《The Anarchist》 Prologue: Storms Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Each one thudded loudly against the walls of his chest. It was as if his sternum was a fading drum, and the drummer did not care if it burst. Stress never did treat him well, and he knew that once worry had latched onto his mind, it would refuse to relinquish its grasp. He put the pen down and massaged his neck. It was aching more than usual. He realised that he must have been tense for hours. He had to try to relax, but his attempts proved unsuccessful. His name was Thomas Fulton. He was a rather unremarkable man, in that he possessed no obvious qualities, physical or otherwise, that would have made him stand out from any crowd. He was not noticeably tall, nor was he abnormally short, portly, lean or strong. His face had no defining features save a healthy length of chestnut hair, and eyes of the same colour. He always wore an immaculately kept business suit to work. It was not expensive or rare, or anything significant enough to warrant such care, but he did like to keep it in the best condition possible out of pride for his own appearance. For whatever relevance it may serve, he was a chartered accountant, which did little to challenge his lack of remarkability. There are those among us who would be incredibly displeased with such mediocrity, but Thomas was not that type of person. At work he was known for a cheery disposition, and he always maintained a belief that, no matter the circumstances, there was everything to be happy about in his life. He had a stable job, and therefore neatly avoided the angst that comes with irregular income. He was married to his sweetheart from university, a lovely, gentle woman named Sarah, with whom he had a beautiful daughter of the same name. He returned his attention to the computer on his desk, upon which he sought to finish his current set of books by deadline. The maze of accounting tables on the monitor has always been a source of calm for him. Every border-line on his screen was clearly defined and un-breachable, and that was a comfort to him. In his world, order and neatness was control. Structure was safety. Outside, the sky had closed up with thick, ashen clouds and light drops began to patter against the window. He glared out at the inclement blanket and willed it to dissipate immediately, but, as if to mock him, the rain fell down harder. Typical, he thought. The rain hated him. Just as well he hated it, too. Rain makes everything wet, and he hated the wet. Not to mention the cold; he hated being cold. From it comes nothing but disaster and tragedy; a miserable mood at best. ¡°For goodness sake,¡± he cursed at the window, ¡°it¡¯s not even supposed to be this dark during the day, anyway.¡± He lay back in his office chair and sighed, unable to reconcile any concerns he had with his true feelings. This form of compulsory rationalisation was something that he did often. There always had to be a rational explanation for anything that he felt or did. That was the rule. In his world things always balanced out and made sense, and when there was no rational explanation, there was an imbalance and therefore a problem. He stared out of the window, watching the pavements deflect the earthbound drops into small rivulets that ran into the gutters along the roadside. He doesn¡¯t want to believe it, but he knows instinctively that something was going to go wrong that day. The last time that it rained, he had skidded while turning off the highway and done hundreds of dollars¡¯ worth of damage to his car. A few weeks before that, a leak in the roof of his house ruined some very important work documents, setting him back weeks¡¯ worth of books that needed balancing. He could remember unfortunate incidents on rainy days going back years, right into his childhood. If he¡¯d learned anything, it was that nothing good ever happened on a rainy day.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The time for him to pack his things and leave for home had arrived, and he hurried himself to his car, leaving sooner being better than later. As he sped down the highway, he noted that the gloom was thickening steadily, and the grey was quietly being overrun by a deep black. A sizeable storm was building. He leaned his foot against the accelerator a touch more, hoping to outrun the threatening tempest and reach his home, where his wife and his daughter awaited him. The phone rang. It was his wife. Nervously, he picked it up, expecting bad news. Unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind: Was his daughter missing? Was his daughter sick? Did his daughter have an accident? Perhaps his wife was sick¡­ When he did hear Sarah¡¯s voice, it asked worriedly, ¡°When are you coming home? The little one¡¯s getting anxious.¡± Sighing, relieved, he told her he¡¯d be not more than ten minutes; he wanted to avoid the storm. She told him not to speed or he¡¯d have an accident. Storm or not, he just had to get home. He grinned at this but did not give an answer to it, instead offering an echoed ¡°I love you,¡± hanging up and surreptitiously easing his hold on the accelerator. He arrived home at about the same time that the sky reached that signature throbbing, bruised-black colour which tells the onlooker that it is now better to be inside than out. He hurried across the driveway and garden, both soaked in a blanket of deluge, and into the amber glow of his doorway. ¡°DADDY!¡± A tiny body flew into his arms, rocking him from the impact. He hoisted his daughter into the air and squeezed her with a loving hug. ¡°How¡¯s my little Sarah today?¡± he coos, giving her a little peck on the cheek. Sarah started bouncing in his arms like a miniature beach-ball. ¡°Miss Reddy said we¡¯re going to learn to count to ten tomorrow! It¡¯s going to be fun!¡± ¡°Oh that¡¯s lovely, my girl. But you already know how, don¡¯t you? Mummy taught you.¡± ¡°YES!¡± she announced triumphantly. ¡°I can''t wait! I hope Miss Reddy Picks me First!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure they will, my darling. Come now. Uppie-time over. Mummy¡¯s calling us.