Eventide: Christmas in New Wood

   Christmas had approached with a certain degree of stealth.  Its arrival had almost gone by unnoticed and its lodgings had been confined to the elements rather than the inner warmth of a family hearth and home.  It had been left to fend for itself in the snow and the sporadic winter winds that raged before resting briefly.  Christmas, it seemed, had been absent too long.  Upon returning it found that its once close and loving family had become strangers to the world and to each other until, in an unexpected and united gesture, New Wood's residents began rapidly rediscovering themselves and their voices in the sepulchral silence.

   It began first with just one meticulously wrapped present placed beneath the tree in Market Square, a single gift from an unknown person who had placed it there perhaps as a reminder to themselves that not everything was completely unsalvageable.  That one simple gesture begot another.  Under an hour later several more presents had appeared, and several hours later than that the amount had surpassed three hundred, a record number for New Wood.  The residents hadn't spoken to each other and neither had they hinted in any way that this time-honoured and hitherto forgotten tradition was to be honoured at all.  It had happened seemingly without forethought, without any prior discussion and without the pessimism that had plagued much of the townsfolk since news of Eventide's probable collision course with the Earth.  One resident followed the other, and sometimes two appeared simultaneously each with that same accompanying smile that had once been so painless to express.  One by one they placed their presents carefully beneath the tree and waited; they waited because they knew each other as well as they knew themselves.  They no longer looked up to the sky with the dread that had governed the majority of them these past few weeks.  Now they looked forward towards the tree, past the tree, into the heart of the town and into the hearts of their friends who they knew would soon arrive as they themselves had arrived with animated grins, presents and placid eyes that no longer housed fear.  New Wood's closed doors had opened again and from within had poured forth that temporarily misplaced sense of community. 

   Over the course of the next six hours several hundred people flocked to Market Square.  Longchester House had emptied and its aged residents had joined the younger, the youthful and the youngest each carrying presents, candles, decorations for the tree and, in George's case, a head full of Christmas carols ready to be voiced into the night.  It was a clear defiance of what lingered above.  Barbara was there also, clutching a candle and watching the flicker of flame leaving luminescent trails in the winter air as she moved it gently from left to right while searching for her son's face in the crowd.

   Upon hearing the growing congregation of voices close by, Mina had appeared at her shop door and had observed in stupefied silence as the crowd continued to grow.  She disappeared momentarily and returned seconds later with her own ornate candlestick sporting a rim of small and scrupulously carved fairies circling the base.  It was one of the first things she'd ever created.  She soon found her place in a crowd of people she'd known all her life as Hal handed her a candle from amidst the maturing throng of bodies.  He gently nudged his way through with a grin and hugged her tightly as candlelight continued to gleam into existence all around them.  Edna watched from a small distance away and couldn't detain her smile a moment longer.  She'd been one of the first to arrive and one of the first to place a present beneath the tree.  Now she stood holding a candle whilst looking around and trying to convince herself that this wasn't some fabricated dream.

   Faces continued to appear, some more unexpected than others.  Officer Benson had remained at the rear of the crowd before Daniel clipped him jokingly around the back of the head and pushed him forward.  Benson span around with a pre-planned look of contempt before releasing a chuckle that surprised both of them.  They moved inward amongst the other residents before each accepting a candle.  Although Daniel knew very few people there, it was enough to know that they all knew him.

   When Phil arrived several minutes later he appeared visually to condemn the proceedings.  He cast his disapproving eyes from one smiling face to the next before those same disapproving eyes found his mother standing amongst them clutching a lit candle.  He remained still for a time and seemed to withdraw from the moment, casually removing himself from everything and everyone around him as he watched Barbara socialising in her own inimitable way.  She half-smiled and leaned her head forward whenever anyone glanced her way.  It was an almost regal gesture.  When she turned her head and looked straight toward Phil he felt that same twinge tapping his spine, that same inexplicable sense  of unease that had governed most of his adult life whenever he saw her.  Even now he didn't know what to do or say, how to react or how to approach, but approach he did.  He hadn't expected to see her twice in one day.  He moved forward and readied his words.  He'd mention something about Christmas and the candles or he'd talk about how cold it was.  He'd speak about anything and everything if only to avoid those self-made silences he'd become so efficient at creating whenever his thoughts outweighed his words. 

