Calhoun: Retribution: Dark God Trilogy, #2

By Joe Mansour

What he did will haunt him forever. 

For Calhoun life is just about enduring, his only respite the times spent with his daughter. 
But when you're the Dark God's chosen representative life is never going to be so simple.

For the past four years Sarah has been tormented by what happened to her. 
Why was she taken? 
Who was the Robot Man?
Her latest therapist might be the key to learning those answers.

Could Jimmy's days as a free man be coming to an end? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Mansour
• Release date: Dec 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386568995

Joe Mansour

Joe Mansour writes fast paced action thrillers that have been described as "intense" and "a crazy roller-coaster of a read!". Taut with strong, believable characters that consistently delivers without the padding some authors use to paper over weak or implausible plots.  Reviews are always appreciated but writing a review takes time, so, as a thank you, please email [e-mail] and I will send you a free short story.  Follow on twitter: @JEMansour Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/joewriting

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Cover image Falling is a derivative of falling-suicide-man-jump-2245869 by Adrian Malec (Pixabay). Falling is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0) by Joe Mansour.

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0) by Joe Mansour

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Also by Joe Mansour.

Calhoun: Sacrifice

Ten Minus Ten

To A.P, Esq. – master of the apostrophe.

1

Sup?

Sup.

Ready to make some serious dolla?

Del Williams shrugged, flicked up the hood on his black sweatshirt and said.

Mi deh yah.

It's safe man, easy money.

Church though bruv.

His mum would have a fit if she found out, leather him from here to Kingston.

They got insurance, victimless crime.

Anthony 'Blazestar' Brown bent to pick up the coil of rope by his feet that Del had noticed jogging up to where his friend was leaning against the old stone wall surrounding the Church of his Adoring Face, just after ten pm, the December night cold, rain threatening from brooding clouds that had hung over the town since morning but not yet fallen.

Where you get that from? He said.

Dad's tow rope innit.

That going to hold?

Skinny thing like you? Blazestar sucked through his teeth. No problem.

Annoyed that he was the one expected to do all the hard work, Del said.

And we can sell the lead?

Yeah man, any scrappy will buy it.

I don't know.

Take ten minutes, fifteen tops, look at the place, easy.

Del rubbed his hands together, cold despite the gloves, he blew on them and stamped his feet, regretting his choice of Converse All Stars. Waiting for his friend to man up Blaze chipped at some of the loose mortar.

Deciding Del nodded.

Money mi a pree. He said.

Seen.

Blaze shifted the coil on to his shoulder and broke in to a half run, as much energy as the corpulent teen was willing to expend, to the iron gate set in the wall. The path from it to the church was made of old gravestones, their testaments worn by weather and the feet of penitents. The boys huddled by the side of the building, away from the main door and out of sight of the vicarage where light shone from several of the ground floor windows. Blaze pointed up and held out the rope. Del removed his gloves and shoved them in a pocket, took the coil from his friend and looped it over his neck letting it hang across his body like a bandoleer. Blaze linked his hands together and boosted Del to grab at the lintel on the window above them, he scrabbled and pulled up, probed with his fingers for a hold and swung across, his legs dangling before he managed to dig a toe in a gap.

Safe bruv. Blaze hissed the encouragement.

Ignoring him, Del climbed the wall, the challenge thrilling and foremost in his mind, the reason for it pushed away, not thinking about the crime but rather the execution. He hooked his fingers on to the crenellation that ran around the edge, pulled up on to and over it in one fluid movement. Using the penlight from his pocket he surveyed the roof, it was covered in large sheets of lead, thirty centimetres wide and crimped together on their long edge. He bent and pulled at one, the metal deforming in his grip but refusing to lift. Pushing his fingers further under he tried again, this time succeeding in raising a sheet, the sound of it tearing free loud in the still night. He crouched, listening.

Gecks?

Del looked over the side.

What? He said.

Whappen?

You keeping an eye on the vicarage?

Yeah man, cris, no worries.

