Tales from Even Darker Places

The Indie Collaboration Presents

  Tales from Even Darker Places

  ISBN: 9781370106707

  6th November 2016

  Edited by Chris P. Raven

  Copyright retained by the Authors

  Cover Art by Book Birdy Designs

  The Indie Collaboration grew out of a group of independent authors who decided to show the world how great works of fiction can be, without the involvement of any large publishing companies, by creating a direct channel between themselves and their readers. Each author in this anthology has freely donated their time and work and are committed to the Indie Collaboration's cause:

  “We offer the best of indie writing in bite size pieces and wherever possible, for free.”

  We hope you enjoy our books.

  If you did, then please leave a review where you purchased it.

  CONTENTS

  Guardians by Ray Foster

  On The Right Side by Dani J Caile

  Theatre of the Macabre By Chris Raven

  One Rainy Night by Priya Bhardwaj

  The Class of Miss Griselda Sparrow by Chris Raven

  Poetry

  The Birds in the Sky by Charlie Dee

  The Night Surely Can’t Last by Chris Raven

  About The Authors

  Other Publications by The Indie Collaboration

  Guardians

  By Ray Foster

  1, Final Entry of the journal of Gladys Atkins

  My time is done.

  The mask is slowly peeling away.

  None shall believe that a woman born in 1844 could have endured through two world wars but the words in this journal are true.

  In reality my life came to an end in 1914, just two months before the outbreak of the First World War. That was when George came to me; he held, softly, my hand in his as he explained to me what will be.

  When God cast out Lucifer and his followers He did not leave our world to be ruled by evil. He sent angels to stand guard over us.

  For us we are trapped...our lives balanced.... neither good nor evil. Decisions made with right intentions but for the wrong reasons. Sometimes vice versa. Lives not perfect...yet is so.

  When I ran away from the child who had been crushed beneath the wheels of a coal wagon it was easy to blame the fog. To say that I had not seen the accident was far easier. I convinced myself that it had never happened; shut it away whereas in truth I had no idea what to do.

  The 14-18 war changed all that. I served in France as a nurse, a career that I followed through with and ending up as a Matron, a promotion that came as a result of the Second World War’s London Blitz.

  But my new life began on the brutal battlefields of that horrendous war when the flower of British youth was decimated amidst the poppies and mud of Flanders’ Fields,

  It was there within the sounds of distant artillery fire that I tended a young man with wounds to both his legs. He was worried that he might lose them. He told me that his grandfather had lost both his legs when he had fallen beneath the wheels of a coal wagon – I looked into his eyes as the memory rushed back. Again, I wanted to run but I could not for I had a duty to perform. The young man did not lose his legs or his life but went on to enjoy a full life as a shoemaker as his father and grandfather had done before him.

  Now, as I look into the mirror I see the woman I once was. The wrinkles have returned and my eyesight is fading. The arthritis has returned and age is beginning to weary me. Yet, I remember the lives I saved and the evil I destroyed. In this day and age, we would be ranked amongst the superheroes.

  I look down and reach out to touch the hand of the man stretched out on the marble slab. He takes a deep breath; tears spill from eyes that open and stare at me. A question begins to form on his lips, but I touch his mouth with a slender finger and quieten him.

  There is still time for me to explain what is happening.... what is expected of him.

  He rises from the slab, legs sliding over to the ground. The grey hair and beard begin to fade; the stooped form straightens until a young man stands in his place. In his mind he is seventy odd but there is still a shock to come when he first comes face to face with himself. I lead him away from the mirror. I am envious, if I had only been allowed my youth for just a while longer; I cannot stop myself from gazing upon his naked body. Still I had the forethought (as George had for me) to bring some clothes upon which he looked with some disgust. I had only brought attire that was the current fashion but he just looked kind of ghostly as he put on the grey hoodie and jogging bottoms.

  It is time to go.

  My final entry is done.

  The story belongs to him now.

  *****

  2, The New Journal Starts

  My name is Nick Ingram.

  I was born in North London – North Finchley to be exact – in 1944.

  Today is February 6th 2016.

  I am sitting by the pond, staring to my right to where the bog should be. When I was a kid it had been a muddy marsh which we were told was dangerous because the mud could suck you down like quicksand. We kids knew different for we waded ankle deep in the mud looking for toads, frogs and newts. No one ever disappeared in that bog nor did anyone have to be rescued. Now it was all grassed over – and I’m thinking what a waste.

  I often come here because the Sandpits (as the park was known) is one of my favourite places. This is where my life began....and has again and with it comes a wonderful world of memories.

  I trained as a brickie and worked my way up. Had my own building firm and retired at the right time so lost nothing in the recession. My sons took over the business and found ways and means to keep their heads above water.

  I wonder what they would think if they could see me now. I’m younger than the youngest and two years older than my eldest granddaughter.

  It’s crazy – Gladys explained everything that I needed to know about this ‘born again’ experience. I can’t fathom it out why I was chosen but here I am getting a second chance.

  In truth, I moved away from here many years ago. It was, I believed, for the best as I could not live with the memories of my first wife.

