailer park. The glow of late evening fell across rows of flat tin roofs, making them glint in the unforgiving desert. The car conjured a whirling tail of sand at its rear. As it passed through the entrance of the park, a shaggy-looking mongrel yapped at its bumper, giving chase for a few seconds before it lost interest, turning its back to the car and burying its teeth into the bridge of its own tussled hide. The Buick took the very first right turn and started to slow down.

  The area was vast, the park simply one link in a chain that wrapped itself around the neck of east Mexico. Cavity was perhaps one of the most impoverished and forgotten sites of the western United States. Its corroded trailers spiralled out across the desert into a huge circular metal collage, as if the community had been lost to some kind of fatal disaster, then unearthed again. The inhabitants of the trailer park existed day by day in appalling conditions. Some had fallen on hard times and been relocated here, but for most, this was their birthplace and would be their final resting place. For all the poverty present in Cavity, the greatest affliction was the absence of hope. Desperation spread like infectious weeds, coiling its way around the citizens, sucking away any ability to envisage something better. The people would feed on each other, attempting to regai
n what they had lost in order to survive. Staring into the bleakness with nothing to hold on to.

  The Buick ground to a halt outside the trailer with a star spangled banner painted on its roof.

  Across the way, a muscular man wearing a grimy vest and a deep red bandana with black markings cooked meat over a portable barbecue. The smell of fresh hamburger and steak spread through the already claustrophobic atmosphere, into the open windows of the nearby trailers. A couple of neighbours opened their doors to take a look at what James Derby was cooking. He glanced up, casually acknowledging his audience. The slab of meat was of infinitely more interest to him. He pressed his spatula down, applying pressure to a steak. The blood oozed and bubbled to the surface of the flesh, as the raw flames licked around it. Looking up, he scowled at the passengers of the Buick parked opposite.

  ‘Prick! Is he ever gonna give it up?’ the Buick’s driver said. She scowled back, pressing her middle finger against the window. The man’s frown deepened and he turned his attention back to his barbecue, shaking his head.

  ‘I guess he ain’t,’ replied her female passenger. ‘Why you let him get to you, Taylor? I can never be bothered to look in the guy’s direction.’ She glanced nervously to the trailer they’d parked alongside.

  ‘I don’t like what’s behind his eyes. He looks at us like we’re fucking sub-human or something.’ Taylor laughed. ‘Christ, the irony.’

  Martha sniggered at Taylor’s observation. She noticed the little white bull terrier peeping out from beneath the steps of his owner’s mobile home. He was shielding the rest of his compact body away from the heat of the afternoon sun. Martha thought he was cute, and would often give him a quick stroke when Derby was inside or distracted. She couldn’t remember the little fella’s name. Her failure started to annoy her. She pictured the brown patch of fur over the dog’s right eye, a detail that brought his name back to her mind—Finch. Cute name too, she thought. Well, the law of averages demanded that even James Derby had to get at least one thing right in his life. She just wished the time would come when something went right for her. Good luck had been scarce for Martha Johnson. The hope of a sudden turn in fortune was what had kept her going to the ripe old age of twenty-three. She imagined a lifetime’s bad luck lurking within the flimsy walls of the battered trailer she was about to enter, before scolding herself, reminded that something other than despair resided there.