   Within seconds of standing next to her Phil felt his mother's arm curl around his as another of Longchester House's residents handed him a candle and proffered a smile.  There'd been no need for words.  In fact very few people were speaking at all.  Aside from occasional whispers, handshakes and hugs, it seemed that the residents of New Wood were happy just to be there, to be outside amongst friends and family and without the burden of despair that had been circling their souls for too long.  It was enough... it was just enough.

Eventide: George

   "Snap out of it, lad," George said.  "If they see you looking like that in here then you'll never leave.  Where's your Christmas spirit?"

   "I drank it and pissed it away," Phil said as he shook George lightly by the hand.  "How have you been, you mischievous old bastard?  Still alive, then?" 

   "As far as I can tell," George replied.  "Won't be long now, though.  I have my eye on a plot of land over there by the water fountain."

   "You plan to be buried at Longchester House?"

   "Well of course I do.  Do you expect me to lie in some cold dark cemetery with the rest of the stinkpots? I'll be right here haunting the place."

   "As a zombie?"

   "As a ghost.  Zombies don't haunt people," George corrected him.  "You know, you youngsters are not quite the ticket."

   "Ok, well there's no graveyard in the grounds anyway.  But even if you were buried in the cemetery you could still return and haunt the place as a ghost."

   "Too far to walk," George returned.

   "You can float... and I'm forty years old.  I'm hardly a youngster," Phil added.

   "You're always young to someone."

   "Well who the hell calls you a youngster?"

   "Trees and tortoises," George nodded.  "I had a particularly informed conversation with an Oak Tree only last Tuesday.  Did you know...?"

   "I know enough to know that you've pulled my leg too many times for your own good," Phil stopped him.  "You have more wits about you than a fox.  You've gone beyond the boy who cried wolf too many times.  You're the old codger who lost his voice."

   "Heresy," George said.  "The day I lose this wonderful voice is the day these wits of mine lose their home.  How are you, Phil?" he chuckled.  "You wait until Christmas time to visit us? Just special occasions now, is it?"

   "Calling Christmas a special occasion is questionable at best."

   "Now that's going to have to stop, young sir?" George began.  "When one loses his mirth then one begins to wilt.  You should be out there meeting women, making merry and having children."

   "And look where it's got you."

   "It's not about where it gets you, it's about the journey you undertake to get there.  Very few people out there understand what life is really all about and even less know how to live it.  We all make mistakes.  We all have regrets and leave our woes dangling from our breast pockets like snotty handkerchiefs for all to see, but by God one has to look back, study the path he's chosen and be happy about it."

   "And are you happy about yours?"

   "Unfortunately my path forked. It's littered with mistakes, tears, sons that hated me and wives and daughters that continue to do so.  I suppose I should be looking back at that path and wishing that Nature would take its course and cover the damn thing in dead branches and fallen leaves, but for every fallen leaf there's always just one tiny flower amidst all the debris.  It's that one tiny flower that makes it all worthwhile.  However if you can't find that flower, well, just drink lots of brandy and to hell with it... in a hundred years no one will care anyway," he smiled. "She asked after you yesterday."

   "My mother?" Phil replied as he looked over George's thin shoulders.

   "Your mother," he confirmed.  "Strange that she should ask me.  Mind you there's a lot of strange goings on at the moment.  The planet has gone mad."

   "It doesn't seem as though anyone is particularly bothered by it in here," Phil observed as he cast his eyes over tables cluttered with playing cards and board games.

   "That's because they took away the television," George whispered as he gestured towards the empty bracket on the wall.  "A 50" plasma television constantly referring to the end of days was apparently upsetting some of the residents."

   "They can't take away the television."

   "Well they bloody well did," George raised his voice a little.  "There's no line drawn in here between being old and being dim-witted.  The aged are the ones to be protected now from all the nasty things in the world; these, of course, being the very same aged and apparently fragile people who fought in a world war and paved the way for future generations.  Everyone here knows about Eventide and most of us couldn't give a hoot about it.  We get on with our lives, play games, talk about old times and old memories while all the youngsters are out there murdering each other.  When we killed we were merely carrying out orders.  They do it because they feel as though there's bugger all left to do.  Hopelessness is a lazy, worthless and unproductive hobby, Phil.  I do hope people don't become too good at it."

