Pale Battalions - The Dark Land

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About the Author

David Swattridge lives in South Wales. His recent retirement from working as a

Commercial Director in Orthopaedics, gave him the opportunity to fulfil a lifetime’s

ambition to write. He has been married for forty one years, has one daughter and

two grandsons.


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Dedication

The fallen of World War One, who after a century still remain lost.

Hayley Stroud, an inspiration to everyone she meets.

The Teenage Cancer Trust.


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Copyright © David Swattridge (2014)

The right of David Swattridge to be identified as author of this workhas been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for

damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 9781784555009 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781784555023 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB


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Printed and bound in Great Britain


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Acknowledgments

My family, for their belief, and constant encouragement.

Our holidays with Jan and Alan Houldcroft, which provided the inspirationfor this novel.

PoemsSiegfried Sassoon - ‘The Death Bed’

Phillip Larkin - ‘The Old Fools’ Dylan Thomas - ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’

Charles Hamilton Sorley - ‘When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead’

Robert Lawrence Binyon - ‘For the Fallen’

Isaac Rosenberg - ‘Dead Man’s Dump’

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - ‘Evangeline and Other Poems’: ‘A Nameless Grave’: ‘A Psalm for Life’

Wilfred Owen - ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ John Keats - ‘To Sleep’

Songs

The Eagles - ‘Long Road out of Eden’ Eliza Gilkensen - ‘Calling All Angels’

Peter Gabriel - ‘Come Talk to Me’: ‘Love to be Loved’: ‘Blood of Eden’

Leonard Cohen - ‘The Partisan’; ‘Lady Midnight’

Dire Straits - ‘Brothers in Arms’ Bob Dylan - ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’

Novel

The Lost Word - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


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“But death replied: ‘I chose him.’ So he went,

And there was silence in the summer night;

Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.

Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.”

Siegfried Sassoon – The Death-Bed


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ONE

‘Morbeck – Arnold & Edith

On June 4th 2013 at home. No flowers. Donations please in lieu, to the CWGC.We rest in peace. Help those who don’t.‘At death, you break up: the bits that were you

Start speeding away from each other for everWith no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:’

“Jane,” Sam called from the conservatory.

“Jane!”

No response.“Jane! Uncle Arnold and Auntie Edith have died.” “ Not much to remember a life by!” He thought. “ Just a few lines in the local

rag ’ s hatched, matched and dispatched columns.” “When did they die?” She eventually shouted from the kitchen.“Last Tuesday. They’ve asked for donations to the CWGC. Whatever that

is.” He re-read the announcement. “Odd wording, ‘Help those who don’t?’” “Get round to the house and see what you can do.” She shouted from the

kitchen. This was followed by silence as the cogs ground away in her brain.“They didn’t have any other living family did they?” There was short pause.“They were pretty well off weren’t they? That house must be worth quite a bit.What I mean is, it would be a shame to see it go to rack and ruin.” Flashinglights illuminated her financial night, as she saw her bank balance moving fromdeep scarlet to glossy black ebony. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“Jesus!” Sam said quietly to himself. “She just can’t help herself. Not a

thought for anyone else. All she can see is an unclaimed lottery ticket to pay offher on-line bingo debts.” He returned to the conversation with Jane. “It’s been at

least six months since I’ve seen them, and then it was usually only twice amonth for lunch. I haven’t been to their home for at least five years. The last

time I saw them was about three weeks ago at their solicitors. They asked me to be their executor, and then we drove down to El Porto’s for lunch.”

“You’re the executor for their will! Who benefits?”


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“They only made me their executor. It only means I‘ve got to make suretheir wishes are carried out after their death. It doesn’t mean I know whothey’ve left everything to.”

“Call the solicitors now,” her voice was still raised but also anxious, “and

I’ll make you a coffee, dear.”

“ Dear?”

Sam thought.

“The last time she called me Dear, was when I won five hundred on the lottery. My God, she can smell money like a shark smellsblood.”

He was sixty in a few months and after thirty years in sales management,he’d decided to take a generous voluntary redundancy package he’d been

offered . It provided him with a comfortable financial blanket, which allowedhim to take early retirement at the same time. Unfortunately, within six months

his blanket was threadbare. The bulk of the money gone, blown by Jane on on-line gambling.

He lifted Yellow Pages out of the magazine rack. “Solicitors,” he thoughtleafing through it. “What were they called?” He ran his finger down the pages.“ Peterson, Grubb and Amos that ’ s them, telephone number 888764.” He picked

up the phone and rang them.He was put through to George Peterson, one of the partners. “Mr Morbeck,

I’m glad you called. You were on my list to contact today about the estate ofyour aunt and uncle.”

