Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Elmo stood outside the gates of Dorsal Finn High School, his large frame clad in his usual black tee-shirt, blue jeans and training shoes. Deep in thought, he considered what he’d witnessed during the game.

At first, things were going as predicted, with his school team scoring early in the first half, and fellow Newshound, Emily, making two crucial saves as the opposition sought to reassert itself with an equaliser. By half time, however, the home team were two goals to nil up.

Then came the second half and things went kind of weird. Well, even Elmo knew this was a colossal understatement. By the first fifteen minutes, AOS FC had smashed four goals past Emily before she was substituted. Then Millie Weatheroak put away three more. End result: seven goals to two, and quite possibly the most humiliating defeat in a long, long time.

It was not this that had Elmo mulling things over in his quiet, considered brain, though. It was a concern for Emily. Because even before she came through the school gates and threw her kit bag angrily onto the pavement, Elmo knew things were not quite what they appeared to be.

“What happened?” he signed to her.

“Bad stuff,” Emily signed back.

Elmo thought that perhaps he’d misread her signing, but Emily’s reply came to him in large agitated movements to accentuate her irritation.

He responded after she’d finished. “Bad stuff? Slow down. You mean losing the game, right?”

“No,” she said in exasperation. “Bad stuff made this happen!”

“Okay,” Elmo said carefully. “Can you explain it?”

Emily took in air, letting it go as one long hiss. Her shoulders sagged a little as though she was deflating like a faulty inflatable at a kid’s birthday party.

Explaining such things was not always easy, even to the well-meaning, open-minded boy standing before her. The problem was always where to start.

Emily had powers. Precognition, extra-sensory perception, foresight, whatever name people wanted to give to it, she had the ability to see things, and while these images were not always bad, more often than not they had very real meaning, and their interpretation was not always clear.

Despite this, and under the intent and considered gaze of Elmo, Emily explained her vision.

***

Patience applied her lipstick with precision and care, her slim fingers deft and unwavering even under the curious stare of Lucas, who sat opposite her on the large leather sofa dominating the Userkaf family lounge.

The room was large and L-shaped. A huge fireplace, framed by a marble surround, provided a resplendent focal point. There was a large gilded mirror over the mantelpiece, and a 52 inch TV sat in the wide, bay window. The furnishings were a blend of tan and cream, and the air was scented with a light citrus fragrance.

Exhausted from the exhilaration of cooking for her family, Beatrice sat next to Lucas, trying to resist the temptation to lie back for fear she would become too comfortable and doze off before her friend had a chance to make her announcement.

When she was done applying lipstick, Patience checked over her handiwork with a practiced pout and nodded to her reflection in the compact mirror in the palm of her hand.

“You can’t perfect perfection,” Beatrice said with a smile.

Patience grinned. “Ooh, I like you. You can come here again.”

The girls laughed and, like the atmosphere in the room, it was light and natural.

“I have a question,” Lucas said as Patience snapped the compact case shut.

“I haven’t told you anything to ask a question about yet,” she said, placing the mirror into her expensive-looking handbag perched on her lap. She placed the bag on the floor where it rested against the leg of a dark rosewood coffee table.

“It’s an important question,” Lucas pressed.

Patience sighed. “Go on.”

“Why are you putting on lipstick when you’re not going anywhere?”

Patience stared at him, her face stern. “You should stop talking now, Walker. Seriously. It’s a small thing I’m asking but it comes with huge health benefits.”

Lucas chuckled and sat back, allowing the soft brown leather cushions to envelop him.

Beatrice nudged him in the ribs. “Stop teasing my friend.”

“She’s my friend too,” Lucas said in good-natured protest.

“That’s under review,” Patience said.

Beatrice giggled. She loved the playful air that always pervaded their banter. The digs and jibes were all part of who The Newshounds were, but it came from the tenet of respect. Respect was fundamental, the beating heart of their group, and a tenet that bound them together like glue; the many experiences—dangers—they had faced together during their time as the town’s unofficial champions had augmented this further.

Beatrice knew she would do anything for her friends, without question or reproach, and she was absolute in her belief that this would be reciprocated by the others. It had already happened on more occasions than she cared to count.

“We did say 07:00 pm, right?” Patience said, checking a delicate gold watch on her slim wrist.

“Yeah,” said Lucas.

“I’m wondering what time zone Elmo and Emily are working on,” Patience said. “Because it sure isn’t GMT.”

“How about giving us a hint of what this is all about?” Lucas said.

Patience gave him a look that told him this was never going to happen.

Lucas shrugged his shoulders. “A guy’s gotta try, right?”

“Oh, believe me, you’re very trying, Walker,” Patience said with a wink.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Patience jumped up and went out into the hallway.

