Damien Westcliffe: Remembrance of Times Past (and Present)

By Brian Routledge

Damien Westcliffe, a Sports Exorcist for nearly twenty years, meets someone from his past that triggers a series of events that could threaten the future of the world. As well as confronting the monsters of the present, Damien must also deal with his own inner demons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244422356

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Damien Westcliffe: Remembrance of Times Past (and Present)

Damien Westcliffe: Remembrance of times Past (and Present)

Copyright

Copyright © 2018, Brian Routledge

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2018

ISBN: 978-0-244-42235-6

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Copies of this book may also be obtained directly from the publisher at the above listed addresses.

About the Author

Brian Routledge was born and grew up near London. He is married to Sue and has three sons. He lives and works in The Netherlands and has also lived in Germany.

Christopher, his middle son, has Pitt-Hopkins syndrome. All proceeds after printing and publication costs arising from this book will be donated to Pitt Hopkins UK, the charity Sue and he helped found and of which they are trustees..

(www.pitthopkins.org.uk)

Preface

All grammatical, syntactical and lexicological errors are all my own work.

Acknowledgements

My thanks, again, to Andrew, the true father and inspiration behind Damien Westcliffe who has allowed me to take an idea and develop the character to become the man.

My thanks, also, to all who read the original text and contributed criticisms and comments.

Prologue

Who am I? and Why am I here?  Two questions that philosophers through the ages have sought to address.

Our present age, with its roots in rationalism and science, looks to the intrinsic laws of the universe to provide answers.

You are the inevitable result of the laws of physics, chemistry and biology. You are merely the product of your genes that represent the organisation of atoms and molecules over the aeons of time and the interaction of organic structures produced by your genes and the environment enables your genes to survive and reproduce. Your life has no other purpose.

Whether you can make it through the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune is purely random and unpredictable. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you die.

This is the modern view of the meaning of life.

But the experience of being alive is more than the just the sum of these basic instincts. Can beauty be reduced to an algorithm or brutality be described in terms of quantum physics? What is kindness or pleasure? Can science explain the joy of a sunset or the pain of the loss of a Loved One?

Such elementary questions were being posed from the first moments after the dawn of consciousness, long before the start of the modern era.

Throughout history, many attempts have been made to explain the experience of life and its paradoxes in order to understand who we are, why we are here and to account for what happens to us.

Inanimate objects have been imbued with guiding spirits; creatures having supernatural powers imagined; the influence of the Sun, Moon and stars invoked and above all else, Gods created to try and provide answers to the eternal riddles.

Modern science ridicules such ideas but what if such attempts were actually hints or glimpses of the truth.

What if such other beings and worlds exist and are real and tangible and what if the interplay between this ‘Other’ and our world actually has an influence on daily lives?

Most people are aware of the Other in some form, manifesting itself like having odd feelings or sensations such as déjà vu. A few people are more sensitive to the presence of the Other and willingly explore this facet of their being.

Damien Westcliffe is such a person.

There is, however, a greater truth. An eternal struggle between Good and Evil bestrides all worlds. 

Man, conscious of Good and Evil in himself, has sought to tap into and control the source of Good and Evil present in the Other, either through faith and devotion via religion or by means of spells, rites or symbolic rituals. In the case of Good, this has produced, amongst many things, health, wealth, literacy, tolerance and happiness. In the case of Evil, fear, chaos and anarchy are generated and it is a rear-guard action by the supporters of Good to mitigate and oppose Evil's influence. Mostly, the battle against Evil has been firefighting and door bolting.

Where once the champions of Good were venerated, admired and their example followed, as belief in organised religion has dwindled, a new class of worldwide heroes has emerged and replaced the saints of the past.  International sportsmen and women have hundreds if not thousands of Internet followers who hang on their every word, follow their fashions and emulate their behaviour. Faith and devotion have been distorted from their true purpose and channelled in a different direction. Evil took notice. 

Evil's strategy is to seduce the sports fans by encouraging them to attend the sporting cathedrals once a week, sing praises to their team, beatify their heroes and donate generously to the Gift Shop. Sport has become the new religion and it is an undefended conduit. 

