Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes Read online

  R. M. GRACE

  FALL OF

  HOPE

  © 1977 Warner Music Group.

  Copyright © R. M. Grace.

  The right of R. M. Grace to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of material reproduced in this book.

  If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers will be pleased to make

  restitution at the earliest opportunity.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced

  into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to

  criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For more information about the author and her other books, please visit her website.

  rmgrace.com

  For Brendan, Siobhan and my Tipp Boy. For my father and nan, thank you for everything. For my Pappy, it wasn't your favourite, but whenever I think of you, I remember you quoting 'Leisure' by William Henry Davis. So, this is for you.

  What is this life, full of care,

  We have no time to stand and stare

  No time to stand beneath the boughs

  And stare as long as sheep or cows

  No time to see, when woods we pass,

  Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass

  No time to see, in broad daylight,

  Streams full of stars, like skies at night

  No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

  And watch her feet, how they can dance

  No time to wait till her mouth can

  Enrich that smile her eyes began

  A poor life this if, full of care,

  We have no time to stand and stare.

  I stand amid the roar

  Of a surf-tormented shore,

  And I hold within my hand

  Grains of the golden sand - -

  How few! Yet how they creep

  Through my fingers to the deep,

  While I weep - - while I weep!

  O God! Can I not grasp

  Them with a tighter clasp?

  O God! Can I not save

  One from the fruitless wave?

  Is all that we see or seem

  But a dream within a dream?

  A dream within a dream,

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Chasing Leftovers

  Under the fading sun,

  Searching for shelter.

  I feel my time has come.

  Delight and Angers,

  In Flames

  PROLOGUE

  The sky stretches in endless waves of contaminated scarlet above Bobby's head. Vivid palpitations of light scatter within the clouds as though a storm is brewing in the depths of heaven.

  The sombre breeze slaps spittle against his cheek as the waves creep upon the shore. His bare and blistered toes sink into the sand as he drags himself along.

  He cannot save himself from the thought he is striding through others' blood. Instead of the usual salt stench from the ocean, the poignancy of charred meat fills his nose.

  As he scans the water, he spots an object bobbing on the waves which could be a log, or a burned limb. Yet, after he wipes his eyes in a hypnotic state, his vision clears and he finds nothing.

  Whatever it was must have gone under.

  Against the horizon, vertical silhouettes sprout from the dunes like painted cardboard. It's not the Ferris wheel, or bumper cars that steal his attention, but the figure that materializes before the metal carcasses.

  Featureless, it stands looking toward the sea with all the honesty of a mirage. Whoever or whatever it is, the figure is staring his way, but not at the sea.

  No, it is staring at me. Through me.

  He cannot be sure if that's the truth, besides the ache echoing within his bones that tells him so.

  Screeching blares from behind the foreboding shape of a man who is much taller than him.

  The inky lucidity of the fairground against the crimson reminds him of his mother telling him shadow-puppet tales by candle-light as a toddler. It is like watching his childhood drift into the past.

  Over his shoulder, he sees the tide swiping the footprints closest away. Yet, he spots his trail further over the dry mounds in erratic, red patterns.

  That's why I came down to the water—to get clean.

  His t-shirt hangs from his bones and the black jeans droop at his hips. He pats the material to check for wounds, but he appears unscathed. Yet, he finds dried blood on the braces he wears—one flung over his shoulder and the other hanging at his side.

  Finger smudges and scratches dirty the denim. The red marks glow against the black where he must have rolled the cuff over his ankles to below the knees. It's like waking from sleepwalking to find an unknown place. He doesn't recall having come this far. But as much of a freak occurrence this is, he is calm.

  The markings lead into the crosses erected in the sand. Wrapped around one wooden arm is a piece of bloodied cloth that lifts on the wind like a wounded ghost.

  The thought he should remember what came before this point wriggles inside his head along with muffled voices, shrill screams and gagged sobbing.

  “A premonition.”

  Snapping his attention to the path not yet taken, he cannot find the source of the voice anywhere. No one stands before him. It is only he and the figure in the distance. Yet, the words spoken come like a lover's greedy hunger at his neck.

  “Who are you?”

  The figure remains unmoved by the question. His hair twists and curls away from his head like he is an animation.

  As the sea recedes, his ankles sink into the soggy, dim gold grains and, once more, he catches an object washing up at his feet. Fishing it from the water, he is thankful it is not a limb. Yet, it is something he recognizes in an instant—a gift he once owned.

  Holding the gift by the arm brings an unpredictable grief, but he fights the urge to embrace the memories that want to surface.

  Where did these come from?

  The sky rumbles overhead with scars of lightning branching out through the burgundy clouds. The noise increases, and he searches the landscape, aware that whatever is causing the commotion is coming closer.

