The Eternal Chain

By Anthony Hulse

France, June 6th, 1944 After finding themselves separated from their unit, six British soldiers of the 6th Airborne Division encounter a band of gypsies. Two of the soldiers rape a girl and murder her boyfriend, before turning their weapons on the vengeful group. Madame Carmen Baptiste, the bandolier of the gypsies, places a curse on the six aggressors and their offspring for generations to come. Sixty years later, and granddaughter of one of the damned, barrister, Nina Corbett, attempts to contact the other five cursed ancestors. Each curse is unrelated, and all are subjected to horrific experiences, including terrifying spirits. A sequence of unusual events results in the group assembling for a harrowing and blood-curdling conclusion. This is a story of retribution and justice… A pulse-quickening and exhilarating thriller/horror. Enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291700282

Book preview

The Eternal Chain

The Eternal Chain

Anthony Hulse

Copyright @ Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-70028-2

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Prologue

France, June 6th, 1944.

Corporal Sadler lay motionless in the dense undergrowth, his eyes searching the unfamiliar landscape. Satisfied he was undetected; he buried his parachute. His eyes scanned his killing ground, expecting his comrades to regroup shortly. 

Corporal Francis Sadler belonged to the 6th Airborne Division, whose task it was to secure the Pegasus Bridge, one of the few that crossed the Seine. Its importance was paramount to Operation Warlord and the Normandy landings.

Sadler heard a noise and gripped his weapon tightly, waiting for the intruder to make himself known.

Bingham, over here, he whispered.

Corporal. Where are the others?

Who knows? What a cock up. We’re spread all over the French countryside.

The two soldiers proceeded to camouflage themselves; utilising the bracken and loose twigs for their purpose. 

Which way is the bridge, Corporal?

I reckon it must be south… Shh. Who’s that?

Two more paratroopers emerged from the brow of a hill.

You two clowns. Keep your bloody heads down and get over here, ordered Corporal Sadler.

Kennedy and Harrington slid down the slope and joined their companions.

Harrington spoke up. Where’s the rest of the company, Corporal?

Forget them. We’ll make our way south and hopefully we’ll meet up with them. Kennedy, you take point, and Bingham, you bring up the rear. Move swiftly. I want to reach the bridge before nightfall.

Another two stragglers, Private Peter Corbett and Private Ron Vassey joined the group as they advanced south, the far off pounding of artillery illuminating the now dusk sky. They came upon a muddy track and followed the sign towards Caen-Benouville. Midnight approached and the group decided to rest, taking cover in the sanctuary of the woods.

What’s that? asked Bingham, sniffing the air.

Corporal Sadler frowned at him. I don’t hear anything, apart from those guns.

No, the smell. Roast pork, if I’m not mistaken.

He’s right, Corporal, enthused Kennedy, a fresh-faced youngster, not long out of school.

Harrington shouldered his weapon and pointed. Over there, Corporal.

I don’t see anything.

Lights.

The soldiers moved stealthily towards the lights in the woods. They ran from tree to tree, their advancement well drilled.  Whoever was out there seemed oblivious of the war. With the progress of Corporal Sadler and his men, loud laughter and music could be heard.

They reached the campfire; the shadows of the merry-makers projected onto the caravans. The sound of violins accompanied the clapping and cheering of the gypsies.

Corporal Sadler revealed his position, walking with his rifle pointed towards the Romany's; his men following closely behind. The music ceased when the soldiers squared up to their hosts. A dog barked loudly, but restrained by its master.

Do any of you speak English? asked Corporal Sadler.

The gypsies were silent, their scowls suggesting they were not welcome.

What is it you want of us?

Sadler turned to face an elderly woman, a clay pipe hanging from her wrinkled mouth. She shuffled over to them, her white hair concealed by a red headscarf.

Where are we? quizzed the soldier.

You are close to Benouville… I ask again; what is it you want? We’re poor and only have enough food to feed ourselves.

The Corporal continued. May we rest here for the night?

You are British?.

Yes.

You’ll move on in the morning?