And what of those sensitive people who actively embrace the Other?

Some spread Good wherever they go, trying to hold back Evil wherever they find it. Some like to cause trouble because they can. Some just want a job. Most get damaged in the process.

Damien Westcliffe has a job. He deals with the paranormal, the unexplained and anything that goes bump in the night, sports related. He is a Sports Exorcist.

Chapter 1

The night had an autumnal chill. A cool wind gusted around the deserted town square, causing small whirling columns of decaying fallen leaves to form only for them to fade and die as quickly as they were created. The streetlamps produced islands of contrast on the dark pavement as the light cut through the rising mist from the nearby river that drifted across the square. The hands on the town hall clock were drawing closer to form a single vertical line on the clock face.

The girl couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, perhaps even younger. She wore a plain cotton headscarf knotted under her chin that covered her early Sixties beehive style blond hair although the fashion now was for free-flowing tresses girded with flowers and beads, but London tastes had yet to reach her part of rural East Lancashire.

Her coat would also have been high fashion in the early Sixties, knee length and made from glossy black vinyl with wide lapels that reflected the streetlights; it hung on her thin frame rather than fitted her. The sounds of her calf-length boot heels echoed across the square as she moved from one end towards the other, furtively, taking care to avoid the pools of illumination.

She was obviously holding something. As she moved, she tried to draw the open coat closer over the bundle in her arms but with little success, because the short PVC black and white dress she wore generated little or no traction against the coat inner lining, requiring her to be constantly adjusting her grip on the bundle. At each pause, her head bent forward, her mouth speaking words that couldn’t be heard above the gusting winds and rustling leaves. The tears on her cheeks sparkled in the neon glow.     

The town hall with brooding clock face stood at one end of the square and to the left and right, rows of local businesses stood in silent judgement behind darkened windows and battered steel shutters as the girl quickly passed.

Completing the square was a large three-storey building, Georgian in design if not in origin, with windows externally covered by thick iron bars and internally dressed with heavy velvet drapes. The thick frames formed a Guard of Honour to a pair of tall dark, heavy wooden doors, attached by enormous brass hinges to the massive doorposts. Cast iron handles were attached either side of an equally impressive heavy duty lock. Six steps, bordered by iron railings on either side rose from the square to the entrance.

The cracked glass of the carriage lamp set above the doors provided a dull light from an aged flickering element that barely escaped through the years of accumulated grime, the dirt diffusing the edges of the shadows.

She fumbled with the bundle's coverings exposing a small patch of pink flesh upon which she placed a delicate kiss and whispered I’m sorry. It‘s for the best. One day you might understand, she paused and then added, and forgive.

Despite the low light levels, the girl quickly found the bell pull. She placed the bundle on the top step and pulled on the rusty chain with all her strength and then ran down the steps and hid behind the nearest lamppost to observe the outcome. Immediately a deep rumbling clanging could be heard and felt within the building. Nothing happened so after a few seconds she sprinted up the stairs, two by two, yanked the chain again and returned to her hiding place. 

As she watched, one of the doors slowly creaked open and from within an elderly woman in a long black dress, broad leather belt and starched white wimple emerged and stared out into the silent semi-darkness whilst a young man stood protectively behind her in the inner shadows, observing. The girl held her breath. The Nun noticed the bundle and knelt down to examine it more closely and as she picked it up made maternal clucking sounds that produced a howling wail from the baby that pierced the darkness and floated across the deserted square. The door closed as slowly as it had opened and the girl dried the tears that filled her eyes, smudging the heavy black mascara she always wore.

The girl exhaled, releasing the tension that had built up. She shrugged her shoulders, lifted the collar on her coat against the night chill and disappeared out of the square via the nearest corner through a gap between some shops. The first note of midnight chimed from the town hall clock.  