¡± He let her plop onto the floor and made his way over to his wife, who by that time was feeling playfully jilted at not having yet received her kiss. Perhaps it was unfortunate that Thomas forgot about his superstition so quickly, because had he been typically wary of circumstances around him he would have noticed a shadow pass his window on the way to the back of his garden. This shady character, despite the pelting rain, ferreted about feverishly, impatiently searching for something of apparent significance. Eventually the intruder ceased its searching, the object of its search found: A gas canister feeding the gas stove that the Fultons use to save electricity. The prowler dextrously unscrewed the hose attached to the canister head and dropped a small, elongated object into the canister before swiftly re-attaching the head. Satisfied that this was not witnessed, the trespasser silently slunk into the bushes that sat along the fence. Several seconds later sparks burst out of the head of the canister, followed by an explosion of a very different kind: Blue and white flames erupted from the canister with a sinister hiss and crawled up the walls of the wooden house like a chemical creeper. Having found a suitable fuel, the flames accelerated up the side of the house and, despite the rain, soon a deep orange tinge joined the blue, engulfing the house effortlessly. It seemed that all was going to plan but for the trespasser¡¯s next actions: a panicked flicking of the eyes from one end of the scene to the other, and a violent cuss, after which the figure disappeared into the shadows. As a backdrop, the fire grew ever stronger, and half the house was already in flames. The wooden frame warped and cracked as its structure was eaten away by the fire. Bits of roof buckled and collapsed as sparks flew into the turbulent sky with each sickening slip. From inside the house, if one strained one¡¯s ears enough, the faint screams of the ambushed family could be heard just before they were smothered by the roar of the flames and the thrashing flashes of the storm as it hailed down all around them. Chapter 1 - The King is Dead. The scent of sea-water rushes through The intern¡¯s nostrils. The soft, continuous sighing of the surf, hypnotising in its perpetuity, lulls him into a day-dream. He should be holidaying here, not working. He has been told that he should start searching for former-officer Gavin Watkins on this beach, which lies along Goslington City¡¯s eastern fringe. His brief is to return him to the local police station immediately. It sounded easy enough back at the station, except that the station¡¯s captain had not told him what Watkins looks like. ¡°You¡¯ll know him when you see him,¡± was the only clue given. ¡°He¡¯ll be the only person not having fun at the beach.¡± When the intern arrived at the beach, he found something far worse than massive crowds hiding his target: there was no one there at all. No tourists, no local families, no frolicking lovers¡­ no Watkins. He checks his watch, and then looks up at the sky. It feels strange and joyless out here, not the way that he¡¯s certain the beach is supposed to feel. The sunset, which usually stains the darkening sky a brilliant molten-orange, instead has a copper-like dullness to it, the faded kind that becomes difficult to polish on old trophies. He¡¯s waited for near an hour already but it is getting late and, what with the cooler winds of twilight beginning to blow through, it is highly unlikely that anyone will be arriving soon. He hauls himself up from his seat upon the sand and stretches. It is time to return to the precinct. The captain certainly won¡¯t be pleased. As he makes ready to leave, a small movement some distance down the beach flashes in the corner of his eye. He passes a glance. It is nothing. No, wait¡­ There it is. On the very edge of his visibility is a tiny human figure. After a brief observance, it becomes clear that it is coming this way. He hurries as best as he can but cannot avoid waddling in a rather ungainly fashion as his feet slide in the sand, forcing him to shift his whole body from left to right in order to keep momentum. ¡°Officer Watkins?¡± he calls. Nothing. He calls again, huffing from his exertion. No response. He advances further and tries again. Nothing again. Perhaps the waves are muffling his voice. Deciding that calling from a distance is useless, he resumes his walking. As the figure draws nearer ¨C in no great hurry ¨C faint details become visible in the fading light. He (as it is now clear that it is a man) is ambling slowly, his head bent so that he seems to be staring just a little bit ahead of his feet. He is surprisingly young for n ex-policeman, appearing no older than twenty-six. This is promising. The intern asks the man again if he is Watkins. ¡°Nice beach, isn¡¯t it?¡± the man asks. He looks up and out over the sea, his sandy hair whipping about in the wind. This takes the intern by surprise; the man had hitherto never shown any signs of noticing that he was present. ¡°It¡¯s always quiet here,¡± he continues, ¡°No lifeguards, so most people are afraid to swim in case something goes wrong. They stick to the tourist beaches because of that.¡± He shakes his head disapprovingly. ¡°Awful, crowded places those.¡± Uncertain whether the man has yet noticed him, the intern asks, once again, ¡°Are you officer Watkins?¡± The man finally turns his gaze towards the intern, and immediately the boy regrets asking the question. His eyes fix on the boy¡¯s and do not move. They search and they pry, making him feel like he''s stumbled into a silent interrogation. ¡°Chief sent you?¡± The words are spoken with urgency, hidden until now. ¡°No sir, Captain Reynolds did.¡± The man looks away again, much to the intern¡¯s relief. ¡°Reynolds? Can¡¯t be. You¡¯re obviously mistaken,¡± the man says. A silence ensues, broken only by the crash and fizz of the surf. ¡°It is very important that you come with me to the station, sir,¡± the intern says, in an attempt at authority. Watkins lowers his face, shrouding it in shadow, giving his next words a more foreboding ring. ¡°Something¡¯s gone horribly wrong, hasn¡¯t it?¡± This isn¡¯t helping. The intern does not know why he has been sent to fetch Watkins, only that he is meant to do it quickly, and that every second he wastes chatting will count against him when he finally reaches the station. ¡°Why do you say that?¡± he asks the man. ¡°Well,¡± he says with a bitter grin, ¡°Reynolds and I have a¡­ complicated history. Even if this was judgement day and I was the only one who could stop it, I¡¯m sure he¡¯d think twice before calling me.