The Nasties. End of Watch

By Mark Hurst

In the darkness of forever, in the cold places beyond the veil, something evil is stirring. 

Charlie Picker, last of the Watchers is trying to find out what is happening to his friend Pete 'Bash' Bashir. Locked in the secure wing of a hospital, in a coma for over a year, the police are waiting for him to wake so they can charge him with the murder of the children who went missing in Therwick. 

Charlie knows what really killed those children. It wasn't Bash. It wasn't anything from this earth. It was the Nasties, a species older than time, born outside of our normal universe. Terrible creatures that had made their home here and grew fat on the blood of innocents. Charlie knows the Watchers are meant to kill these creatures, to protect the earth from the horrors that squirm and multiply in the gaps between the universes. 

And he knows that one day the Nasties will return for him. 

As he prepares for that fight, something goes wrong. The veil that protects the earth is damaged. Something else finds a way through. 

Charlie finds himself in a desperate race to close the rip, caught between the Nasties and the other foul creatures that roam the darkness of the multiverse. With the help of his friends he must unite the Watchers and prevent the annihilation of the human race. 

Quite a lot to ask of a twelve year old.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Hurst
• Release date: Oct 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386745822

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE MAN’S HEARTBEAT barely changed as he watched the small boy shuffle out of the main door of the school. A brief flutter of excitement before it resumed its normal steady beat. Doing this had become distressingly normal. He had been waiting for a while, slumped low against one of the large trees that lined the other side of the street from the main gates. His dirty clothes and matted hair, together with the scattering of empty wine bottles around him, allowed him to exist below the line of sight of the busy parents that came to collect their children as the school rapidly emptied out into the street. It was Friday afternoon, the start of the weekend, everyone was in a rush. The man wasn’t, he was biding his time. It was perfect really, he knew that the teachers at the school and any police that might cruise by would just see another sleepy drunk wasted on grog. His ethnicity created just the right amount of tension to trigger that curious mix of embarrassment, disgust and pity that paralysed the nice middle-class white families that formed the majority of this school’s catchment area. The good people of Australia still didn’t know quite how to deal with their colonial legacy, and at least for now that had its uses. It made him nearly invisible and that was just what he wanted. If anyone had taken the time to check the wine bottle in his hand, which he swigged from every now and again, they would have found it was filled with nothing more than tap water. It was more camouflage. You needed that when you were hunting.

The man had noticed this particular boy earlier in the week, when he had done his first reconnaissance of the primary school that sat in a quiet suburb of Bundaberg, Queensland. The school was far enough away from the last one he had visited that he was confident the police wouldn’t start to see a pattern. There had been headlines for sure, why wouldn’t there be, it was to be expected, but nothing had made the nationals. Just local news, tragic but not really memorable. He didn’t think anyone would join the dots. Australia was a bloody big country and he was very careful. 

The boy hoisted a school bag over his shoulder that was nearly as big as he was. He was a perfect target. His clothes were old and his shoes looked too big for him. He carried with him a faint air of neglect, like a child’s discarded toy. He didn’t walk home with any friends. Over the past week, since the man had started watching the school, he had never seen anyone come to collect him. It was possible his parents might not even miss him, certainly not straight away, and that was an advantage. It was now or never.

The afternoon was hot and humid, the kind of day when it felt like you could squeeze the air like a sponge. The sun was a burning constant in the blue sky. The boy milled about in the school yard, kicking a ball by himself, back and forth against a wall. No-one joined him, children weaved round him as they headed out of the gates. The road started to empty and the excited babble of noise faded as groups of children wandered off into the distance. The number of cars pulling up to collect them reduced to a trickle and the street returned to its normal slow rhythm. After a while the boy tired of his solitary game and came out of the gate, turning right as he always did. His head was low, and he wandered slowly, almost dreamily, down the road. He didn’t look up as the man got to his feet under the trees opposite. Once the boy was about halfway down the road he started to follow him.

The road led down towards the main junction. If you turned right it took you down towards the nicer houses, not like the really grand ones on the coast, but expensive nonetheless, places where the professional classes lived. It you turned left it was a different story. The houses deteriorated rapidly, from mid-size family homes with green lawns and tidy drives, to smaller apartment blocks and then tenement blocks and old single-storey shacks surrounded by chain link fence, where dogs barked and ran wildly back and forth as the boy walked past. The man followed, the spot he had picked to take him was approaching. His van was parked in a nearby side street.