  Bobby scrambles further up the shore, but the shadow figure doesn't shift. The beach is nothing like the ones he conquered as a child in diapers with a paper sword and an eye patch. There's no warmth, or love in this place.

  The grains stick to his feet to make wet sandals and, although weightless, they irritate him. As he is about to give voice to his displeasure, the booming accumulates. The sound is like thousands of raging hooves echoing from his surroundings.

  “You will all die here.” The voice is numb and uncaring, but free of the anger Bobby feels the words hold.

  A slither of light slices through the air to stop Bobby in his tracks with an equal mixture of fear and awe. Every question circling about his head of what he is witnessing shatter as the glowing slit widens. It's as though an enraged critic is ripping through a painting to reveal a sunrise too bright to bear with the naked eye. Each end of the tear peels away and four shadows enter. First sight suggests h
e is seeing horses.

  His Adam's apple pulls tight against the striped t-shirt as he contemplates where—if there is anywhere—to run.

  The plastic in his clasped hand throbs as he watches the four horsemen of the apocalypse shrouded in gloom. Only, as the wind stretches over the land, he soon realises the figures are much worse than any omen.

  His brunette hair dances upon his scalp and his eyes sting as the sand flies at his face.

  The strand of light across the floor retracts as the light seals behind the figures, and they ride clear of the opening.

  Without blinking, Bobby stares dumbfounded as the four shapes blend into one. As the darkness slips from the horror, its true hideous form reveals itself.

  The bulky body speeds toward him at a rapid pace. Every muscle bulges with a sinewy sheen. No rider straddles it, but the lower half moulds into the upper to give the impression there is one.

  Despite the patches of uneven surface and tumour growths, the flesh is unnaturally human. Yet, whatever face sits atop the robust shoulders hides behind a mask that matches the shirt on his back. The blade it brandishes above its head is enough for him to assume it does not come in peace, so Bobby turns and bolts in long strides.

  Sand flicks against his calves as he tries to outrun the hooves. With his feet heavy, he dips and rises in line with the sea before veering to his right. Heading toward the graves, he can hear the thumping against his ribs above the galloping creature. The scars of light pulsate within the clouds in sync with each step he takes.

  When he spins back, realization hits that he doesn't have a hope in all the worlds combined of escaping. He doesn't even see the blade as it slices through skin, severing arteries and bone.

  Bobby stands on the spot while the cackles disappear at his back like a fading apparition.

  His knees wobble as the flat figure from before appears before him now. The shadow is closer, but no less surreal.

  “You will all die here,” the figure repeats in a raspy tone. “You stay away, otherwise you'll find out what a bitch fate really is.”

  Blood leaks from the corner of Bobby's cracked lips and down his chin.

  The incandescent gifts lies at Bobby's feet, but he cannot recall dropping them. The entire length of his teenage body has gone numb. When he tries to move, it slopes forward onto the beach and his head slips free of his neck. A scream tries to slip free, but only silence releases into the air. Once his cheek hits the ground, his eyes glaze over.

  Any signs of the stomping hooves fall into silence. Even the waves dissolve into foam particles before disappearing from his vision. The blackness closing in around the edges turns everything dull as though the usual English grey clouds fill every inch of the sky. Only, Bobby can see no clouds where his eyes peer now. As the world fades away, the last thing he sees is the glowing gift.

  For every end, the embers of a new beginning are set burning bright. And within this beginning, a cluster of heroes unlike any before will forge.

  BOOK ONE

  REAL HEROES

  DON'T WEAR CAPES

  CHAPTER ONE

  The test results are in.

  The entire year gather in the dance hall where all seasonal productions and exams take place, but both those things are in their past now as they get ready to leave this all behind. They won't be engaging any pretend acting again that's for sure.

  The pupils sit on the familiar blue plastic so Mr Spencer can deliver his usual speech. He rehearses it well, but he gives an amended version to each leaving year, so it's easy to see why. And, despite the man's stature, nobody is paying attention. Most are anxious of their test results, or annoyed at having to come back for an hour, but this means they are no longer students here.

  No, we are free.

  Bobby recalls the leavers last year. Ermie 'Jitter Bug' Spears invaded his personal space with his rushed speech and poor hygiene. He said his piece before releasing a crazy laugh—as close to Eric Cartman's chortle as a skinny dude can get. To this day, Bobby can still recall those words with clarity as he lent his stale breath into his face. “Never believe you're free. You just wind up swapping one prison for another!”

  He wonders whether everyone in the hall feels free, or pressured into getting a job and deciding what they want to achieve with their lives. More than half don't have a clue about identity, or trade. They appear indifferent toward the school, so perhaps the former is true. It will be interesting to run into a class acquaintance a year from now.