   "For some it's a habit rather than a hobby," Phil replied, "although this Augustus Saccardi business seems to be keeping hope alive for quite a few people out there."

   "Piss and onions!" George declared brazenly.  "What do you think about this Augustus Saccardi business?"

   "Piss and onions, George, whatever the hell that means," Phil agreed.  "I can't see how trawling through this Mortuus place is going to help anyone feel any better about dying."

   "Now I never said anything about dying, young fellow," George said.  "We'll be fine.  The young can be so grim.  Look around you; it's Christmas.  We don't talk about dying at Christmas.  Actually this is a celebration of birth.  Of course some of us do die at Christmas.  Henry doesn't have long," he said with a nod towards a frail looking emaciated man in need of amusement and something more engaging to study other than his hands.  "Always tired he is.  Too much good living is my guess.  He was a gigolo, you know?"

   "Was he now?" Phil grinned.

   "Dirty fellow if you ask me.  Spent most of his life slapping his manhood around.  Still it takes all types, doesn't it? Have you ever thought about becoming a gigolo?  There's good money in it and it gets you out of the house."

   "I live on a boat... or in it... one of the two. Anyway it's not my style," Phil replied.  "You have to pretend to be somebody you're not."

   "You have to be charming at the very least."

   "Charm is something you have to work at.  I don't see the profit in it."

   "Profit? Oh to be young again," George started with a finger raised and wagging.  "Profit will always let you down.  It entices you and goads you into doing things you never thought you'd do.  It's a harlot, Phil, and you should keep away from it.  Profit and purity are like chalk and cheese.  Mind you there's some cheese that looks like chalk.  Have you ever tasted it? Vile stuff!  Give me mature cheddar any day of the week."

   "It makes my nose ache," Phil said.  "It's too strong."

   "I find it very appealing," George said, "much like Edna over there," he added as he nodded towards the doorway where Edna was standing and observing.  "Do you think she likes me?" he asked.

   "Edna likes everyone."

   "I don't mean like that," George returned.  "I mean do you think she likes me?"

   "In what way?"

   "In that way."

   "I think this conversation is drawing to a close."

   "Could you find out if she likes me in that way?" George continued nonetheless.

   "What are you, twelve years old? You'll have me passing love letters around the room next."
   "I could write her a poem," George said as he sunk into reverie.  "Nature, love, attraction... it's all connected."

   "I'm sure it is," Phil replied nonchalantly as his attention went once more to his mother, who had since turned to face him with a wide and incredulous gaze.  She was so happy to see him.

   "And it's all still working downstairs," George added.

   "In the basement?" Phil enquired after showing his mother a brief smile.

   "Behind the cloth," George whispered as his eyes rolled downwards.  "It never ages, you know?"

   "What the hell are you talking about you silly old bastard?" Phil enquired.

   "The penis, dear boy, the male penis," George answered candidly.

   "Is there any other kind?" Phil returned.  "Anyway, how is it we've gone from poetry and Nature to the subject of your dick? George, you never change.  More power to you," he added as he brushed past him and patted him on the shoulder.

   "Elephant's knees," George mumbled to himself as Phil stopped and turned back.

   "What's that?"

   "The foreskin is like an elephant's knees at birth and remains so until death finally whisks the genitals away.  It still looks pretty much the same as it did," he said as once more he gestured downwards, "but it just takes a little longer to speak its mind."

   "Well I'm more than certain Edna would be happy enough with your penis, George, and whatever said penis has on its mind."

   "I've never had any complaints I've taken notice of," George returned, "unless we count my second wife.  I couldn't help but take notice of her.  Incredibly loud vocal chords," he said tapping his throat.  "Always an echo," he added with a quizzical look.  "It didn't matter where she was standing, outside or inside... there was always an echo."

   "Well," Phil began awkwardly after a few seconds passed, "I'm sure Edna wouldn't be like that."

   "Yes," he agreed, "she'd be happy with my penis, as you say."