Only now did his heart start to beat faster. The demands on him were increasing. He was under pressure to move more quickly. Even after watching for a week, a period of time which he didn’t feel was anywhere near long enough, but was far too long for his increasingly impatient master, he couldn’t be 100% confident things would go to plan. There was always a chance that someone, some busybody, would get in his way and if it went wrong, if he made a mistake, all that time would be wasted. He couldn’t go back empty-handed. It wasn’t an option. The punishment would be terrible. The rasping voice of his master reminded him of the consequences, rattling around his head at night as he tried to find sleep, whispering demands carried along the avenues of the inter world. There wasn’t anywhere to hide. 

The boy was no more than twenty yards in front now. The man could hear the slap of a loose sole on his trainers as he walked along the empty street. The nearest houses were some distance away. If he did what he normally did, the boy would stop in the park and sit on the swing that hung on its rusting frame under the trees. He had done this every day, swinging back and forth, the chain squeaking in unison. The boy didn’t seem to pay much attention to his surroundings. He was a dreamer. He might even be a little simple. It didn’t matter to him, it was all the better in fact. The last thing he needed was a careful, watchful child.

The boy didn’t let him down, turning left and skipping slightly as he approached the swing. The man could see a lone jogger over the far side of the park and he paused briefly, evaluating the threat. His eyes were sharp, he could see the jogger had his headphones on and was striding purposefully away. He wouldn’t be a problem. With a brief look over his shoulder, he followed the boy into the park.

Moving fast, his body stooped low, he ran around the trees and positioned himself slightly to the right of where he sat. From his vantage point he could hear the boy’s voice as he sung softly to himself, an old lullaby that caused an unexpected spike of pain in his heart. He had sung that song to his own son all those years ago, standing over his cradle with his wife, when his life had been whole. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. When he opened them again his face was blank. It was time.

It was a long drive back to his house. The rear of his van had been specially customised. The doors opened onto an empty interior, just a few old sheets and some painting equipment, brushes and a ladder. Underneath there was a secret compartment. The boy was secure within it, unconscious. The man had used a special drug that had knocked him out in seconds. He didn’t think anyone had seen him as he bundled his body into the van. For now the important thing was to put some distance between himself and the scene of the crime. The road unfurled in front of him, mile after mile of black tarmac cut into the desert. He tried to keep his mind carefully blank, the headlights guiding him home, but the voice in his head grew louder with every mile that passed. Its excitement was sickening, its hunger like a physical thing burning into his soul. Over and over, images of death and mutilation flashed across his consciousness. He tasted its madness and its appetite. In the reflected lights of an oncoming car silent tears shone on his cheeks.

Warragul carried the limp body of the boy into the house. No-one would see. The house was miles from anywhere, its privacy one of its attractions for the last occupant. In the distance the soft roar of the sea could be heard as the waves crashed onto the shore at the foot of the cliffs but beyond this the night was silent. Even the crickets were still.

The monster wanted its food alive. He had accidentally killed the second child he took. It was early days and he had used too much sedative. Its fury had been unimaginable. He had been careful not to make any other mistakes. 

The voice in his head was now at fever pitch, issuing instructions and demands – ordering him to hurry, to bring it the prize. He only wished he didn’t have to wake the boy. It would have at least been merciful to let him die without knowing what was coming next, without seeing the horror. The Beleth had other ideas. Now its strength was returning it wanted to hunt, to tease and torture. Fear sweetened the flesh and made a more nourishing meal. With practised efficiency he slid a needle under the skin of the boy’s arm. The stimulant would take a moment or two to work and Warragul quickly carried the boy to the cellar door, which he pushed open with his foot. He sensed movement within the darkness below and gently laid him on the steps before exiting quickly, clumsily, pulling the door tightly shut behind him.

He stood on the balcony looking out across the vast expanse of ocean. The promise of dawn was building, a fine line of brilliant light cresting the wide horizon. It would be another beautiful day.

A scream, high and piercing, echoed up from the cellar and carried to him in the still air. He closed his eyes as the first rays of the sun warmed his skin. Another scream, followed by a howl of delight. His hands tightened into fists, the nails biting softly into his palms, the sharp pain a welcome distraction. He was lost and couldn’t find a way out. When he had tried to run, the Beleth had been there in his mind, fish hooks that he didn’t have the strength to remove. Once, he had tried to kill himself, but his hand had been stayed at the last minute by a force beyond his control. He now knew that the bargain he had struck with the monster all those years ago was at a far greater price than he had ever envisaged. There was no way out.

Unheralded, soft blue flame rolled over his hands and rippled up his muscled arms as he silently prayed for release.