She was young and strong. The creature belonged to an ancient species and it had evolved to exploit whatever circumstances or environments were encountered. The scraps of available nourishment that irregularly came her way were just sufficient to sustain life so when her detectors sensed a large food source close to her position, she immediately adjusted her body configuration to engulf it. The food, succulent and nutritious, crackled and flashed as she feasted.  Suddenly with no hint or warning, the universe became multi-coloured, dimensionally distorted and turned inside out, ripping her from her comfort zone, leaving her traumatised and scared.

Wherever she was, she needed to feed to aid the recovery from her ordeal. Her detectors identified something she could use and although it was of poor quality, she slowly drained it and rested. The next task she undertook was to explore her immediate environment. After finding a place to hide, she adopted the protective measure her species had evolved in response to any threat or peril. 

Protected by her cocoon, she slowly analysed her new surroundings. It was alien, hard and uncomfortable in contrast to the fluidic nature of her true home but at least there was a food supply, tough and brittle but she quickly learned how to extract what she needed to survive as her adaptable body mutated to exploit her new circumstances.

At first, there was barely enough food to keep her alive and she was forced to feed on scraps that came close. The pattern developed of feast then famine but it was just adequate to sustain her. In addition, she consumed the occasional nutrient morsel that scuttled past her in the midnight hours. It eased any immediate hunger pains but wasn’t sufficient for her to grow. She survived.

As the years past, she adapted to utilise other sources, primitive in taste and texture which although different to her usual fare, were at least abundant and over the decades, she learned to be a very efficient feeder.  As her diet improved, she moved from childhood to maturity.

Eventually, new food sources arose, initially thin and sparse but quickly developing at an exponential rate, all with a nutritional value and composition more equivalent to her original diet.  She became an adult.

Now she lived in a time of plenty. A huge banquet of limitless high-quality nourishment surrounded her, providing an endless choice upon which to browse. She was now fully adapted to her environment and she could feel the responsibilities of adulthood beckoning. Soon she would be ready.

The Great Hall of the Seminary cast deep shadows as the sun dropped behind the building. A solitary figure stood on the driveway staring at the grand entrance for the last time hardly believing that nearly half his life had been spent in the place. It was the nearest thing to calling somewhere home.

The institution had taken what he naturally was, nurtured, moulded and sculptured him to become something he could never have imagined by developing his unique skills and opening his mind to novel concepts and ideas. He had also been given access to knowledge that only a few privileged individuals were permitted to know. The Seminary had guided his life and given it a purpose but the cold numbing emptiness he presently felt in the depths his soul, he knew, could never be extinguished if he remained in this place.

He'd been traumatised by the events and initially ran away but guilt had drawn him back. Now he was convinced he had to leave permanently to recover and rebuild. It would be a journey only he could make because he had to discover what route to follow. He wasn’t ungrateful for the sage advice and pastoral help offered but his final destination would be for him to decide, not others.

More by instinct than desire, he dropped to his knees and, head down, spent time deep in prayer, mumbling familiar words and phrases, punctuated by long periods of silence.

Finally, he automatically made the Sign of the Cross, rose and walked to the car on the driveway. The old, battered vehicle was packed with books, boxes, papers, notes and the detritus of his life and on top of the car, strapped to the roof rack, was a scruffy old leather armchair.

He opened the passenger side door and lifted the lid of the suitcase stowed on the passenger seat and selected a freshly laundered cotton T-shirt bearing the words ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ in bold script.

In slow motion, he removed the white plastic dog collar for the last time and undid the buttons on the black short-sleeved linen shirt of the Seminary uniform he had continuously worn for the last 13 years and let them fall to the floor. He stood in the dappled evening light, bare-chested but despite sensing the warmth on his skin, he still felt cold and numb inside.

He pulled on the T-shirt, closed the passenger door, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The motor fired at the third attempt and when first gear was engaged, the car moved forward, coincidently crushing the collar and black shirt into the gravel.

Damien, as he drove down the long driveway for the final time, selected a suitable audio cassette, turned up the volume and pressed play. He had no idea what direction his life would go from now on, but it would be an adventure to find it.

Chapter 2 

Damien had taken up jogging.

He’d noticed during the past year a growing paunch that matched his increasing grey hair and had been finally motivated to do something about it when,