  They'll be wishing for a magical portal to lead them back to this moment where their future still lies ahead.

  Mr Spencer is having a grand time on stage as he stares into the rows of emotions slumped on the plastic chairs with a smirk.

  “He always liked the sound of his own voice,” Danny whispers in his ear.

  From his slick blonde hair and pressed shirt to his shiny shoes, the guy is pristine. He keeps his shoes so polished people joke that dog shit parts on the sidewalk as he passes.

  Being the youngest teacher to make head of Our Lady Of Sorrows Secondary at thirty, he thinks himself superior. He soon dropped everything which landed him the job like being able to relate to students and the cheeky attitude that came along with that. In its place, arrogance and a huge superiority complex settled in.

  That doesn't stop the women teachers from swooning over him. Male teachers, too, if Bobby is interpreting the glances correctly. Perhaps shit parts in his mere presence like the hundreds of ladies thighs he has no doubt spread, But the hard fact is, while he remains out of earshot of other teachers, he disciplines children by less conventional means—nothing his father brags about receiving as a boy either. But while mouths run outside the gates, no one comes forward to speak out against him, especially since the winter of '09.

  It was 15th November when Mickey Baker complained about Spencer's “mistreatment” to police. A week later, on the 22nd, the boy died in a car crash. Police found no signs of tampered brakes and no evidence to suggest it was anything but an accident. His mother died in the crash and his sister was on drips for months, but died too.

  No one has said a word since. There are links to Spencer's involvement in underground gangs and rumours of a cult, which Bobby doesn't know what to make of. Yet, he finds himself interested by one cult rumour of men in capes stitched with dead skin.

  The man did him no harm, so he assumes he is only a dickhead abusing his power—anyone willing to spend more money than sense on over indulgences to big themselves up is.

  Mr Spencer looms over them and discusses where they go from here. He talks about how the time they shared flew by and all they achieved.

  Like the guy didn't go around doing as he pleased the whole time.

  As he speaks of wisdom, he borrows from the greats like Arthur C. Clarke. “The only way of finding the limits of possible is by going beyond them into the impossible.”

  That quote makes Danny turn to him and lend a quote himself. “Stealing someone else's word frequently spares the embarrassment of eating your own. Peter Anderson.”

  All their failings and inevitable downfall in each of their lives is nobody's fault but their own—that is what he is driving at this morning. And he sure makes it knowledge he will not share any blame for their failure in the future.

  •

  Bobby walks into the navy painted gates for the final time with Danny at his side. It isn't as emotional as the girls in the secondary school down the road suggested.

  No one comes out to make a fuss and he can't help feeling a little disappointed. Danny feels the same, he can tell by his pouting lips. After all the years they gave to this place, there should be confetti bawling from the sky, streamers, balloons, or at least a light applause. But they receive nothing.

  He isn't even responsive as they walk into the building. With the lack of prospects he will soon have to address, he doesn't want to celebrate anyway. But the thought of never having to face his nemesis and his vile pals again is enough for him
to crack a lob-sided grin.

  Danny Summers, the only friend he has ever made, text him last night. It was a video of 28 Days Later's theme tune and the words, 'The End Is Extremely Fucking Nigh'. That sums up his emotions well enough, but Danny can afford to make jokes with the grades he will get.

  They wait in the hall with the other boys they grew up with for five years, or since nursery—boys he has not connected with in all that time. They sit drumming fingers on knees, waiting for the news that will change their lives. Many have headphones stuck in their ears, showing only indifference. Others slump in the plastic, talking with their respective mates.

  Jack Watson (the Sparrow's best striker) inform everyone what hysterics will ensue tonight. His parents consent to using his family home to spend the night laughing and having fun as long as no alcohol, or drugs enter the premises and the bedrooms don't become a brothel. Despite the rules, Jack insists the hard, long months of studying and preparation will not go by “without a bang.”

  Danny suggests they go to make conversation. Yet, Bobby has other reasons than guys like Josh and Toad going to make him decline the offer.

  •

  Holding his results in the unopened envelope, he rocks back and forth on the swing. He is too old for swings, but it's the only seating option in the park with the benches all broken and covered in graffiti and pigeon crap.

  Bobby reads the letters in his name backwards as he thumbs the envelope. He runs a nail underneath the flap, then presses the sticky side back down again. With his elbows on his knees, he slaps it again with his palm before hanging it toward the floor. A deep sigh escapes into the air as he glances into the trees.

  He wishes it was the fear of the answers keeping him from opening the test results. He couldn't put in much studying time even if he understood what the teachers were talking about, but it all means nothing because it honestly makes no difference.