Chapter 2

CHARLIE COULD FEEL the weight of the girl’s stare. It rested heavily on the back of his neck, like a physical thing, bringing with it an almost suicidal compulsion to turn round and look. Like the sirens they had learned about in history, it was impossible to resist. The teachers at his old school had said being at secondary school would be different, but none of them had mentioned this. The way friendships that had developed in childhood would be turned on their head by differences that blossomed unannounced during the summer holiday. When girls who were friends stopped being just girls who were friends and became something much more complicated. It wasn’t in the brochure, as his mum was fond of saying. Some of his friends had embraced this change enthusiastically, getting together and breaking up with one girl or another with dizzying speed. He just tried to keep his head down, taking enough interest in the idea of it that no-one would think he was weird, without actually doing anything himself. The plan had worked so far but it wasn’t easy. 

He forced a smile as he looked across the forecourt to where Ella Davenport stood with her friends. She had been at primary school with him, and he’d always thought she was a good laugh. She had played football with all of the boys and was a pretty good defender if his memory served. She didn’t look like she wanted a kick-about now. The group of girls she was with giggled wildly, tossing back their hair and nudging each other. Ella gave him a little wave and with a shove of encouragement from her closest friend, she started to walk towards him. Charlie looked around desperately for help, but his friends had gone inside to grab some food from the canteen. There was seemingly no escape.

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘Hey, you,’ said a mercifully familiar voice.

Mathilda smiled. She hadn’t seen Charlie for a few days. The new kids had their own area in the school where they could meet up at lunchtime, a safe haven without the worry of any older ones bothering them. So depending on whether he wandered further afield, she didn’t see him every day. He returned her smile with a surge of relief. Over her shoulder he could see Ella had stopped midway across the yard, a scowl on her face. If looks could kill Mathilda would have dropped to the floor in a heartbeat, he thought. She was either oblivious or didn’t care as she casually hung her arm over his shoulder. Probably the latter, he thought.

‘You had any lunch yet?’ she asked, ‘Fancy a quick trip into town—my treat?’

Year elevens like Mathilda were allowed off the school premises at lunchtime. It was a novelty that wore off relatively quickly, once the allure of fast food and the underwhelming high street was worn out through repetition. The kids in Charlie’s year were not meant to go off-site, but it was fair to say his attitude to risk had been altered significantly by the events of the previous spring. A telling off from a teacher, a detention even, was not a major concern. He had dealt with a lot worse.

He didn’t feel particularly hungry but any excuse to escape the lingering gaze of Ella and her friends was very welcome. They stared at them reproachfully like a small but extremely feral pack of wolves. With a final glance over his shoulder at Ella (who was now studiously ignoring him) he followed Mathilda towards the school gates. The prefects that guarded them at lunchtime looked at them closely, but they styled it out. Mathilda always said you just had to look like you belonged somewhere to get away with things. Attitude was everything, she said. They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the route to town taking them through a churchyard, where they wandered between weathered gravestones that poked up from the fresh summer grass. It was good being around Mathilda. The things they had done together the previous year had helped create a powerful bond between them. She was like the big sister he had never had, but there was more to it than that. They were similar in so many ways, more than he had realised to begin with. It wasn’t just that they had both lost parents. That was massive, of course it was, but she sort of looked at the world the same way as he did. She didn’t let anyone tell her how she should think or stop her from trying to work out what she thought was right. He liked that, admired it, even though he would never say so out loud. She treated him like an equal and that was the best thing, especially when everyone else still looked at him like he was a little boy. Well that wasn’t entirely true, his mum and her friends said he was the man of the house but it was in that jokey way they always used, and those type of words were rarely backed up with real stuff. In fact since last year his mum seemed even more intent on treating him like a kid. It didn’t make any sense. All the grown-ups, teachers, his mum, all of them, they said you should explore the world, find new things and be fearless. Then the minute you actually found something interesting they didn’t want you to have anything to do with it. You couldn’t win.

They were a good team. It was different. They could be honest with each other, talk about things, like monsters and different dimensions and everything that had happened. She didn’t pretend none of it existed. Not like his mum.

He knew his friends were envious of his friendship with her, mocking him at every opportunity, but curiously tongue-tied whenever Mathilda sauntered up to him. She was really good-looking. His mum said so a lot. He didn’t think about that, well not much anyway, but he knew this was the reason his friends couldn’t find their words whenever she was around. He couldn’t laugh too much, his mouth sometimes underwent a similar transformation whenever Ella talked to him. It was different with Mathilda though, must be the big sister thing, he thought.

They stopped at the top of the high street. ‘So what do you fancy then—Subway? You can have a cookie as well if you’re good,’ she said, with a smile on her face.