   "She'd be the envy of all women.  Perhaps you could wrap it up for her and give it to her for Christmas."

   "I could slip it into a sock, throw a blanket over myself, kneel down and push it through the gap in the dirty linen basket.  She'd think it was..."

   "Merry Christmas, George," Phil grinned and nodded.

   "And to you, young Philip," George replied with an accompanying schoolboy chuckle before casting his eye towards Edna, who continued watching him suspiciously from the doorway.  "And now to business," he added as he walked away with an air of confidence accompanying a leisurely gait...

Eventide: Madeline Decker

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her.  When she was standing in front of him he rarely looked at her and when she spoke he rarely listened.  To him Madeline was someone who existed between blinks.  She was an occasional creak on the floorboards.  She was a fleeting breath in the breeze.  The only time he would begin to consider her was when he felt angry, and the only time he spoke to her was when he searched for someone to blame over something he had already forgotten about.  Nevertheless she was culpable.  Goaded by the scorn of her crippled and bitter mother, Madeline's father would frequently threaten his daughter first with eyes that narrowed and then with words that seemed to sharpen his knuckles, which would then continue to pummel her already purpled teenage torso.  He always made certain to avoid striking her face; it was his gift to her.

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her, and yet at thirteen Madeline acquired two broken ribs resulting from 'a bad fall'.  At fourteen she suffered the pain of three broken fingers resulting from a 'silly accident', and at fifteen she discovered a festering dark unforgiving bliss that had long been maturing in the core of her developing and resentful soul.

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her... and so her father never expected it. 

   Even the sun seemed sluggish that day. It lingered lethargically on the horizon and allowed the shadows to breed into those provisional pockets of black in which ill thoughts and vengeance hatch, and in which Madeline herself had been hiding for most of the night waiting and trembling.  She had concealed herself in the recess at the top of the stairs, an alcove just large enough for a young girl and just small enough to contain delicate wits close to tearing. 

   At 8am her mother called her from the downstairs bedroom; she demanded breakfast. 

   At 8:01am her mother's voice raised to a shrill.

  At 8:03am her father shouted at Madeline from the upstairs bedroom for being disobedient.

   At 8:03am her mother began swearing and threatening her.

   At 8:03am her father began swearing and threatening her.

   At 8:05am Madeline heard her father storm out of his room and across the landing before kicking her bedroom door open.  She wasn't there.

   At 8:06am he was standing at the top of the stairs wearing nothing but his underpants and screaming violently at his wife.

   At 8:06am his wife screamed violently in return.

   At 8:06am Madeline sprang screaming from the confines of the recess and hurtled towards her father.

   Her father seldom heard her: her father seldom saw her... her father never stood a chance...

 

   "Round two," Hal whispered with a hint of amusement. 

   Sean was already standing before them holding a notepad and waiting patiently for Phil to order.

   "I had a notepad like that when I was a boy," Phil observed.  "I used to log my wet dreams in it.  Are you a logger, Sean?"

   "A logger?"

   "Someone who logs things.  Come to think of it are you a wet dreamer?"

   "What do you want to order?" Sean replied with indifference.

   "A log.  A Yuletide Log.  I'm feeling festive."

   "Actually we can do that for you," Sean smiled sardonically.  "One Yuletide Log," he added as he pressed the pen nib deep into the pad.

   "Excellent!" Phil exclaimed.  "One Yuletide Log and chips," he said as Hal buried his face in his hands and took a carefully controlled breath.

   "Right, one Yuletide Log and chips it is," Sean answered irritably as he scribbled it down.  The pen nib pierced the paper.  "Anything else?"

   "Tomato sauce on the Yuletide Log," Hal whispered unexpectedly through his fingers as he exhaled a restrained chuckle into his palms.

   Both Phil and Sean looked over at Hal with surprise.  Sean was disgusted; Phil was ecstatic.

   "And a side order of chips to make up for the fact that your portions are too small," Phil added, this time whilst looking at Hal with anticipation.

   "Of course," Sean replied as his breathing quickened through gritted teeth and partially pursed lips.

   "Not French fries," Phil continued.  "I want chips that look as though they've just eaten a plate of chips.  I don't want those skinny scrawny things that resemble toasted toothpaste."

