The Watchman E-Book

John Edwin Wallace

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 172

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

They are all tormented. Maybe they are all mad. Who is the puppet master that controls them, and how can they know what is real and what is a nightmare? Are they all heading towards damnation or are they already there? And why are there so many moths?

Leseprobe

John Edwin Wallace

The Watchman

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Chapter 1

The Watchman

“Because of Satan:& the Seven Eyes of God continually

Guard round them, but I, the Fourth Zoa am also

Set

The Watchman of Eternity: the Three are not, & I

Am preserved.”

- William Blake, Milton: Book the First

Part 1: The Chrysalis

Chapter One

I keep my eyes shut and lay very still. Trying to block out the traffic noise and the cruel shards of sunlight that try and force their way in. The mattress is lumpy and I can feel its broken springs forcing their way into my back. Every morning is the same. Blocking out the memory of the night before and delaying the sight of my surroundings. Am I getting too old for this, or am I exactly the right age for these discomforts? Groping to the side of the bed I grasp for the water bottle that I thought I put on the table. Clearly not. I still don’t open my eyes. My throat is dry and I can tell I’m wearing clothes from the night before. My mouth tastes sour. It is getting hotter. Sooner or later I have to get up. Take a deep breath. Open my crusty eyelids and focus on the ceiling.

These days are much too short as my unconscious recovery from self-abuse rides deep into most of them. Missing out on the pleasures that people have with poison-less bandages they have been fortunate enough to find through the school of not so tough knocks. Mine, however are brutal. I don’t envy love, quite the opposite really. I try and murder the fact I used to feel it every night by firing shots at it. I’ve tried to use all the heavy hitters to help me. Jack and Jameson nearly get the job done but my wounds are too complex. Anyway, it’s time to get up.

The room lurches to the right and then to the left before it steadies itself. A car coughs and clears its throat as I lean on the swaying bedpost. Walk a tightrope to the window to shut out the smell of the city and then realize the smell is me. The city is ten flights down. Clinging to the wall like my last day with a bible I inch my way to the front door. It’s locked and I can’t find the key. Need to urinate. Nearly fall into the bathroom, half-consciously grateful that I haven’t soiled myself during the night. A moth almost flies into my dry, open mouth but settles on the top on the door. I find the toilet and relieve myself. Glance into the stained, cracked mirror and tilt my head so I can’t see my reflection. There is something in the bath. Zip up and turn curious and bleary. The toilet remains unflushed as I blink inquisitively at the dead body in the tub.

As my focus gets as good as it probably will be in the state I am in, my heart misses another beat as I notice the body is female. Even worse there is a spike in her arm hanging out of her flesh like a loose tooth of those all too familiar crack heads that infest these parts of town. Her veins are as ugly as what the future may hold for me if I don’t act wisely. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I say out loud as a cry for help to a god which, if it exists, I burnt all the bridges with before I was at a legal drinking age. I just remembered what had happened, well part of. I stuck that needle in her fucking arm with the same contents that went up mine. But wait, why is she in the tub? Why did I wake up in my bed and why am I alive? Too many heavy questions for a dammed man at this time in the (I’m assuming) morning. My head won’t stop spinning.

She is wearing a leather jacket with one arm (the one with the interesting ornament in it) out. I go through her pockets desperately looking for ID but realise that I am kidding myself. I am looking for cash. I only find the key to my apartment. I try not to look at her face as I heave her out of the bath and over my shoulder like some kind of sick bride. I already know what to do. I fumble with the key and lock, and then edge my way out of the room into the corridor carrying my burden like a sack full of my broken years. I make my way to the fire escape and panting I stagger up the three remaining flights of stairs until I emerge blinking onto the roof. Kicking a crack pipe and an empty vodka bottle aside I stumble to the edge and look down the opposite side to my apartment. It is a filthy but deserted alleyway. Without pausing to think I push the girl over the edge. She falls like a broken dream and lands between two dumpsters with a sad thud. Something from inside her spreads like pizza topping over the cobbles. I look away and glancing down see the needle that has fallen from her arm. I reverentially pick up the holy relic and again notice a moth fluttering by my right shoulder. I move to brush it away but freeze into wakefulness as I feel a hand clamp down on my other shoulder.

As I turn it feels like I’m playing Russian roulette with five out of six chambers filled. The guilt on my face is splattered everywhere like my poor friend I dumped moments ago. And I wonder why I’m not a popular guy. “Peter, are you ok!?” What a question and how do I answer that without insinuating I want to kill myself right there on the spot. “Um, yeah I’m good” I respond to a memorable face but obviously not a memorable man because I’m fucked if I remember who he is… but that face. It’s like a before shot of someone getting off the drugs in the 1970s. Maybe that’s why I remember it. Maybe that’s why I like it. But this guy as a person is a mystery so I respond the only way I know how when this kind of thing happens and yes, this kind of thing has happened before to a lesser non-fatal extent. “Good, brother! Completely punished from last night so thought I could get some fresh air to wake, sober and liven myself up. What are you doing out here?” I chew my words like strong tobacco and I’m on the verge of throwing up both the contents of my stomach and what I just did. Despite how bad of a man I sound like, I do feel guilt and shame like most others.

