Rollerskater: Dominoes


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VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII


This instalment contains some graphic descriptions of injury.

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The van sat in a side-road, nondescript, unmarked. Two men sat in the front seats, clutching loaves of baguette bread filled with ham and cheese.

“Pass us the mustard,” said the man in the driver’s seat. His fellow opened the glovebox and handed him a bottle of French’s, which he drizzled on the sandwich before biting into it.

“That’s revolting,” said the passenger. “Are you sure that’s still good?”

“It’s vinegar and mustard powder. It’s not going to go off, is it?”

“Bottle says ‘Keep Refrigerated’.”

The driver scoffed.

“I’m not dead yet.”

The passenger rolled his eyes.

“Are we sure this is the right place?”

“Course we are,” the driver said. “Not like the intel we got was dodgy. Came straight from MI5.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said the passenger. “MI5’s gone Looney Tunes as of late. I think Wiltshire’s shat them up a bit.”

“Better that than nothing at all,” said the driver, taking another bite from his sandwich. He made a face. “Ooh…”

“I told you that mustard was bad.”

The driver opened the window and tossed the sandwich out into the road, then rolled it back up. His companion raised an eyebrow, to which he responded: “What?”

“We’re meant to be maintaining a low profile, here,” said the passenger. “For Christ’s sake, be a bit professional, would you?”

The driver said nothing, reaching for a bottle of water to wash the taste of bad mustard out of his mouth. He reached for something on the dash and inspected it.

It was a road atlas of Manchester and its surrounding environs. He opened it to the street in which they were currently parked – a residential road in Oldham.

At the same time, the passenger reached up for the sun visor and folded it down.

There was a photograph blue-tacked to the visor. A woman with long, silver hair and bright, shimmering eyes, her face fixed and neutral.

“You ready?” the driver asked.

The passenger looked up at the photograph, studying the features of the woman who had slipped out of sight so many months ago.

“I’m ready,” came the reply.

The driver smiled, and turned the key. The van’s engine coughed, and a vibration passed through the seats beneath them.

The hunt was on.


*


Bare feet on a tile roof.

Crystal wings retracted into the back of an unspoiled white dress, and Liberty Parish seated herself a few moments, exhausted. Her flight from Wiltshire had taken hours, and by now, the sun was beginning to set. She ran her fingers through her hair, looking over the roofs of houses.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

When her eyes had met those of Dolores Mykhailiuk, she had known straight away that those eyes, gold like the strings, had seen right into her private anxiety. She took a breath.

No crying until the end, Libby.

She stood, breathing in the chill air of dusk. Moss had begun to grow up around her feet where they made contact with the ceramics.

“Keep moving,” she murmured. “Got to keep moving.”

She clambered to the roof’s edge and located a drain-pipe, manifesting two of her wings to help steady her as she descended to the ground.

“Chelsea Rose,” she said, her eyes glowing a faint blue. “Where are you?”

She noticed at once that she was standing in an unpaved driveway, a patch of dirt outside a half-built house covered in netting and plastic sheets.

A housing development, with the only plant life allowed a monoculture of grasses and flowerbeds. But for now, just dirt, and where her feet fell, buttercups, clover, dandelions and ramsons.

A little wilderness growing around her. A little triumph over order.

The strings whispered in her.

Go quickly across. She is in the garage, working on a machine.

She followed the call, across a half-completed green that was surrounded on one side by rhododendrons. As she rounded the corner, she began to hear faint music.

She ran towards it, the soft hum growing crisper, louder, until she could hear it, clear as day. Synthetic, electronic, with a thumping beat that she could feel through the soles of her feet.

She entered the garage.

There sat a white-haired human figure, working on a motorbike.

“Chelsea?” Liberty said.

“Gordon Bennett!” came the response, and the comparatively tall woman stood to her full height. “Who’s that?”

“Liberty Parish,” Liberty said. “I’m so sorry. Did I scare you?”

“No, I very nearly shit myself just for the fun of it. Yes, you scared me.”

“My apologies,” Liberty said. “I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t important.”

Chelsea was silent for a few moments.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Is Dolly—”

“She’s alright,” Liberty said, soothingly. “But…there’s been a problem. She can’t get back up here.”

Chelsea puffed out her cheeks, then inhaled sharply, as if catching her breath.

“Right,” she said. “So where is she now?”

“On her way to London, with Socks,” Liberty said. “And…the homunculus.”

Monica?”

“Yes. Her.

Chelsea was somewhat confused by this response, and decided to change tack.

“Alright, so I’m making the journey down with Daisy and Nas?”

“No,” Liberty said. “Dolly wants them to stay put.”

“Prob’ly not on her own account,” Chelsea replied. “K-Os is nervous about Daisy getting caught again. Fuck sake, we’re adults. Why can’t we take care of ourselves?”

Liberty frowned.

“We need to get going,” she said.

“Alright,” Chelsea said. “We’ll need to leave a note.”

“Okay,” Liberty said. “Go and write one quickly, then we’ll get moving.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Oh.”


*


“Are you sure we’ve got the right place?”

“The readings don’t lie,” the passenger said. “Everything’s in line.”

The driver drummed on the wheel and peered into the driver-side wing mirror. There was a poster attached to a bus stop depicting a tall woman with lilac hair.

 

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?

 

He curled his lip involuntarily. Sure, I’ve fucking seen her, he thought. You can’t move for seeing her.

The passenger fumbled for some binoculars, which he held up to the window, peering across the way. The sun had begun to set, so he flicked a switch on them, activating a set of infrared laser diodes arranged around the edge of the eyepiece.

There was a Metrolink tram stop. Oldham Mumps.