   "Oh I assure you our chips are cut from the finest potatoes..." Sean began.

   "Then show me."

   "Excuse me?"

   "My friend and I wish to test the validity of your claim. Go and fetch one of the potatoes and bring it here."

   "And bring a portion of chips with you," Hal added.  His eyes were now streaming with tears.

   "And a side order of chips because your portions are too small," Phil demanded.  "And don't forget the tomato sauce on that Yuletide Log.  Be quick about it and don't spare the cook!" Phil concluded with a wave of his hand.

   "Of course, sir," Sean replied as he slipped his notepad into his pocket.  "Perhaps sir would also like a portion of bruises about the face with that?"

   "That's tempting," Phil mused.  "How are you for bruises about the face, Hal?"

   Hal was unable to answer.

   "I'll tell you what, I'll take two kicks up the arse, a bloody nose and a bombardment of expletives."

   "And one portion of chips," Hal ordered.

   "And a side order of chips because your portions are too small," Phil added.

   "Of course, sir, I'll see to your order immediately.  Now go and fuck yourself!" Sean growled before storming away from the table...

Eventide: Another fragment

   "I haven't seen you for some time," he said.

   It was almost calming.  Sedate and nearly soundless, the voice seemed to emanate from some other distant place that was neither here nor now.  At first she dismissed it as a portion of her mind that had never quite let him go.  She had met him only once, albeit briefly and most definitely mysteriously.  She had thought about him more often than she would ever admit to anybody including herself.  On some level it was wrong even to entertain his image for more than a second at a time.  'Handsome' was not a word she would've used to describe him, nor was the term 'attractive' even applicable, but he had something within him, beyond the skin and bone of mortal man, something hidden and yet so overtly exposed that his mere presence announced it in deafening yells... except nobody had heard it.

   She turned slowly and looked upon Jabez as she would one of her unfinished sculptures.  Again she endeavoured to penetrate and solve the enigma, but even then she knew that sight alone was not enough to unravel the thread.  The eyes, however, imparted a somewhat different story as they had done that night at the graveyard.  What lay behind those eyes was just enough to disclose minor but telling portions of the soul.  He was a page torn from an unfinished tale, the epicentre of a breeding and brooding mystery.

   Mina was speechless.  Her adrenalin levels had already increased, fashioning discernible shivers in her legs that prompted her quickly to reach out for the door frame in order to steady herself.

   "Are you ill?" he enquired as he stepped closer.

   "I'm tired," she lied.  "What are you doing here?"

   "These are magnificent," he replied avoiding the question.  "Did you make them?" he enquired as he looked about the shop.

   "Are you here to buy something?" she asked as she applied a little more firmness to her voice.

   "What would you recommend?"

   "If you want to buy something then look around for yourself.  Whatever I recommend might not be to your taste."

   "Very true," he smiled, "one's tastes can differ.  Would you call the police while I look around?"

   "Why would I do that?"

   "Because you know they are looking for me.  I wager that you are not a simpleton, Mina."

   "No I'm not," she answered calmly.  "Now either buy something or steal something.  Just get out," she told him as her voice shuddered slightly.

   "Steal something," he whispered, "yes, it would be wrong of me to steal something from somebody else," he continued as he stepped closer.  "Perhaps it would not be considered theft after all if the thing I wished to steal was more than willing to be stolen."

   "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked as she withdrew slightly, brushing her back up against the curtain.

   "One should never restrict oneself just to one work of art," he said as his fingers explored the immaculately sculpted and curvaceous figure of Venus, one of Mina's most prized creations.  "One should be able to explore beauty in all of its forms without fear of persecution," he continued as she watched his fingers trace the spine and linger around the base.  "Do you not agree?"

   Mina pressed her lips together and imprisoned a breath.

   "One should be able to venture beyond the curtain that separates beauty from... desire," he smiled as he looked briefly towards the curtain behind her.

   "And perhaps we should remain on the side that pleases us most," Mina replied hesitantly.

   "And in doing so then you would be denying yourself that otherwise distant world of further intrigue.  The key to so many doors would remain forever closed to you."