You have my word.

Then you can sleep by the fire.

Thank you, er...

Madame Baptiste.

Thank you, Madame Baptiste.

******

The soldiers removed their packs, for which they were thankful, and warmed up their rations in their mess tins. They posted a guard, and the remainder watched the gypsies dance the night away. The vibrant music of violins helped drown out the faraway artillery.

All eyes turned to a beautiful, dark girl, her red hair in ringlets, and her figure so perfect. She joined the dancers and teasingly looked over towards the soldiers; her hazel eyes sparkling, and her white teeth perfect.

Cor, wouldn’t mind some of that, uttered Vassey.

Bingham waved away his friend. Hands off, she’s mine.

You don’t want to be messing about with these people.

Bingham seized Harrington by the lapels. Oh, and why not, Ginger?

They’ll cut your throat, Gerry, or even worse. They could place a curse on you.

A young boy, took a shine to Corbett’s rifle and interrupted the conversation.     

Hello, young un, what’s your name?

The boy ignored him and continued to gaze at the weapon.

Probably unable speak the King’s English, moaned Bingham.

Corbett invited the child to sit next to him, and let the boy finger his rifle, ensuring the safety catch was on. A worried looking woman scampered over to them and seized the boy by the hand, pulling him to his feet.

I was only showing him the rifle, protested Corbett.

The gypsy woman, who wore an orange dress and headscarf, said something intelligible to the young soldier. Her face hinted at her distaste.

Two men, one of whom spat on the floor, approached her.

Bingham attempted to stand, but was stopped by Corporal Sadler. Leave it out, Bingham. We don’t want any trouble.

Bloody frogs.

Harrington corrected him. They’re not French, Gerry. Probably Rumanian, or Hungarian.

Oh, and you’d know. Mr bloody know all.

Eventually, things calmed down, and Harrington relieved Kennedy on guard duty. The young soldier watched the nearby track, the night sky still lit up, because of the fighting a few miles away at Normandy. He left his post for a few moments to relieve himself against a tree. He noticed a sudden movement from the camp and focused on two men, standing outside one of the caravans.

He approached; his weapon aimed at the midriff of one of the men. Who goes there?

Shh! Relax, Ginger, it’s me, Bingham.

Harrington scanned the face of Vassey and asked. Why aren’t you two asleep?

Because, Ginger, our balls are heavy.

No, Gerry! protested Harrington.

Come on, Ginger. You saw her. She’s gagging for it.

Are you mad?

Listen, you little shithouse. There’s enough there for the three of us. Besides, she’s not going to exactly broadcast it, is she?

I don’t know.

While you think about it, you know where we are."

Bingham and Vassey ascended the steps and tried the door of the caravan, to find it open. The moonlight sifted in through the open window and lit up the face of the sleeping beauty.

Bingham removed his tunic and belt before reaching for the girl’s bare breast. She stirred, and Vassey giggled like an excited schoolgirl. A movement on the other side of the bed startled the intruders. Her husband or boyfriend lay beside her. He opened his eyes and stared at the two soldiers.

Bingham reacted swiftly. He removed his dagger from his belt and brought it viciously across the throat of the gypsy, who gagged loudly. The soldier reached for the pillow and stifled the dying man’s last breath.

Vassey gasped. What the fuck have you done?

We done. It’s what have we done, grinned Bingham.

The girl stirred and sat upright, her unbelieving eyes taking in the horror.   Bingham covered her mouth and pushed her back onto the blood-drenched bed, before fumbling with his trousers.

Hold her, Vassey. Fucking hold her. 

Harrington ascended the steps and peered into the caravan, to see Bingham pumping away, the girl’s frightened eyes pleading with the newcomer. Leave her be, Bingham!

Piss off, pussy.

Bingham continued thrusting, his dark hair plastered across his forehead and saturated with perspiration. 

Harrington approached, his rifle aimed at the rapist. I’ve told you to let her go!

Vassey edged towards the objector.

Don’t! threatened Harrington.

