The Crossing

By Graham Parks

It is the year 2031, and 12 year old Able Worthy has made a journey that will change his life forever - a journey to the Dark Side.

Born in Segregation, a suburb in the city of Bigotdom, Able Worthy runs away from home after being enticed by the bright lights of the fairground that shimmer across the stagnant, toxic River Thames, which he has only ever seen from his bedroom window.

Once across the divide that separates light from the darkness, Able unwittingly indulges in each of the seven deadly sins. He meets a young girl, Eve Hope, with whom he falls in love but tragedy strikes when they run into trouble with Cain Sins and his gang.

Able's fantastical journey is one of courage and adventure, and after intimate conversations with the seven prophets, it also proves to be one of self-discovery.

The Crossing is a humorous, provocative story that touches upon many of the issues that confront us today. It may even challenge you to question your own fundamental beliefs about life, religion and ultimately, death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Parks
• Release date: Jul 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476165783

Graham Parks

I grew up in Aldershot, which in those days was a tough and impoverished garrison town. I attended a regular all boys comprehensive where I can hardly claim to have excelled. In fact, I was in the bottom stream for the entire 5yrs I was there. When I finally walked out of the school gates ready to square-up to this thing called life, I could barely read or write and numeracy was a swear word. The only work I could find was unskilled labouring jobs on building sites. Strangely though, I always had a deep desire to be and do more, which continues to fuel my ambitions today. I harboured a desire to live in London and over the course of a couple of days my life suddenly went from bleak to pretty grim; my girlfriend finished with me on the premise that perhaps her aspirations would be best met elsewhere, and I was sacked from my lowly paid job by some hairy-arsed foreman, which wasn’t great considering the building industry was going through a bit of a slump. I decided my predicament called for bold action ... so I upped sticks and decided to walk in the footsteps of a character by the name of Dick Whittington, who had allegedly felt a similar compulsion many years previously. Having somehow hoodwinked my way into a sales job in the fashion industry, I was forced to face up to the weaknesses in my armoury. A brief moment of clarity was the catalyst for not only changing my life, but enriching it beyond anything I could have ever imagined back then. Without wanting to sound like a walking cliché, which I’m in danger of doing here, I realised that if I wanted to have any chance of making it, then I had to educate myself. I proceeded to purchase piles of exercise books that I would then plough through in the evenings, whilst holed up in my damp rotten bedsit, and slowly, after too many frustrating hours, I began to master the basics, and with that ... my confidence grew. This led me on the most amazing journey which has seen me broker deals for some of today’s major celebrities and I even invented a product that was sold in all major stores. Over the years I’ve travelled the world along with a whole host of other stuff that I won’t bore you with now. My first book, The Crossing is dark and I’ve tried to humorously address the issues that face us today that in one way or another, that seem to bleed us of our humanity and undermine how important it is to get the basics right in order to create harmony in our world. My second book, The Cure again is a dark subject, but there’s also a lot of light in Willy’s life given how difficult it must be to try and re-integrate into society after living on the streets for so long. My third, Beneath Dwelt I, is the tale of a young boy who is bullied remorselessly but, against the odds, finds a way back. I suppose that’s what I’ve learnt: there’s always a way back. Stories, I have so many of them ...

Book preview

The Crossing

By Graham Parks

Copyright

Copyright 2012 Graham Parks

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Awakening

The World

Taking a Peek

Making a Dash

Below Decks

No Winners

The Dark Side

Loss of Innocence

The Crossing

The Luck of the Draw

Death Scene 1

Death Scene 2

Heaven

Epilogue

About the Author

Other books by this Author

Connect with this Author

Awakening

It now makes a little more sense; it’s all a bit clearer in my mind … I think. You see, I’ve just arrived. I was making swift progress in the direction of home when, at some point, I stepped across the threshold into another dimension. A transition not uncomfortable, but one I’m unfamiliar with.

The truth is, I really have no idea how long it’s been since I crossed over. I feel caught in a kind of limbo, floating almost – in the same moment, a consistent moment that has no shape to it.

I’m going to attempt to pen a short journal of my escapade that brought me here. Without doubt an interesting and profound trip, and one that has ultimately led me to challenge everything I was ever taught. In fact, so much so, that I have to inform you that it’s highly likely that you also will feel compelled to question your most fundamental beliefs about religion and death by the end of this.

My story revolves around a crossing I made; in reality, it was no more complicated than crossing from one side of the street to the other. However, at the time I didn’t fully realise the danger that lurked amidst the bright lights and a world of excess. I continued, I suppose, in the hope of finding excitement, although having now thought about it maybe I just wanted to feel grown-up and show my domineering parents that I could take care of myself. So, please take a seat and let me tell you about the crossing I made – a crossing to the Dark Side.

