The Cursed

By Shaun Herbert

When Jack Edmunds, a reporter for the Daily Tribune visits the quiet backwater village of Ellsworth, North Yorkshire he gets a little more than he bargained for. Witness to the casting of an ancient gypsy curse following allegations of corruption by the authorities- Jack along with Suzie Brown, his accomplice, are drawn into an ever increasing maelstrom of events and strange happenings beyond belief.

Cut off from the outside world the village of Ellsworth rapidly descends into a bizarre blood-bath of demonic possession as friend turns against friend in a frenzie of unstoppable carnage.

Can the realms of superstition be as tangible as they seem or are they merely a form of self-imposed psycho-babble that preys upon the mind? Either way their journey won't be easy as they confront an ever increasing maelstrom of sinister events, exposing them to the darker side of human nature at its worst.

Will Jack unravel the mystery and save the day before the village is reduced to population zero or will the curse prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaun Herbert
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311075178

Shaun Herbert

www.shaunherbert.com Shaun was born in the mining town of Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England in 1967. In 1968 the family moved to London before emigrating to South Africa in 1970, where he lived for two years, returning home in the winter of ’72. Shaun stayed in the Barnsley area until he moved to Wakefield (his adoptive town) in his early twenties, where he’s lived ever since.Divorced in 2013, he is happily settled with his fiancée, Joehana a beautiful Filipino National with a wonderful smile. Shaun’s pastimes have been somewhat eclectic over the years. Art has always been a favourite hobby and his desire for creativity has flowed into many ventures. At fourteen he studied Goju-Ryu karate for eleven years attaining his “1st Dan Black Belt” at nineteen. In his early twenties he went on to play guitar as a semi-professional musician for a six year period in hard-rock venues across the country. Apart from writing, Shaun likes reading, painting watercolour and surfing the net with a vengeance...lol At forty-four, in 2011, he reduced his working hours from full to part-time enabling him to devote more energy to writing. His work is now published across the world and available in many formats.

Book preview

The Cursed

(The Complete Series)

by

Shaun Herbert

OKS Publishing

The Cursed

(The Complete Series)

By Shaun Herbert

Copyright Shaun Herbert 2015

Published by OKS Publishing at Smashwords

ISBN:  978 1 311 07517 8

Other Novels by Shaun Herbert

Outbreak

Catch a Killer

Other Novels in The Cursed Series

Gypsy Curse (Part One)

Descent into Damnation (Part Two)

The Hand of God (Part Three)

Short Stories

Maddie

Flight MH370

Dedication

To the woman who held my hand whilst I penned this story: I love you Joehana Cabote.

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

As ever I always like to add a little twist to a tale and ‘The Cursed’ certainly delivers the goods on that score. But before we start on this particular journey together, I feel it is necessary to share three small things with you.

First and by far the most important relates to how the tale is delivered. In a departure from my usual style of writing (a full novel in one single volume) this series was originally delivered in three separate books called The Gypsy Curse, Descent into Damnation and The Hand of God. However, this novel contains all three books in one volume and printed in the standard novel format.

The second detail to convey relates to the book’s title – I originally called part-one of the series ‘Romano Amriya’ taken from the Romany language which literally translates as ‘Gypsy Curse’. In later additions of the novel I dropped the use of Romani and went for the English translation for simplicity. So if you bought one of the original copies of the ‘Gypsy Curse’ you’ll now understand the reason for the name change.

So what is this curse?

In essence it is a prayer to the universe with a poison chalice. It is not a respectful prayer but an application of hate that inevitably rebounds upon those who cast it. If used for revenge it will revenge you. If fuelled by hate it will drive you insane. To those who know it well, it is a curse of last resort to be spoken only when all else fails.

Indeed it is truly a prayer of the damned that follows:

Te del o beng ande tute.

Te korarel tu kako manro.

Te sordol ci godi po drom,

te cidav la ando dikhloro.

Te cernol co mas pa tu.

Te xal tu phuv.

Marel ci bax o khul,

Xas me mulenge kokala!

(Translation)

Devil shall take you.

This bread shall blind you.

Your brain shall spray,

and I will gather them in my handkerchief.

The flesh shall rot off you.

Earth shall devour you.

Shit shall break your good luck,

As you eat the bones of my dead!

Lastly, I would like to say a little about the Romany people from where the curse originates. The Roma as they call themselves are the true gypsy race of this world: travellers with no homeland, a shared heritage and a mother tongue known as the Romani Chib. It is interesting to note the Roma like the language they speak began in the mountainous region of North-West India over a millennia ago when the Rajasthan Empire was at its peak. No one knows why they left their homeland but it is believed this band of wanderers, travelled through the Middle-East before finally settling in Egypt.

