Shelter from the Storm

By Felix Collins

Thomas Fitzwalter, a young builder has a strong dislike of the phoney Saturnalia celebrations that often take place at New Year.

On his way home after doing a couple of jobs for his uncle he happens upon a large public house situated on the outskirts of the town he has recently moved to. Feeling quite peckish he ignores the warning voices in his head telling him not to go in and enters the pub intent only on having a quick pint and a bite to eat before continuing his journey home.

A series of violent incidents take place in the pub, and a party he is invited to highlights how prescient those warning voices were. He becomes embroiled in a violent confrontation with a six foot Chicken, a potbellied Bishop and a variety of fancy dressed thugs. Never before in his young life, had he experienced such a bizarre and violent, yet at the same time, life enhancing New Year’s Eve Party.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felix Collins
• Release date: Jul 6, 2015

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Shelter from the Storm

eBook edition Published in 2015 by aSys Publishing

Paperback edition Published in 2015 by aSys Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Felix Collins

Felix Collins has asserted his rights under ‘the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988’ to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved

No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

Published by aSys Publishing

http://www.asys-publishing.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-910757-21-5

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 1

‘Oh, for crissake, no,’ he moaned, dismay hanging on every syllable. Through sleep begging eyes Thomas Fitzwalter squinted at the bedside clock. Another groan escaped his lips when he saw the time, and an involuntary shiver racked him from head to toe. He rubbed his arms and legs vigorously, before pulling the duvet more tightly around himself. An image of the little brass monkey perched on its bracket above the recently opened pawn-shop across the road from the flat he was renting came unbidden to mind. His hand automatically covered his groin. In the little hotel in the Wye Valley where he was staying, sleep still would not come, though he dozed, drifted ever more close to Hypnos’ realm, only to be pulled, prodded and pushed back from the entrance by the violent imagery colouring that part of his mind that remained alert.

Outside the storm raged, roared and railed at the cowering world then clamoured at the window to be in. When denied, it screamed its frustration in a high pitched, nerve jangling wail. It was one of those awesome storms, an implacable elemental force, so full of threat, no matter how primitive, meagre, or ill furnished the room you are in is. Protected as he was from the threat from without he was still harrowed by sleep disturbing imagery from within. Yet in the nightmarish universe of his half-awake troubled mind, storm winds were manifest as banshees, screaming, beckoning him to follow, vying with six foot chickens, nasty bishops, vicious cardinals and ridiculous jesters, all of them trying to do him harm.

The wardrobe door creaked ominously, and he half expected a malevolent presence to step forth, nefarious acts to perform. The rational part of the brain that was still awake, told him such feelings were irrational, a hang-up from childhood days when the dark represents an almost tangible threat to the childish imagination. He yawned deeply, longing with all his being to sink into the deep and refreshing arms of deep sleep. Gradually as the storm abated, and exhaustion conquered the fevered mind of the young builder, a man of average height, build and looks, and he gratefully drifted into the revitalizing arms of sleep.

Five minutes later, or so it seemed to him, the clipped tones of his travelling clock brought him back to the sensible world with the toffee nosed announcement, It’s Wednesday morning, 7:30 am. Would sir like some coffee?

‘Yes please boss, white with no sugar,’ he responded then yawned widely.

He turned the radio off, then slowly got out of bed and stretched wide and upwards, and yawning luxuriantly. A beam of sunlight broke through into the room scattering what remained of the demons of the night. He ambled over toward the window but suddenly froze in mid stride, struck by the silence, the deep, deep silence, such as you get when turning off a loud radio. Throwing open the curtains, he stared in disbelief at the snow covered landscape.

‘Bloody hell! Where the hell did that come from?’

The previous week had been unseasonably mild, though New Year’s Eve had been decidedly chilly, in every sense of the word. The storm had spent its force and now the sun was peeking through rent in the snow clouds, illuminating a thick and expansive blanket of white, sound-proofing all it touched into a deep, deep silence. Immediately in front of the hotel the snow lay at least three feet thick, possibly deeper in places, allowing for drifts. And the short lane leading to the front door of the hotel appeared to have melded with the adjoining fields. For a worrying moment he thought that his van had been nicked, but on seeing its aerial with pennant, and one or two other aerials sticking up out of the snow, he breathed a sigh of relief knowing his van was still there. Without the protruding aerials it would have looked as if the small car park was one thick block of frozen white. Trees, on either side of the lane, were straining to hold the weight of snow laden branches, yet they still managed to look majestic in their new winter livery. Drifting snow had piled up almost as high as the eaves of the small cottage at the beginning of the lane. Try as he might he was unable to make out the road along which he had driven to the hotel yesterday afternoon.