“I’ve just read the announcement in today’s Argus.” Sam replied.“Shame, great shame. They were such a devoted couple. When can you

come around to our offices?” “Today or tomorrow. Either ’s fine for me.”

“Well I’m free at three o’clock this afternoon. Can you make that?” “Yes that’s fine. I live about ten minutes from the City Centre.” “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you then.” Sam replaced the phone and grimaced. “Shit! I didn’t ask him what I’ve got.

She’ll be bloody ecstatic. Sod her. If there’s any money then it’s mine. Jesus, Icould walk out and escape to some distant land before she put any legal

obstacles in my way.” Chatting with himself was the only intelligent conversation Sam ever got.

The conversations had developed over thirty years of their so-called marriage.The standing joke with the few friends he had, was that if he’d murdered her,he’d have been out on parole years ago. A lot richer, single and considerablyhappier. Chats with his other half, now seemed perfectly natural to Sam,although he’d frequently have to stop himself when walking the dog, as

neighbours looked up quizzically at him from their lawns and well-tendedflower beds.

His first childhood memory of being aware of anyone talking to themselves,

was the old soldier in the faded greatcoat. His father had told him the old man’sname was Jimmy, that he was an officer in World War One, he’d suffered

terribly, but was harmless. The old soldier, who Sam thought had probably beenin his late seventies, would appear at precisely ten o’clock every day at the topof the main street of his village, supported by an ebony walking stick. He’dmarch up and down the main street, head down, oblivious to everyone, and at


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twelve o’clock he’d disappear into a side street. At three o’clock the march pastwas repeated, and at five o’clock the parade finished outside St John’s churchwith an extravagant salute. His clothes were always the same. A heavy woolserge greatcoat, buttoned tightly at the neck with a single tarnished brass button.

It strained to break free from the few remaining threads attaching it to the coat;

and the remaining brass buttons held the greatcoat together as far as the middleof his chest, which gave the impression of a giant bat with two large flapping brown serge wings. Under the greatcoat was what looked like a thick woollen

jacket with brass buttons, and a cracked leather belt with a cross strap across hischest. On his head was a worn green officer ’s cap with a short peak, chin strap,

and a regimental badge resembling a snake climbing up a tree to a crown. Hisattire was completed by baggy green cord riding breeches, fitted tightly from the

knee down, into a pair of brown, once highly polished riding top boots. Hewould frequently stop, washing his hands in some invisible soap, closely

examining them, and never seeming happy with the result, shake his head andcontinue his march. When he arrived at the railway bridge he’d stop deep inconversation with some invisible long lost comrade in arms. and then curse.“Bastards. They’re all bastards. Bloody malingerers. Shoot the buggers. Can’tstay here. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

School children, including Sam, threw things, whistled and shouted at him, but he never responded to their taunts, raised his head or a hand to them. He

simply carried on, head down, as if protecting his face from some bitter winterwind, lost in painful distant memories.

“Cruel what kids do. Sick more like. Poor old bugger. I hope he was neveraware of what was going on around him. What did Dad say he was suffering

from?” Sam thought. He lay back in the chair and racked his brain for thememory. “What the hell was it called?” Finally a drawer flew open. “ShellShock? That was it, though that's not what it ’ s called today. What did they call itin Iraq. PTD? PPDS? No PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.” He pickedup the iPad, flipped open the folded lid and dived into the wonderful world ofWikipedia.

‘Combat Stress Reaction (CSR), in the past commonly known as Shell Shockor Battle Fatigue, is a range of behaviours resulting from the stress of battle

which decrease the combatant's fighting efficiency. The most common symptomsare fatigue, slower reaction times, indecision, and disconnection from one's surroundings…’

“Disconnection from one’s surroundings.” Sam said to himself. “Poor sodwas disconnected from everything.”

“Sam! For God’s sake, stop bloody swearing?” Jane snapped as she broughthim a mug of instant Cappuccino. “For God’s sake will you stop talking toyourself.” She hissed at him. “The neighbours already think you’re senile.”

“Sorry, dear.” Sam said. “Wish I could disconnect from you.” He thought.“ Probably wasn’ t shell shock the old boy had. Probably PMSD Post Marriage

Stress Disorder. How long did you get for manslaughter nowadays? What didthey call it? Justified homicide? No, justifiable homicide.” But Wiki would haveto wait a few more minutes until she’d finished with him.


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“You’re coming with me to the GP’s. I’m sick of this. It’s like living withsomeone who isn’t all ...” There was a short theatrical pause, before withdramatic effect she finished the sentence. “All there.” She frowned at him andcarried on. “Have you spoken to them yet? The solicitors I mean.”