¡± The intern makes a rather inarticulate attempt to respond. Flustered due to his lack of adequate information and confused by Watkins¡¯ disjointed ramblings, he is only able to make a series of gasping movements with his mouth akin to those that fish are known for. Watkins¡¯s eyes stop their prying when he realises that this poor young man knows nothing about his errand. He takes several strides towards the intern¡¯s car and speaks as he walks: ¡°Typical Reynolds. Never tells anyone anything until he has to. Alright. Take me to him. I wouldn¡¯t want you facing him if I didn¡¯t show.¡± Watkins pats the intern on the shoulder and trudges to where the car is parked. In what the intern is sure is only a nervous tick, Watkins balks sideways as if to avoid walking into someone. He recollects himself, shakes his head to clear it, and enters the car. *** During the trip to Reynolds'' precinct, Watkins has time to think about the possible reasons why Captain Reynolds would be looking for him. What he told the intern was not necessarily an exaggeration. He was suspended from the police force about five years ago for ¡°culpable homicide via criminal negligence¡±, and Reynolds thought that the official label was a flaccid description of the events. Reynolds¡¯s version read more like, ¡°Your reckless incompetence has finally led to the death of an innocent civilian¡±, albeit with a few curse-words thrown in at maximum velocity. Anger was Reynolds¡¯s way of handling things, and holding grudges came with that territory. One of those grudges was attached to Watkins¡¯s friendship with Richard Wilson, the man who is currently chief of police. It was never clear why, but Reynolds resented the two of them being together. Perhaps he felt like Watkins got too much attention. They are nearing the station, now. It is situated in one of the more affluent outer suburbs, where the wealthy keep beach houses that they only visit at week¡¯s end. It being a dreary Monday evening, nearly all the occupants have returned to their inner city dwellings and the villas sit vacant, their windows dark and gaping. There is something vaguely unsettling about these sometimes-houses, with all the lights switched off and the iron gates shut. They seem vacuous, ornamental; as if the only thing that makes them real is their sometimes-occupants. Now, they are little more than discarded shells, waiting for passing crabs to wear them, to give them purpose for a little longer. They exit the car and Watkins looks up at the station. It is a fairly nondescript building when compared to its upmarket surroundings, being a simple red-brick block with a lone flagpole beside it. He smiles. The intern looks at him in confusion. ¡°It looks smaller than I remember it,¡± Watkins explains. ¡°Reynolds does brag about it so very much.¡± As they near the building, muffled shouts leak through the walls. The intern hesitates at the door and glances nervously at Watkins, who shakes his head impatiently and opens the door himself. Inside is a large, middle-aged man in black police uniform. He paces back and forth, gesticulating wildly with his hands, shouting at the top of his voice. A group of other police officers are sitting disinterestedly in chairs around the room, which, upon closer inspection, appears to be the reception area. ¡°That lazy little shit!¡± the man howls, ¡°This is the last fucking time that I let him screw around on the job! I swear by the fires of a billion burning Hells, when he gets back, I¡¯ll-¡± ¡°Hello, Captain,¡± - Watkins grins sheepishly - ¡°It¡¯s good to see that your management style has not undergone any drastic changes.¡± Indeed it had not. Watkins¡¯s memories of Captain Hector Reynolds largely consist of a sequence of lectures conducted at an unnecessarily high volume. The man had famously been bullied at school, and so it followed that he would take his chance at receiving authority¡­ enthusiastically. He has acquired such a bad reputation, in fact, that his station is often referred to as the ¡°Rum Bucket¡± on account of the uncanny rise in alcoholism among officers assigned there. The Captain¡¯s face reddens (a typical sign of an impending blast of expletives), but he restrains himself enough to simply mutter, ¡°Oh good, you¡¯re here¡± in a way that sounds blatantly insincere. He scowls, motions for Watkins to follow him, and then turns and walks toward his office. Once they¡¯re both inside, the big man slumps into a chair opposite Watkins and gives him a long, venomous glare. ¡°So,¡± he grumbles. ¡°We¡¯re here again, after all this time.¡± Watkins refuses to look Reynolds in the face. He holds his hand over the arm of his chair and taps his finger down against it to emphasise his words. ¡°Five years, six months, two weeks, eight days. I had it down to the hour until your intern interrupted me.¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Reynolds shakes his head, a bitter cackle escaping his sneering lips. ¡°You¡¯re still a snarky little turd, boy. You aren''t making it easy for me to keep my cool around you.¡± The room feels so taut that any wrong move from either man could trip a wire and trigger a bomb. ¡°And you¡¯re still just an angry little man hiding in a big man¡¯s body,¡± says Watkins, meeting Reynolds¡¯s fuming glare with a grin that is at once roguish and, somehow, also subdued. ¡°Look, Captain, I want to know if you¡¯ve brought me here to trade insults or to actually discuss something important.¡± This pushes the trip-wire to the brink of snapping. Reynolds rises from his chair and juts a stubby finger towards Watkins. ¡°Today is not the day for your shit, boy.¡± he growls, the sense of menace in his voice the most real that it¡¯s ever been. ¡°What we¡¯re dealing with is serious. This is possibly the worst thing that the department has ever had to handle in its entire goddamn history, so you¡¯re going to pay attention to what I give you right now.¡± He reaches into the drawer of his desk and pulls out a thick, brown envelope, slapping it down on the desk. Written on it, in a familiar flowing script, is Watkins¡¯s name. He picks it up to examine it more closely, and then looks up at Captain Reynolds, brows contorted in reluctant recognition. ¡°It¡¯s from the chief.¡± Watkins says, visibly alarmed. