Krowdon

By John Cord

A school trip that turns into a nightmare. Two boys have the adventure of their lives when they meet lovable and evil characters; also a monster that intertwine with one of the boys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326165338

Book preview

Krowdon

KROWDON

by

John Cord

Copyright © 2015, John Cord

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-326-16533-8

The wind...

The wind blew over the body of the wooded hills and the grass rippled. The hills and trees trembled under the touch of the wind's palm as it caressed the rolling slopes that rose and fell like the easy swell of a calm sea. Over the giant mound that looks like the hull of a ship turned upside down, arching their leafy branches to hide the giant from the world, grow a hundred trees on either side. For five thousand years it had lain that way. An earthy bulk with strange patterns made of grey stones criss-crossing its green back. Stones set for mysterious reasons long ago by a people who had come then to worship this now secret place; who had come by the thousands to learn and sing their songs in this once unshaded place: where, now only seasons visit and good men - never.

ROY

Twelve year old Roy Chandler stood alone at the bottom of a flight of concrete stairs in a block of impoverished flats. A naked bulb in the cracked ceiling cast a dim yellow light upon the dank hallway. A chill wind blew in through a broken window, fluttering his curly black hair and flapping the collar of his raincoat.

His light green eyes watched vacantly as a black cat crept through a door at the end of the gloomy hallway. The animal stopped, glanced at Roy’s huddled figure on the stairs then, put down in the corner something it had in its mouth.

Roy thought about his father. That morning his mother had told him that he had been killed in an accident. She had left Roy with a friend while she attended the aftermath. Roy could not believe that his father was dead. Yet in his heart he knew that his mother would not lie - not about that. A tear trickled down the boy’s cheek.

Something fluttered above the cat's head and then fell back. It caught Roy’s attention and he focused on the cat. Again something fluttered up. Roy saw that it was a sparrow. The cat had the bird trapped in the corner and it was desperately struggling to escape. It chirruped loudly as it leapt up against the wall, but it had no room to manoeuvre in the narrow space. The sparrow’s wings flapped in frenzy as a paw flashed and snatched the bird down.  Roy felt his heart flutter in sympathy with the bird.

Mesmerised the boy watched as the animal held the sparrow under its paw. The cat rocked the bird gently back and forth as if it were it’s loving mother and then lifted it's paw just enough for the bird to wriggle free. The sparrow’s feathers were ruffled and torn. The tiny creature lay looking up at the cat as if for a brief moment hope hovered in its small heart.  The sparrow stood, hopped a few inches, and then lay still on dusty concrete.

Roy’s moist eyes narrowed as he peered through the gloom. He realised that the cat was playing a cruel game. The animal turned and regarded the boy; the cat had no fear. It sensed his timidity. It dismissed his presence and returned its attention to the helpless sparrow. The sleek black body approached its prey slowly and silently. Suddenly it struck the bird with its paw. The sparrow rolled, darted a look at the cat and made another desperate attempt to escape. It twittered as it half hopped - half rolled along the chilly hallway. The bird became still as if surrendering to fate. It lifted its head and opened its tiny beak in silence.

Roy felt his heart reaching out to the small creature. He stood and took the last few steps down the stairs into the hallway. The cat hissed, arching its back. Startled by the animal’s reaction Roy drew back. He wanted desperately to help the bird but his fear that the cat might attack kept him still. Tears welled and he thought the world cruel. He trembled.

Behind the boy, back along the hallway under the hollow of the stairs, in the deep shadows - something moved. The darkness slowly stirred. It was as if a bear had awakened in a dark cave, but the hollow beneath the stairs was no cave and the thing that stirred in the dark was not a bear. Suddenly the cat looked into the darkness beyond Roy. The animal stepped back its spine arching and its fur standing on end. Then, with a snarl, it swiftly turned and ran out of the door leaving it’s prey huddled on the floor. The door slammed against the frame. The abrupt sound reverberated around the hallway then died in a diminishing echo until all that could be heard was the twittering of the sparrow. The bird hopped up and gathering the very last of its strength flew up. It brushed the walls then flew over Roy and out of the broken window. Roy, although shaken by the quick explosion of sound and movement, felt relieved that the bird had escaped. He wiped his wet cheeks.

Roy felt a tingling in the back of his neck. He sensed something behind him. He turned and peered into the darkness. Did he see movement under the stairs? A thin finger of icy fear caressed his heart. Despite being afraid he felt compelled to step forward as if the darkness were a warm blanket in which he could wrap himself. There was something moving. The darkness was circling like a slow whirlpool of black water. Roy wiped his eyes. The blackness was coalescing and curdling into a thicker substance as if the naked air was beginning to assemble a shape. The air congealed until unmistakably a figure stood almost invisible in the shadows. It beckoned with long sharp fingers.

Roy froze - afraid to move. The thing in the shadows beckoned again. Despite his qualms the boy stepped forward, the very movement diluting his fear. He took another step. He felt a gathering flame of excitement. Somehow he sensed that what it was that motioned to him intended no harm. There was no enmity, only an inexplicable allure. He walked unafraid to the dark presence and it enveloped him.