“I’ve got a meeting with a Mr Peterson at three ’o clock today.”

“Well make sure you find out who gets what. If you get nothing, then makesure you ask about how we challenge the will. At their age they must have beena bit senile?”

“I’ll make sure I cover everything.” He said.She put the coffee mug on the telephone table next to him. “Don’t let that go

cold. They’re 15p a sachet.” She turned and shuffled in her red tweed slippers back to the kitchen, but couldn’t resist one last dig at him. “Make sure you get

around to the solicitors before three o’ clock, and wear that dark blue suit. Theone we keep for weddings and funerals.” She looked away, but as if to add some

genuine feeling, said quietly, “I always admired your uncle and aunt. They weresuch a loving couple.” Finally she disappeared into the kitchen, but over hershoulder she had one last personal prod. “And don’t ask for any biscuits, or

you’ll end up on Fat Embarrassing Bodies!” Sam sighed as her ample rear disappeared out of the room. “She wasn’ t

always like this.” He thought. “ Mentally or physically. What turns a slim, social, intelligent happy woman into a bitter, twisted, obese, vindictive, sit on my

ass all day, pain in the proverbial, close to something resembling a woman?” Sam shook his head and returned to Wiki. “ Justifiable Homicide – That

which is committed with the intention to kill, or to do a grievous bodily injury,under circumstances which the law holds sufficient to exculpate the person who

commits it.” “God bless Wikipedia” Sam said to himself. Making sure that it wasn’t loud

enough to be heard in the kitchen. “Any jury would acquit me on that.”

He read the announcement again. “Unusual quote” he thought, touched theSafari icon and typed in Search, ‘At death, you break up: the bits that were you’.

The screen blinked and gave him the answer – ‘Phillip Larkin – The Old

Fools’. He clicked on the link.’ At death, you break up: the bits that were you

Start speeding away from each other for everWith no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines – How can they ignore it?’

With his sixtieth birthday looming on the horizon, Sam had started taking aninterest in his personal appearance. In the private corners of his mind Sam wasstill in his early twenties, however, the bathroom mirror wouldn’t lie, as it

starkly reflected his face back to him in all its wrinkled and age-spotted glory,revealing the tragic and unvarnished truth, that he was as Larkin put it,

‘ Ash

hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines’ .


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TWO

Three weeks later Sam met Peterson at Arnold and Edith’s home High Wood.

“Good morning Mr Morbeck.”

The solicitor called to Sam, extending hishand to him as he crossed the street from his car. “Good to see you again, eventhough the circumstances could be a little happier.”

Sam took the limp hand and shook it as firmly as he could without risking breaking bones or dislocating any of Peterson’s fingers.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve done everything you asked.” Sam said “All thedocuments are signed and witnessed. I’m sorry I’ve not been able to get aroundto your office since we met, but things at home have been, a little, strained.” He

opened the battered leather attaché case he was carrying under his arm, and

handed Peterson two A4 manila envelopes. “I hope everything’s as it should be.”

Peterson took the envelope from Sam and turned to the house. “I can checkeverything once we’re inside. My understanding is the funeral is planned for thiscoming Monday July 1

st”.

“Yes, everything’s organised. It’s taken a little longer because of the post-mortems. Arnold and Edith didn't have any known living relatives, so it willonly be a small ceremony at the Funeral Home at ten o’ clock, and thecremations are at Croesyceiliog Crematorium at twelve. I’ve arranged to have

their ashes interred in their parent’s grave at Christchurch Cemetery. There’s asmall wake at a Country Club close to the crematorium, but I haven’t plannedfor many. Probably just Jane and myself. You’d be very welcome.” Sam

shrugged and offered his hand again to Peterson. “You really would be verywelcome.”

Peterson smiled at Sam. “Thank you. I knew your aunt and uncle for a goodfew years, and I’d like to pay my respects.”

For the first time Sam took a good look at High Wood. It was a large

detached three storey, red brick Victorian house, with an overgrown privet

hedge obscuring the view of the ground floor. With some difficulty, and helpfrom Sam, Peterson pushed open the rusty front gate. It complained loudly as it

scraped over the weed infested block paved path, which led up to the front door.The frontage was quite small, either side of the path were lawns, badly in need

of cutting, despite the fact that the majority of the grass had been overtaken by alush covering of moss. In the centre of the lawns, overgrown flower beds were