  As children we had lived in different parts of Finchley – she in Ingleway and me in a cramped flat in Limes Avenue. Distance didn’t bother us then for I would always see Maggie whenever I visited my grandparents. Sometimes I would stay over and we would talk to each other through our respective bedroom windows. People would walk by and smile as they spotted our heads poking out.

  There was two years between us and, although I was about seven when we first met, it was not unusual for me to walk through the High Street to my grandparents. How safe the streets seemed to be in those days compared to now.

  Yes, they were good times when we played in the street games like ‘What’s The Time Mr Wolf?’ and ‘Simon Says’.

  Fond memories of a time that was.

  I went to see Maggie – or rather her grave in Hendon Cemetery. I stood there thinking about the way that I had neglected her. I laid my hand on the headstone and knelt down to read the inscription but I was distracted by a restless feeling as a fresh wave of guilt encompassed me. I wanted to say ‘sorry’ – not for the decaying state of the grave – but for how young she had died.

  I had a business to build and I worked all hours to ensure that our life together was secure. Meanwhile, Maggie ran with the old gang and I didn’t mind because my best friend, Terry Harvey, would look out for her.

  Terry and I were of an age. We lived opposite each other, went to the same schools and were typecast as soldiers in the various school plays. As the years past so we graduated from bicycles to motorbikes but while I had just the one girlfriend it was Terry who p
layed the field.

  When Maggie died I moved away and, after a few years, met my second wife.

  With the past left behind I was able to move on – or so I believed. The guilt of Maggie’s death and the reason for it still haunted me. I could have done more but I was trapped by the code that no one grassed up their friends.

  Loneliness had made an addict out of Maggie and Terry had supplied whatever she needed until the day that she overdosed. The post-mortem revealed that she had taken something that had been doctored – and that her death had been just another caused by the same batch.

  The police interviewed me to discover what I knew but I knew nothing. Even so I did confront Terry who said he was sorry before turning everything on me. If I had been around; if I had paid her more attention, then Maggie would not have needed drugs to keep her going.

  It was my fault and the guilt that I felt allowed a killer to go free.

  Terry Harvey, today, is a wealthy man. He built an empire out of drugs, property, prostitution – in fact, you name it Terry has been involved. The police have tried to bring him down but failed for one reason or another. Witness intimidation wasn’t ruled out; jury tampering was suspected but not proven.

  He still lives in Finchley closer to Totteridge but within walking distance to both Brook Farm and the Sandpits. It is a replica of the house he owns in Spain so it is unusual for him to be here at this time of year. As it happens there are many events taking place this year like his granddaughter’s wedding, the christening of a great grandson and a celebration of his own seventy second birthday.

  Of course there is the added attraction of his granddaughter’s friend, Gemma, who makes him feel so young. Gemma who will do anything – and I do mean anything - if it means that she will become the third Mrs. Harvey. She expects an announcement tonight.

  These are the expectations as I ride a brand new Triumph motorbike through the high, impressive ornamental gates and up the paved driveway to park out front. A bouncer who, from the looks of him, spends a lot of time both in the gym and on steroids stands guard on the open front door.

  Nothing changes, even as kids the front door to the Harvey home was always open for visitors who were, rarely, discouraged.

  I walked straight in and, nearly, into the shapely Gemma who had two good reasons on show as why Terry was so attracted. She looked me up and down with impressed, interested eyes then with a wink and a promise she was gone.

  Looking into the room from which she had emerged I saw Terry, looking a little flushed, as he sat behind a walnut, red leather topped desk.

  “Still got it then, Tel,” I mentioned, closing the door behind me.

  Startled he looked up: “No one calls me, Tel.” He thundered before he gained control as he tried to work out how I had invaded his territory. “How’d you get in here? Who let you in?”

  “I just walked through the door, Tel,” I pointed out the obvious. “Mind you the feller at the front door looked like he was more interested in my bike than me.”

  “I told you -,” he said, angrily, thrusting a stabbing forefinger in my direction.

  “No one calls you, Tel,” I acknowledged, picking up a chair that I set down to one side of the desk’s knee hole. I sat down, crossed my legs and stared at him. “By the way, Happy Birthday, mate.”

  “Thank you,” it was an automatic response but the situation sobered him. “But you ain’t here to wish me any Happy Returns.”

  I waved a finger at him: “You got me wrong there, Tel, my wishes are well-intentioned. It’s just that you and I need to settle some things.”

  “What things?” he asked, suspiciously, while observing that both my hands were in plain view.

  As he said that I spotted a framed set of school photographs on the wall. Slowly, I stood up to take a closer look. All our history was there from primary through to secondary school – St. John’s to Hillside.

  “Takes you back don’t it Tel,” I reminisced without looking at him. “You were taught sewing in that first year – you did a Christmas doily for your mum. And cheese and potato pie – you’d be first in the queue for seconds. Empire Day – Tel – you remember Empire Day? All done up like an Indian in a turban and blacked up with brown boot polish.”

  “Don’t remind me -,” he blurted out. “Shit I went as the wrong type of Indian.” Then his face scrunched up. “How’d you know all this? Who the fuck are you?”