   "There's nothing wrong with appreciating what you already have," Mina returned slowly as she endeavoured to choose her next sentence wisely.  "Sometimes the more you admire something the more you discover about it.  What good is there in moving quickly from one piece of art to the other without truly knowing the work and understanding its soul?  Knowing art and experiencing it briefly are two very different things."

   "I understand," Jabez replied with a touch of disappointment as he drew closer.  "Yet you have created so much," he added as he further scrutinised her work.  "You have given perhaps more than your soul could possibly permit.  Surely your own personal and varied experience of beauty must have played a role in honing your passion?"

   "No," Mina disagreed instantly and confidently.  "I don't need to travel the world or have encounters with others to find those experiences, and neither do I need to seek experience elsewhere in order to find other forms of... beauty.  I've already found my muse," she said now with resolve as she smiled meditatively, "and he is all I've ever needed."

   This sudden epiphany was an unexpected shock to her own system, but she was more than content finally to acknowledge it.

   "Hal," Jabez whispered as he stepped closer and took Mina's s trembling hands in his own.

   "How do you know his name?" she asked with panic as her nerves weakened.  "Who are you?"

   "You have already asked me that," he said softly.

   "And you never answered me," she tried to reply sternly as she sought strength in failing limbs.

   "We might have been companions in another lifetime, Mina," he said, "exploring the beauties of the world together and gorging ourselves on the experiences it proffers.  In that other lifetime, that other world beyond this one, beyond that curtain... would you have come with me?"

   His eyes became all at once mirrors in which she could see every one of her weaknesses exposed.  Breathing became a burden and the ability merely to focus an irritation.  Below, unwanted sensations forced knots in her stomach and drove seducing spears into the more reserved region of her womanhood, that now fragile place governed by unwanted and guilt-ridden lust.  She didn't answer him.  She dared not answer him.

   Jabez loosened his delicate grip on her hands and ran his fingers slowly up and down her forearms.  He felt the now raised hairs on her skin prickle his own unexpectedly tingling flesh.

   "You are a rare and beautiful flower," he whispered, "and you are sunlight itself over darkening plains.  Be safe, Mina," he said as he leant forward and placed a single and lasting kiss upon her cheek.  "It does you justice to remain on this side of the curtain."

   Mina wasn't even aware that Jabez had left the shop until the door clicked shut.  Slowly her wits returned but, as for the rest of her, it had been left dishevelled and strangely sullied.  She leant back slightly and gripped the door frame, this time with both hands on both sides while the curtain shifted slightly to expose that possible and most likely perilous world beyond.

Eventide. Society falls

   No one knew how it happened; they only knew that it had and that they had somehow become part of it.  One simple act from someone somewhere may have ignited something else from somewhere else.  Perhaps it was a large group or merely a meagre few who first initiated what politicians would come to call a global insurrection.  Perhaps it had been an ideal gone awry, a demonstration of rage against a regime that had misled the populace with understated remarks concerning the threat that Eventide was posing against the Earth; but then perhaps it had been just one man, woman or child who had thought fit one day to pick up a rock and hurl it through a window.  Nevertheless it began seemingly within a matter of hours.

   A fire had broken out in the pre-dawn hours of December 18th close to the River Thames in an old abandoned building, derelict, cold and empty.  The fire lasted little more than seventeen minutes but managed to consume most of the supporting beams, which amounted to an impressive and thunderous cave-in to disturb anyone sleeping within a two mile radius.  The fire department was quick to act; there were no fatalities and the damage was inconsequential being that the building itself had been condemned.

   It was the ensuing fire twenty-eight minutes later and half a mile away from the first that began to unnerve the department.  Initially believing that a single arsonist was at work, the police were quickly on the scene alongside SOCOs and reporters.  No evidence was discovered to link the two fires simply because there had been no time for any evidence to be gathered.  A third and much larger fire had broken out just under an hour later, this time a little further inland on Bridge Street.  The flames shooting from nearly every window of Portcullis House were reflected in the slumbering river, lending the water the semblance of still molten lava.  Motionless and luminous, the eerie glow was arrested only by the adjacent black and leering shape of Big Ben, whose distorted silhouette against the dawning sky stretched across both the water and the growing wide-eyed faces of those who had travelled from their homes to witness the event.  Plumes of dense smoke rendered the multiple chimneys atop Portcullis House as levitating monoliths.  The south facing windows began to detonate as though being fired upon from the inside dispatching shards of tempered glass towards the ground as fire-fighters continued the skirmish against a seemingly relentless monster.  This was merely the beginning of something that would soon become quite indescribable.  It became a thing, a happening and an alteration of the human race into something unrecognisable.  People had become angered not from the thought of their approaching demise; rather it was the all-too-brief time they had been allocated to offer their cheerless farewells both to life and loved ones across the world.  The plaster had been ripped too quickly from the skin to expose a deep and penetrating wound that had no time to heal.