Did this country’s name morph over a period of time into the word gypsy? And can their skills at fortunetelling and curse casting be attributed to the Egyptian priests who served the Pharaohs so well?

I guess we’ll never know?

But to add a little authenticity, the Roma language is used in all three books of ‘The Cursed’ series. For this reason you will find a brief Roma-English dictionary in the last few pages of all three books for your benefit.

As ever dear reader... enjoy the tale I weave and please keep coming back for more...

PART ONE

The Gypsy Curse

THE CURSE

1

Milton Bradshaw drove down the B127 Heathstead Road at a steady pace. Thirty miles an hour was quite a speed for the elderly gentleman, although those who followed might disagree. Fortunately the road was empty this September evening; a fact that pleased Milton greatly. He never had-liked those angry drivers who tooted their horns or the barrage of obscenities they spat at him whilst sporting the finger as they passed his little-red-Corsa.

Oh yes, he knew exactly what they were shouting. Dodgy hearing had improved his ability to read lips and in his experience frustrated motorist’s usually spouted profanity. But tonight as he drove towards Sparrow Woods, then onto Heathstead - a small village to the south of Ellsworth where he lived - he found himself at peace; unlike earlier in the day when little-Jimmy-snot-face had antagonised him beyond belief. He was the reason Milton drove aimlessly down the road... any road. It didn’t matter where he was, as long as he was away from the incessant slap BANG ... slap BANG ... of the kid’s ball being kicked against the gable-end of his bungalow.

Milton had politely asked the boy to stop. The kid had almost listened too, before a cheeky grin had spread across his face in a why should I granddad smile. If he’d been a younger man, Milton might have given the boy a sharp slap; but he was now seventy-eight and tackling a lad in the throes of puberty when testosterone rampaged through the body was a recipe for disaster.

Anyway, a drive on the open road would do him good and with any luck the kid would tire and move on before he returned home.

That was the plan anyway.

It began to rain. Milton flicked on his windscreen wipers.

Kids today! It was a shame they had nothing better to do than irritate old people.

Times had been different in his childhood. He recalled snuggling close to his mother and Aunt Ede in the communal bomb shelter at the end of their street as the Luftwaffe dropped wave after wave of incendiary munitions upon the steelworks of Sheffield. In the daylight there’d been precious few walls standing to kick a ball against.

That’s how he’d first come to know Ellsworth. Like 827,000 other children across Britain who’d been evacuated from battle scarred Cities, Milton found himself away from home, longing for the tender touch of his mother and a kind smile from his Aunt Ede, as he rose from the breakfast table and headed off to school amidst the smouldering mess of Nazi devastation.

But Milton didn’t blame little-Jimmy-snot-face for his plight. That lay squarely at society’s door. They were the ones who’d abandoned the younger generation. Where were the playgrounds, the skateboard parks and youth-clubs to keep the children off the streets and entertained? Where were the out-of-hours activity clubs; the troop of Scouts and Girl Guides working themselves towards a menagerie of merit-badges?

Down the pan that’s where they were, along with the finances to support such ventures. The result of successive governments squandering good money after bad on welfare benefits that encouraged people to sit at home on fat-arses; rather than earn an honest crust through a hard day’s toil.

And where did those scroungers live - in readymade homes provided by the tax-payer. Thrown together on sink-estates where third and fourth generation worklessness was the norm. That’s where little-Jimmy-snot-face existed with his single-parent mum no doubt, in one of those pre-fabricated monstrosities, managed by Hastyl Homes on behalf of the Council.

But what riled him more than anything was the dumb-fuck-of-a-town-planner who thought it was dandy to build a parasitic community, slap bang, next to the tranquil row of bungalows Milton called home.

Whoever he was; was a real Hastyl-hole in his opinion!

A flashing headlight followed by the sharp blast of a horn as a car shot past him, woke Milton from his silent rant. Startled he looked down at his speedometer.

Thirty-five miles per hour.

No cause for concern.

Ah – lights, he thought.

He flipped on the main-beam bathing the road ahead in a harsh yellow glow. Fine drops of rain sparkled in the twin shafts of light as they fell from the blackened sky, before hitting the windshield and the whoosh of its wipers arcing back and forth. Ahead lay Sparrow Woods; a dense green barrier separating Ellsworth from its smaller neighbour, Heathstead.

What the—

Milton swerved sharply to the right barely avoiding the discarded pile of rubbish dumped by the curb. Instinctively jabbing his right-foot hard on the break peddle, his car skidded to a halt. Shocked, gasping for breath, he placed the transmission into neutral and engaged the handbrake, heart pounding in his chest.

What idiot had dumped refuse here? It nearly caused an accident. Hell - it could have killed him. It might still kill him if his old-ticker didn’t slow down. Breathing deeply he opened the driver’s side-door and climbed from behind the wheel. He should move the rubbish from the road then no other motorist would suffer a similar fate.

