Anchor's Heart

By Cavan Scott

Paramedic Mark Poole is subletting his aunt's flat as he recovers from a work-related breakdown. He fills his days with helping the neighbour with her garden, doing odd jobs, trying not to think about the call that resulted in his having to take a leave of absence. When he hears a voice that no one else seems to hear, sees things that no one else seems to notice, the house next door assumes a darker significance and he determines to find out what's going on, who it is that needs his help?

His search opens the floodgates to more strange occurrences, and soon Mark is fighting for his life—or his sanity, if he's wrong, as his friends insist he is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PS Publishing
• Release date: Jul 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781786369574

Book preview

ANCHOR’S HEART

Cavan Scott

––––––––

To George, for laughs, cannoli and horror camp.

INTRODUCTION

CAVAN SCOTT is a hard writer to categorise. He writes comics, novels, short stories, he writes for radio and TV...he works, or has worked, in the Star Wars, Doctor Who, Assassin’s Creed, Transformers, Back to the Future, Star Trek, Vikings, Pacific Rim, Adventure Time, Pathfinder, Judge Dredd, Blake’s 7 and Warhammer 40,000 universes as well as his own.

I’d worked with Cavan once before; he wrote an amazing story for our Wonderland anthology, and I was sure he’d come up with something wonderful for Absinthe, if I was lucky enough to find he was available and wanted to take part. He was delighted to have the chance to write a supernatural novella idea he’d been thinking about, and so Anchor’s Heart was born.

Paramedic Mark Poole is subletting his aunt’s flat as he recovers from a work-related breakdown. He fills his days with helping the neighbour with her garden, doing odd jobs, trying not to think about the call that resulted in his having to take a leave of absence. When he hears a voice that no one else seems to hear, sees things that no one else seems to notice, the house next door assumes a darker significance and he determines to find out what’s going on, who it is that needs his help?

His search opens the floodgates to more strange occurrences, and soon Mark is fighting for his life – or his sanity, if he’s wrong, as his friends insist he is.

—Marie O’Regan

Derbyshire, June 2021

CHAPTER ONE

I CAN STILL HEAR HER SCREAMING.

Why are you just standing there?

Do something.

Help my baby.

Help my boy.

Didn’t she think I wanted to help? Seven years as a paramedic. All I ever wanted to do was help. To make things better. To tell those who are hurting that it’s going to be all right, that someone is there. But I couldn’t, not in that moment. I couldn’t do anything. I was just standing there, clutching my chest, unable to move, unable to breathe.

I don’t remember anything else. I don’t remember my ambulance partner Jill talking to me, trying to get me to sit, to move away from the crib. I just remember the woman screaming.

I can’t even remember the mother’s name right now. Isn’t that dreadful? Kneeling here, the damp of the earth soaking through the knees of my jeans, I can’t remember her name.

I can remember the baby’s name, though. Johnny. Lying there so still. I knew what I was doing when I got there. What I was supposed to do. I’d already prepared myself when we got the call. 12 Otterley Road. Five-month-old infant unresponsive. The training kicked in as it always did, Jill weaving through the Drakeford traffic with ease, cars pulling aside, letting us pass, some drivers annoyed, some uttering a silent prayer of there by the grace of God go I.

But it was the sight of Johnny lying in his crib that did it. Lying so still. Everything changed in that moment, a vice closing around my heart. My feet became rooted to the spot, the world slipping out of focus.

Emma.

That was the woman’s name. Emma Gilbert. Her own world was falling apart. I can’t imagine it. What did she feel when we pulled up outside? When we ran up the steps to the already open door? Relief? Hope? That we’d put everything right?

The kid’s room was beautiful. It was as if Emma and her partner—another name I can’t remember—had plucked a nursery straight from the pages of a catalogue. Everything was perfect. The furniture. The toys. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile (Milne not Disney). It was an inspirational Instagram post brought to life, except for one catastrophic detail. Those drawers in the sideboard would never be filled with toddler clothes, at least not those belonging to little Johnny. The perfectly piled toys would never be demolished by pudgy eager hands.

They said it was a panic attack, brought on by stress. PTSD. Johnny, lying so still in his cot, had been the final straw. I’d seen it in others—colleagues and friends—but never expected to see in myself. I could cope. I was strong. I never let things get to me. Turns out I was also exceptionally good at lying to myself.

It’s understandable, the therapist said, collecting notes from her report like a magpie hoarding trinkets. The last couple of years have been hard.

No shit. I wanted to scream at her in the same way Emma had screamed at me. It was easy for her, sitting in her office, notebook resting on her lap, sympathy caked onto her face like theatrical paint. She saw broken people every day, but so did I; people that sometimes couldn’t be put back together.

Death had always been part of the job. I became a paramedic to help, to fix things. No, to fix people. I wanted to make them better, to do what Emma wanted of me, to save her baby, but sometimes you were too late. Sometimes the people were too broken. It was never easy, but you carried on. I carried on, telling myself the same mantra. The next time it’ll be different. Next time I’ll make the difference. Next time I’ll be there in time. Did it hurt? Of course it hurt. How did we cope? By burying the feelings. The pain. Waiting until we got home to let it all out.

By being professional. Always professional.

Why are you just standing there?

Do something.

Help my baby.

Help my boy.

The therapist blamed the pandemic. Everyone blames the pandemic for everything, although it didn’t help. Obviously. Before the world was thrown into lockdown we used to see, what, one, maybe two cardiac arrests a week? That soon became four, five, sometimes more. And then the deaths started to pile up.

Most people we get to the hospital. Most people we hand to doctors and nurses, giving our charges a chance of life, no matter how small. But there were always those who couldn’t be helped. Those who were already gone.

Like Johnny.

It used to be rarer than you think, in our line of work. One a week maybe. In the darkest days of the pandemic that number had risen to three, four, five. One day it reached double figures. Ten people, all dead in their own homes on one day.

Yeah, the last couple of years have been hard. Harder than I thought. No, that’s not right. Harder than I allowed myself to think, until it was too late.

That’s how I find myself here, kneeling in the dirt, a pair of secateurs in my hand instead of medical shears, the sound of Woman’s Hour drifting from Beryl Codman’s door.

Jill used to play Heart FM in the ambulance. It used to drive me crazy, all those adverts. She only used to sing louder when I complained, getting all the words wrong, probably on purpose, just to piss me off. I loved that.

I think of my phone, on the arm of the sofa in my flat, of the messages from Jill, ignored. I wonder when she will stop calling, why she’s even bothering.

Cup of tea?

Beryl Codman’s voice makes me jump. She’s walking up the path, carefully stepping over the uneven paving slabs. I leap up, slipping the secateurs under my arm so I can take the mug of milky tea she’s brought me, the pale liquid slopping over the side to run down the picture of William and Kate.

Thank you, I say. Lovely, trying not to blanche the same colour as the brew. Water bewitched and tea begrudged, that’s what my gran would have called it. She liked her tea strong enough for the spoon to stand up, a taste I’ve inherited, but Beryl means well, even if she finds it impossible to leave the bag in the pot for longer