Dark Trinity.

By Nick Warren

Dark Trinity is a supernatural horror story of 97,000 words.

We are in Chantry, a village in Yorkshire. It is prosperous for the most part.

Ryan Waterman, a thirty-nine year old ex solicitor has returned home after the
break up of his relationship and death of his mother.

Christine Pearson lives with her husband Dan and their nine year old son, Robert. From the outside things appear normal but tensions are building.

Schoolboy Richard Owen, bullied and reviled is busy trying to avoid the attentions of Martin Doyle, a boy his own age, determined to carry out a campaign of harassment and extortion.

Harold McHale and Roy Browning are elderly men who have watched and waited for over seventy years. As children, along with their friend Francis Marks, they faced true horror. Now Francis is dead and their vigil is about to end.

When Roy's granddaughter is attacked in her own home these people are drawn together by links that go back generations.

Children are missing again. Only Harold knows why and how many will die. When Robert Pearson is kidnapped, Harold realizes the child has a gift so powerful it will grant destruction or salvation to either side.

Allied with Ryan Waterman, he faces the Dark Trinity for the second and final
time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Warren
• Release date: Feb 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465974907

Nick Warren

I'm a greeting card designer by day, writer and illustrator in the making. I also run an art instruction website http://www.from-sketch-to-oil-painting.com/ I have written one adult horror novel and a short story collection in the same genre. Three heavily illustrated children's books and am working on several more.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The heart of Chantry village was a pedestrian area known as the Square, although it was roughly circular, an island surrounded by a large village hall, a civic centre, a local branch library and a dozen shops vying for the attentions of discerning buyers.

Eileen Marks, a very discerning buyer, carried groceries and arthritis. This was one of her better days. Her hip ached only mildly. September had been changeable this year but the morning had been balmy enough to tempt her into believing a nice walk would do her good. It was impossible for her to go anywhere in the village without at least one person stopping her for a chat and maybe (though she would never admit it) a little light gossip.

After spending half her pension in the supermarket she had passed the time of day with Mrs Randall a friend and close neighbour. They had talked about the weather, the extortionate price of milk, the bloody government, their respective families and finally the weather again. From there she had gone to the newsagents and spoken (not gossiped) with the young shop girl, (a woman of sixty-one) Margaret Scriber. A long queue had formed. The customers, all regulars, kept silent.

On leaving the shop, wondering why it was so busy, she had bumped into Roy Browning, a friend of her late husband, Francis. They enquired after one another’s health and joked that people would soon start talking about them if they kept meeting like this. Roy said if only he were forty years younger he would whisk her away to some exotic island where they would drink pink champagne and dance the night away. Eileen said the only thing in her life that danced these days were spots before her eyes.

She rested, her steps beginning to jar. Last year’s winter had been dreadful and she half prayed half hoped the coming months would be kinder.

At the confectioners, named rather stupidly, she thought, Sweet Truths, she bought fudge cake and a bar of milk chocolate. In theory these were for her great grandson Robert but she would certainly be sharing the cake. They would fight over the last piece and she would lose like last time and the time before. The boy spent every Saturday morning at her bungalow while his parents enjoyed an hour or two in town. She would prepare him breakfast (she knew how to soft boil eggs properly) and they would play card games and dominos. Eileen had taught him the finer points of the latter such as how to keep your eye on the double six when shuffling the little black bricks so you could cheat in the next game. Robert seemed to love the contrast of these pastimes to his noisy computer whatsits that he (thankfully) left at home. Occasionally they would bake biscuits or cakes, revelling in the mess they created in her tiny kitchen. Robert liked to lick the bowl before she washed up. His mother disapproved, claiming it was unhygienic but what did she know? She was a child herself.

A hundred and one hellos and good afternoons later, Eileen finally began to make her way home.

Her bungalow was part of a development built thirty years ago at the top of a small hill, a fact that never ceased to amaze her. Typical council. Find a bloody mountain and build homes for pensioners on it!

She paused again, girding herself for the climb. She felt a sharp stab in her hip and knew she was going to pay for her little excursion.

She looked out over an expanse of fields leading to a hilly wooded area she had roamed in better times.