SCHOOL

The church and school stood like giant tombstones. Between them the narrow playground rang with children. Despite the skulking shadows of the two buildings the high summer sun managed to shine through and touch the busy brows of the playing youngsters. They revelled with an enthusiasm that was absent from their classrooms. With whoops of imaginary cowboys pulled out their guns and shot imaginary Indians and the playground reverberated with laughter and shouts. The stain-glass windows of the church vibrated and the few people who prayed within whispered unholy curses at the disturbance of their hesitant confessions. In the school, threadbare teachers made preparations to educate the noisy children.

Oblivious to the sun’s tender care, but spurred by its energy, the children’s attention focused on the games they were playing. Each group was careless of the bustles, interests and schemes of others. Only Roy stood alone. He was now fourteen years old. Wisps of his black curly hair fluttered in the light breeze as he stood watching a group of boys who had gathered in the shadow of one of the buttresses that thickly pressed against the church. One of the boys slapped a smaller boy across the face. Roy winced. He moved closer.

There were four boys, three gathered around the fourth. He was smaller than the rest, with ginger hair and freckles. He had a defiant look on his face, but held his hand to his stinging cheek. The taller of his tormentors pushed him back against the wall and said,

‘You are an insect Billy Baddie and because you’re an insect I'm gunner step on ya. Got me?’

Terry McAuliffe was a head taller than his victim and stood so close to him that Billy could smell his bad breath. Billy turned his head away.

‘Phew!’ he said.

McAuliffe glowered. ‘I'll give you phew - I'll phew you!’

At the threat Waddle, one of McAuliffe’s sidekicks, sniggered.  Gloke, the other sidekick, did not know what Waddle sniggered at but sniggered himself anyway.

Billy had seen the three bullies at work before, so he knew want to expect and his heart raced.

‘I'll pull off your bleedin' arms if you not careful, you carrot haired canary. Got me? You got me?’

Whenever McAuliffe wanted to make a point he always said, 'Got me?' He let go of Billy's arms and leaned over him daring Billy to try an escape. Billy knew that and did not move. McAuliffe flicked back his head to shift his thick brown hair out of his eyes. It was matted like rope, cut short at the back and sides, but long on top.

‘So what's the idea of telling Conrad that I took ya pocket money? Eh?’ said McAuliffe pushing his face closer to Billy's. The smell from his breath made Billy feel sick.

'Cor dear,’ he thought to himself in reaction to the fowl blast.  Then said, ‘It was my dinner money. I gotter eat.’ McAuliffe grabbed him and grunted,

‘You better mind your own business carrot head otherwise do you know what I'll do to those big brown eye's of yours I'll...’

‘Stick 'is fingers into them!’ interrupted Waddle unable to withhold his excitement.

McAuliffe turned his head slowly and glared at Waddle.

‘Shut your bloody gate!’

Waddle's smile of glee sunk into an abject grin. Gloke sniggered.

‘As I was saying.’ said McAuliffe turning his attention back to Billy’ ‘I'll ... er, er, stick a pencil into your ear ‘ole! I read that in a book once where they did it to some army bloke. It does narf hurt. And ‘cause you grassed on me I'll slash your tongue wiv a razor. Got me?’

The last threat amused McAuliffe so much that he burst out laughing.

‘I can just see your tongue flapping about like ribbons and you trying to talk. Blah blah blah!’

Waddle and Gloke joined in with their master's laughter. Waddle in an attempt to impress McAuliffe elevated his already false mirth into a cackle that bordered on the hysterical. He threw back his head and slapped McAuliffe on the back. McAuliffe stopped laughing and slapped Waddle around the face. Waddle grabbed his stinging cheek, tittered and an abject grin once more spread across his face. Gloke wanted to laugh. He was overcome by a conflict of two impulses: the impulse to laugh at Waddle’s dejection and the impulse to suppress his laughter in case McAuliffe slapped him too. His face froze into an expression of grotesque indecision as if he were wobbling on a cliff edge. McAuliffe looked at him.

‘What's the matter wiv you?’ he said puzzled by Gloke’s outlandish countenance, ‘You having a baby or somefink?’

Gloke’s face had puffed up in desperation. He shook his head, waved his hands about and burst into a fit of coughing. McAuliffe looked at his two minions and with a sneer said:

‘You two are right berks.’

Waddle looked at Gloke who was bent over silently shaking then at McAuliffe who had turned his attention back to Baddie. Waddle glared at the back of McAuliffe’s head. He held a secret hatred for his leader. A leader he could easily thrash if he wanted to. He held a hatred that sometimes boarded on the murderous, yet he resentfully admired McAuliffe because of his build and the power he wielded.