   Just hours later the ten Parliament Square statues of statesmen had been beheaded, knocked down, dragged around the city by cars and left to drown in the Thames.  By mid afternoon the following day groups had been formed by no one in particular.  It was easy to find common ground amongst those whose fate had been sealed not only by the approach of Eventide, but by the very government whose indubitable foreknowledge of events had immediately separated them from the common man.  As for that common man, it now seemed that his goal was to turn anger, panic and the fear of death into one insurmountable force, a force that began slowly at first, forging a momentum, acquiring strength in numbers and each manipulating the other until the other became themselves.  The destructive force of the mob was only just beginning to be understood by those who also began to panic, to secure their houses, their families and their wits during a time that would undeniably stretch into unyielding mayhem.

   Over the course of three days the majority of all political discussions regarding the state of the nation had halted.  Self-preservation had set in.  Politicians, after all, were also people with families and the desire to remain breathing for as long as possible.  The Prime Minister could no longer plead to the nation to remain calm.  The truth was out; it had taken to the streets and run amok.  The people had listened, the people had reacted and, for just one moment stretched into a few dark days, the people had been united.

   A mob can include members from all faculties of life since it is so often the defence of life and liberty, their continuation or threat of termination that becomes the common ground rather than links to occupation, class or creed.  Each member bleeds effortlessly into the other until a single voice is born, one that screams not from the mouth but from the soul.  Here were many souls each housing fear, panic and trepidation while others of a more drunken inclination announced proudly that they were more than happy to be present at the world's end; after all, they had been absent for its beginning.  It would be an event, a concert of apocalyptic chaos to which all had been invited.  Tickets were free and it was front row seating for everybody, but before the doors opened and the show began the mob would have its day and seize its one-time opportunity to release its inhibitions.

   So it was that crude barricades were set up by clerks, accountants, bus drivers and lawyers.  Missiles were hurled at the advancing riot police by small business owners, shop windows were smashed by pensioners and house windows shattered by children.  The majority sought comfort in destruction, each joining the other to form a ruinous indestructible beast that roamed the streets seeking destructible prey.  Every new member was an extra limb, another appendage to lash out at everything and everyone that opposed it.  The beast was without conscience; its attention had been diverted from what approached and its hunger was seemingly insatiable.  It fed greedily from distraction and digression, never contemplating and never pondering the real cause of its hunger until, finally and perhaps inexorably, it cast one of its many eyes towards the sky and to that one relentless immovable and enlarging sphere.  Only then did the beast begin to consume itself.

   Where previously shoulder had rubbed against shoulder in an effort to affect an uprising, soon the very reason for that uprising became unclear.  Where would it end and what exactly would it achieve? The once angry and unified voice screaming for answers had suddenly acquired internal rational dissenters each posing a much simpler question: "Why?" It was an uncomplicated enquiry that remained unanswered.  The meaning of everything was at stake.  Life itself had arrived at a turning point within a tapered tunnel.  There was nowhere else to go; there was nothing left to do but wait and, in the days that remained, mankind announced all too loudly that it would not seep quietly into shadow unheard and unseen.

     By December 23rd London had become a dark and ominous labyrinth.  Street lights had been smashed and shadows dwelled within shadows, amassing in thick immovable clumps that dominated every corner, every street and almost every man's heart.  Some who had accepted their fate remained in their homes behind locked doors, and behind those locked doors was furniture, heaped, broken and stacked, once used for comfort and now used for defence and security. Others, however, still fuelled by anger, vented it indiscriminately and mercilessly, aiming rage at whatever or whomever crossed their paths.  They looted without purpose and then turned on each other like unruly animals borne from some dark place. The breath of the masses was suddenly everywhere, permeating the walls of every office block, house and heart.  The very air itself became rotten with rage, spoiled by lungs heaving with fear ready to air itself in screams of fury, which were more often than not accompanied by random acts of violence first across London, and then the world.