He looks at me curiously. “I’m taking the trash out”, he replies as I see the black sack in his left hand. “So was I”, I think grimly. He stands awkwardly, as if he is not quite sure what to do. What the hell is he doing with the trash on the roof? Perhaps he has a body to get rid of as well. I really must get a grip on things. I still can’t pin his face down. He looks remarkably clean for someone who obviously knows me. Hair clean and neatly parted. Button-down shirt and chinos. Clean sneakers. He hesitates for a moment as if he has something else to say. “Well. Just so long as you are alright” he says awkwardly and then he is gone, taking his black sack down the stairwell. Again I wonder, why did he bring it onto the roof? I shake my head to clear it. I have worse things to worry about. Nothing from last night find its way back into my memory. I crawl to the edge and look down. Jesus Christ. The body is gone, only a dark, lumpy stain as evidence that I did not imagine the whole thing. I lie flat on my stomach. I need a strong coffee. I need it now. But I also need to fight back the bile that is rising in my gut. I roll onto my back and stare at the sky. No answers there. Who was he? Who was she? Then it suddenly hits me. He called me Peter. Is that my name? With clarity comes panic. I don’t know who I am. I rush back downstairs to the apartment, burst into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the filthy mirror. I can’t believe what I see.

Blood seeping through my white, collared, buttoned-up shirt. No pain just blood. Do I dare take it off and assess the damage? Yes. I’ve somehow made it this far. I don’t rip the shirt off like superman, as I am far from his level of character. Even Clark Kent makes me look pathetic and he is a complete pussy. Instead I slowly, but not so gracefully start to unbutton from the top down with my hands shaking as I move from button to button. I get there in the end and then take off my shirt like blood red curtains at a 18th century Opera night, and it exposes what I pray is not the truth. “THANKS FOR KILLING ME” engraved on my chest done with some kind of sharp tool that I honestly don’t know what it was but can guess. Now the pain doesn’t faze me because well there is none. Even the fact I’m wounded doesn’t affect me. But those words. I fall to the floor like the piece of shit I clearly am and scratch my head with the world. My world. My hell.

Crawling up onto my feet again I re-examine the message and realise I can read it the right way around in the mirror, which means it must be carved backwards into my chest. I rip the shirt off and rummage through the dirty clothes piled in the corner until I find a plain black t-shirt. I pull it over my head. Must get out. Slam the apartment door shut and without waiting for the piss-stinking elevator I half-run half-fall down the stairwell until I end up gasping and sweating on the sidewalk. I feel compelled to check the alleyway for the girl’s body but need to calm down. I stagger across the street and walk the two blocks to the park. Past the junkies and drunks across to the safe part of the park. Stand in the shade of a large tree and try to piece together the horrors of the past hour. So thirsty. I slump against the tree trunk. The scabs on my forearm are starting to itch and the wound on my chest is aching but the singing of the birds settles me as I look up through canopy of leaves at the sky. I close my eyes and steady my breathing. I feel a shadow pass over me and I open my eyes. Heavy clouds from nowhere. The birds have stopped singing and I notice that there is no sound of traffic. I look across the open space of the park and see an old-fashioned, black baby carriage. No-one around. The fear rises again and the images of the dead girl, the man on the roof and my bloodied chest flicker through my mind like a pack of playing cards being riffled. I feel drawn towards the baby carriage but equally impelled to go back to the alley. I look around for help but the world seems to have stopped and gone home. I can hear the sound of moaning and it takes me a moment to realise that the sound is me.

The baby carriage is as black as death and as symbolic as Satan (or one might say more accurately) his spawn. Why is it there? Surely in a city filled with the good, the bad and the ugly the good would do something about this. Like move it out of harm’s way. If it’s going to be me that’s left to do it what does that say about the kindness of local humanity that infest these houses like rats in sheds. Ok, one step at a time. I get up. I shake. Then I hear a woman’s voice. “Pete, Pete, Pete.” ”What?” I whimper… No this can’t be right. The voice is coming from that damn carriage. I step closer not knowing what to expect when I look inside. I might have lost my mind but I’m being reminded that I still have a heart because the thing is bursting out of my ribcage. I summon the courage to look inside and the horror is too much. I must be in hell. It’s the severed head of the dead woman from my bathtub and I want to die, right now. Please.

My hands fly instinctively up to my face. I try to shut the sight out but am compelled to lower my hands and look again. There is no head. A large, old-fashioned doll lies harmlessly in the carriage. But I can still hear a voice calling my name like a blessed demon. I look around insanely. A homeless woman with wild hair seems to appear from nowhere and shuffles towards me. Her eyes are protruding and her face is filthy. She is wearing an old army coat over a stained and torn dress. She is wearing battered sandals. She runs up to me and grasps my arms. “Pete” she says, “this is our baby”. She points at the doll in the pram. “Yours and mine, Pete. You said you would buy us food. This is our family, Pete. Don’t leave us.” I stumble away from this mad woman. How does she know my name? Is this my name? Who are these people? I run away from her as fast as I can go, her crazy voice calling after me. At the end of the park I find a water fountain and wash my face, drinking deeply. I hide for a while in the old bandstand. Reaching into my pocket I find a $20 note and a folded-up piece of paper. I open the paper up. There is writing on it. It says “Go to the iron bridge by the river. Wait. Talk to no-one.” It is written in the same handwriting as the carvings on my chest.

