Lord of Dust Read online

  Lord of Dust

  Erme Lander

  Copyright 2019 Erme Lander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher at: [email protected]

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

  Cover image – Panagiotis Lampridis

  ISBN 978-1-9997453-7-0

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Ending

  Preface

  The seam popped apart like a joint dislocating, ripping with a silent meatiness. Refusing to allow her disgust to stop her, she forced her terror down and peeled her fingers away to push further in. It gave suddenly and enveloped her, enclosing her body in a viscous rubber, leaving her unable to grasp anything. She flailed in desperation, held tight in the greyness.

  She shouldn’t be able to do this, she hadn’t believed him despite what he’d said. He was asleep in the room behind her, unaware she was pinned here, a world away from her cellar. She’d had to know she could do this on her own, she couldn’t allow herself to fail even if his eyes didn’t see. He was a nob and a weakling, unable to survive on his own without falling over his own feet. She was strong and quick, nothing could beat her and get away with it. Held in place, she forced her way forwards, muscles twitching impotently. The nothing enclosing her didn’t want to give, didn’t want to let her move. She gritted her teeth and fought it, snarling in terror.

  Blindly she struggled, her world contained into a skin’s thickness. The call of the place she wanted to go to was a wispy summoning, the memory of a scent on a breeze. Black spots swam in front of her eyes as she struggled. She had no way of sucking in a breath, no way of even opening her mouth. She imagined opening it and having the nothing pour into her. Filling her in the same way panic filled her now. A shell of skin suspended in the void, forever screaming. She was going to die, held in the grey nothing, never to be found.

  A lightening of the pressure brushed a finger and she fought to turn, reaching out towards it. The way out was a tantalising feather’s touch away. There was a way through – the knowledge taunted her – she’d come this way before. His arm around her waist, the comfort of another human in this hell and afterwards his intellect making sense of a place that defied any meaning. He’d called it a void, a way of moving between their worlds. The light in his eyes and excitement in his voice catching something inside her, despite her dismissive snort. Another twist and she had two fingers loose with warm air around them. The tight grip peeled away from her hand, her wrist…

  Two hands free and she grasped the edges of the exit, pulling herself towards it, wriggling through the channel. The void didn’t want to give her up and she struggled to free her body, dizziness hitting as she used up her last few resources. A shoulder through and a vicious triumph filled her.

  Her head was struck by sunlight. She squinted, unused to the brightness and gasped at the fresh air streaming down her throat to gurgle through the years of muck in her lungs. A rustle of leaves assaulted her ears. The seam narrowed as she pulled herself through, the convulsions now thrusting her in the direction she wanted to go. The drag on her legs ceased as the rift spat her out as though wanting nothing further to do with her and she was hit by an exhaustion that sent her staggering into the slope.

  Chapter 1

  Saw the counsellor today. Complete waste of time. Thank goodness no one knows I booked these appointments.

  She sits, curled up on the comfy chair beside mine and looks at me. There’s not much on the table beside her – a box of tissues, a few bits of paper and pens. Some nice pictures on the walls, an attempt at making the place feel homely when the atmosphere is stiff. I study the landscape picture behind her, it’s got open water in the foreground and mountains beyond. I try to work out where it’s been painted, the Lake District maybe?

  “Daniel.” I jump and look at her. “You’ve come to talk to me. What would you like to talk about?”

  I’m paying her to listen. I can’t quite believe I’m in this situation, I am actually paying someone to be sympathetic to me. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. The feeling of not being quite part of this world sounds too strange, of feeling like an observer to everyone. She’d probably have an official name for it. One I’d get locked up for. I’m not nuts, just don’t feel connected to anything. I’d had the idea I could talk about it. She’d nod, smile and tell me it was normal, that everyone had these feelings and I’d grow out of it.

  She smiles encouragingly and waits. My mind goes blank. What do I say? All my thoughts become too big, I can’t get them past the blockage in my throat. There’s a white clock on the wall, one of those cheap plastic ones. No tick, nothing to disturb the silence. No sound of cars or the outside world penetrating the room. The silence here is stifling. It presses down, forcing me into a corner.

  The pressure builds, why am I here? The words whirl around my brain, shredding into tissues. All those things I’d wanted to say. I’m paying her to listen to me, finally I have the permission to say them. I’d constructed it all in clever well thought out sentences, to show that I’m not strange, not weird. Gone. Nothing left but an empty mouth as silent and cheap as the clock on the wall.

  “Shall we start with something easy, if you’re having problems deciding?” She smiles again. I nod, mute. “What hobbies do you have?” She wants to know about my hobbies. Inwardly I groan, I can’t believe I’m paying to have this conversation.

  “Um, I have a dog.” I sound stupid.