There was no doubt that the battles with the Nasties had had a marked impact on Mathilda. Her thick hair didn’t cover her face anymore, it was pulled back, tumbling loosely around her shoulders, revealing her striking green eyes. The guarded girl who had avoided people, who had deliberately made herself anonymous, was gone, and good riddance as far as she was concerned. She knew that the chance meeting with this strange boy and the subsequent collision with his bizarre world had given her the sense of purpose she had so desperately been seeking since her parents died. It sort of unlocked something inside her. It proved she could cope on her own. For all the horror they had witnessed together, it had been a strangely liberating experience. If they could deal with monsters, well, the everyday horror of growing up was manageable, or at least she had a bit of perspective, she thought.

‘Have you heard any more about Bash?’ she asked.

‘No. Nothing,’ replied Charlie, shaking his head. ‘I thought about going out to the hospital, but I don’t know how I would get in there with him, and my mum probably wouldn’t let me,’ he said darkly. ‘I just want to see he’s OK.’

He frowned. Bash’s situation was a dark cloud over them. So many months had passed, but he remained unconscious in the secure wing of the hospital, under constant guard. The authorities had wanted to move him to a more secure unit in one of the big prisons, before it had been pointed out that he hadn’t been charged with any crime yet. The police hadn’t been able to question him and as much as they would have liked to they could hardly convict him of a crime when he was unable to defend himself. It was a fragile balance though. The police, and in some ways lots of people in the town, were desperate to draw a line under the terrible events that led up to the massacre at the scout camp. He couldn’t blame them, his mum had said that while Bash slept there was no closure for anyone, but it was alarming that with the passing of time Bash was looked at as more and more guilty, despite the fact that the police had never really been able to prove he was at the scout camp. More fuel was thrown on the smouldering embers by the occasional sensational headline in the national press that reignited interest in the mass murderer who slept to avoid justice.

Only a few weeks ago he had watched a TV programme with his mum where some politician argued with the presenter about the need to lock Bash up and throw away the key. He had got quite angry (although his mum had said he might have been putting it on a bit) shouting that a man as dangerous as Bash couldn’t be pampered at the taxpayers’ expense in a private hospital. What if he was kidding everyone, he cried, what risk were the police taking with the children and families of Therwick, who had surely earned the right for justice? At that point his mum had flicked the channel over with a mutter of disgust.

But they were worried, the only access they had to information about Bash’s condition was gone. PC Carl Duckworth had been put on an extended leave of absence from the police force. His behaviour had become increasingly erratic, and his insistence that the man they were so carefully guarding was innocent jarred quite badly with the official police line. After a few months of him making a nuisance of himself his bosses had quietly shuffled him out of the back door, silencing him. Charlie and his mum had tried to speak with him, at least to begin with, but the uncomfortable truth was Carl seemed to be falling apart. His encounter with the Nasties had started a process that seemed to be unravelling his mind. The last time they had seen him, he reminded Cathy of Bash in his worst drunken days. The shock of white hair on his head was matted and dirty and his eyes had flickered this way and that as she tried to talk to him. His wife and daughter had moved out, spending some time with her parents whilst he focused on his ‘investigations’ he had said with an unnervingly hysterical chuckle. So now they knew no more than anyone else about Bash. They could only read the papers, wait and hope that he would wake up and be given the chance to prove his innocence.

Mathilda looked at Charlie carefully as they walked. He was carrying a lot on his shoulders. He looked troubled and a bit worn out. She didn’t like to see him like that.

‘Hey,’ she said gesturing toward a bench. ‘Let’s sit down here for a minute. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

He sighed deeply as he slumped onto the seat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Loads of things. It just bothers me that Bash is locked up. And I don’t know what to do next. Mum doesn’t want to talk about it – she did a bit to begin with but now, if I even mention the Nasties or Dad she goes mental. She just wants to box it all up and lock it away, like none of it ever happened. But I can’t do that, can I? I don’t even know if the Beleth is dead. For all I know it’s out there somewhere and, well it’s not like Dad can help me if it comes back, is it...’ His voice trailed off. It was really difficult with his mum. He couldn’t just ignore what had happened and the only way he could keep her safe, and all of his friends, was to dig deeper and understand more about the powers he had inherited. 

‘I found something useful a few weeks back,’ he said. ‘Mum wanted to clear out the house a bit, before we came back to school. We found some of my dad’s old things. There was a notebook. It was like his diary or something. It was stuffed in a box at the back of a cupboard. I don’t think Mum had even opened it since we moved there. I managed to have a look at it before Mum took it away. There were some names, email addresses, phone numbers. People from all over the place. Mum had never heard of them.’

He could still remember the flash of excitement. Five people were named, scattered across the world. It had been a battle to convince his mum to let him try to contact them. She had refused point blank and it had ended in a fight. He thought they had both said things they regretted. A few hours later his mum had come up to his room, knocking