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Reynolds¡¯ face darkens in a way that Watkins has never seen before, and the answer comes like a fallen rock. ¡°He¡¯s dead, Watkins.¡± He nearly drops the envelope but clenches his hand and gathers himself. The young man is almost physically unsteadied. His breath is ragged and strained, like he''s fighting something inside of himself. It¡¯s not a joke anymore. The chief is dead? He can''t be dead. There has never been a Goslington Chief of Police in living memory that has died before retirement. It''s a joke. An unpleasant, unnecessary joke that Reynolds has obviously pulled for some perverse laughter¡­ But Reynolds isn''t even smiling. ¡°I am sorry, boy." The tone of Reynolds''s voice is unfamiliar to Watkins. It almost sounds sincere. There''s even an odd look of pity in the gruff man''s puffy face. ¡°What happened to him?¡± The question is laboured but it is as calm as Watkins can muster. ¡°Shot in his house. Happened a few hours ago. The body''s even still there.¡± Watkins drops his eyes to the floor and leaves them there. He nods lamely, his every action feeling automated, not his own. ¡°So what¡¯s in this, then?¡± He holds the envelope up. The captain¡¯s stern personality is restored in a matter of moments. ¡°Wilson had instructions for me to give it to you, not to read it myself. I wouldn¡¯t look in on private mail. Not even yours.¡± Watkins holds the envelope in both hands and stares down at it. What could the Chief have wanted to tell him? Watkins had failed him, as far as he was concerned. He was supposed to be the most brilliant trainee the Goslington police service had ever had, but he washed out. He made mistakes too big for himself to bear, and he left. Like a coward. Now, his mentor is dead. What a waste it all was. ¡°Did he have any instructions for me?¡± he asks Reynolds. Reynolds breathes a heavy, reluctant sigh and he shifts his girth, much to his groaning chair¡¯s dismay. ¡°I would imagine that they are in that envelope. It would do him little good to leave them with me.¡± A silence drifts between the two of them. There is little that can ¨C or should ¨C be said. Nevertheless, Reynolds tries, uncomfortable with the quiet. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d better go home for now, boy,¡± he says, sounding almost sympathetic. Watkins nods. He needs rest. This sort of news is a lot to process, and he should do it in the peace of his own home. He stands himself up and slowly heads for the exit, but Reynolds has one last thing to say. ¡°Watkins!¡± He stops. Waiting. Reynolds seems to have all the possible expressions in the world fighting in his face. The Roulette slows down and almost lands on sympathy, but ticks once over into cantankerousness. ¡°Don''t disappear this time." Watkins inclines his head in understanding and leaves the office. *** The key goes into the lock, turns, clicks. Watkins twists the handle, pushes, walks in, and closes the door. It all happens on its own. He is barely thinking about the action of it all. He moves to the lounge, and drops the envelope onto a large wooden table in the middle of the room. He collapses into a chair and stares blankly at the ceiling. It will take some time for all of this to permeate. He had thought that his suspension from the police force was a gift, that it would let him escape the wrongs of his past and have a new life. It was not. If anything, it was precisely the opposite. And now the chief of police is dead. The same questions from earlier in the day now return: How can he be dead? It¡¯s not possible. The man was untouchable. There¡¯s no criminal in the city who could have pulled the wool over his eyes. If Wilson has been killed, then that means that whoever did it is someone capable of things too terrible to imagine. The realisation creeps over Watkins that he may have spent too long hiding from his old world, that he has fallen out of touch with something that he should have known. He sighs heavily and glances down at the envelope on the table. What could the chief have put in there? Tentatively, he picks it up and tears the seal. He reaches inside and pulls out the contents: a photograph and a compact disk. Curious, he holds up the image of the woman. He nearly falls out of his chair. He stares in horror at the red hair, the blue eyes, the broad smile¡­ all features he knows so well. He looks closer, poring over that agonisingly familiar face. For years, he has seen it framed and enshrined in his memory. For the first time in such a long, long time, he sees it with his eyes. Movement blurs the corner of his eye. He is suddenly aware of a presence sputtering into being close-by. It''s happening. He had been so good about his daily ritual until now. He was managing the symptoms. Even this kind of disruption shouldn''t be causing problems. He shuts his eyes tightly, but he can still feel it, the other person growing and stuttering like static. The breathing exercises. He needs to do the breathing exercises. He straightens his back and draws air in through his nose until his lungs are bursting, then exhales it through his mouth until they are empty. The growing slows down. good. Again. In. Out. In. Out. The presence sputters and shrivels, and with a few more breaths it is gone once again. Relief. His chest loosens and his heart slows. That was close. He can''t afford to have an episode. Not now. He flips the photograph over so that it lies face-down on the table. Best to ignore it. Why the Hell would Wilson leave that photograph to him? What was he thinking? Doesn''t he know what it does to him? Why is this all happening to him, now? He begins to wonder why Reynolds told him to check the envelope at all. He is more perplexed now than he was before he opened it. Perhaps the chief put this into this file by mistake. There is no logical reason for any of this to be in a message from his mentor. There is the disk, though. Watkins picks the disk up, putting the files aside. It is a DVD, he discovers, bought in the last day or so. He knows this because new disks always have a distinct smell. He turns the disk over, revealing that a portion of its surface is darker than the rest. It has been recorded on. This, he thinks, looks more promising. He moves over to the TV at the end of the room and inserts the DVD into the machine. Immediately, the chief appears on the screen. He looks marginally older than he was when Watkins last saw him. His hair, which was jet-black in youth, is silvering, and that familiar, jovial face has the beginnings of wrinkles. When he looks at the camera, however, he does so with the same strong, commanding air that he had always been known for. When he speaks, it is evident that even his deep, baritone voice has aged slightly, as it is cracked and has lost some of its original sonorous boom. ¡°Hello, Gavin,¡± he says, managing a smile that he surely must have known would be unconvincing. ¡°You probably know by now why you are viewing this, and I¡¯d rather not insult you by spelling it out. We both know that wastes time, so I¡¯ll be as brief as I can.