  The stilted conversation continues for the required forty minutes. Her asking questions, me giving short replies. I don’t even mention the new receptionist when she asks if I have a girlfriend or if there’s anyone I like. It’s not working. My anger at the situation is a knot inside me. Unable to unpick or release it, it stays and tightens. I’ve paid her for the three recommended sessions in advance. The anger tightens further, I can’t do this. She looks sympathetic as we come to a close and suggests that I think about a subject to talk about next time. She says it’s not easy to open up. Maybe I could write something down over the next week, some people find it easier to write than talk. I nod and leave.

  In the car, I stare at people walking past. It gives me no space to relax and to be myself. I let my head sink into my hands resting on the steering wheel and jerk it up again at the thought of being seen.

  I’m not going back to work, I’d timed the appointment to end roughly when work should finish and had taken the afternoon off. Clive had poked me verbally about wanting time off, I’d shrugged it off as a doctor’s appointment. I decide I’m not going back for another session and refuse to think about the money I’ll lose. I cringe at the thought of ringing up and saying I’m a failure at counselling. Closing my eyes, I shut out the world in a less obvious way, take a fe
w deep breaths to control myself and drive off.

  The anger builds again at the memory of bumping into Clive on the way out of work. He’d been leaning against the receptionist’s desk, chatting up the new temp. I’d thought she was pretty, sympathetic even when I’d first met her. Not now. My anger burns hotter. She’d grinned at him, barely noticing me as I’d signed out. Clive had made a comment in my direction and she’d laughed. I’d walked out feeling the back of my neck going red. The laughter had continued all the way to the door, all fifteen feet of it. I’d walked straight-backed, trying not to notice. I force the feelings down and concentrate on the road.

  I count the number of cars not indicating, the numbers not looking as they pull out of junctions, pushing into queues. The impatient masses trying to get home at the same time as me. Let one person out politely and another shoves his nose in. I force a smile at the people not seeing my car at roundabouts and pulling out in front of me. How can people miss a bright red car? I rub my head as I stop in traffic and wave a pedestrian to continue crossing in front of me. A comedian talks frantically on the radio as I turn it on, matching the chaos in the roads.

  “There were one too many in the queue for the aeroplane. We all knew who would be the one left sitting on the toilet during take off...” I switch off. The one left sitting on the toilet, yep that’s me, the one too polite to protest. Clive at work now, a year younger, less qualified, cheeky and assertive. He’d get that last seat, smooching his way up to the air hostess. My eyes smart and I rub my face with the back of my hand.

  My mind runs back to the previous afternoon when I’d been asked to help downstairs in the morgue. Despite my initial reservations, it was interesting, far more so than the work I’d been paid to do in the office. My mood plummets further, something’s definitely wrong with you when you find it more appealing to work with the dead than the living. The soft stream of conversation and the questions with no expectation of a reply. The gentle humour used, made it more like dealing with babies than dead people.

  I leave the chaos behind as I turn off the main road to drive down green lanes. High hedges take the place of the busy roads and grey buildings. I open the window to let some fresh air in and the sound of birdsong follows. It’s spring, a warm day with a chill still in the air. Not quite warm enough to take a jumper off, but close. I take a deep breath, I’m nearly back.

  A clash of gears through the open window alerts me to the final terror before home and I slow in anticipation. A flash in the gap in the hedgerow ahead and a car careers around the corner and squeals to a stop in the middle of the single track lane at the sight of me. The driver flaps her inability to reverse, her face peering over the half moon of the steering wheel. Mrs Pickles, far too old to be driving in my opinion, she must be at least eighty and has never backed up for anyone. In fact, there’s a story going round that once she simply abandoned her car and walked back to her cottage to put the kettle on when the other driver refused.

  She also drives far too fast on these roads, she’s an accident waiting to happen but no one seems to dare tell her. I sigh and reverse down the lane to the passing place. She inches forwards, pushing her way through. She gives me a cheery wave and a hello as she passes. I smile and wave back through gritted teeth.

  I pull into our drive and tuck the car into the hedge, leaving space for everyone else when they arrive tomorrow. Biggles is bouncing against the gate, overexcited and with a silly grin on his fat spaniel face. Here, outside in the spring with a daft dog desperate to greet me, I can finally let go of the afternoon and relax.

  I tap on the kitchen window as I pass, wave to Mum and walk through the orchard, Biggles leaping beside me. Buds are forming on the apple trees shading the shed down at the bottom where I’ve been living since I returned from university, desperate to pay off my debts. Well, I say shed, it’s more like a wooden office, several rooms and the shower room Dad and I fitted last summer.

  I walk into the room and stop. Biggles shoves at my legs, trying to get past, excited by the smell I’ve noticed. That fucking cat again. I search the room, staring into the dark corners trying to see it. Biggles’ nose pushes frantically against the back of my knees. Finally I spot it on the stool next to my computer. Black shiny plastic covers the seat and a large elegantly deposited turd on the top.