Del shook his head and turned back to the sheets, he pulled at the one he had freed, rolling it into a tube, working his way along to where it met the sloped roof of the nave. Wrenching it loose, he tied the rope  around it and swung it over the edge, letting the line out he lowered it down to Blaze who untied and dropped the lead on the ground. Del pulled the rope back up, leaving it in an untidy coil, and began rolling up another sheet.

The Reverend Nicola Jones closed the laptop lid and leant back on her chair in the vicarage study, stretching out muscles that had become tight during her hours of single finger pecking, compiling the monthly newsletter for the few parishioners that still retained an interest in the workings of the church. She glanced at her watch and wondered why she was wasting her time. The Bishop had been keen on the initiative, waxing lyrical about newsgroups and engaging the youth but she had found her elderly flock viewed computers with suspicion and were unwilling or unable to entertain any electronic communication. She had resorted to printing out a handful of the missives, the disappointment of having to recycle the majority of even that paltry number a monthly one.

Twenty past ten, she just had time to make a drink before Newsnight started, she stood up, groaning at the stiffness in her fifty-four year old body and removed her glasses to rub her eyes. A rumble of thunder heralded the coming of the storm that had been expected since morning. She drew the curtains, pausing to look at the church that dominated her view, its windows made a looming face in the dark, broken teeth of gravestones adding to the illusion. Lightning flashed and she counted to three before the next peal, the rain lashing down in a sudden onslaught bringing to mind the doubt she had closed the vestry window.

Raasclaat.

Del shuddered under the deluge, pulling the hoodie tighter around his head in an attempt to keep dry. He had managed to roll up two sheets of lead and was on the third when it started, rapidly soaking him to the skin. He leant over the edge of the roof and saw Anthony cowering in the slim protection the overhang afforded him.

Blaze. He said, unheard over the storm.

Blaze! He shouted.

Huh? His friend looked up, shielding his face with a hand.

I'm coming down.

Blazestar kicked at the lead by his feet.

Not much here bruv.

You come up then.

Nah man.

Thought not.

Del wrapped the end of the rope around a merlon and tied it off, lifting the rest as lightning flashed and the wind picked up buffeting him, he staggered and dropped it, stumbling over it as he tried to regain his balance.

Revd. Jones zipped up her waterproof, pulling the drawstring tight on the hood and opened the vicarage front door. The wind pushed at her, horizontal rain stinging her face and driving her back in to the building. She bent in to it and struggled along the path towards the church. The night lit up as lightning struck arcing to the rod on the steeple, the after image burned into her vision; a man on the roof his arms stretched out like the Saviour.

Del screamed in surprise, he stepped back, his arms flung out, windmilling in an attempt to regain his balance, his left foot catching in a loop of rope as his right passed through a crenel and he toppled from the roof, his scream extended until the line pulled taught halting his fall with a spine breaking snap.

2

Sarah woke screaming from dreams of burning houses and men with toes for fingers. She sat up in bed, her hand feeling the mattress beneath her, relieved that it was dry. She switched on the bedside light and picked up her journal.

As she was writing down all she could remember about her nightmare the bedroom door opened, her mother, Tanya, standing on the threshold, a look of tired concern on her face.

The robot man? She said.

Yes, he, I'm sorry mum. Sarah said.

Tanya crossed to the bed and bent to hug her.

It's OK Sarah.

She ran her hand over her daughter's hair smoothing it.

Lie down, I'll stay with you till you fall asleep.

Sarah returned the hug, gripping her mother in a hard embrace, released and lay back on the bed.

That's right. Tanya said, laying next to her. Keeping her hand on Sarah's head she stroked her hair, speaking soothingly until her child's breathing slowed and she drifted off. Satisfied Sarah was asleep her mother kissed her forehead and tucked the duvet around her. She tiptoed from the room, pulling the door closed behind her and went back to her bedroom.

The robot again? Her husband muttered, half asleep.

Yes.

She should be over it by now.