It’s the descent thing to do, he told himself.

What the—

The elongated heap of trash moved.

Groaned.

Good God!

Ignoring his racing heart, Milton swiftly closed the gap. This wasn’t rubbish at all but the crumpled body of a young boy. His smashed face covered in blood. Several teeth lay scattered on the ground. The lad’s eyes were swollen shut. The flesh around his sockets already a nasty red-black colour. A pool of crimson blood spread across the tarmac beneath his skull, creating a halo effect. His clothes were stained and ripped where a splintered rib poked through the fabric. One of the boy’s legs twisted at an odd angle as if it had been bent backwards against the joint.

Milton covered his mouth suppressing the gag of vomit that rose in his throat. How could this have happened? Had the boy been hit by a speeding car; maybe the one that shot past him earlier? More than likely – but those sorts of questions could wait for now. Milton knelt and pressed his finger against the boys exposed wrist.

There was a pulse. Faint. Very faint but it was there.

He pulled a Nokia – a Christmas gift from his great nephew which he thought he’d never use - from his jacket packet and punched in 999 before raising the device to his ear.

‘Ambulance,’ he spoke into the mouthpiece, his heart still pounding. Milton silently laughed at the situation. If the boy didn’t need a paramedic then maybe he would.

2

PC Sean Collins stepped from his patrol vehicle into the isochronal flash of blue lights from the top of his cruiser. They somehow intensified the bloody scene before him giving it a dimension of the unreal; a ‘Twilight Zone’ moment if ever there was one.

Ten meters from where he’d parked, the crumpled mess of a young boy littered the tarmac. By his side an old man sat in vigil, his coat pulled tight around his torso warding off the rain. The chap held the boys hand, mumbling incoherent words in a soft drone which Collins supposed were meant as comfort. The lad wouldn’t hear them, he appeared unconscious.

At least for his sake he hoped that was the case.

‘Are you okay sir?’ he asked as he approached.

The chap looked up and nodded; concern etched deep upon his wrinkled brow. Collins gazed on as the man focused on the boy to repeat his mantra – you’ll be okay son, you’ll see... the ambulance will be here soon.

Collins looked at his watch and wished the statement true. Wading head first into a bar room brawl amidst a horde of drunken farmers was more in his liking than this type of bloody situation. Good job the old man was here. Collins was more than happy to let him get on with the touchy-feely stuff whilst he secured the perimeter of the accident site and preserved the evidence for further investigation.

Collins tapped the chap reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Keep up the good work sir,’ he said and meant it.

Fortunately – if fortunate could be used in this instance - the ambulance wasn’t travelling from its operational base at St Agnes Memorial Hospital forty-five minutes away but Heathstead the closest village south of Ellsworth. If it hadn’t been called out earlier in the evening to an old lady suffering from a suspected heart attack - which turned out to be nothing more than a troublesome bout of trapped wind - then the boy wouldn’t have stood a chance of survival.

Collins walked over to the red Corsa, parked a meter from the rear bumper of his patrol car and inspected the bonnet for signs of damage. There were none. He made a note of the registration in his log book, trying in vain to stop the pages becoming damp in the fine drizzle of the night. A random thought scampered through his mind: you’d think waterproof paper would’ve been invented by now.

The though went as quick as it came.

He’d contact the old chap in the morning for a statement. It was clear he wasn’t the person who’d ploughed into the kid. Let the old man go home and get some sleep. He’d need it after tonight.

For now, it was more important to inform the next of kin about the incident. Give them a chance to get to the hospital as soon as they could. And by sheer chance, Collins knew exactly where to find them.

Only last week he’d accompanied two Council officials onto the common at the rear of Ellsworth Park. He’d been there to ensure no trouble erupted as they served eviction papers on a group of gypsies who’d illegally camped there. The boy had been running around barefoot in the mud, a smile on his face, not a care in the world. How things change, he thought.

Collins returned to his patrol car. It was important to place warming cones around the site until the SOCO team arrived. It was amazing what forensics could reveal. A chip of paint could pin-point the make and model of car. A discarded cigarette butt contained DNA and might identify the driver. Even rubber marks burnt onto the road’s surface could be matched against a suspected vehicle. There was no way the bastard who’d caused this amount of devastation and sped away from the scene of crime without a thought for the crippled boy they left behind would escape punishment.

Collins sighed with relief as the blue flashing lights and the whirr of an ambulance siren approached them. He looked at his watch. Four minutes had elapsed since he’d arrived. It felt like twenty.

But it was here and that’s all that really mattered.