¡± Wilson smooths his thinning hair over with a shaky hand. He is flustered. His breathing wavers constantly and he shifts about in his seat, which Watkins recognises as the one from Wilson¡¯s study. ¡°Someone is killing our boys, Gavin. Detectives have been turning up dead all over the place. The murders have been staged to look like accidents, and they¡¯re escalating. What¡¯s more, it has become obvious to me ¨C never mind how ¨C that I¡¯m next.¡± His voice falls here, and he is unable to look at the camera save for brief glances. ¡°I regret that I''ve taken far too long to gather this information, but I''ve had to be slow in order to keep unwanted attention away from this investigation. That''s why I''m making a video instead of writing a letter. People ignore blank discs a lot more than important-looking pieces of paper. Anyway this all means that if I am right¡± ¨C Wilson releases a heavy sigh ¨C ¡°and if you¡¯re watching this, then I am, then I shall be unable to continue. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing my level best to figure out who is behind this, but between trying to keep this hushed with the press and my day-to-day work¡­ I¡¯ve been stretched beyond my capabilities. I should never have tried this alone, but that is my mistake and I''ll deal with the consequences of it. It does not, however, mean that I cannot try to fix the error I have made. ¡°That, as they tend to say, is where you come in. It is obvious that the guy behind this has grander plans in mind that he does not want exposed. You must be the one to chase after this bastard and fit the pieces together. I know this is a huge thing to ask, but it is my request that you take this case and finish it, without help from the police. You will work in secret, scavenging what you can as a civilian. I have done my best to lay down some structures for you, so you can have access to things you ordinarily would not have. ¡°I have arranged for you to have help. It¡¯s unconventional, but I hope you will bear with it. I am a paranoid old man, Gavin, and I don¡¯t trust the police, but there are two people who I do trust. You, and my daughter.¡± Gavin pauses the video. Daughter? Wilson never ever mentioned children. Watkins didn¡¯t know that Wilson ever had a girlfriend, let alone a possible wife. Why the hell would Wilson be bringing his daughter into the picture now of all times? Hoping for answers, he presses play. ¡°I have¡­ not done terribly right by her, I have to admit. She has lived her entire life far away in England, without me. She¡¯s a bright kid, and should be more than capable of helping you with this investigation. I left you a photo of her so you would at least know her when you see her. I''m sorry for the unfortunate resemblance. Both of you will be able to stay under the radar, and that¡¯s important. I don¡¯t want anyone else to know what has happened here. I know it¡¯s going to be difficult, and by rights I should never have asked this of you, but if nothing else, humour me. ¡°I must go now, dear boy; time has run out on me. Gavin, I implore you, even if you did lose your way somewhat recently, you have not lost the path. It¡¯s simply waiting for you to walk it again.¡± Blank. Watkins eyes remain on the television screen long after the video concludes. His empty face meets the machine¡¯s. The two faces stare at each other with the same vacancy. " I left you a photo of her so you would at least know her when you see her". Watkins turns the photo over. He looks once more at the face he''d thought he knew so well. It is not the same person after all. Her nose is smaller. There are freckles on her cheeks. Her eyes weren''t that shade of green. God, he feels so stupid. He tosses the photograph away and slumps backwards, deeper into couch, perhaps hoping that it would swallow him up. He thinks back on Wilson¡¯s words about his ¡°mistakes¡±. He had trusted Wilson with everything in the days he had known him. He thought that trust had gone both ways. He had always seen Wilson as a kindly mentor, a pillar to hold up his shaky roof. He had thought that the two of them had shared a unique kind of trust, but clearly, he was wrong. Wilson did not trust him much at all, it seems. It stings. ¡°So what now?¡± he would ask Wilson if he were here. ¡°What do you expect me to do?¡± He can hardly believe that Wilson would simply assume he would do this. The idea is ludicrous. He has a life beyond this. Is he supposed to just put it on hold? Is he meant to file his feelings away and just do the job? Where does he even start from here when he in all likelihood will receive no help from the police? They¡¯ll definitely never let him back in. Not after everything that he has done. He has to deal with that for the rest of his life, except now he¡¯s left without the one person who could have helped him to do so. There is no way for him to know exactly what to do or where to go from here. He may as well go to see the body. Yes, he wanted to do that in the first place. That¡¯s where he should start. It¡¯s not like the day will get weirder from here. He takes the disk out of the machine and places it back in the envelope, and then stares at the ceiling, as if an answer to all his problems might come from there. Chapter 2- The First Letter [Contents retrieved from cell 012b. Date Unknown] This is Annie. I have not given you a second name and it is also possible that I have not given you my correct first name, either. I do this because, firstly, I want to, and secondly, because disclosing personal information in letters that shall never be read by anyone other than silverfish is an entirely superfluous exercise. The purpose for which I write this is for the sake of mental stimulation and also, I suppose, to organise my thoughts, as I have been told that it is easier to do so when they are on paper as opposed to in your head. I presume ¨C for what good it will do ¨C that I should start out by identifying the reasons why I am so bored as to occupy my time with scribbling inconsequential notes onto crumpled scrap paper. I am in a prison. I spend hour after hour in a geometrically perfect little block with a tiny window which is so high up that it cannot provide a view. My best guess is that it is there to ensure that I don¡¯t suffocate, although the cheerless, sterile d¨¦cor and mental atrophy of being trapped among the ¡°unstable inmates,¡± as they are called, will probably be enough to do that on its own. Were it not for the pen and paper in my hands, I would probably have bashed my own head in out of sheer frustration.