Patience’s muted welcome came from the front door before Elmo and Emily shuffled into the lounge. As soon as Beatrice and Lucas saw the perplexed look on their faces, they knew that Patience’s announcement was going to have to take a backseat for a while.

***

The waves pounded the beach, white surf sucking and slurping upon silky pebbles and jagged shale. The sky looked like steel and the gulls overhead wheeled in the air before diving to the surface of the incoming tide, some coming away with a wriggling, glittering fish, others not so lucky.

Thomas Beecham watched the gulls frolic as he faced the ocean. He had his hands on his slight hips, and his breathing was as heavy as the green rucksack he carried. He didn’t have any issue with such discomfort. As Claire Drill said in her weekly show, “Survival isn’t for the weak-willed.”

Not that Thomas was the kind of person who thought badly of those who did not buy into such values. He was, after all, a product of parents who had a passion for social conscience and equity in all. But Thomas found that passion was infectious and he applied this to everything he held dear. As such, TV shows, movies, and comic books became more than just entertainment and ways to while away the time. He would always become not just a fan but a devotee. Not to the exclusion of other shows or movies, he simply loved them all.

He saw this sense of passion in his sister, too. Though he would never say it to Beatrice, her total commitment to the culinary arts was inspirational to him and, in many ways, reinforced his own ethic.

Thomas went to turn, his intention: To continue with his run and finish at Cooper’s Cove half a mile ahead. Something caught his attention. At first, he thought that the thrashing in the sea several yards out from the shoreline was another seagull hitting the surface in search of supper. Then he saw a shape rise briefly out of the churning water.

It was a person!

In fact, it was a man, his head and shoulders breaking the surface. Then his right arm shot upright, fingers clawed as through trying to gain an impossible purchase on empty air, eyes wild with panic, locked onto Thomas.

“Help me!”

The voice that came was thick with seawater that poured from the man’s bearded mouth. Thomas was stunned by the scene, his mind struggling to register the severity of the situation.

Then Claire Drill’s voice was in his head. “When it comes to taking action, there is no greater enemy than fear! Recognise it, embrace it, then we can react rather than retreat!”

“Hang on, mister! I’m coming to get you!”

Thomas shrugged off his rucksack and charged toward the shoreline, where he ploughed into the surf. He waded into the oncoming waves, trying to keep his footing against the tide and loose shale beneath his combat boots.

The man floundered, and when he saw Thomas, the terror on his bearded face seemed to intensify, his voice crying out with a frantic, shuddering tone.

“We made a mistake, we’ve set her free.”

The man disappeared, yanked beneath the water by something powerful. Thomas parked his own fear and took a huge breath. He dove under water, eyes open despite the irritated sting this act evoked. The water was thick with swirling sediment and tangled seaweed, a murky mass that made things difficult to fathom.

Through this hazy soup, Thomas made out a shape. It broke free of the murk and drifted towards him on a shroud of bubbles. He reached out for it, grasped it in his hands before another powerful surge of water took him off of his feet and dumped him back onto the shoreline.

Thomas took in several gulps of air as he stood and stared out to sea. Cursing with frustration, he spent several desperate seconds looking at the water yet he saw no sign of the man he’d tried to save.

He turned and ran to his rucksack where he retrieved his mobile phone. Within seconds he was reporting the incident to the Coast Guard who told him to stay put until they arrived. Thomas delved into his pack again to prepare for the wait.

As he stood there wrapped in his aluminium anti-hypothermia blanket, Thomas used the time by checking out the electronic tablet he’d just retrieved from the ocean. The screen came to life as soon as he looked at it, the words swirling like a cheap visual effect, and he whispered them, his face pulled into a puzzled frown.

Water and blood from the Amazon join,

True justice in search of an unsound crime,

Curses and blessings, one and the same,

Places are taken at the heart of the game

The words dissolved and then a girl’s face appeared; a livid red smudge beneath her right eye, and the skin of her cheeks as white as a Star Wars Stormtrooper uniform.

A voice came into his head; it was distorted, like a bad Skype connection.

“The path is not yours to make,” it said. “But it is yours to follow.”

Before Thomas could blink, the screen died, and the only sound he could hear was that of the relentless tide.

***

The Newshounds sat in silence. For the most part, Emily had told her story in sign, resorting to speech when she spoke about the frustrations of a sudden bout of vertigo following her vision, resulting in substitution.

Elmo sat quietly throughout, his face set in an expression of concern. When Emily began to cry angry tears, he put his big arm around her and she snuggled into him to accept his comfort for a while.

For Beatrice, this demonstrated just how fragile Emily was following the experience of the day. She was usually strong and fiercely independent, showing more resolve than any other Newshound. This filled Beatrice with a quiet anger.

“Is there any way this could be part of your vertigo?” Lucas said to Emily.