Waddle was a thin boy, but the main feature of his body that killed all the pretensions about being tough was that his neck ran from his mouth to his neck without the interruption of a chin. He was the epitome of the chinless wonder. Waddle was neither tough nor courageous, he was a fawning spiteful coward whose only spur to action was his resentment. He resented people because he knew that they knew what he really was, though his subconscious struggled to smother his awareness to the degree that he sometimes succeeded in deluding himself about his prowess. One fact that braced his delusion was the cringing subservience of the boys he bullied. He simply refused to believe that the boys were afraid of only McAuliffe and showed no opposition to his skinny shadowman because they feared reprisals. Waddle ran forward and dealt Billy a sharp kick on the shin. The boy cried out.

At the sound children playing nearby turned to see what had happened. They saw the three bullies around Billy, and despite their instinct to stay clear least they became the objects of McAuliffe’s attention; nevertheless they slowly gathered.

Gloke, recovered from his bout of helpless coughing, felt his distress reshaping into anger. He was angry with himself for being almost caught out by McAuliffe and angry that Waddle had had the nerve to run in and kick Baddie.

Gloke seemed in a state of perpetual indecision, which often manifested in behaviour that was bumbling and fretful. He was a normal looking boy, not skinny like Waddle but of ordinary proportions for his twelve years, except for his head. It was extremely small and consequently disproportionate to the rest of his body. Although his facial features were perfectly formed, he could even be considered handsome, it was his head in relation to his body that jarred people's sympathy and induced mirth. Upon meeting Gloke for the first time a stranger would first display amazement, then an urge to laugh that was quickly suppressed, but Gloke noticed such reactions. He was self-consciousness about his appearance. What saved him from paranoia was his fine sense of the ridiculous that could grasp humour from the most mundane situation. Consequently his emotions were forever in a pendulum swing between deepest gloom and almost frenzied laughter. Both extremes of emotion were food for McAuliffe’s ego. Gloke in his gloomy state provided McAuliffe an outlet for his protective instincts, which would manifest from time to time. When in his jolly state, Gloke was the only person who could make McAuliffe genuinely laugh. Sometimes when midway between these emotional states, Gloke got angry with those who he knew secretly sniggered at him and he sought revenge.

‘Bloody 'ell!’ shouted McAuliffe.

‘What's up?’ yelled Waddle jumping up and down.

‘Bloody bit me.’

‘Who?’ asked Gloke.

‘Baddie you berk!’ shouted McAuliffe. He slapped the boy around the head and Billy fell to the ground.

Gloke ran forward and kicked the fallen boy in the face. Billy clutched his nose and blood appeared in his palm. The jeers from the crowd fell to excited murmurings as they jostled to look. McAuliffe sucked his hand and glared down at his now mortal enemy.  Billy gingerly felt his tender and throbbing nose, then looked up at Gloke and shouted:

‘Look what you've done! You’ve broken me nose!’

Some of the boys giggled. Waddle flew round snarling at the crowd. The nearest boy jumped back afraid that he was about to be thumped. One boy did not draw back at Waddle's threatening stance instead he took a step closer. Waddle glanced up to see who it was but the sun was high behind the boy and his face was in shadow. Waddle squinted then turned away at the sound of McAuliffe's voice.

‘Bite me would you? Right, Waddle you and Gloke get his legs. Debag 'im!’

Billy kicked out but could not prevent the two bullies from grabbing and holding his legs. McAuliffe squatted undid Billy's belt and tugged at his trousers. Billy started to yell.

At first McAuliffe could not understand what had happened. In his blind aggression he had dismissed even the possibility of opposition. It took him a moment to realise that someone had grabbed his wrist. His mind had been so concentrated with anger that the fact that someone had grabbed him did not immediately register. The grip on his wrist tightened and finally McAuliffe turned from his squatting position to see who had had the audacity to interfere with his revenge. The sun shone into his eyes causing him to see only a black shape above him. He let go of Billy's belt and shading his face with his hand he stood up and looked into a pair of light green eyes.

The hot crowded playground fell completely silent. McAuliffe stood to face his opponent. The grip on his wrist relaxed and he pulled his arm free. Waddle and Gloke let go of Billy's legs. The stricken boy scrambled to his feet cursing as he pulled up his trousers and tightened his belt. Then he noticed the silence and fell silent himself.

‘So,’ McAuliffe sneered, ‘We have found a hero.’

Roy Chandler looked at the bully. Then glanced at Billy who was wiping his nose with a grubby handkerchief - Roy nodded.

McAuliffe had already forgotten Billy: he had found larger prey. It was one thing to beat a boy smaller than himself, he enjoyed it, but to beat a boy who was taller and as well built as him would certainly add further to his already fearful reputation. It was a prospect that McAuliffe could not resist. He wasted no time and in the moment Roy and Billy exchanged glances McAuliffe struck.

He side stepped Roy and punched him in the face. The blow sent Roy sprawling to the ground in the shadow of the buttress. McAuliffe followed quickly with two sharp kicks. A roar went up from the crowd and again the jostling began, boy pushed boy to get a view of the new fight. The bully lashed out with his boot hardly able to see his fallen prey because of the glaring sun. 

What happened next no one could clearly recall. The only agreed recollection was that McAuliffe cried out so loudly that the sound