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in desperate need of weeding, with unpruned rose bushes overtaking them. Samscanned the house from the ground floor to the roof, and it looked to be inreasonably good structural shape. The front consisted of two large extended bayfronts reaching up to sharply peaked decorated eaves, and the green front door

was protected by a white peeling porch supported by two columns, built into a

recess between the bay fronts. The high sash windows looked original, andurgently in need of replacement. Sam scanned them all and his attention wasdrawn to the windows which all had closed slatted red shutters. The eyes of the

house closed in mourning. Fading wisteria, clung to cracked wooden trellises barely clinging to the bricks with a few rusty screws, cascaded like overgrown

unplucked eyebrows over the porch, and first and second floor windows.Peterson turned to Sam and handed him two large bunches of keys. “These

are yours now, Mr Morbeck. The key you need is the largest on the bunch. I’ve put a spot of red nail varnish on it as it’s a bit difficult to find among all the

others.” Sam took the keys from Peterson and separated the red spot from the others,

and estimated there were about twelve keys on each fob.

They reached the front door, and with a little effort, Sam turned the key inthe lock. What he anticipated finding inside the house was worrying him. Wouldthis turn out to be a money pit and not the lottery win he wanted? The hundredthousand he’d separately inherited, could be in danger of being sucked up in

repairs. As he pushed open the front door, the first thing which confirmed hisworst fears was the smell. It was the odour of damp and decay, the perfume of

loss and the cologne of death. Chanel RIP. The house felt empty, devoid ofanything which had once made it a home. Like Madeline in the ‘Fall of the

House of Usher ’, all its emotions had been buried alive in the bricks and mortarof the house. Everything was coated in a thin layer of dust. He walked a shortway into the hall, stopped at an Edwardian mahogany hall table close to thefront door and blew away the dust covering it. “Do you want to check the paperwork here?” Sam asked Peterson.

“Thank you, yes. It should only take a few minutes to confirm everything’s

in order.” Peterson opened the manila envelopes and extravagantly brushed the table

with a couple of tissues before placing the documents on it. He took a MontBlanc Meisterstuck from his inside jacket pocket, more for the effect thananything else, started meticulously examining each page, running the tip of his pen down the margins before stopping at each signature, and initialling each ofthem confirming their authenticity. After about ten minutes he shuffled the

papers together, replaced them in the manila envelopes, put them in his briefcaseand offered his hand to Sam.

“Everything seems to be in order Mr Morbeck. I’ll take the documents back

to the office and have a letter drafted to you within a few days confirming thetransfer of the property and associated funds and investments to yourself.”

“Thanks for all your help. It looks like there’s quite a bit of work here tokeep me occupied for some time.” Sam said.

With both parties satisfied, they shook hands and said their goodbyes.


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Sam closed the front door, and with a deep sigh turned to face hisinheritance. The hall was about six feet wide, twenty feet long, and the floorwood panelled. At the far end was a wide staircase, to its right a door, and to itsleft another similar door. On either side of the hall were two doors, one about a

third of the way down and the other close to the stairs. All the doors were

painted in a depressing olive green with cracked bakelite handles. The wallswere decorated with a faded floral green and white patterned wallpaper and thehigh ceiling was a grubby beige, which must have once been brilliant white. The

decor was completed by exquisite moulded plaster coving, and two small eightlight chandeliers.

What took Sam’s breath away, was that since Peterson’s departure,everything was now coated by a layer of dust which drifted into the air like

clouds of dandelion clocks.“How in God’s name did this happen?” Sam asked no-one in particular.

“Where the hell did all this come from?” “ Not a bloody clue.” His other half replied.“But it was … five seconds ago it wasn’t here.” “Probably happened when you opened the front door.” “Bullshit.” “ No dust.” His other half said.“Ha bloody ha.” “Does it really matter. Decent vacuum cleaner will soon get rid of it. Let’s

see what we’ve won.”

Sam frowned, but accepted that all this needed was a damn good clean.“Atsome time they must have been happy here. Why would they let it get like this?

I had such good times here.” Sam remembered high teas after school, lunches in the holidays and cold

meat suppers after football training, when they would sit around the kitchentable, groaning under the weight of Auntie Edith’s irresistible cooking. It wasonly ever Arnold, Edith and Sam. Sam’s parents hadn’t spoken to Arnold, Sam’smother ’s brother, for forty three years. Arnold had committed the cardinal sin of

marrying Edith, who was a left-footer, and mackerel-snapper. A devote IrishRoman Catholic from Londonderry. This had been too much for the Morbecks

who were high days and holidays not quite committed C of E; God bless herMajesty and all the royal family; re-establish the empire; lapsed racists; how cancelibate priests know anything about sex; who the hell does the Pope think he isanyway; it’s all Tony Blair and Gordon Brown’s fault; bring back the birch, andhanging; know your place and don’t get above your station; never a lender or

borrower be; nationalise the banks and jail the bankers; ban all medicaltreatments for the morbidly obese and smokers; triple the price of cigarettes andalcohol, middle of the road British middle class family.