She watched his lips carefully as he spoke, then shook her head. “You get funny stuff going on: like flashing lights and prisms. This was different.”

“You mean this was like your usual visions?” Lucas said. “The ones you’ve not had for a while?”

“For a whole year.” Emily sniffed away her tears and sat up. Elmo moved his arm back to his lap where his big hands clasped together as though in prayer.

“Then we have to assume the worst,” Beatrice said. “We have to assume the town is planning something.”

To anyone not from Dorsal Finn, the idea of a town having a consciousness, and a malevolent will at that, would have been akin to madness. Before coming to Dorsal Finn Beatrice would have certainly thought this, such was her practical nature. But enough bizarre stuff had happened since her arrival to make her a believer. The town had a maligned heart, a Dark Heart as they called it, and they knew its intention—to be free of an eternal prison—even if they did not know its origins.

Beatrice felt Lucas take her hand. He squeezed it gently and she looked at him. The concern she saw in his eyes was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I’ll be okay,” she said softly.

When she saw her words did nothing to placate his anxieties, she squeezed his hand back. An understanding passed between them and he turned his head away. Beatrice knew Lucas wasn’t happy about it and could understand why. The Dark Heart had designs on getting free which began and ended with Beatrice being dead.

Patience interrupted Beatrice’s reverie. “Things have been quiet for some time,” she said. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“We could try and look at it another way,” Elmo said. “One that doesn’t assume the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse got themselves on the guest list.”

“Go on, big guy,” Lucas said.

“Maybe Emily’s vision is an early warning,” Elmo offered. “This town is sly, right? It’s patient in the way it goes about making its sordid plans.”

Lucas sat forward. His face appearing agitated, a twitch had taken possession of his right eye. “You saying we should just wait and see what happens?”

“Easy there, my bleach-blonde friend,” Elmo smiled. “I get why you’re never gonna want to put this idea on a tee shirt, but it means that we can keep an eye out for the strange stuff. Try and piece it together before we throw ourselves into the deep end. Or—”

Lucas interjected. “Or it comes for Bea?”

“It could come for any one of us,” Beatrice said. Her words came out fast and trailed off as she tried to take the edge out of them. “We hurt it last time. Our friendship was our greatest weapon. It was then, and it will be now.”

“At least we can finally see a positive in all of this,” Emily said. “This conversation was becoming about as much fun as an undertaker’s expo.”

Despite the mood in the room, they all fell about laughing.

As their hilarity died away, Lucas addressed Patience. “So what’s the big news?”

Patience dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a white handkerchief. “You mean apart from the potential return of some evil entity? Thinking about it now makes my announcement pretty lame.”

“This is what it wants,” Beatrice said. “It wants us to live in fear, change who we are. If we allow that, it wins.”

They all nodded.

Beatrice looked at Patience. “So let’s hear some good news.”

Patience’s mood lifted immediately, as though a switch had been thrown and the darkness was expelled from the room.

“Well, seeing as everyone is so keen, I have these for you,” she said pulling something from her handbag.

They were tickets—five in total—which she passed to each of her friends.

Elmo ran his thumb across the matt-black finish, then took a detour as he traced the embossed gold letting.

You are cordially invited to attend the prestigious launch of the latest Super-yacht from Redfern Maritime Leisure Company (RMLC):

The Spirit of the Ocean

This ticket admits one guest.

Dress Code: black-tie event.

Please note this is a charity event with all proceeds going to Dorsal Finn Lifeboat Rescue Services

Elmo whistled.

“Wow, The Spirit of the Ocean is one quality product,” he said. “As rare as a compliment from Edna Duffy, too.”

“So, spill,” Lucas said to Patience. “How did you get hold of them?”

“My father runs a holiday travel company, numpty. Have a wild guess.”

Lucas thought this over. “And we got tickets because . . . ?”

“Because I asked him for some,” she said slowly. “At first I thought of only us girls going along but I know what mischief you guys get up to if left on your own for a night. So he agreed you could come too.”

“Looks like a posh do,” Elmo said. “I might have to wear a clean tee shirt. The sacrifice you have to make when you’re popular, I guess.”

“I bet their catering team are amazing,” said Beatrice. “I will have to check out the kitchens. They must have Rangemaster cookers, and Polar Counter Fridges, oh, and Vogue prep-tables, got to have those, and a Global knife block—seven pieces, I’d expect nothing less . . . ”

Beatrice felt everyone staring at her. There was a brief silence before everyone burst out laughing, Beatrice included.

“Oh, dear Beatrice,” Patience giggled. “You’re hopeless when it comes to that kind of thing. What about just enjoying the party?”

Beatrice laughed. “That is me enjoying the party. Who knows, they may even let me help out.”

“Will you stop!” Patience said, and her voice was merry. “I insist that, for once, you enjoy yourself, as a guest.”