Can’t hardly roam your eyes up there now, Eileen.

As a youngster she had played on the common land, running wild with friends and her two sisters. Her father had taken his family for long walks in the woods, which in her case, being the youngest, had more often than not ended up as piggyback rides.

At sixteen she had met Francis Marks on a walk organised by the local Methodist and Anglican churches. He had been tall and athletic, a coup for a young woman who considered herself hardly more than plain.

They wed in summer and had three children in as many years. Kenneth had emigrated to Australia and married. He telephoned every weekend and visited when he could. The girls were both doing well. The younger, Doris had married an architect and left the area. Mary had stayed in Chantry. She was Robert's paternal grandmother but the role didn't suit her. Always too busy that one.

Eileen rested her eyes on the faraway trees. A cool wind moved the grass in waves. She followed a trail back from the trees to the pavement edge and then back again, an unofficial route created by scores of walkers. Three years ago Francis had kissed her cheek and taken this path. He had walked several miles a day all the years she had known him.

He had been found the next morning. He had suffered a broken leg in a fall and died from exposure. She recalled the small army of volunteers and police beginning the search. She had watched from her front door ignoring Christine’s advice to go inside. Even when they vanished into the woods she waited, sitting on a kitchen chair until her bones wailed beneath the skin.

A man was walking across the fields. She watched him for a while then turned for home. She needed a rest and a nice cup of tea.

Her bag handle snapped. The contents spilled and bounced, scattering in all directions.

Bugger!

It doesn’t matter. The man had reached the road remarkably swiftly. I’ll help. He began to gather the fallen items. He was young

(no, not that young).

Very dark and handsome

(no, quite ordinary)

beautiful even. He stood, cradling the groceries. He was tall. As an oak, she thought. He reached out and gently touched her face.

Eileen found herself standing, key in hand, facing her front door. She was conscious of a presence at her back and then she was inside looking at her reflection in the heavy mirror set by the coat stand.

She unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall to the floor. He entered the bungalow, taking the groceries through to the kitchen. Eileen closed the door and locked it. She stared at the key fob swinging gently in the lock.

Come.

Eileen crossed the threshold of her living room. The man was at the window, powerful arms folded. She looked around the room. Had she been here before? It seemed so but…no she could not remember. And who was this? He walked towards her, thrilling the way he moved.

He covered her hand with his own sending tiny shocks across her fingers. It was huge. Broader than … who’s hand? She struggled to remember.

Eileen.

He unzipped her dress and tugged off her slip, exposing her flaccid body. The skin was a complex network of grooves and wrinkles. Her ancient breasts had long abandoned elasticity and her legs were covered in intricate patterns of broken veins. Flesh hung loosely from flabby shanks and her feet were grossly misshapen.

He bent to kiss her swollen belly while manhandling her sagging rear. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue lanced into her infirm mouth probing deeply over shrunken gums. They parted wetly.

He undressed slowly. His body was smooth and muscular. He gently took Eileen’s hands and placed them on his chest. She felt his penis press into her distended stomach.

Much later she opened her eyes to find him gently holding her flat breasts. She touched his hair as he kissed her drool flecked lips. Her aged hands explored his body. She moaned and smiled toothlessly. The man ran adoring fingers over her withered flesh and finding her ear whispered secrets. She listened and nodded. She would do anything and everything he asked.

Chapter 2

Christine Pearson righted the vacuum cleaner and went to answer the doorbell. She checked her reflection in the hall mirror and decided she’d pass. A tall woman looking like she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue grinned at her.

Jen!

They hugged; their arms tight around one another.

God, Jen it’s been months! Christine rubbed Jen's shoulder and beamed.

I know. Time gets away from me sometimes.

Christine led the way to the kitchen. Jen looked around and whistled. This place looks fantastic.

All my own work.

Really? No strapping decorators sweating all over the shop?

Christine shook her head.

I’m impressed.

Jen sat down at the table while Christine filled a kettle. Instant ok or shall I put the perc on?

Anything. You know me, I’m not fussy.

Christine ran her eyes over her friend’s outfit and smiled.

A blond head flashed in the doorway then disappeared. Jen leaned forward. The boy poked his head around. Jen crooked her finger.