The World

My Year Log: 2031

My name is – was – Able Worthy. I chose to ignore all the warnings of the dangers that awaited the unwelcome interloper; a trespass, if you like, into a world of dark corruptions. A place where fear hangs like a heavy cloud, a place that’s as tired and demoralised by crime as the people that live there, a place where nobody can be bothered to complain or work towards a brighter future, a place that waits in the shadows ready to pounce when the voice of discontent is muted by the deadening weight of hopelessness.

When I arrived on the other side, naive and full of adventure, my path crossed that of a boy of similar age whose name I found out was Cain Sins. He was in the company of his gang; a mean-looking bunch, that’s for sure. I could tell they were as rough as they looked, but thought no more of it once they’d let us go; I’ll explain more about the ‘we’ later. I soon discovered, although I didn’t know it then, that my mobile phone was to seal my fate.

We turned on our heels, sensing our survival depended on it. I glanced back to check on their position, and with hatred in their eyes, they had begun to pursue. We quickened our pace; they followed suit. I was carrying an injury from a knife wound I’d sustained a short while before and did my best to override the pain. I thought I would make it, I really did. In fact, I’m still not sure, at times, if I did or I didn’t. It’s still a bit strange this other life. However, before I pen the events of that fateful evening, I need to take you back to a time long before my visit.

The history behind the divide that severs our city goes back many years. It started, so our history books inform us, when the world started to get hotter. Its moisture slowly dissipated – a bit like a tomato missed at harvest which remains on the vine in full glare of the midday sun, slowly desiccating until its size and form are unrecognisable from that which previously displayed a rich abundance. The weather decimated harvests, which meant food very quickly became a more coveted resource than the pools of black gold that shimmered beneath earth’s surface. And, as if that wasn’t enough, it emerged that everybody had been greedy, especially the wealthy bankers of the day who had, in effect, bankrupted the world of everything that could turn a profit. International relations fractured, self-preservation became the order of the day; communities eventually followed suit and became polarised battlegrounds that led to civil war. People died. This sparked a global riot which culminated in the world going to war. Nobody really knew the degree of devastation that these hitherto dormant arsenals would unleash. Until, that is, it was too late… In the end, only a small number of people survived who would document this chapter in man’s unedifying history.

The weather, as if in sorrow, lashed down its tears upon the shores of the planet for months on end. No longer could a glorious summer’s day or starry night bask in their unique majesty, for everything became a monotonous heavy grey. The few remaining survivors on the island of England sought refuge from the raging torrents and fled to safety on higher ground at a place called Primrose Hill, located in the once great city of London.

After many days of protracted debates as to who would take control of running the community’s affairs, a family by the name of Cosa Nostra won the day. Not by a democratic vote, it has to be said, but more by coercion and a heavy hand. They weren’t a particularly large family, but the father, Johnny, and his two sons, Big Johnny and Little Johnny, as they were affectionately referred to, held no warmth in their hearts and certainly had no time to indulge in anything as trivial as mercy. If you crossed them, someone was going to pay.

The father eventually passed away; legend has it he suffered a particularly severe bout of gout, went on a bender to relieve the pain and suffered a massive heart attack, leaving the empire on top of the hill in the hands of his very capable sons.

However, shortly after burying their father, a further calamity was to hit the family – little Johnny’s favourite aunt, Aunt Edith, was gunned down. The perpetrator of this heinous crime was caught and summarily dispatched forthwith. But before they killed him, he revealed all in the hope of saving his skin: a small band of pirates who had settled atop Hampstead Heath were planning a takeover.

The slaying of Aunt Edith crippled little Johnny emotionally. She had often sat him upon her knee to tell him stories about how wonderful life could be without violence and hatred. Never did she refer to a book, for these tales lived within her. The slaughter was brutal and the scene of her death – lying in a pool of blood – played continually on his mind; he couldn’t eat, sleep or drink. After a week of being emotionally out of sorts he decided enough was enough and went on one almighty bender in a bid to rid himself of his melancholy. As was always the case when he got blind drunk, he ended up falling over. However, on this occasion, it was serious due to the head injury he sustained when he headbutted the curb on his way down to greet the tarmac. The paramedics logged on their job sheet that young Johnny had technically died by the time they arrived and he only regained consciousness after they gave him oxygen. From the moment he opened his eyes, so legend has it, he had fundamentally changed. He claims his spirit left his body, and while witnessing all the fuss that was taking place around his prostrate body he had a conversation with God. Allegedly, assuming his spirit was sober, God told him to lay down his arms, forget his ego and live a life devoted to the Almighty.

He couldn’t forget this revelation – it hounded him like an unsightly rash – and so, one morning he decided to do just that and renounce his old ways. He and his brother agreed that once the threat from the rival clan had been dealt with he would remain on the hill, whilst Big Johnny would leave to start afresh on the other side of the river where a great Ferris wheel stood in the distance. Image was everything and there was no way Big Johnny was ever going to be associated with a brother who had gone soft. All the inhabitants would be offered the option of staying and sacrificing themselves unconditionally to the Lord God Almighty if they wished, or they could leave and enter a life of depravity and criminality.