Vassey raised his hands and smiled.

Harrington placed his nozzle against Bingham’s nape. Stop now or I swear…I’ll do it.

Bingham raised himself up, one hand still covering the mouth of the distraught girl. Well, do it, pussy!

Harrington swung the butt of his rifle into the side of Bingham’s face, who rolled over, lying beside the dead gypsy.

I’m going to kill you for that, Ginger.

During the commotion, the girl ran for the door and screamed at the top of her voice. The lights illuminated the other caravans, dotted around the woods, and loud shouting followed.

The three soldiers left the caravan, joined their companions, and reached for their weapons. They stood facing the oncoming gypsies, who comforted the girl.

What the fuck happened, Bingham? asked Corporal Sadler, eyeing the blood on the private.

For no reason, Corporal, one of the bastards attacked me, so I stuck him.

Is that right, Vassey?.  I said, is that right?

Yes, Corporal. The gypo was like a man possessed and tried to kill Gerry.

The sobbing, hysterical girl ran over to where Madame Baptiste stood. One of the gypsies, clutching an axe, ran at the soldiers.

Corporal Sadler shot him in the gut and he collapsed to the ground. Stop! Don’t come any closer or I’ll order my men to open fire.

A group of six of the enraged travelers approached, armed with knives. The soldiers aimed their weapons.

Do as I say and back off!  ordered Corporal Sadler. You leave me no choice, he said, his throat dry, his hands clammy… Fire!

A volley of rifle shots filled the night air, and the gypsies fell into the bloody bracken, joining their dead companion. Numerous screams drowned out the faraway artillery, and the women ran forward to mourn their husbands, brothers, and sons.

Sadler, his eyes moist, looked past the carnage towards the approaching Madame Baptiste

The white-haired gypsy advanced past the weeping women and faced the soldiers. Big, brave soldiers. I, Madame Baptiste, curse you and all of your offspring for generations to come. Your torment and suffering will be great, before you eventually die.

Bingham cocked his rifle and raised it, but Corporal Sadler stopped him. There’s been enough bloodshed tonight. Go, Madame Baptiste and bury your dead.

The soldiers walked backwards, their weapons at the ready, their eyes watching for any surprise attacks. They left the woods and headed towards the gunfire, leaving behind eight widowers.

Chapter One

Modern day London.

Dr Curtis Sadler stood beneath his umbrella, the disrespectful wind spraying the torrential rain against the mourners, each one struggling against the hostile conditions.

The saturated priest struggled with his bible, the holy pages threatening to be whipped away by the impending storm.

Dr Sadler’s sad eyes focused on the gravestone. Ian Brentwood. Born in 1998. May eternal rest be with you always.

Curtis Sadler relented, and the tears streamed down his already sodden face. Five years old. What type of God are you to deprive this child of the joys of life?

Ian Brentwood has seen so little of his short time on earth. To recover from brain damage, caused by a drunken driver, and to die from a hemorrhage afterwards, seemed so unjust.

Sadler had visited the boy every day, and a mutual bond developed between them. For little Ian to apparently recover, and for him to suffer again, caused the doctor to question his religious beliefs.

The service concluded, and the stream of mourners ran for their cars.

Sadler remained staring at the lonely grave and squatted down. Rest in peace, little Ian. You’re going to a far better place than this.   

Do you think so, Doctor?

Sadler turned to face Ian’s mother. The strain showed on her cheerless visage, her puppy dog eyes unable to hide the hurt.

Yes, I do, Maureen. It can hardly be worse than this place, can it?

I suppose you’re right, Doctor. I want to thank you for everything you did for Ian.

I was his doctor. 

No., You were more than his doctor. You were his best friend, and comforted him in his pain. I’ll not forget you, and I know Ian won’t.

She stared with tear-stained eyes into the soft, grey orbs of the doctor. His silver hair belied his twenty-nine years on earth. His kind face appeared so infantile, and the sorrowful mother understood why her son adored him so.

She touched his hands and mouthed, Thank you, before departing to the waiting car.