Christine waved him in. Come on. Stop pretending to be shy.

You remember your Auntie Jen don’t you? The boy nodded and took two small steps into the room. Wow Chris, he’s a giant. What have you been feeding him?

Would you like a drink, Robert? said Christine.

Yes please.

Robert sat at Jen’s side. She planted a smacker on his cheek. Got you!

Robert laughed and pulled away. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Jen kissed him again, harder and longer. No wiping ‘em off or you get two bigger, sloppier ones. Robert lifted his hand, thought better of it and jumped off the chair. He ran to the door and slowly scrubbed his cheek with both hands.

Jen narrowed her eyes, You’ll pay for that before the day is out. Robert giggled and ran out of the room.

Whoa Romeo, said Christine, you forgot your drink. The boy came back and took the beaker of pop then ran out again slopping some of it on the floor.

I'm glad he wasn't twins.

Don’t be rotten, said Jen. He’s lovely.

Christine set two mugs on the table. Haven’t seen you in ages.

I know. I’m a lousy friend aren’t I?

Christine nodded.

Hey, Jen tapped Christine’s arm. You’re not supposed to agree with me!

Christine rested her chin in one palm. Jen looked great, her eyes as clear as a baby’s. Hair immaculate, clothes fitting beautifully. Christine glanced down at her baggy top and mildly cursed her friend for not warning her she was coming.

Been busy? What’s his name? said Christine.

Nothing like that.

For a minute I thought you were going to say you’d gone back to Eddie.

I’d rather tear my fingernails out.

You’re well shut of that one.

Jen sipped the coffee. No, it’s work. I’m building up my client list. It’s going well.

Sunlight shone powerfully through the window striking Christine’s bare arm and illuminating a long scar. She tucked it under the table.

Jen said, What about you?

Me? I’ve been attempting to clean my massive house. I don’t suppose you know anything about vacuums do you?

You turn ‘em on and they suck. That’s about it.

I’ll wait for Dan then. He’ll go apeshit if I call a repairman and it turns out to be something he can mend.

I’ll fix it! Robert was standing on one leg in the doorway.

Fix your fly first. Christine pointed at the boy’s crotch. He looked down and saw his yellow t-shirt poking out.

Oops! he said

Yeah, oops. Go out and play. Enjoy the sunshine while you still can.

Aww, he’s lovely your lad, said Jen.

He is, but he’s nosey like his dad. Terrified of missing something.

Jen's eyes flickered around the room. Christine smiled remembering her last visit. Jen had been impressed and jealous as hell. Not that she took pleasure in it. It was ironic that was all. A woman with film star looks envying the life of a stay at home mum with bags under her eyes and an arse that was threatening to hit the floor.

How's Dan?

He's ok. Still working all hours.

Jen nodded. Has he settled at the new firm?

'Oh, yes. It's a step up."

I'm glad it's working out.

A bang at the window made them look up. Robert was jumping up and down, waving. They waved back.

He looks so much like him.

Christine agreed. He was a miniature version of his father. Serious face, long body, eyes that were gentle but could turn as hard as the gaze of a wolf in less than a heartbeat. He was a nine-year-old cyclone.

Will you eat with us? said Christine.

That's nice of you but I've got a client at half eleven.

You'd be very welcome.

What I'd really like, Jen leaned forward. Is for you and Dan to join me for a meal next weekend. I'm paying.

That'd be lovely. I'm sure we can.

Saturday, if you can make it.

Robert was at the window again, pulling his face in all directions. Any special reason?

I've met someone...

I knew it! What's he like?

You can meet him next week.

Tell me now, you mean cow.

No, Jen stood, I need a wee.

Christine pulled her back down. No chance!

All I'll say is he's well off, good looking, and randy as a rabbit.

Jen!

You asked, she laughed. Now I really do need the loo.

She left the kitchen saying she remembered where the littlest room was. Christine took the empty mugs to the sink.