She was abducted Mark!

He opened his eyes, rubbed them and sat up.

I'm sorry love, I didn't mean.

I know what you meant. I. She got in to bed. I want to help her, I feel so useless.

What does her therapist say?

That man is useless, I think the dream journal is just making it worse. She plumped her pillow. I was talking to Angie Crenshaw yesterday, she says her son Lachlan sees a woman called Goddard, says she's amazing.

Why he need a therapist?

He's got some anger issues, hit a teacher.

Hit a teacher? In my day he would’ve got a hiding and that’d be it.

Thankfully we are not in your day then Mark.

I meant.

You think that if we beat our daughter that will fix her?

No, Tanya, don't twist my words.

Let's go to sleep.

Tanya.

Leave it Mark.

This isn't good for Mikey. He loves his sister, he doesn't understand why she's so. Searching for the right word he waved his hand. Weird.

Weird? She sat up. When she was taken Mark, I thought, I was so scared, I thought we would, I thought she was, I.

I was scared too. But that was over three years ago.

And you think she should’ve got over it?

Moved on maybe.

Moved on?

Come on Tanya, you think the same. That music she's in to now, Christ, I wish she still liked that teenybopper she was obsessed with, at least it was, well, wholesome. Not all this death stuff.

She's just expressing herself.

It's sinister.

It's just kid stuff, none of them believe it.

I don't know, when you look at the posters on her wall you're not surprised she has nightmares.

I don't want to talk about it now. I've got work in five hours.

I wasn't the one who woke you up.

Mark.

He lay down and turned his back to her.

Mark.

Let's just sleep Tanya.

Frustrated, she switched off her bedside light and closed her eyes.

3

Dr Gregor Lemonkov returned the chart to the end of the hospital bed and looked at the boy who lay on it. The room was silent save for the hiss and beeps of the machines that were keeping the body alive, or rather, he conceded, stopping it becoming a corpse.

Preparing his thoughts he smoothed his short brown hair back in to its parting, his fingers then reaching to straighten a non-existent tie; no longer permitted due to infection controls. He paused before opening the door, adopted a neutral expression, one he hoped conveyed professionalism tempered by sympathy and walked from the sterility of intensive care into the dilapidated corridor of worn lino and chipped paint.

Outside two women waited for him, by their age difference he thought they could be mother and daughter, related at least. He wondered which one was the boy's mother, the younger dressed in an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, hair tied back in a ponytail, or the older, in a large flowing dress that covered her ample frame, a dark blue jacket with gold buttons, a handbag the size of a small suitcase, her hair set in curls. He thought it might be a wig.

Mrs Williams? His question directed at the pair of them.

My son, Rondel, how is he? The younger one said.

I am afraid it is not good news Mrs Williams.

Is he? She wavered, the older woman reached out an arm to support her.

Is he going to be OK? She said.

Rondel's fall was arrested by the rope around his leg, the jerk snapped his spine, between C1 and C2.

What does that mean?

I'm sorry Mrs Williams. Death would have been instantaneous.

Rondel he's?

I'm sorry Mrs Williams.

It will be that damn fool Anthony that talked him in to it, likkle white boy him think him a gangster.

Mum, please! She pushed away from her mother and stepped closer to the doctor. Unsure of her intentions Gregor backed away.

Why is he on life-support then? She said.

Ah, protocol. The first responders managed to restart his heart, he was put on ventilation as a matter of procedure.

So he's alive?

There is no brain activity. Gregor held up a hand. I'm sorry Mrs Williams, but Rondel is for all intents and purposes dead.

The woman buckled, her mother reaching out to hold her up.

There, there, Shanice, he is with the good Lord now.Uncomfortable, he stood looking at the floor while the two women embraced, Shanice wailing, her body heaving with shuddering gasps.

He's in a better place now. Her mother said, a hand stroking her daughter's back.

Oh Mum. He's my baby boy.

Precious child is in the arms of Jesus.