Sadler’s eyes focused on a huge oak tree, standing alone, a scattering of dead leaves surrounding it. He stared at the tree for a while before approaching it slowly, his disbelieving eyes squinting. A strong gust of wind turned his umbrella inside out and he tossed it to the ground in surrender. He held out his hand and touched the tree, his addled mind in turmoil. Sadler made out the face of Ian in the trunk of the tree. The distinctive scowl, the black eyes, and the jug ears were unmistakable. He stepped back and wiped the rain from his stinging eyes, to perceive the distorting features of the face.

Why did you abandon me, Doctor? I thought you were my friend?

The doctor checked over his shoulder to see he was alone. He pondered. Am I hallucinating, or am I insane? I never abandoned you, Ian. I did everything I could to help you.

You killed me! Do you hear? You killed me!

Sadler stepped back and slipped in the mud, amid the loud laughter of Ian. No, Ian, you’re so wrong. So wrong.

The face faded and Sadler approached the tree, touching it with his soiled hands. He walked away rapidly, unsure if he was losing his mind.   

******

Dublin.

Lorcan Kennedy looked on in envy as his dining companion signed yet another autograph. Jonathan Weller apologised to Kennedy and his wife, Megan, and ordered another bottle of the finest champagne; his latest bestseller the reason for the high-spirited revelry.

Kennedy, himself a novelist, but not in the same class as his colleague, had encountered the bubbly character on the Internet, some three years before. Both were struggling writers, aspiring for greatness. Weller fulfilled his ambition and offered the Irishman much encouragement.

They set up a meeting in London, shortly after introducing themselves, and out of the eight writers that made an appearance, only Weller proved successful.     They had remained firm friends, and the newly acclaimed scribe took up his friend’s invitation to visit him and his wife in Dublin.

Kennedy stroked his black goatee beard and blushed, noticing the lecherous stares directed towards their table. He felt the hand of his wife on his, and saw the hurt in her eyes. She was aware just how much his writing meant to him, and could see his failure ate him up inside.

Never mind, Lorcan, said Weller, in his upper class, Islington accent. It’s only a matter of time before you too take that elusive step towards greatness.

Kennedy cleaned his spectacles and smiled falsely. "No, Jonathan, I could never even pretend to reach your standard of brilliance. The publishers turned down Consenting Hearts. No obvious reason given, just a letter saying, it’s something they didn’t think they could place."

Maybe, I could speak to my agent, suggested Weller.

Could you really do that? asked Megan, excitedly squeezing her husband’s hand.

I could but try. Anyway, you shouldn’t overexcite yourself… When is the baby due, Megan?

Seven months. God, I look massive, don’t I?

Weller touched her hand. You look radiant.

Kennedy interrupted. So, when’s the next book, Jonathan?

The blonde, blue-eyed writer faced his friend. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. This is the one…I know it is.

Kennedy lit his Havana cigar. You cannot get much better than a bestseller.

But this is special. You must come to London to see it.

I don’t know about that. I don’t like to leave Megan alone, and it’s so near to Christmas.

"Oh, you old skinflint. Let’s call it my treat. Both of you must come to see my new home in Kensington; all expenses paid

Kennedy, again objected. I don’t think it’ll be wise, letting Megan fly to London with the baby due in January.  

Megan linked her husband. You go, Lorcan. I’ll stay with my parents. Besides, you always badger me to see them.

That’s settled then, old chap, enthused Weller.

Are you sure, dear?

Of course I am. Now, pour me another glass of that delicious champagne.

Chapter Two

The clanging of the gate sounded like a thousand angels singing to Tony, Tosh Bingham. With all of his worldly belongings inside his grubby holdall, he walked away from Durham Prison, towards the green Jaguar. The busty blonde clambered out of the driver’s seat and dashed towards him, throwing her arms around Bingham’s neck and planting kiss after kiss on his lips.

A rare smile displayed his gold tooth to the girl. Slow down, girl. There’ll be plenty of time for that later… What’s with the wheels?