   The major cities were the first to fall.  After the global reports of London's upheaval, fear and panic began spreading wildly from one country to the next like an infectious agent snaking its way through the streets, targeting homes and mutating many of the occupants into misshapen souls with barely a memory of themselves. Governments across the world rapidly lost their hold upon their now distrusting populations that no longer cared for pointless precepts and nonsensical authority.  Few barely recognised friend from foe.  Civil liberty had been drowned in the asphyxiating smoke from smouldering flames and the gallop of gunfire.  Most of mankind devolved while the world revolved seemingly faster, quickening the hours and turning the hands of every clock with a sickening swiftness that facilitated the final countdown, that interminable tick heard in every human heart.  Many innocents had already begun to flee the cities in cars and on foot, either for the countryside or anywhere where people's eyes and souls had not yet been blackened.

   All that was once good had been siphoned from society, tapped rapidly from cities previously swollen with life, only then to be scattered throughout the surrounding dying land like failing roots eager to discover a place in which to scream: "I still exist!" All that was once good was now bound to those fleeing millions whose homes had been ransacked and robbed.  All that was once good was gone...

  

'Eventide' fragment

   The sketch before them appeared as old as the paper itself.  Faded to the point where squinting was essential, the picture was beyond bizarre.  All three men systematically brought their candles and torchlight closer to the article, an image that was as bewildering to the eye as it was displeasing.  It resembled a dark but contained explosion of tusks, fangs, spikes and claws.  It was a spherical splintering of black nightmarish fancy manifestly formed by a mind set to snap.  Although discoloured and timeworn, the picture still maintained a level of breeding unease that had already left the page and permeated the wits of those now looking, now speechless, now cold in a rapidly cooling room.

   A minute passed, and then another until the very silence itself begot restlessness, siring a sense of inexplicable fear that tormented each of them in the deathly quiet, which was interrupted only briefly by a circulating draught that seized and slaughtered the breath from their lungs.  Each man fought the quiet and lost before succumbing to its conquering and accompanying chill.  This thing, this object, this faint and terrible monstrosity had already wedged itself into the coming dreams of approaching nights.

   "What is it?" asked James nervously after an uncomfortable breeze seemingly hailed from nowhere and dispersed beneath his skin.

   No one answered.

   "Is it a thing? I mean... is it or, rather, was it alive?"

   Still there was no answer.

   "Is that a tail hanging beneath it?" he asked as he brought his face closer to the page.  "I think it's a tail."

   James was now talking merely to hear the sound of his own voice and to disrupt the festering silence.

   "Could be," answered John as James puffed a sigh of relief.  "It looks braided, though, like a cable or something."

   "You think it's a wire?" asked James.  "Perhaps the whole thing is some kind of machine," he postulated.

   "Well if it is it's unlike any machine I've ever seen," John stated.

   "It looks like a sea urchin to me," added Benson.  "I stood on one when I was a child.  We were in Spain and..."

   "An interesting story for a more dreary time I'm sure, Officer," John mumbled as Benson halted his dialogue before sporting an accompanying sneer.

   The attachment did indeed appear wired to the barbed object and dangled beneath like some inanimate spine, a dark pendulum affixed to a concealed clock face.  John began biting the inside of his lip, a custom he had inherited from his father whenever his wits were challenged.  He bit hard.  Had he been alone, he would have most likely reached inside with thumb and forefinger to tear loose the flesh from his mouth until it bled profusely.  It was cathartic, a temporary release and reminder that he was still in control of a body that already had begun to sweat even in such a chilled environment.  He restrained himself and allowed his hand to linger just inches above the image.  Never before had he sustained so many injuries to nerves that suddenly felt exposed and threadbare.  He experienced tremors in his fingers as they turned the page slowly.

   The following images were met with the same forbidding silence...