  “I could tell you,” I said, softly. “I mean I could do that scene from ‘Once Upon a Time in The West’ – you know the one where Charles Bronson gives Henry Fonda the names of people that had died? But I won’t – so put your vanity to one side and get your glasses out of that centre drawer; put them on and focus.”

  Bemused, Terry did as he was told but when he focused he went a very pale colour.

  “O.K. Tel?” I asked, sitting down again.

  “I – I think so,” he stumbled. “But you ain’t him – you ain’t Nick. You look like him but you can’t be him. He’s dead – there was a thing – an announcement. An announcement that he’d died. So who are you –his son? Grandson?”

  I looked back up at the photographs and pointed to them. He followed my finger as comprehension began to dawn.

  “No one saw you come in here, did they?” he had turned a whiter shade of pale; sweat began to sheen his skin as he clutched the edge of the desk with trembling hands.

  “No,” I admitted. “Well, Gemma did – I think I’m on for a promise there.”

  “Why?” he blurted out, as a numb pain crept up his arm and his head began to pound. “Why have you –“

  “Maggie,” I told him, bluntly. “I should’ve shopped you. Maybe killed you for what you did to her. But no – I was loyal to my mate Tel. I let you go unpunished – moved away – but because of that others died.”

  “So what now?” he gasped, clutching at his chest while the ghosts of those who had died at his hand rose around him. “You plan to kill me?”

  His fear, at that moment, was palpable as he stared up at the faces that loomed in front of him. They crowded around, penning him in as the ghosts of his past began to haunt him. Tears stung his eyes and tried to look away as Maggie’s face came close to his watching as his life ebbed away.

  I shook my head as the ghosts stepped back to watch a fiery portal open up to receive Terry’s black soul. As it disappeared so the ghosts began to depart until only Maggie and I were left.

  No words passed between us – there was no need for them – the lifeless form of Terry Harvey slumped behind his desk was enough. As Maggie faded away I knew that she could now rest in peace.

  © 2016 Ray Foster

  On The Right Side

  by Dani J Caile

  Officer Bobby Simms smashed the door down and stormed into the unlit apartment in the rundown motel with his gun held in both hands. The suspect he’d been following led him here after zig-zagging through the streets for hours. After a moment of acclimatising himself to the dark, Simms saw a man sitting in an armchair next to an unkept bed in the tiny room. There was a small bathroom in the back, separated by a kicked in folding screen.

  "Look who stopped by," said the man, taking a puff from his cigarette. "It's the man in blue."

  "You're under arrest!" shouted Simms, pointing his gun at the man.

  "Hey, hey, relax, Bobby," he said. How did he know his name? "We're old buddies, you and me. Don't you remember? I used to bounce you on my knee."

  This man, suspected of holding up a local store a few hours ago, knew him? "How... how do you know my name?"

  "Ah, you were only about two at the time, Bobby, when I knew your father, when anyone knew your father before he was given the death penalty," said the man, half-hidden in his own smoke.

  "What? What do you know about my father?" said Simms, lowering his gun slightly.

  "What everyone knew. And more. What was it? Fifteen, the 'official' count?" asked the man. Simms' father had murdered fifteen people in the state befo
re being caught and convicted of his crimes. They gave him the electric chair. Simms was only three at the time. There was no mention of an accomplice.

  "Fifteen, ha! There were more, a lot more. I never got my kicks from the killing, though, that was his thing. My fun was always the chase." His cigarette glowed as he took down a large toke. "Like this one."

  "What? You robbed a store! I followed you," said Simms, raising his gun once again.

  "You followed me? Or did I bring you here?" There was a moment of silence until Simms' radio clicked in. Back-up was coming. "You know, looking at you, Bobby, you did right," said the man, stubbing out his cigarette on the side of his chair.

  "How do you mean?" Who was this guy who knew his father? Or said he did?

  "Well, they say a child is a mirror of their parents, both their good parts and bad, and the same mistakes happen again and again. But I think it's the duty of every kid to realise that and overcome them."

  "Is that what you did? Robbing the local store? Helping my father out all those years ago?" asked Simms. He took a step and glanced over to the bathroom to see if they were alone. No movement. Nobody else was here.

  "My father was a drunk. He beat the shit out of me until I could stand up on my own two feet and leave. But your father...ha! We've both moved on, hey, Bobby?" The man checked his cigarette packet, found it empty and threw it away amongst the rest of the trash littering the floor. "I'm out. Have you got any?"

  "I don't smoke."

  "Good for you, that's the right thing to do, these things suck the life out of you." The man looked Simms up and down. "Not exactly sharp, are you? But you're a good man of society, I guess, not like your father. Is that why you joined the boys in blue, eh? To right the wrongs?" As he laughed, flem filled his lungs and he coughed it out onto the dog-haired carpet in front of him.

  Sirens wailed outside as Simms back-up arrived, though they were still a block or two away. "I've got a proposition for you, Bob..." One squeeze of the trigger silenced the man, now with a hole in his chest. "Wha...? What did you do that for?" he said, falling back into the armchair in shock.