Robert was climbing the back fence. She rapped on the glass. He fell to the ground, rolled and sprayed her with bullets from his plastic machine-gun. She made a pistol with her hand, cocked the trigger and fired. He took the hit in the chest, clutched his heart and fell. His body twitched violently, his legs kicked high and then he died. She knew he was dead because he folded his arms across his chest looking like the smallest tee-shirt wearing vampire in the world.

Jen came back in. That was quick, said Christine.

Good internal muscles.

I didn't want to know that.

No, but you want to hear all about my new man. Make me another cuppa and I might drop you another snippet or two.

Chapter 3

Question: What is the definition of pain?

Answer: An Elephant sliding down a razor blade on its balls.

At least that’s what we used to say in school.

Ryan Waterman lifted his head and took a sip from a glass of water on his bedside table. The definition of pain today was a headache that was, he was sure, slowly murdering him. The worse thing was not the nausea or the lightning flashes behind his closed eyes; it was the fact that it was going to get much worse.

Doctor Finch had diagnosed migraine six months ago and announced that they were probably caused by anxiety. Did he suffer from stress?

Well, Ryan had begun, my fiancée’s left me, my mother is dying, I hate my job and what passes for my life is disintegrating around me. Yes, I believe I am suffering from stress.

Finch had prescribed painkillers.

After the death of his mother Ryan had prescribed quitting his job at Goddard, Harper and Fellowes. He’d sold his house, paid his ex what she asked for and moved back to Chantry. Why he had come back to a village he had once described as the Arsehole of Yorkshire eluded him. It had seemed the best idea at the time and in all honesty had given him a sense of belonging if not a cure for his malady.

A month living in his parent’s house convinced him that he needed a place where there were no memories. He was not ready to sell up but saw no harm in leasing. His mother had left him money. A great deal of it. This was his time to reflect and to heal.

After two months he was bored shitless. He bought a bookshop that had been founded by a retired prison officer. The shop had been named Bookworms and Ryan saw no reason to change that. It was a grimy hole and barely scraped a profit but Ryan loved it. It was situated on a relatively quiet street off the Square. It was dark-almost dingy but the effect was charming. A place made for dreaming.

Thousands of tiny lights exploded behind his eyelids. It would have made a pretty spectacle if it hadn’t felt like his entire head and neck were being boiled in oil. He slowly turned and looked at the bedside clock. Three hours to his next dose of painkillers. His heart pounded sending heavy throbs through the veins at his temple. He groaned knowing that the migraine was only teasing him, gathering strength.

He imagined it as a malevolent living thing. A creature that had sharp teeth designed for raking the insides of his head and stomach.

Sounds from outside were magnified. The barking of a dog, the engine of a car, even birdsong bored through him. The pain rose and swamped him. A single tear slipped down his cheek. He grasped the covers and twisted them until his hands went white.

Chapter 4

The scream split the silence and tore Christine from her slumber. She sat up ramrod straight, eyes circles of fright.

Dan mumbled and propped himself up on one arm, Wha…

Christine was out of bed and reached the door in three strides. Robert's room was at the end of the passage, the door ajar.

She put her head near the gap. No whimpers, no calls for succour. Robert's past nightmares had been dramas of wailings and demands for comfort but this time she could detect no sounds at all.

Robert was sat up. His eyes were wide; his breath came in tiny gasps. Sweat ran down his smooth face, illuminated by the glow of his nightlight.

Robert? She sat by him and put her hands on his shoulders. It’s alright. You’ve had a bad dream that’s all.

He murmured and she put her ear close.

It was below with no light but it's own below light.

She pulled him to her and recoiled, shocked at the heat of him, the heat of sweat (and fear) not illness. He was rigid and, she thought, unaware of her presence.

She glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty-five.

Below...

Hush.

His breathing was returning to normal. He put his head on her shoulder and moved his hand over her back.

Mum.

She pulled back to look at him.

Yes, love.

It was in the below light.

Sweetheart, dreams, even really awful ones, are only pictures in your head. They can't hurt you.

Robert nodded but without conviction. They held one another for many minutes and then Robert lay back on the bed.

You can go now.

Oh!

You're tired, mum.

She laughed a little. I am, yes. She shifted position and looked around. Toys were scattered everywhere. She would get him to tidy up tomorrow. She kissed his cheek. I'm only next door if you want me.