Gregor clasped his hands, unsure how to proceed. He hated this part, wished the situation was like in Spain where it was opt out not in.

Mrs Williams. I uh, I know this is a difficult time. Gregor said.

Difficult? She wiped her eyes with a hanky her mother had pressed in to her hands. Difficult? You've just told me my son is dead.

The older woman glared at him, Gregor blushed but persisted.

I know, I mean I understand, nothing I can say will make it better, we can't bring Rondel back, but perhaps, perhaps his death wouldn’t be in vain?

What’re you talking about?

Rondel was a healthy young man, his organs would help others, save other lives I mean.

You want to cut him open?

Organ donation, it's not an easy time, not the time to make such a decision but it must be made.

No.

Shanice.

Mum, I don't need to hear this. Not my baby boy.

Mrs Williams. Gregor said.

Please is there nothing you can do? Perhaps if we just, I don't know keep his body alive until he has chance to heal?

I'm sorry, there is zero brain activity. There is nothing we can do.

I can't decide now.

His body will deteriorate. Gregor said. There is little point in waiting.

Point! A look of hate flashed across her face, she walked away.

Mrs Williams, wait! He held his hand out, let it drop to his side.

Her mother gave him a disapproving look and went to comfort her daughter.

You OK Greg?

What, oh hi Jess. He hadn't noticed the nurse approaching, his smile rueful he said. I had to break the news, her son.

He pointed at the room behind him, gestured to the two women. She glanced at them, lowered her voice.

The lad from the church? Her face twisted, the expression hard to read. The police said he was stealing lead.

Fell from the roof. He said, conscious he was staring at her hazel eyes. He had heard she'd split from her boyfriend and was mustering the courage to ask her out.

She bit her lip and fingered a chain around her neck. Gregor wondered if she was religious, it would make his mum happy if she was, unless she was Methodist.

The silence became awkward, desperate to break it, he said.

I asked her about organ donation.

At least something good can come of such a tragedy.

She hasn't said yes.

Shame. Still it's her decision, you can't feel responsible Greg.

No, I guess not.

She smiled. A group of us are off to the Eggnbeanz after shift, you fancy it?

I'm on till nine am.

Maybe meet up with us then?

I'd like that. He looked over at the women, the boy's mum was sat in a chair, head in her hands, her back shaking with each choking sob. Her mother stood beside her, one hand on her daughter's back, lips moving, the words inaudible to him.

I need to talk to them, get permission. He said to Jess.

Don't envy you that. She touched his arm. See you at the caff?

Yes, I'll try.

OK, later. She said, giving a wave she walked away.

4

The shrill ring of his phone woke Calhoun from dreams of fire, malevolence flickering in a face made of flames. Groaning he reached over to reject the call, fumbled it with his left hand, the two toes failing to grip, and instead knocked it off the bedside table to bounce on the cheap grey carpet that covered the entirety of his one room flat. The fall had answered it for him and he could hear a voice saying 'hello' over and over.

Cursing he rolled to the edge of the bed and ran his right hand along the floor until he grasped it. He squinted at the time on the screen; 9:39, the number was unknown. He held the phone to his ear.

Hello. He said.

Mr Calhoun?

I don't have any PPI claims.

Mr Calhoun, my name is Archie Telford, I am P.A. to Mrs Galen.

OK. Puzzled James pushed to sit up on the bed. And who is Mrs Galen?

She is Director of the surgical unit at 'Lady of our Grateful Host' hospital, she's also the chief vascular surgeon here.

OK. He said, waiting for the man to continue.

Would you be willing to come in and speak to Mrs Galen?

About what?

It would be better if she spoke to you in person.

Put her on then.

I meant face to face.

Where is this hospital?

London.

London! You want me to make a three hour drive to speak to someone?

It would be in your interest.

How?

If you would speak to Mrs Galen?

Why?

Mr Calhoun, it's not really my place to say.

You're the one who rang me.

Silence on the phone, James considered ending the call and going back to sleep.