Now at this point I have to admit I am grateful the severed head wasn’t a fucking severed head but unfortunately this still seems like a waking nightmare that keeps on having plot twists which so far are really not working in my favour. This paper and what’s written on it. Even the devil isn’t this cruel. If my gut tells me right that I do need to go to the iron bridge. It’s the closest thing I have to reality which doesn’t fill me with confidence, just sickness. I walk or should I say trip and sway my way over to the bridge. I vomit three or four times on my way there. I’m not sure the exact amount but it makes me feel about 10% better. I eventually magnetize to the bridge like an old friend who I did wrong by, which is probably the best fitting analogy. I look at the note again but this time flip it over and my heart pounds like a coke fuelled porn star as I read it. “Now that you’re here, confess your sins”. But this side of the note is in different handwriting, much neater. I look up and standing there right in front of me is a gun that’s attached to a hand much more masculine than mine and in better condition. Around his wrist are rosary beads and a cross. It all comes back to me like boomerang. I know why I’m here and I know who he is. Fuck. That girl in my bathtub was the daughter of a preacher.

He smiles at me, showing some gold teeth. “Nice night out?” He hands me the gun. “Did Mary have a good time? You were both pretty wasted when I dropped you off.” He hands me the gun and puts his hands on his hips pushing back his black jacket. I look emptily at the gun. None of this makes any sense. My memory is surging back in blood clots. Bubbling up and congealing. “What?” I ask stupidly. The preacher frowns slightly and purses his lips. “You had your good time. It’s now time to pay back what you owe.” I stare at him like an idiot. “I expect you and Mary to meet me at the bar at nightfall. And I expect the job to be completed.” He leans over me menacingly. “Here are the tickets.” He hands me two train tickets. They are return fares to the docklands. “Don’t let me down. Jeez, you stink. Go home and have a shower. And have something to eat and drink. You will need it.” He strolls away then calls over his shoulder “And stay off the smack. Until tonight.” I watch him like an idiot then shove the gun down my jeans. My name is Peter. Her name was Mary. He bought us drinks, gave us drugs and drove us home. What sort of a preacher does that? What sort of a father does that? I look up and see the guy from the roof-top walking down the footpath towards me. I must get back. I need a shower and some food. I scurry away and head back to the apartment block. At least I don’t meet the crazy lady on the way.

The key shakes in my hand as I raise it to the keyhole. All I can think about is suicide or a long hot shower. I decide on the shower for now. As I walk back into that room where this all began the stench hits me like a wave of death. I don’t think there is much left in my stomach to come up so I undress, get another glimpse of those words on my chest and crawl into the shower. As the tap turns on and the water hits me, I feel better. This is the first time since my day began that everything has slowed down. I stay in there until the hot water runs out, which isn’t very long but long enough to give me some sort of inner spark to work with if I’m going to survive this, emotionally, mentally, physically and maybe even sexually. Ok, feeling sort of ok-ish. I definitely should put on new clothes so I find the closest thing to that. I check the apartment for money as I only have $20. I find two more under a couch cushion. Time to leave to a safer place, but I don’t know where a place like that could be. Somewhere public and middle class. I’m now dressed for that scenario so I head towards the nice part of the city. Remembering though that I only have $22.

I have the gun tucked down the back of my jeans with a light jacket covering it and the two train tickets in my pocket. The walk gives me time to think. I stop to buy a cheap but strong coffee and a bagel from a street vendor and reflect about what to do next. At least I feel more in control. The girl’s name was Mary and she is dead. Her father, the preacher has given me a gun and clearly expects me to do something with it. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know his daughter is dead. There are at least two people in the world who know me. The guy who accosted me on the roof and who I saw later in the park. The mad woman with the doll in the pram. Never want to see her again. I am now alert and watchful with the old familiar tension in the stomach returning. Time to deal with that later. The part of town I am now in is safe. People starting to leave the shops and offices for lunch. I am at a loose end. Curiosity and a slight sense of unease draws me towards the train station. I think I will go to the docklands. Maybe sell the gun. Stay low for a little while and avoid the preacher. Score some drugs and maybe move on to another part of the city like the hobo I never was but perhaps should have been. What a morning.

The train ride is a short one and I am grateful to be sitting down for a while with the window open and the cool breeze in my face. I watch the scenery pass by. The tower blocks and factories give way to wasteland with shanty huts dotting the landscape. Soon the mixed tang of oil and sea air hits my nostrils and I can see the docks with the cranes, oil tankers and refineries. The train pulls up and I climb out. I know this part of town well. A lot of the good stuff comes in off the ships. Back when I had my shit more together, I would buy in bulk, cutting it and selling it to the two-bit dealers in town. Enough to support the lifestyle I thought I needed. Then the big gangs moved in and took over and I slunk back to the city center and into a rathole.