I know.

She picked her way across the floor, avoiding toys like landmines. His plastic soldiers were laid out as if fallen in some terrible battle. This room needs clearing up in the morning, young man. Your men are all over the place.

They're dead.

How awful.

Do children die, mum?

What a question! She saw he was serious. We’ve talked about it before. You remember your grandad Francis.

He died in an accident.

That’s right.

Robert sighed. But he was old. What about people my age?

Is something troubling you, Robbie?

No.

Sure?

Do they?

Sometimes. It’s not something you need to worry about now.

I’m not worried. He yawned.

She left the door open a little wider than usual and made her way back to bed.

Chapter 5

Ryan Waterman took in the sterile decor and furnishings. The carpet was bland, the walls as pale as a fish belly. A glass table was covered with magazines arranged with the precision of an architectural drawing. Solicitor's waiting rooms all looked the same.

He approached the reception desk and smiled at a woman with hair so tightly drawn back it gave her eyes an oriental appearance. She was writing rapidly on a large pad of lilac paper. She looked up. Can I help you?

Ryan Waterman to see Miss Baker.

The receptionist slid her eyes over his clothing (old jumper, jeans that had seen better days) and punched a button on a telephone that looked big enough to be the control centre of a battleship. Her tone, which had been sharper than he liked, transformed into something dipped in fresh honey. A Mr Waterman awaited attention. The woman's eyes wrinkled with a smile although not directed at him.

Chinese, Japanese look at these dirty knees.

She asked him to wait.

Ryan took a seat and dared himself to rifle through the magazines. He spied a Beano hidden beneath a weighty car mag and snagged it. He held it up knowing the receptionist was watching and moved his lips to Dennis the Menace. The comic had changed a lot since he'd last read it as a kid but he knew a number of the characters. Roger the Dodger was still going strong and best of all The Bash Street Kids were still giving Teacher hell.

A man entered and paused in the doorway. He was tall and thin and wore dark glasses. He ignored the receptionist's, can I help you, and crossed the floor to Ryan. Mr Waterman, I'm Jonathan Cryer.

Ryan rose and shook hands. Pleased to meet you. How did you guess it was me?

Cryer laughed. You look like a Ryan.

The receptionist repeated her question. Cryer waved a hand in her direction. Mr Cryer to see Miss Baker.

Ryan saw the woman colour and decided he liked his new tenant. Have you driven up this morning?

Yes and it was a fine journey. It's so nice to be back.

A girl came in and stood behind Cryer. Ryan moved a little to see her.

This is Paige, my daughter.

Hello Paige.

Hello.

Is Mrs Cryer with you?

I'm afraid not, but she will be joining us soon. Cryer put a long arm around his daughter's shoulder. We are anxious to move into your beautiful house Mr Waterman.

I'm glad it's going to be a family home again.

Miss Baker appeared from a door to the right of the reception desk. She was plump and wore a peach twin set. Sorry to keep you waiting. Have you all been properly introduced?

We have indeed, dear Miss Baker, said Cryer.

The solicitor blushed. Would you like to follow me?

Ryan held the door for Paige. She smiled and quickly looked away. She looked about sixteen. She slipped her hand into her father's. Ryan allowed himself a grin at the receptionist before following.

Chapter 6

Richard ‘Farts’ Owen ran across the deserted school playing field. Pain flared across his chest as his lungs struggled to fuel his body, hindered by a heart that was ill prepared for physical exertion. Three boys dogged him shouting epithets of twat, bastard and shithead accompanied with whoops of laughter and raspberry blowing.

Rivulets of sweat ran into his eyes. The muddied ground sucked at his shoes, a school bag laden with books thumped against his back. His stomach, bulging over belted trousers, heaved with every footfall. The ground seemed to tilt wildly and Richard knew he was going to collapse within seconds.

The lead pursuer, a well built boy with bleached, spiked hair gained to within a single stride and struck the small of Richard’s back with a solid brogue. He landed hard, mouth colliding with wet earth and he heard and felt a loud crack in one tooth. He was rabbit punched two, three, four times with a sharp knuckled fist. A flurry of blows landed on his neck and back followed by a knee to the kidneys.