  Swearing, I push Biggles out of the way so I can get in properly and shut the door on him. Mum must have been in here and left the window open. I peer through the room, eventually spotting the cat in the shadows at the top of my bookcase, curled up in a tight ball. Its nose is tucked into its tail, its eyes slitted and it watches me with a malicious intent. Biggles thumps against the door, not understanding, I can barely breathe in here. One turd on a cool spring day…

  Choking, I open the rest of the windows and grab the packet of wet wipes kept especially for these occasions. It’ll take ages for the smell to disappear. Leaving the door open for Biggles to galumph in, I dump my stool outside and wipe it off.

  The cat looks smugly at me on my return. I can’t get it out without getting scratched and the books’ll get wet if I throw water at it. The breeze helps the smell disperse. Biggles gazes at the cat with a hopeless passion and the cat stares back, its malevolent intentions equally clear.

  At dinner I complain about the cat to my parents. It’s still in there, trapped by Biggles it can’t do anything else. My complaints fall on deaf ears as do the ones about the shed being my personal space. I want a flat or house of my own, but I can’t afford to rent. The prices around here are abysmal. Same goes for buying a house. I have to live here, I can’t save up if I’m spending out on rent. Sometimes though, the thought of not having a landlady who is your mother going through your rooms looking for dirty washing appeals. I managed at university, finding the cheapest ways to get through by not going out, by trying to work and study at the same time. My sisters had it easy, being ten years older they didn’t have to pay tuition fees. They had proper student loans and racked up debts having a good time. House prices were lower then too.

  I go back to the shed and find the smell’s nearly gone. The coolness of early evening is starting to chill as I shut the windows. I look for the cat. It yawns at me, showing its pink mouth and sharp white teeth. You’re fish bait I think savagely, you don’t look so different from the rabbit Mum cooks. Just wait, one skinned cat. I let my imagination run wild, stewed cat and the horror of it being served for dinner…

  I hear Mum calling, rattling the tin of cat food. I get Biggles to sit with the bribe of a biscuit. His fickle adoration is instantly transferred. The cat lazily stretches and jumps down, sauntering out with its tail waving. I kick the door shut in relief and allow Biggles his biscuit.

  Stretching my legs before bedtime, I walk through the woods on the hill above our house. Biggles bounds in front, every so often stopping to gaze back at me with a spaniel smile. I can hear people shouting and laughing in the spring evening. A movement catches my eye in the deep shadows. Yards away, a girl is watching me. She looks about fifteen years old. Her family must be somewhere close by, there’s loads of paths around here and it’s a popular walking area.

  She’s leaning against the tree to one side of the path as though she doesn’t want to be seen. She looks like she’s trying not to laugh. I surreptitiously check myself to make sure everything’s in place. Good grief, I’m even feeling paranoid around complete strangers, it must be a trick of the light. I decide to act normally. I wave and turn to join the path leading down the hill. Biggles barrels into me and I stumble, feeling rather than hearing a ripping sound. Flushing, I look back. She’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  The next day I come back from Biggles’ late afternoon walk to find the house crowded. Dominic is sitting on the floor, trying to play with his toy train and getting upset when the tracks get kicked. My mum and two sisters are shouting between rooms, talking about children. My older sister is breastfeeding her youngest. Dad is sitting in the corner, trying to stay out the w
ay and mumbling comments about the conversation that everyone ignores. Biggles bounces in to everyone’s dismay and I get shouted at to remove him. I drag Biggles out to his bewilderment, his spaniel face not understanding the disgrace.

  Dominic bellows at his track being kicked again. Poor kid, he’s only four, all big eyes and snotty nose. Samantha swoops down and wipes it, cradling the baby in her other arm. I hunker down to chat to Dominic and he screws his face up as I knock the tracks out of line. The younger of my two sisters mutters about it being in the wrong place, with a look to suggest it’s my problem.

  I grin at him, “Come on, let’s go to my shed. We can make a really good layout there.” He considers me with a serious look then nods. I scoop up the track, he grabs his precious train and we escape to the quiet of my shed.

  “Want to help me change the lock on my door?”

  He follows me to the garage and helps with sorting out screwdrivers to carry back. I show him the new lock I’ve bought, chat to him about manly things like keeping your mother out of your room when you’re a big boy and give him the old lock. He plays with the key and wipes grease over his jeans.

  We sprawl out on the floor. He chats quietly away in his own world, happy to have an adult paying attention. We make bridges, level crossings, cows die in droves and the trains are always on time to pick people up. An order in the chaos of reality. A four year olds idea of the adult world. Nothing can go wrong that can’t be fixed between the Railway Controller and Uncle Dan. I feel grown up and in control of life.

  An hour goes by and he needs a wee. I’d rather not go back into the house and get shouted at, my head twinges with the memory of the stress from yesterday. Dominic’s face screws up as I suggest going in the orchard. He’s been too well trained by my sister. Mustn’t wee outside, it’s not nice. I tell him I do it all the time and his eyes grow wider at the thought of an adult weeing outside. I send him out towards the hedge, giving him the chance to be a big boy on his own. I peer through the window after a few minutes and see him looking back at me, confused.