The winter scene had the pristine appearance of an earth newly born. There was no sign of beast, bird or man, or even a god, of any religion, proudly contemplating his, her or its handiwork. The sensible of all species had sought shelter from the storm and were not, at this hour of the morning, venturing out. He shivered then picked up the duvet from the bed, wrapped it round his shoulders and crossed to the opposite window and pulled aside one of the curtains. The scene and depth of snow was much the same, if not thicker. He momentarily had a feeling of being marooned, of being totally isolated, completely cut off from the rest of the world. With the duvet wrapped around him, no shoes to his feet, bruising around the eyes, his hair uncombed, he did appear to be a survivor of sorts. Suddenly, the memory of the New Year’s Eve party contorted his bruised features into a grimace. ‘Bastards!’ he spat out, his fists clenching into balls of aggression as he thought of the violence inflicted on him and that which he had inflicted on others, at that never to be forgotten party.

The hurt had gone deep, and for a few gut twisting moments he remained gazing at the scene, a myriad vengeful thoughts clamouring to be enacted upon. Yet as quickly as the aggressive mood took him over, the thought that for a few days of isolation in this isolated hotel, might be no bad thing. The snow might have imprisoned him, and anyone else who happened to be in the hotel for that matter, but it would also keep at bay that psychotic chicken and his fellow thugs should they find out where he was staying. Being isolated in this hotel for a few days would also allow him to take stock of all that had happened to him and to Julia Simmons, at that crazy, life threatening, party. And for that small mercy he was truly grateful, although his ribs were painful from the blows he had taken. Still, his sense of relief at getting away from those middle class thugs, relatively unscathed, had given him a much needed lift. In fact, in a sense, Thomas was almost himself again. What really grieved him much more so than the physical hurt he was feeling, was that he had lost contact with a woman who had made such a deep impression on him.

For a few moments he stood there thinking of her, hoping that she too had got away from those hypocritical harridans. Fortuna, the only goddess worth a light, had stood by him on that night of violence, and hoping fervently that the goddess had also stood by Julia? Not knowing what had happened to her was a worrying thought but there was nothing he could do now, marooned as he was in this snow filled but beautiful paradise. And compounding his frustration was that before the fight began they had not exchanged mobile, or land-line numbers. At least, he reassured himself, those bigoted thugs had not had it all their own way. He had dished it out to them as much if not more than they had dished it out to him. And vindictively, he hoped that their injuries had confined them to hospital beds for days, if not weeks, or even longer.

Forcing open the window he leaned out and gleefully shouted his thanks to the all-encompassing winter scene: ‘All hail King Winter!’

In thanks for his tribute, a wodge of snow clinging to the upper side of the window box, fell onto the back of his head and neck.

‘Oh for crissake,’ he shouted as the cold struck home.

Like a dog coming out of an icy stream he bent low and vigorously shook his head from side to side to dislodge the snow. He then tore off his tee-shirt and used it to dry off his head, neck and shoulders. It had been an unorthodox but very effective way of ridding the sleep from his eyes. Without any question of doubt, he assured himself, the weather was definitely on his side. With a slight bounce to his step - his ribs were still aching - he entered the bathroom. Having showered and dressed, he felt better than the bruising around the eyes indicated. His stomach rumbled, telling him it was time to go down to the dining room. He checked his watch, then with one last glance in the wardrobe mirror, he closed and locked the bedroom door. As soon as his hunger was satiated, he was determined to try to get in touch with Julia Simmons, a woman who had entered his life in such a dramatic and violent way.

Chapter 2

The circumstances, which led to his being in this isolated hotel in the Wye Valley had begun in a large public house, situated in one of the richer suburbs of a town he had not long moved to. It was an ordinary town of no particular merit and contained in various proportions, the homes of the good, the bad, the shallow, the indifferent, the vindictive and the cruel. And he had met a few from each category at that violent party. The town had a few buildings of architectural interest, the majority of no interest, a rapidly diminishing number of green field sites within the town, and there was a rapidly increasing number of new roads through, around and over its centre. In the main, it had held its own against the ravages of the industrial revolution and the bombings of the Second World War, but had been badly mauled by the blight of Thatcherism that had swept unchecked across the land in the eighties and nineties, and to a lesser extent, had continued under the stewardship of the Reverend Blair and his mark two Conservative Party. And those mumbo jumbo economic policies they pursued have been reinvigorated by the millionaire ex Bullingdon Boys and associates who are now in charge of the Coalition Government. In essence, the town was much like similar sized towns, found the length and breadth of the country, a town from where the young in particular, invariably had an aspiration to leave.

It was in one of the town’s leafier