3

Gunari Kaleja wrapped his arms tightly around his daughter-in-law’s shoulders and pulled her close to his chest. She braved a smile, which looked out of place amidst the worried frown that dominated her features. He knew what she was thinking without having to ask: please God not Luca too.

The boy’s father had died eight years earlier in a street brawl with a gajo. If anything happened to Luca, Gunari would lose his last physical link to his son forever.

He tried not to think about it.

Lyubitshka sighed as he bent to kiss the tip of her nose before wiping away a tear that trickled down her face. The action smudged her dirty skin, leaving the war-paint mark of an Apache warrior spread across her cheek.

‘The boys alive... now hold his hand so he knows you’re here Bonnek.’ Gunari used her gypsy name, the one reserved for close family members. She’d always appreciated a tender hug even as a small child and Bonnek, which meant just that, suited her well.

Lyubitshka slipped from his embrace and lovingly touched Luca’s forehead before holding his exposed hand which protruded from beneath the blue hospital blanket: it was cold to touch.

Gunari stood and walked to the base of the bed where his grandson lay. The energetic little boy had gone. Hokta (his gypsy name) had been reduced to a swollen lump of static flesh barely recognisable. Spots of blood seeped through the white crepe-bandage wrapped around his head; a plastic tube slid down his throat, held in place by a strand of surgical tape. The tube was attached to a machine called a ventilator; the doctors said it kept the boy alive.

Gunari hoped they were right but sensed he’d never hear Hokta’s cheeky laugh again.

The elderly gypsy walked from the dimly-lit room into the bright fluorescence of the empty corridor. He longed to be outdoors; more used to the open air and its studded night sky than this shroud of bricks and mortar the gaje called St. Agnes’.

As he walked through the double doors to the outside world, Gunari stuffed a hand-rolled cigarette into his mouth and lit it with the stoke of a flaming match. A waft of burning tobacco filled his nostrils, cleansing them of the sterile smell of hospitals he hated beyond all reason.

It was dark. The September air mild, with a subtle breeze that brought the first hint of winter’s chill. Times would be hard for their caravan when the snows arrived, but Gunari knew if Hokta slipped away from them to join his son in heaven like Charos, this winter would be colder than most.

As Sher-engro, head of his tribe, the glue that bound three family clans – the Kaleja, Homolek and Mirga – together as one, Gunari would bear the bulk of that grief. He spat on the ground, stomping the phlegm into the soil with the tip of his boot. Whoever had caused his Hokta to suffer would pay the price of his wrath. He vowed it on a holy oath to Duvvel.

He would have his revenge on the chukkal, the dog who had caused this pain... and when he did he would laugh into the night’s sky like a demented Jackal.

4

Gunari walked back into the dim confines where Luca lay in deep coma. The boy’s chest expanded to the mechanical sound of the ventilator pumping oxygen into his lungs: followed by the hiss of air exiting through a hollow tube protruding indignantly from his throat.

Exhausted Lyubitshka slumped in a high-backed chair in the far corner of the private room. She dozed, her head bowed as if in prayer oblivious to Gunari’s entrance. The old man quietly pulled a worn orange-plastic chair to the side of Luca’s bed and held the boy’s hand in his own.

Doctor Khan had said he was lucky to be alive. Apart from the broken bones and bruises he’d suffered forty-eight hours earlier, Hokta’s skull had been fractured in two places: the result of his head being smashed against the hard tarmac surface after his body had been tossed in the air by the impact of the offending vehicle. The damage had caused his brain to swell. If the paramedic hadn’t released the pressure by putting a small hole in the boy’s skull – what had the doctor called it... tree-planning? - then Luca would have died on the journey back to A&E.

Fate could be a real bostaris at times much like the person who’d left his grandson for dead.

The police told him they were looking for a black Ford Kuga – one with a nasty dent in the bonnet. The same one that sped past the old fellow who’d found Hokta’s discarded body. They believed the driver of the hit and run vehicle had been too busy bad mouthing the old chap to notice Luca walking on the road. But the statement didn’t stack up in Gunari’s mind.

For one, ten minutes had elapsed between the old chap finding the boy’s body and the incident that had sparked the distraction in the first instance: more than enough time for any driver to regain their composure. And Luca had been walking towards the traffic, hadn’t he, clearly visible in his light-beige topcoat.

How could anyone have missed seeing him?

Logic aside intuition told Gunari the police were barking up the wrong tree. He was a Dook after all: the seventh son of a seventh son, not some simple fortune-teller his people called the Drabarni.

Gunari looked over at Lyubitshka. It was past midnight and from the deep resonant sounds emanating from her throat, he knew she had slipped into deep slumber. He decided not to wake her. She needed all the rest she could get.

Turning to his grandson, he bent over the boy and whispered in his ear: ‘I need to know what you saw Hokta... I