Mr Calhoun, I gather you were injured in Iraq?

Yes.

You lost both your legs, and part of your hand.

I'm aware of that.

As a matter of course we have all your details on file, tissue type etc.

OK.

Unfortunately last night a young man had an accident.

I don't see where this is going.

His next of kin gave permission for his organs to be used for donation.

I don't need a liver. Though judging by his headache he had probably given it some serious damage the night before.

But would you like a hand?

What? Calhoun froze.

Your left hand, it says in the notes that toes were used to provide some utility, but you had another accident, oh, let's see, around three years ago?

Calhoun stared at his scarred hand, the palm puckered, the back misshapen by the path of the bullet. His 'thumb' toe twisted, the 'index' toe had been sliced through by the knife and gangrene had forced its removal leaving him with the 'middle' toe as his only other digit.

A hand?

The man is an excellent match for you, almost perfect, you would need immunosuppressants of course, but Mrs Galen is optimistic it would be a successful procedure.

And my legs?

Ah, it would be best if you spoke to Mrs Galen. Would you be willing to come in?

Lost in thought Calhoun ignored the question.

Mr Calhoun?

What?

There is a time factor in this. A recipient has been found for his kidneys, another for his lungs. They will take precedent.

What about my legs?

Mr Calhoun, Mrs Galen will be able to answer all of your questions.

James said nothing.

"Mr Calhoun?

Mr Calhoun?"

OK, give me your address there.

5

Sarah put down the brush she had used to backcomb her hair and checked her reflection in the mirror. She teased some of it out to even it up, pushed buds in to her ears and selected the latest track by 'Tilted Cherub' on her phone. Half singing to 'Slake your thirst with the blood of the Fallen' she began applying a thick layer of foundation to her face only satisfied when it was a uniform white. She used Kohl to trace a line under her eyes, looping it round to terminate in arrows on her cheeks. She smiled at the results, eyes widening in surprise as she saw, in the mirror, the door opening behind her.

Mum! She said.

I knocked.

Sarah pulled out the buds.

What d’you want? She said.

I was just coming in to see you, you're always up here in your room.

Only place I get any peace.

Sarah.

I'm busy.

Tanya sat on the edge of the bed, ran her hand across the black duvet cover and grimaced. The walls were painted a deep purple, the closest they would compromise to the black demanded by their daughter. Posters of sullen women in leather and half naked men holding axes had replaced the ones of kittens skateboarding and tweenie pop idols. The ceiling was dotted with fluorescent stars arranged in a pattern she fervently hoped wasn't satanic.

I wanted to talk about your therapist Mr Wilkins.

What about him?

Is he helping?

I suppose.

But you're still having the dreams?

Yeah.

Sarah turned back to the mirror, twisted a tube of dark crimson lipstick and pouted at her reflection.

Sarah? Tanya stood, she placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder.

You are so pretty, you don't need all this makeup.

It's not to make me pretty.

Then why?

It's to show.

Show what?

That I belong, that I'm an emgoth.

That terrible music.

What would you know?

I had a wild phase, before I met your dad. She lowered her voice. I did some crazy things.

Huh. Sarah's lip twisted in disdain. Smoked a spliff did you?

Sarah!

What?

How do you know what a spliff is?

Come on mum, I'm almost thirteen.

Not till next month.

Sarah shrugged. Close enough.

My baby, a teenager.

Mum.

Doesn’t seem five minutes since you were in my tummy.

Eugh, gross.

Sarah used a lip liner then pressed tissue to them.

Where did you learn that? At your age I was still playing dress up. She glanced at her daughter's ripped fishnets, black leggings cut off above the knee, taffeta ra-ra skirt, black T-shirt with rips across the stomach, lace fingerless gloves and a mass of beads strung around her neck.

Though perhaps you still are too.

Mum. Sarah shook her head. And to answer you, the internet, YourView mostly.

They have videos on how to do makeup?

"They have videos on everything, some of it