You like em, Tosh? I thought you would.

It’s where the money came from I’m worried about.

He clambered into the passenger seat and they embraced, stopping just short of making love.

She peered into his wide brown eyes and fingered the scar that ran from his lip to his chin. Where did you get that?

Seeing as I’ve been banged up for the last six years, I’ll let you guess. Jesus, it’s right what they say about blondes.

Tosh Bingham had been in trouble all of his life. The tall, stocky Geordie, at only twenty-seven years of age, had a reputation as a hard man you would not wish to cross. With his military haircut and his broken nose, he certainly looked the part; however, beneath the ruggedness was a handsome face, ravaged by numerous beatings.

Got any tabs, lass?

The girl checked her mirror before lighting a cigarette for him.

How’s the lads?

The blonde remained silent.

I said, how’s the lads? Johno, Whitey, Nodge?

I don’t know, Tosh.

Come again? What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know?

Things have changed. You must understand; things are different now.

Stop the car! demanded Bingham.

What?

Stop the fucking car!

They pulled into a lay-by.

Maggie, tell me just what the fuck’s going on?

She reluctantly confessed. Charlie Lorimer is the man now, Tosh.

That dick head? So what’s going on?

The lads are working for Charlie now.

Bingham pounded his fist against the dashboard. And my money?

I tried to hold onto it, but they wouldn’t listen.

I don’t believe I’m hearing this. They were holding twenty-five grand of my money for me. Where the fuck is it?

Six years is a long time, Tosh.

He grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her head back. Who took the money?

Nodge…it was Nodge.

Take me to him now!

I don’t think that would be wise. Charlie has changed.

Fuck, Charlie! Okay, take me to your place, but first thing tomorrow, I’m going to be asking some questions, and someone had better come up with answers.

Maggie leaned over him, put her head to his groin, and unzipped his jeans.

Who stitched me up, Maggie?

Her head worked back and forth on his member. She raised her head. Kelly. He ratted on you.

That Irish bastard. So, how come I was the only one who was caught?

Just bad luck I guess, Tosh.

The hard man gritted his teeth. Six years. Six fucking years and not one of them visited me. Well, they’ll be shitting in their pants now. Oh yes, Tosh Bingham is back in town, lass.

She smiled at him, before returning to his groin.  

******

The silver-haired doctor had not enjoyed his lunch. Ian Brentwood frequently infringed on his troubled mind and affected his work. How could his face have appeared to him on the tree yesterday? True, Dr Sadler had worked ardently these past few weeks, due to the continued absence of his colleague, Dr Guilder, who broke his leg playing polo.

Sadler’s wife noticed the traumatic change in her husband, and he was unapproachable nowadays, even to his own son. She beseeched him to take a holiday, and feared for his health, but he stressed he could not just close down the surgery.

Sadler pulled up his collar on his tweed overcoat, as he strolled down Harley Street, his wandering mind oblivious of all around him. He entered the premises of Guilder & Sadler and felt the warmth comfort his freezing body. He chanced a peep into the waiting room, to see a large number of patients awaiting his attention. He was thankful for the locum, who attended to the regulars of Dr Guilder.

Dr Sadler. Mrs Dean called again. She wants you to call at her home as soon as you can.

S adler removed his gloves and faced the black receptionist, the object of many of his fantasies. She awaited his reply, gazing at him with those come to bed eyes.

Damn that woman, Janice. What is it now…an in-growing toenail?

No. Gout.

I’ll write her out a prescription and drop it off on the way home."

Janice remembered. Oh, Doctor. A woman rang twice, trying to contact you. A Miss Corbett.

Corbett? Did she say what she wanted?

No, Doctor.

Okay, Janice, if she rings again, put her through to me.

Of course.

And Janice, why are there so many patients waiting?

I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix up with the times. That temp you took on double booked six patients.

Bloody hell. Sort something out, will you? There’s no way I can see them all today.

Will do, Doctor.

Sadler marched purposefully towards his office and watched the approach of an old man, who shuffled towards him with