“Okay,” Beatrice said. “But I get to see the kitchens first.”

They all knew this was as good a deal as they were going to get.

***

Gideon Codd stood in his office, staring with pale, watery eyes at the painting on the wooden-panelled wall opposite his heavy, ornate desk. The painting depicted an image of a 16th Century galleon, it’s prow high, smashing through the waves, sails forced into taut ‘C’ shapes by the wind.

Codd’s fat and immaculately manicured fingers absently stroked his white goatee beard, the residual light from a small horizontal lamp above the painting made the skin of his balding head sparkle.

He had been mayor of Dorsal Finn for over twenty years and carried the arrogance of a man of repeated electoral success. Yet everyone held this man-of-high-office in such low esteem; his continued re-election should have been considered one of the town’s greatest mysteries.

The answer, however, was not magical or fantastic, it was the outcome of a very unanimous conceit, and the conceit was known in politics as ‘voter apathy.’ More often than not, people would consistently grumble in the run-up to polling day, and on the day promptly re-elect him because to think otherwise would take too much thought. The whole process would start again for the next three-year tenure.

Codd had never associated with words such as fairness and team-work. The concept of a group working together in order to achieve a common goal was incomprehensible in that most of his goals involved his personal gain and didn’t leave much room for anyone else.

If he was to be honest with himself, an event that had a probability factor akin to winning the lottery, Codd would have admitted that he was insecure. This meant he was consumed with the desire to have something which appeared to come naturally to others. That ‘something’ was the ability to connect with people, make friends, and foster relationships.

When he saw how effective such things were in business, and the prestige and renown that often came along with it, he found himself becoming frustrated at how inept he was in such matters. He had established ways in which to gain wealth and power by using easy routes. He’d aligned himself with unscrupulous methods such as manipulation, deception and downright bullying.

These were perceptions that he could understand. Therefore he reinforced his sense of achievement in the use of such methods by the outcome, a position of power in local government, and the assumed trappings it brought with it, wealth, kudos and a bolstered esteem.

On occasion, his jealousy surrounding the real nuance of business—of fostering positive working relationships and inspiring others—tended to consume him and the decision-making process.

And today was one of those days. Codd was riled by Khaldun Userkaf and a deal with Redfern Maritime Leisure Company. An invitation to the charity launch had arrived that morning, and ever since it had been playing on the mayor’s embittered mind.

The launch gala was an inspired covenant, bound to bring only good things to the Userkaf’s, and the town overall. Looking at the invitation on his desk had Codd feeling the cold steel of envy pinning him to the spot. This event should have been engineered by him, not some local businessman. A quiet spite began to build and he took several breaths to steady himself.

He got himself moving, and walked across the plush carpets, heading to the rosewood drinks cabinet where he picked out a crystal decanter and poured himself a hefty measure of brandy.

“For medicinal purposes, of course,” he justified to the empty room.

He drank deeply, but the jealousy did not leave him. It coursed through him like vile poison and he found the room waver as though he was going to pass out. He leaned against the wall until the sensation passed. Putting his glass down the mayor carefully ambled back to his desk and thumped down onto his chair.

He reached for the intercom on his desk. When Primrose Meadowsweet, his PA, answered, he pushed the invitation away from him as though it was diseased. 

“Yes, sir?” Primrose said in the speaker.

“Get in here, Miss Meadowsweet,” he said. “I need to see you.”

“Very good, sir.”

The intercom clicked off and, for the next few minutes, Codd found himself with only his all-consuming jealousy for company.

***

Lucas and Beatrice walked hand-in-hand through the quiet streets. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the sea in the bay below them to simmering fire. They stopped to take in the view. Both of them lost in their own thoughts.

“You never talk about it,” Lucas said.

Ever since they had left Patience’s house Beatrice had been waiting for him to raise his concerns. Beatrice put her arm around his waist and Lucas reciprocated. They held each other as the setting sun turned the sky to a deep orange.

“What is there to talk about? You know what I know,” Beatrice said softly.

“Do I?”

“Of course,” Beatrice said turning to look at him, her expression one of puzzled concern. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m scared,” he said flatly. “Scared The Dark Heart is coming back to finish what it started. Coming back for you.”

“If there is one thing I do know,” Beatrice said, “it’s that, for whatever reason, The Dark Heart is afraid of me. It isn’t going to be reckless. I think we can be certain that’s not how it does things.”

Lucas was about to answer when the distant thud-thud of rotor blades came to him from the bay. They watched as the yellow bulk of the Coast Guard chopper rose lazily into the air and peeled east towards Ashby-on-Sea.

“That can’t be good,” Beatrice said.

“Sign of the times, maybe?” Lucas muttered.

Beatrice didn’t reply.