For the last six years, Sam’s parents had tolerated each other in shelteredhousing, which made Sam’s relationship with Arnold and Edith even more

difficult to sustain, which resulted in him only seeing them a few times a month,and always out of town in pubs and restaurants. The last time he’d seen themabout a month ago, they’d seemed OK, although Arnold did look very tired.


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He’d put it down to too much DIY, which for someone in his early eighties wassomewhat understandable.

“For goodness sake ask me next time.” Sam had told them. But it seemed tohim there was a lot more they weren’t telling him. “Are you sure there’s nothing

else?”

“Sam we’re fine”

Edith replied. “We’re both getting on a bit. The spirit may be willing, but the body’s not quite up to it. Really we’re fine. Arnold reallyneeds to catch up with you on a few things, but not here. I know it’s been

difficult for you to get to the High Wood, but it’s important we meet you there.It’s more private and there are things we need to show and tell you.”

He agreed he’d get around to the house when he could find some time, buthe’d never made it. The time demanded of him by his parents, and everything

Jane wanted, sucked up any free time he had for himself or his favourite auntand uncle.

“Why didn’t you email me?”

He said to the house. “I bought you that iPadand set everything up for you. What did you want to tell me? My God I could dowith Psychic Sally right now.”

“You should have come around when they asked and told the lovely Janewhat she could do.” His other half helpfully chipped in.

“That’s easy enough for you to say. You don’t have to live with her.” “True, but you should have told her to piss off years ago. What exactly does

she do to make your life even mildly bearable? For God’s sake, at least consider justifiable homicide?”

For once his other half was right. What was it that held their marriagetogether? Certainly not love. Habit? Fear of the unknown and the thought of the

shit which would result from a messy separation? Comfort? Sam loved hishouse and the creature comforts he’d built up over the years. Stability? At thistime of his life the last thing he wanted was change. He’d put up with her forthis many years, so a few more until either of them shuffled off this mortal coilwould be just about bearable.

All the same, life without Jane. He dwelt on the thought for a few seconds,

smiled and with a deep sigh focused back on the house. “I should take a lookaround. I only ever saw the front room and kitchen when I used to visit.”

“Big place isn’t it.”

His other half said.“Bloody huge. What do you think, start downstairs and work our way up?” “Yea, sounds like a plan.” Sam looked down the hallway and walked to the first door on the left, the

one he knew, the front room, which Edith only ever used for visitors. The door

opened surprisingly easily. Sam peered into the room in which he’d spent somany happy hours. Nothing seemed to have changed, although it was a littlemore tired and covered in the same layer of fine brown dust. He knelt down,

rubbed his hand through the dust and examined the brown powder clinging tohis palm. He sneezed and the dust billowed into the air like a Saharan

sandstorm.“This isn’ t dust.” Sam thought.“What is it?”


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“Don’t know.” He rubbed it between his index finger and thumb andgingerly sniffed it.

“What do you think it is?” Sam frowned and stared at his hands. He smelt them again and then rubbed

his hands together to get rid of the dust. “It smells like … like earth or

compost.” “It’s just dust, from lack of care?” “ No, it’s not dust. It’s … I don’t know what the hell it is.” “But how does this amount of stuff get into a house?” His other half asked.Sam looked around the room. The dust was everywhere, coating the

furniture, rugs, curtains and light fittings. Sam noticed, that once it had beendisturbed, it quickly settled back to the surface it had been coating. He looked

behind him, took a sharp breath and frowned. He hadn’t left a single visiblefootprint in the dust on the floor.

“How’d you do that, Samuel?”

His other half said.“Don’t think I want to know. Come on let’s take a look at the rest of the

house.” He walked out of the room and across the hallway to the first door on

the right. It was locked. Sam took a bunch of keys from his coat pocket anddecided he’d check again which key fitted which door. The doors on the otherside of the hallway were all locked and left for future examination. The smalldoor to the left of the stairwell was locked, but the door to the right, which Sam

knew was the kitchen, was open. He turned and looked down the hall, and again,could see no evidence he’d ever been there. “Surely to God that’s not normal.”