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I cannot remember what happened before my incarceration. Maybe that¡¯s a result of some grievous illness that saw me transferred here. Now I mention it, that brings me to the other reason why I have started these letters. There are two concerns that I wish to address, and recording my progress will aid me in tracking how that progress proceeds. The first of these is that I have blackouts, which seem to be increasing in number lately. I must find out why this is happening at all costs, and establish a way to cure this ailment. Until I do, I will be tied to this cell. The second concern is that a stranger has arrived in the cell across from me, and I am curious as to her purpose for being here. There was no explanation for her arrival and I do not remember anybody bringing her in, but that is likely because of the aforementioned blackouts. Among my other machinations, I must make it a priority to obtain information on her. She may yet prove useful. Until more surfaces, this will be my last communique. Paper is hard to come by here, so I do not wish to waste it. With that, I will take my leave. Chapter 3- Pleased To Meet You Watkins drives in such a haze that he almost misses Wilson¡¯s house. As he drags the vehicle to a halt across the street, the events from the last hour swirl through his head, the mental racket it creates so deafening that finding the clarity of mind to do anything efficiently is a chore. When at last he does surface, he notices a peculiar lack of activity in the house¡¯s surrounds. He would have expected a horde of journalists to swamp the building, but the only presences are that of three unidentified figures standing near a pair of police cars and a mortician¡¯s van. A spectral gloom seems to have settled into the atmosphere, hovering over the place with a disturbing malevolence. As Watkins opens the car door, he is buffeted by a volatile gasp of wind which tugs and tears at his clothing as he steps onto the pavement. The trees along the roadside are devoid of leaves, and as the gust blows through them, the bare branches twist and click and scrape at the sky. It¡¯s strange, he thinks to himself, but it¡¯s almost like the air itself is angry. A rectangle of light flashes from the front wall: The door is opening. A figure steps into the frame. All that is identifiable of the shape is that it is tall, but a little slouched. It pauses, perhaps speaking with someone inside, then shuts the door and hurries over to the other shapes in the garden. Now sufficiently intrigued, Watkins makes for the house himself. As he approaches, the group becomes discernible. Three of them are just Goslington policemen. The person who just left the house is an elderly man. He is dark of skin, and much older than everyone else there, probably in his early sixties, as evidenced by his silver beard. He is dressed in a white lab-coat, beige, checked trousers, and a rumpled shirt, which is missing several buttons near the collar. Watkins glances down at the front pocket of the coat and sees ¡°A. Smylie, ME¡± printed on an ID tag. ¡°Doctor Smylie?¡± he asks. Smylie, momentarily surprised at the presence of the young man before him, cocks his head to the side and waits patiently. ¡°Yes?¡± Upon noting Watkins¡¯s lack of uniform, he remains distrustful. ¡°Are you a reporter, boy?¡± Watkins toys with what to say. His mind, still foggy from the recent events, cannot come up with anything besides the truth, so he goes with that. ¡°No sir, my name is Gavin Watkins. I-¡± A flicker of realisation zaps across Smylie¡¯s face. ¡°Watkins! Of course! Old Richard¡¯s long-lost prot¨¦g¨¦! Sorry, mi-boy, sorry, sorry. You can¡¯t be too careful these days with all of these raptors in the press lurking in the shadows. Look, you¡¯d better hurry and let yourself in. There¡¯s a young woman in there who insisted upon seeing the body. Says she¡¯s Richard¡¯s long lost daughter, would you believe! I tried to dissuade her, but I¡¯m afraid she was mightily determined. That, and I have a weak spot for anyone who knows their English. She¡¯s been in there long enough, and I would like my- er, the body now, if you please.¡± ¡°What makes you think that I would have any more progress than you?¡± Watkins asks him. ¡°She wants to see you, not me. Told me as much. Said if I saw you to send you straight to her, and here you are. Now, fond as I am of chit-chat, that body¡¯s deteriorating as we speak, and we¡¯re going to lose too much information if it sits there much longer.¡± The body. Watkins had forgotten that it will henceforth be referred to as ¡°the body¡±. There is an uncomfortable amount of identity and personality lost through the simple change from proper to common noun. ¡°Sure,¡± Watkins said, almost not recognising his own voice, ¡°I¡¯ll go see her.