The other two boys stopped as if running into an unseen wall.

The bleached boy stood up. He was almost six feet tall and still growing. At thirteen he had the physique of an adult. His eyes were bright blue. His face would have been handsome had it not been contorted with anger.

Get up!

Richard’s stomach contracted. He tried to catch his breath.

I said get up you fat cunt!

Richard rolled over and adopted a sitting position, his thick legs drawn up to his chin. He wiped his face with the back of a dirty hand smearing blood, snot and grass.

Got any money, Farts?

Richard wheezed out a small ‘no.’

No what, fat boy?

I haven’t got any money

The kick caught him hard on the outer thigh. He scrambled backwards.

Call me, MISTER DOYLE! Doyle's eyes bulged and the artery in his neck flushed with hot blood. He took several steps backwards and waved to his companions. Get stuck in lads. Kick his fucking head in!

After a pause one said, Leave it, Doylie.

It seemed Doyle did not hear for moments, his eyes on Richard, and then his companion’s words filtered through.

What? What did you say, Johnson?

He’s had enough. Johnson’s voice broke on the last word.

Doyle sighed, a theatrical sound and shook his head as if admonishing a naughty pup. He swaggered over and bent close. I understand Johnson. His voice was low, confidential and full of understanding. You and Farts here want to be alone He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Richard.

The shove caught Johnson hard in the chest. He landed, skidding across wet grass and tearing his trousers. Doyle spat; the thick saliva catching in the boy’s neat hair. Now fuck off!

Johnson picked himself up and fled back across the playing field. Richard watched him with envy.

Doyle squared up to the remaining boy. What about you then, Nigel? Are you an arse bandit like Johnson and fat lad here?

Nigel who was nearly as tall as Doyle stood his ground. No, he was out of order.

Doyle continued to stare into Nigel's eyes who began to stammer some other assurances of loyalty before Doyle laughed and slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly (although he still managed to make this seem threatening) manner.

Richard dropped his eyes to the ground. Doyle’s jeans brushed against his leg. You bring me five quid tomorrow morning or you fucking die. Got it?

Richard got it.

Doyle dragged Richard's bag off his back and emptied the contents on the sodden ground. After a cursory visual inventory he began to stamp on exercise books leaving shoe marks on the covers. He shattered pens, pencils and a plastic set square. A calculator too tough to destroy was hurled towards nearby bushes. It sailed through the air, spinning with a strange grace until it disappeared into thick foliage.

Nigel ran about like a dog trying to please its master. He found two gaudily coloured comics among the scattered equipment. He tore them to shreds before scattering the pieces over Richard's head like confetti. Doyle rewarded him with laughter.

Finally Doyle aimed the bag at a shallow puddle of filthy water. It splashed down becoming streaked with mud.

Richard watched them go. They were lighting a cigarette to share. He heard one say something to the effect that he was a, ‘spastic who couldn’t read anyway.’

He wiped tears and dirt from his face and winced at a stab of pain in his lower back when he climbed to his feet. Doyle and Nigel were clambering over a fence that bordered a stretch of waste ground behind Crossley’s old clothing factory. He gave them an impotent middle finger then bent to gather the remains of his property before setting off on a slow journey home.

Chapter 7

It was too warm to be labouring in the garden. Crazy for September. Christine's shirt clung to her like a second skin. She wiped her brow, put the trowel aside and tugged her single gardening glove off. The borders were immaculate. There was no need for her to be out here at all, especially at this time of year.

She stood with a little grunt and walked over the patio and back in the house. The clock read ten minutes to three. She locked up before going upstairs to her bedroom. She peeled the shirt off and dropped it in the wash basket, picked fresh clothes and laid them over the bed before going into the adjoining bathroom.

Hot and cold splashed the sink sides and she tested the temperature with her fingertips. She scrutinized her breasts in the mirror, bending over, squinting to examine the flesh. She turned left then right checking all angles. She pushed them together and tossed her hair. God, it’s the Bride of Frankenstein!

Her hair was knotted, the brush snagged. She frowned and began hunting for clips to tie it up. She dressed quickly and went down to the hall picking up