He whispered to himself.The kitchen hadn’t changed much since his last meal there. The units, barely

visible, under the coating of dust , had once been a bright ivory. Most of thewhite-goods were built in behind them, except for a large walk-in fridge, in thefar corner of the room. An oak kitchen table well-worn from countless meals,and six ladder back chairs sat in the middle of the room. Sam pulled out one ofthe chairs, brushed off the dust with a tissue and sat down at the table which had brought him so much good food, company and happiness. With his right index

finger he wrote Sam in the dust. Faintly from close behind him he thought heheard a moan, and swung around in the chair but couldn’t see anything in the

kitchen. “What the hell was that?” “ Nothing.” Sam’s other half tried to reassure him.“ Nothing my ass. When did nothing moan, and when was the last time you

heard a kitchen complain about something?” “OK. It’s the wind. An old house like this must be as draughty as hell.” The

reassurance continued.“It was someone moaning, you tit.” The sound of scratching made Sam turn back to the table. Sam had

disappeared from the dust, but it was the words which had replaced it whichmade his stomach twist into a tight knot, and his mouth to turn to sand.

‘At Thiepval Where Are You?’ The basic need for flight or fight was comfortably won by flight. Sam flew

out of the chair, out of the kitchen and out of the front door, and flight didn’tstop until he was on the other side of the street opposite the house.


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“What the hell was that?” Sam panted to himself. “How did that writing …

who … what did it, and what the hell is At Thiepval?” “It’s probably not a bad idea to go back and find out, you wimp.” His other

half said.

Sam stared at the house. “Come on get a grip. Did anything try to hurt you?”

“Probably some demon wants to rip off your head off!”

His other halfhelpfully suggested. “Definitely ghosts or poltergeists. You’ve seen enough ofthose movies where they don’t run for their lives but stay in the house, which is

obviously the most dangerous and stupid thing to do. And you’re consideringstupid and dangerous!”

“We need to take a look.” “As Tonto said to the Lone Ranger. What do you mean we, white man?”

Sam ignored his other half.“So it’s going to be stupid man going into dangerous house is it? Why,

what’s the point? Just sell it and take the money and run. Who gives a shit what,who or where Thiepval is. What we want is the money from the sale, and withthat we can put a good few miles between us and the delightful Jane.”

“We need to take a look.” “OK fine, take a quick look, but then, sell, sell, sell.” “You’re right.” Sam begrudgingly replied. “Let’s do it!” His feet however

hadn’t agreed to the plan and remained firmly planted to the pavement.“Losing your bottle?” “Piss off. We just need a little pre-planning before we go back into

Amityville.” “Pre-planning my ass. Pre-pissing your pants more like.”

“Look can you just shut the … just shut up.” “Shit scared, no bottle, wimped out, crapped his pants, pathetic little worm.

Missed anything did I?” Sam ignored the jibes, stared at the house, started to cross the street, and a

car barely missed him.“Asshole!” The driver screamed at him.“Fuck you, wanker!” Sam shouted after the car.The scream of brakes, the smell of burning rubber and the cloud of black

smoke as the driver slammed on his brakes to further discuss the issue with Sam,was enough to get his feet working again. He flew across the road, through thegate and threw himself flat on his stomach behind the hedge before the driverhad emerged from his car. He was a thirty-something sales rep, who if he hadn’tan appointment in twenty minutes, would have found the asshole that’d stepped

out in front of him and emphasised his displeasure to him.“I know you’re there, you twat! I’ll rip your fucking head off if we bump

into each other again.” The scream of the wheels told Sam that he could ease

some of the tension on his anal sphincter.“Ooh, Mr Angry has learnt some new words!”

His other half chuckled.“Come on, let’s get back in the house.” The front door was wide open. Sam stepped back into the hall and made his

way back to the kitchen. The brown dust rose again in small clouds around hislegs, but quickly settled back onto the floor, leaving no indication that he’d been


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there. He pushed hard with his shoulder to open the kitchen door which he’dslammed shut during his dash for freedom, walked across the kitchen, picked upa chair which was wedged under the sink, brought it back to the table and satdown. He’d avoided looking at the table, but now forced himself to look at the

dust-covered surface. There was nothing to be seen.

“They were there weren’t they? Those words, ‘At Thiepval’, you saw themdidn’t you? For God’s sake tell me that I’m not losing the few marbles I’ve stillgot.”