¡± This day just gets weirder. ¡°By the way, you¡¯ll want to cover your hands and feet,¡± Smylie says, holding out gloves and shoe coverings. Watkins takes them and puts them on, thanking Smylie absent-mindedly. With that, Smylie strolls towards his van, and Watkins finds himself staring into the doorway. A stream of glowing amber pours out onto the doorstep and, for a moment, it feels to Watkins as if he were looking into a portal to another world. What awaits him in there? A trepidatious step brings him into the entrance hall. The smell of pine and wood-varnish recalls phantom images of Wilson furiously rubbing the oily liquid into his floors, utterly disinterested in the message that Watkins was trying to deliver from the academy, and threatening him with community service should he dare step across the threshold. Wilson did so love working on those wooden floors. Watkins had to assist him many times as punishment in his academy days, although Wilson would always grumble that it was hardly a punishment at all. He wanders through the central passageway, passing silent, darkened doorways in a procession, guiding him towards the oaken door that will bring him to the study. At last he is faced with it. There is a final trace of hesitation in him as he decides whether or not he wants to be faced with the physical reality of his mentor¡¯s death. It passes. He reaches for the knob and turns it. He can hear the grumbling of thunder outside. The door groans open. The clouds build. Drops of water tap at the windows. Lightning splits the room. Blinding white. At the sight that greets him, his wits are completely anaesthetised, and he is barely able to make an assessment at all. He tries to focus his thoughts on information; on perceiving it, processing it and understanding it, but there is only one thing that his mind cares about: Red hair, again. The colour of fallen leaves. Tied back, hanging from the shoulders of a ghost crouched over his mentor¡¯s dead body. Recognition hits him before he has time to process what he is seeing. As far as he knows, he is looking at the back of a long-dead memory. A memory that shouldn¡¯t be here. Emily. The last person he¡¯d ever loved. There she is, right in front of him. It can¡¯t be. An impulse strikes. He must tell this ghost to leave. It does not belong. Before he can stop himself, he gasps, ¡°No. No. You can¡¯t be here. I remember. I killed you.¡± The ghost remains unmoved. He cannot tell if it has seen him, but there is movement. The stream of red rotates, enough for a hint of a face to emerge. A parting in the clouds, but brief. Silver light slithers through the glass. More aware of his surroundings now, he realises that the ghost is speaking. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking of what to say to him. It¡¯s the first time we¡¯ve met, after all. ¡®Hey dad¡¯, seemed a bit twee to me, but I can¡¯t really think of anything better.¡± It¡¯s as if he¡¯d said nothing. Perhaps he¡¯d imagined that he¡¯d said it. ¡°I killed you.¡± It isn¡¯t a statement that one would ignore. It must be. He didn¡¯t say it after all. For goodness sake, what¡¯s wrong with him?Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. The ghost says something else at this moment, but he only hears mumbles. Suddenly, she is in front of him, cocking her head to the side like a bemused cat. ¡°You¡¯re not mute, by any chance, are you? My father didn¡¯t say anything about that.¡± Old scars are beginning to ache. These are memories that he has brought under control up until now, but the balance has been disturbed. He has been disturbed. He can feel his thoughts winding up, gently building into a whirl. He tries to focus on something, anything else. But he can¡¯t. She looks so much like her, and he hates that. Hates her for it. But this is not Emily. He knows that. He recognises this girl¡¯s face from the photograph. This is Wilson¡¯s daughter. He knows that, but it makes little difference. He can already feel himself shutting down. Her eyes shift about with a sudden uncertainty and she leans forward, a touch more cautious than she was before. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, do I have the wrong person? Are you-?¡± He must reply. Keep up the face. Yes. That will help. ¡°Gavin Watkins, yes.¡± ¡°Oh good, I was beginning to get a little bit worried, there!¡± She emits a nervous laugh. The awkwardness of the situation intensifies, but she presses forward. She holds out a hand in hesitant greeting and introduces herself as ¡°Erin¡± Lewis. ¡°That¡¯s E-I-R-I-A-N, if you please,¡± she explains. ¡°I¡¯m told my father was fond of weird spellings.¡± When an answer is not forthcoming, her confusion intensifies. ¡°Is there something wrong?¡± she asks, feeling a little bit self-conscious. Yes, he wishes he could say. Yes, something is very wrong. He¡¯s seeing the world through clouded lenses and his chest feels like it¡¯s calcifying itself. He¡¯d spent years learning to hide from his past, and now it¡¯s like someone has opened a valve and flooded him, neck-deep, in a world that he had tried to forget. Yes, he¡¯d like to say that something is wrong, but he¡¯d be burdening a stranger with things she would not need to know. He remains silent as he searches for a reply that could change the direction of the conversation. She squints her eyes at him for a moment, and he feels the uncomfortable sensation of one mind probing another. He realises that he has been staring at her for a long time. He rips his gaze away from her and pretends to be searching the room. Lewis is now behind him, hands behind her back, craning her neck to see what he¡¯s doing. She watches him carry out this charade for a good while, seeming to process his actions like a fine sieve, becoming gradually more and more amused as she notices the random nature of his searching. ¡°You know,¡± she says, kicking the carpet absent-mindedly, ¡°I don¡¯t know much about¡± ¨C she looks at the body and then back at Watkins ¨C ¡°you and him, so I don¡¯t know if this is just making it worse, but¡­ don¡¯t you at least want to see for yourself?¡± She gestures to Wilson¡¯s body with a tilt of the head, but Watkins isn¡¯t looking. He can¡¯t. If he does, he isn¡¯t sure he would be able handle it. As the silence persists, Lewis seems to come to a gradual realisation. ¡°Do you, um¡­ Do you maybe need me to go out for a bit? I¡¯m pretty much done in here, so I could¡­ I could just wait with the M.E.¡± He barely hears himself say it, but Watkins manages to mumble ¡°Sure¡­ thanks.¡± With an acknowledging nod, Lewis begins her retreat from the room. Just as she reaches the doorway, she turns her head for one last look. With a barely perceptible scrunch of her eyelids, she mutters under her breath, ¡°Can¡¯t even look at the body. I wish I felt half so guilty.