After the shoot-out, Big Johnny was true to his word, waved goodbye to Little Johnny and marched off with all those who wished to follow – not many, it has to be said, but enough. Their family bond was severed for good. The agreement made between the two, even though they’re both long since dead, remains true to this very day. Neither side interferes with its neighbour on the other side of the street.

***

I was born in Segregation, a suburb of the city of Bigotdom, which I’m sure you’re all familiar with. But for those who are not, I’ll make a stab at mapping out the geography of the city for you. Apologies, once again, to those who know the area. I’ll do my best to speed things along, for I know how important time is.

The landscape of Bigotdom is a monotonous flatness bereft of all vegetation, albeit for the odd clump of brittle tumbleweed that skates across the dead surface when the winds catch a little. Nothing grows on these barren wastelands. It can’t, because apart from the lack of sunlight, our lands are filled with toxic waste that infiltrated the soils during the years leading up to Armageddon, and still, to this very day, it poisons and corrupts everything that desires to live – apart from human beings, that is. Our enlightened scientists, through their sheer brilliance, managed to create a range of synthetic foods using a discipline called genetic-cross-pollination. It enabled us to finally sever the bond with earth that, since time immemorial, had held us to ransom with its fickle weather patterns.

Our city is very easy to map. To the west is the Production-Is-All Industrial Estate. They manufacture our delicious range of synthetic foods: plastic fries and rubber burgers, nylon crisps and – another of my favourites – cellophane and rubber nut chocolate bars. They produce far more than is required, although that’s not a problem because they add so many additives and preservatives it lasts forever. It’s stored in large warehouses in case there’s another famine. They can’t export, because there’s nobody to export to. Besides, nobody travels: our history warns us of the perils we face if one is ever silly enough to throw caution to the wind and go on a foreign journey. Ancient civilisations, we’re taught, attempted this foolishness, which resulted in the great wars.

Apart from food, the factories produce all sorts of other items: atomic cars, clothing, electronic equipment and all our automated gadgets that assist in making our lives easier – nobody likes to work up a sweat if they can help it.

The estate is vast. There are many thousands of buildings, all different shapes and sizes. The machines, I’m told, glow red with heat from the demands placed upon their services. Day and night, the orchestra of clattering machinery integrates with the swirls of toxic emissions, which desperately seek escape from the workshop floor. The bosses don’t seem to mind a great deal if you fall dead from asphyxiation just so long as you’ve come to the end of your shift and hit your quota; if you haven’t, they’ll do their utmost to revive you.

In the south we have what I referred to earlier as the Dark Side. Its actual title, which is referenced on all maps, is the Borough of Vice. Its main landmark is a square block building rising to the height of six hundred and sixty-six storeys: it is occupied by many thousands of people. The building is a simple structure of steel and blackened glass; no light can enter, nor can any light escape. The roof of the building has four towering turrets, one in each corner, that taper into razor-sharp spikes, and one centre column which rises several hundred metres above its four sentries. The centre structure has three further spikes that sit atop its column, giving it the appearance of a deadly trident charging into the sky. Attached to the surface of the centre column are hundreds of giant receiver dishes huddled together, which allow an unlimited choice of TV channels.

The building symbolises the character of this district: a warning for those not hardy enough to stay away from its door. The only animals, apart from man, that eke out a great living are the vultures that roost on the roof, but even they sometimes come a cropper, impaling themselves on the spikes when, after having eaten too much, they fall into a deep depression and choose to end it all; that’s the effect our food can have upon the psyche.

This district is known as the Dark Side for no other reason than it is full of corruption, misery and wastage. Most, if not all, politicians, banking officials and duckers-and-divers live here.

In the east, we eventually arrive at the gates of Avarice, which is where our banking institutions compete with one another. Here, even the buildings vie for prominence – ghastly shapes mingle with plain square skyscrapers, each making a statement through their bland, garish dimensions.

This is where all the money is made, or ‘lolly’ in their vernacular, which in turn keeps the wheels turning on the factory floor. The rumour is that the financiers are lobbying for the working week to be increased to seven days instead of the current six and, likewise, the working day to be increased from twelve to sixteen hours. My father was mightily upset by this and kept debating with himself that surely one person can only drive so many cars and wear so many suits.

All the workers eat lunch – normally rubber sushi or noodles – while standing up, for there is no room to sit down. This can create bad constipation. I know, because my dad often plays tunes with his wind in the morning after breakfast or in the evening after dinner. It drives my mum mad. The urge to get back to work is so great they have no time to waste on digestion. After they finish for the day, at midnight, they go to bars to cool down and give it large. This entails drinking mad-juice and snorting laxative powders, which, I believe, can help to unblock the chakras. When they’ve drunk and snorted enough, they become crazy and take their clothes off to express themselves in strange ways. This is not discussed the following day, so I believe, for nobody wishes to be reminded of their little indiscretions.

The city streets are congested coils of speeding transport searching for navigable pathways to the office door. It is not safe to walk, so everyone uses public transport and, in order to be productive while at work, all staff have