“ No they were there.” The reply was whispered.Silence fell like a smoke blanket over the kitchen, smothering the air. What

broke the silence stripped away a few more pieces of Sam’s will to live. Anerve-shredding sound like nails dragged across a blackboard, shattered the

silence with shards of unearthly noise. It was, a cacophony of anguish asymphony of synthesised distress, a distillation of delirium. Sam sat rooted to

the chair, unable to speak. Then the stench hit him. It reminded him of rottenmeat mixed with the sickly sweet smell of well-rotted manure. Sam’s gag reflex projected most of his breakfast muesli, coffee and toast, over the surface of the

kitchen table. He sniffed the air, checking that it was fit for human consumption,and gagged again. He turned in the chair and saw a yellowish-brown mistslithering through the kitchen door, which had an odour reminiscent of garlic,horseradish or mustard. The effect was much the same as the first odour as the

remains of his breakfast and half a litre of bile ricocheted off the table and overmost of the chairs. His eyes streamed with tears and his breathing became

laboured. His throat burned as he struggled to get air into his lungs, as acomforting feeling of euphoria started to wrap him in a warm blanket. He fell

onto the floor and began to wheeze into unconsciousness.“Sam! Back in the room now! For me, wake up!” His still conscious other

half screamed.Sam shook his head, unsteadily sat up, rubbed away the burning tears from

his eyes and coughed to clear his throat of the acrid vapour. He looked around,the mist had disappeared, and breathing was becoming easier.

A loud explosion’s concussion knocked Sam onto his back on the kitchenfloor. He gingerly sat up, feeling at the growing lump on the back of his head.

His ears ringing like the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s.“ Now can we please get out of this place?” His other half begged.“ Not yet.” Sam peered around the kitchen which looked as if butter

wouldn’t melt in its mouth. “ Not yet. Arnold and Edith wanted to see me here before they died, and there has to be a damn good reason why. The house wants

to tell me something, choke me, scare me, or worse? Were Arnold and Edithwarning me to stay away from High Wood?”

“I don’t really give a toss. Get some professional cleaners in, get it on the

market, and sell it for whatever they offer. There is something wrong with this place!”

Sam felt oddly more in control of himself than he had for years. “Arnoldwould’ve simply said stay away, and why would he have left me this? Theymust have known about these things.” Sam looked around again at the kitchen,


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which despite the coating of dust, and the contents of his stomach, seemed in a bizarre way welcoming. “I want to see more of the house.” He said.

“You’re on your own then!” “ Not possible I’m afraid. Where I go, we go.” “Bastard!”

“Yeh, but you can chose. Upstairs or downstairs?” “Some bloody choice.” There were a few moments of silence. “Upstairs. It

couldn’t be any worse than down here. Could it?”

Sam walked back into the hall and headed up the carpeted stairs. Theircolour and pattern was barely visible under the cloying dust, although the pile

still felt deep and lush. It was fitted, up to all the doors of the rooms, whose bottoms had been badly cut to allow them to open over the deep pile. At the top

of the stairs the landing split to the right and left. He switched on the lights andlooked to the left, where there were three doors on both sides of the corridor. To

his right there were three on the right and only two on the left. The final doorwas directly in front of him.

“Still my choice?” His other half asked.“Choose away.” “Far end of the landing on the left.” “You sure? Don’t want anyone to jump out on us do we?” “Sod off! That’s the one.”

Sam walked to the far end of the landing and tried the last door on the left. Itwas locked.

“You need a key, you tosser. You left the bunch on the kitchen table.

” Sam sighed, his signature sound for ‘ For God ’ s Sake’ , begrudgingly turned

around and walked back to the top of the staircase, scuffing up the dust on thelanding. As he placed his right foot on the first step, he felt a vibration throughthe floor, making the dust ripple and dance. He held onto the banister with hisleft hand, as the vibration got stronger. He stood frozen at the top stair as thedust lapped around his ankles like a gentle sea swell. It washed back and fore,up and down the landing, and flowed like a torrent down the stairs.

The opening chords of Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water broke the silenceand came close to relaxing an important terminal sphincter in Sam’s digestive

system.“Jane. Shit, I haven’t checked in for at least four hours. Mission control is in

need of an update.” He pulled the iPhone out of his jacket pocket and slid the bar to on. “Yes de ...”

“Where the hell are you? At that house? What’s it like? What’s it worth?

Can we sell it? WELL!?” “I’ve been looking around the place for hours.” He thought it better not to

mention the dust for the moment. “It’s pretty large and only needs a little spit

and polish. It’s in pretty good nick all things considered. Garden could do with...”

“I don’t give a shit about the garden. What can we sell?” The words werespat out. “And sell quickly?”

“Christ ” Sam thought “She must have racked up more gambling debts than

I know about. How deep in the shit is she?”


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He was suddenly aware that he’d forgotten about the dust which was halfway up his calves.

“Are you listening to me?” The words hissed from the phone. “Jesus, whydid I ever send you to do this? Never send a mouse to do a man’s job. Are …

you … listening?”

“Yes, sorry, dear. I’ve just got a few more rooms to look at and then I’ll behome.” “Well, to the house” Sam thought.