¡± With that, she slinks away. Her departure doesn¡¯t do much to ease his mind. If anything, it may have been better if she had stayed. The balance is gone. That means only one thing: The visions will come back. It is only a matter of counting each and every second until it happens. One. Two. He shuts his eyes. Three. He shuts his ears. Four. The corpse stands up. He can¡¯t see it or hear it, but he knows that it¡¯s happened. A hand grabs his shoulder. He trips over himself in panic and slams forward onto the floor. He whips round and confirms the truth with his own eyes. There, in front of him, is the chief¡¯s body, standing on its own two feet. Its chest is soaked with blood oozing from a hive of bullet-holes punched into its shirt. Its face, pallid and putrefying, is painted with a red capital ¡°A¡±. It¡¯s enough to make Watkins scurry backwards and screech, ¡°Get away! Get away from me!¡± The corpse looks confused. ¡°But I called you here,¡± it says with its head cocked to the side. Watkins shakes his head vigorously. ¡°You didn¡¯t. The real you did. You are just a monster in my head.¡± ¡°But I called you here. And now you must help me.¡± Watkins backs himself into the wall and presses his arms against it for reassurance. ¡°I need to get home,¡± he huffs, his breathing getting faster and faster. ¡°Coming here was a mistake.¡± The corpse locks its eyes on him. ¡°Just like everything else you¡¯ve done,¡± it says. Watkins pushes on the wall and slowly straightens his knees. ¡°Just ignore it,¡± he mutters to himself. ¡°I trained a champion, not a coward,¡± says the corpse. ¡°The Watkins I know wouldn¡¯t back away from me.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t here. Ignore it. Just get to the door, Gavin. Just get to the door and you can find help,¡± Watkins tells himself. ¡°There is no help, boy. There never was. Not for you, and not for me. You belong in the same place as me for what you did.¡± ¡°No. Stop it. Stop talking like that. You don¡¯t even sound like him, now.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have to. You know I speak the truth.¡± ¡°No, you don¡¯t. You only say things that hurt.¡± The corpse grins, its dead eyes clouding with malice. ¡°And you only do things that hurt. Don¡¯t you, boy?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No? Should I ask Emily, then?¡± Watkins¡¯s eyes twitch at the name. ¡°No, please.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Just don¡¯t. Just don¡¯t say that name.¡± ¡°Why can¡¯t I? It¡¯s a lovely name.¡± ¡°You know exactly why.¡± ¡°Is it because you are still afraid of that name? Is that it? Is it because you can¡¯t face what you did, all those years ago?¡± ¡°Stop, please.¡± ¡°Why should I, huh? Why should I give you a break? Tell me what makes you special enough to deserve a chance to live guilt-free when she never got hers? Tell me! TELL ME!¡± it screams, leaning right into his face so that he can almost smell the acrid stench of its breath. ¡°I¡¯M SORRY!¡± ¡°Mr Watkins?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry,¡± Watkins weeps, burying his face in his hands. ¡°Shit,¡± Lewis cusses. ¡°He needs anti-psychotics. Fast. I have no idea how it was left un-treated for so long.¡± ¡°Will we be able to move him like this?¡± ¡°Maybe not. But you focus on your job, doctor. Get the body out of here and into your morgue. I¡¯ll do my best to look after him for now.¡± Smylie tries unsuccessfully to sound unflustered. ¡°Right you are, young lady. First-things-first. Perhaps you could drive him home?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know where that is, to be honest. I only just got here.¡± ¡°Right¡­ How about this, then: You could follow me in the van, and when we get to the morgue we can figure it out from there.¡± Lewis tries her best to think while confronted with the bizarre behaviour of the man she¡¯s just met. In the end, she is unable to find a better alternative. ¡°... Okay. Let¡¯s do that.¡± Watkins is only vaguely conscious of the presence coaxing him through the house, but it is a balm to his troubled mind. Each gentle prod of ¡°Just through here¡± and ¡°How are you holding up?¡± draws a nod from him, bringing him back to lucidity. Before he knows it, streams of silver light pour down around him, and the smell of damp earth fills his lungs. He gazes up into the sky and there it is: the kind face of the moon, peeping through a tear in the clouds overhead. He feels much better now. ¡°You okay with getting into the car?¡± Lewis eyes him with concern. He is aware for the first time of everything that has just happened. ¡°Yes, yeah, sorry,¡± he mutters. ¡°I, uh, I think I¡¯ll be okay for now.¡± She holds her gaze over him for a while, but seems satisfied with the answer. He leads the way to his car and starts reaching for his keys. ¡°Ahem.¡± He looks up and she¡¯s holding her hand out, curling her fingers repeatedly in a beckoning motion. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he says. ¡°Really. I can drive. I do it all the time.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°After what I saw in the there, I¡¯m not letting you behind that wheel.¡± He faces her and squares his body up. ¡°But it¡¯s over now. I¡¯ll be alright. There¡¯s no need to worry.¡± She keeps her arm extended. ¡°Be that as it may, I would rather not take the chance of a blackout on the road. It¡¯s a miracle you haven¡¯t killed anyone (or yourself) by now. Don¡¯t make me call them on you.¡± ¨C She nods in the direction of the police who are helping Smylie to cart the body into the van. Realising the impasse that his compulsory companion has created, he reluctantly hands over the keys and sits in the passenger seat. Lewis scurries over to Smylie, tells him something to which he nods vigorously, and then scurries back to the car, hops into the driver¡¯s seat and says ¡°Let¡¯s get you home¡± with a smile. ¡°You can direct me, right?¡± ¡°Yeah, of course. Go this way, first.¡± As the car slides onto the avenue and the trees drift past, Watkins¡¯s consciousness retreats into itself. He needs quiet. He needs to be able to think. The branches above wave in a light breeze. A puff of air sighs through the boughs and settles into a gentle swirl that stirs dried leaves upon the lawn. It pushes them out onto the pavement and away into the distance, and they roll about aimlessly in the smoulder of the streetlights. The wind used to sing through these trees in the years that Watkins knew this house, but something has changed. They seem bent, still and solemn, almost as if they are weeping.