“Dinner ’ll be ready at six. Be there and tell exactly what we can sell. Make a

list.” There was a thoughtful pause. “The contents as well as the buildings. Theymust have acquired quite a few things over the years on their travels.” There

was another long pause. “Have you got the camera?” “Yes.” “Then make sure you take plenty of pictures. I can look at them on that toy

of yours.”

“The iPad, dear?” “Yes the toy. Boys and their bloody toys. I’ll see you at six.” The phone went dead.“Yes, dear. So lovely to speak to you. Always such joy.” For a few seconds

Sam was lost in the delightful thought of getting home and finding her at thefoot of the stairs, neck gently twisted to the right, eyes vacantly staring at theceiling, stone cold and silent. “Such a joy.” He was quickly back in the moment

and looked down at the dust, which was still rippling on the landing, and thestairs were a raging torrent. He gingerly started moving sideways down the

staircase, clinging onto the bannister with both hands.“OK let’s see if we can get to the bottom of the stairs without falling into

this.” “ No chance.” His other half had joined him.“Oh, back are we?” “Couldn’t leave you on your own could I?” “Managed it while things weren’t too clever, didn’t you?” “She was happy!” “Don’t change the subject.” “She was though, wasn't she? Right pain in the ass. Can’t we just get shot of

her?” “She can cook, clean and iron, and she doesn’t make any physical demands,

thank God. And, well, she smells nice.” “ Not much of a Top Ten for marriage is it.” “Look leave it will you. We need to get down these stairs without breaking

our neck. So shut the F … up and let’s get downstairs.” He took a few steps andthe torrent increased in force. “One step at a time.” He thought, as he gingerlytook a few more steps, struggling to keep his footing.

“Two to go. Almost there now.” His other half unconvincingly said.“Oh will you just shut up.” “Just trying to boost your confidence.” “Well it’s not working. So piss off, will you? This stuff , whatever the hell it

is, seems to be slowing down.” “Why are you whispering?”


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“Whispering?” “Yes, you know, speaking quietly.” As Sam was about to answer himself, the dust collapsed back into the

carpet. He breathed a very short sigh of relief as another violent explosion was

quickly followed by a massive concussion, which smashed into Sam throwing

him down the last few steps into the wall. The tinnitus the concussion caused,made Sam clamp his hands over his ears. He stretched his neck, and what hesaw above him, fully dilated all sphincters. A waterfall of dust was erupting

from the ceiling and falling like brown lava, filling the hallway with a choking, pulsating brown plasma. He quickly moved his hands from his ears to his nose

and mouth, and clamped his eyes shut as the seething cloud enveloped him. Fora few seconds Sam thought his end had come, as inside the cloud there was a

strange sense of warmth and well-being.“ If this is dying,” Sam thought “then I don’ t know what all the fuss is

about.” “Is this is what ashes to ashes, dust to dust means? Is this what happens

when we shuffle off this mortal coil?” “Decided to come back again did you? And its coil not toil.” “OK smart-ass. What play then?” “Hamlet as it happens. ‘ To be or not to be’ speech.” A second nerve shredding explosion shattered the silence and brought their

literary discussion to an abrupt end. If Sam had shuffled off this mortal coil,then he’d no idea what he’d shuffled into. Two more explosions followed in

quick succession. There was a brief pause, and then they came one after anotherin what seemed to be a never ending cacophony from hell. It felt like a tuning

fork being repeatedly struck on his head. Ping, ping, ping, creating relentlessvibrations. They burrowed into him, deep into his nerves. The sound waves bounced and echoed around Sam at a level and intensity which he was surewould leave him profoundly deaf. The explosions were now constant, and thensuddenly they stopped. The silence was golden, as it gently tried to massageaway his pounding headache and relieve his screaming tinnitus. The silence

seemed to calm the dust storm, pressing it softly back to the floor. Only a thindrifting mist of dust remained, and Sam could now make out details of where he

was.“WHAT CAN YOU SEE?” His other half shouted.“I THINK I CAN SEE PLANKS?” Sam shouted back.Another massive explosion shook Sam to the core. He felt like a cage fighter

who was taking the mother and father of all beatings.“PLANKS? YOU SURE?” “YES PLANKS.WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS THE HALL?” Sam’s hearing slowly started recovering. “The walls, floor and ceiling are

made of rough wooden planks with cross pieces holding them together. Thereare,”

Sam squinted into the drifting curtain of dust, “ bunks? One, two ...”

Sam

counted the roughly constructed wooden bunks “… seven, eight. What is this,the seven dwarves bedroom, with a spare for Snow White?” He stood up andcracked his head on the ceiling. His six foot two frame wasn’t made for thisroom. “Bollocks! My bloody head.” He rubbed the top of his follicley

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Pale Battalions - The Dark Land