A tram from central Manchester pulled in to the stop. A crowd of people disembarked. Frantically, the passenger watched the thronging mass, searching for his targets.

“Come on, come on…”

He adjusted the focus on the binoculars, but saw nobody.

“Not there,” he said. “Damn it.”

The driver had at this time opened a laptop and was trying to get it to cooperate. He thumped it a couple of times with his fist, and the screen brought up some information about trams.

“Delays on the Grey and Pink lines, apparently,” he said. “Could they not have come up with more imaginative names than that?”

The passenger looked at him angrily.

“Can you not take this even a little bit seriously?”

“She’ll be here, relax,” the driver said. “Next tram’s along in a few minutes.”

The passenger switched off the binoculars and sank back into the seat.

“We need to get hold of her,” he said, anxiously. “We can’t mess this up.”

“We won’t,” the driver said. “Just keep looking.”

The two of them sat in silence, apart from the driver drumming on the steering wheel.

“Stop that,” the passenger said.

“Alright, touchy.”

Across the way, another tram rolled in, heading in the other direction.

“Damn it, my view is blocked,” the passenger said, pressing the binoculars to the window. “Move!”

There was a movement behind the other tram.

“No!” he shouted. “Move, damn you! Move!

Crowds pouring out on to either platform. He refocused again. The first tram slid away…no sign of her.

“Shit,” he said. “Where are you?”

The other tram slid away…

And there she was, on the platform, standing next to a woman in a hijab.

“It’s her!” he said, a little too excited. “It’s her!”

And it was then that he noticed the chill on his back.

He turned. His partner had already departed the vehicle and was running towards her.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Wait for me.”

He opened the passenger door and practically fell out, sprinting across the road. His companion was already way ahead of him.

The two women were warily crossing the tram tracks. The two men charged towards them, converging on them.

The two of them stopped at the railing, and at once, the eyes of the women met the eyes of the men.

She was blonde, and her hair fell around her shoulders. Her eyes, iridescent as ever, grew wide, and her mouth fell open.

“Oh my God,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Who…?” the woman in the hijab asked.

Ollie,” the blonde woman said, softly. “Lewis…”

“Daisy,” Lewis said, dropping the binoculars and jumping over the railing.

Immediately, he threw his arms around her and burst into tears.


*


The bike went southwards along the M60 ring road via Stockport, then on the M56 for a stretch. Liberty was exhausted from flying all the way from Wiltshire to Manchester, and had her head on Chelsea’s back, with her arms around Chelsea’s torso. Chelsea was almost impressed that someone so small could have such a firm grip. She’d never admit it, of course. Too cool for that.

She was seeing through the bike’s “eyes”, looking at the four-hour-long ride ahead, and whatever awaited them in London.

She found herself worrying about Dolly, whether she’d make it to London alright. She hoped so. She was taking a big risk making this ride down practically alone. It was dark, now, and the bike’s headlamp was on, staring down the motorway at the stretch of road ahead. Through it, she could see the sky; a purple-black band of dark cloud, illuminated slightly in yellow on its western side by the setting sun.

Liberty had left a note in the kitchen back in Oldham: Gone to London. Don’t follow us. Stay put and stay alert. Chelsea Rose & Liberty Parish.

She hoped that they’d pay attention to the warning.

It had been troubling her, what Dolly had said, about the end of the world. It did feel like something had changed in recent months. The fight against the government was beginning to feel like a minor theatre in a much greater conflict. There was something nasty, just outside this comfortable little bubble, these soldiers and police and prisons. But she couldn’t define it.

Something was definitely up with the government. She was more than familiar with Conservative politicians, with their disdain for people of her kind. By virtue of gender dysphoria alone, she was an aberration to the traditional boundaries of sex and gender so valued by Biblical literalists and biological determinists of the sort that snivelled behind keyboards and voted Tory every four years.

Yet, something was different about this lot. The cruelty and severity they had manifested in a short space of time seemed to serve another end than mere authority. No, this felt like a government preparing for something. Some sort of collapse, some prophecy.

And when Chelsea thought back to Dolly’s words that night, naked and shivering even with the duvet around her, one thing kept going around and around in her head.

 

I think the end of the world is closer than we think.

 

By the time she had left her reverie, she realised that she had found her way on to the M6, completely on autopilot. Liberty was still sleeping soundly against her back.

She revved the engine and kept speeding southwards, hoping to God the world didn’t end before she could make it back.


*


“Anyone care to explain what’s going on?” Nas asked, as the four of them climbed into the back of the unmarked van.

“We’re friends of Daisy’s,” Ollie explained. “Haven’t seen her since Halloween.”

Daisy had spent the last few minutes alternating between tears, joy, and anger. She was currently somewhere between elated and angry.

“How the hell did you find me?” she asked, wiping her rainbow-shimmering eyes. “We’ve been keeping quiet up here.”

“Had a bit of help,” Ollie said. “There’s more forces at work in this country than you realise right now. And we trust that fucking rollerskater as far as we can throw her, so…”

“Wait,” Nas said, her voice dropping low. “You’re not…cops, are you?”

“Fuck off,” Ollie said, breaking into laughter. “Me? A cop? No fucking chance, mate.”

“Then what are ya?”

“We’re helping to right a wrong,” Lewis said, his voice croaky. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? Both of you. Change is coming, and coming fast.”

Nas furrowed her brow.

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold,” she murmured.

“Eh?” Ollie said.

“It’s Yeats,” Nas said. “I saw some graffiti on a billboard a while ago, and the words stuck in my head. I looked it up.”

Ollie and Lewis looked at one another.

“She’s been here, too,” Lewis surmised.

“Who?” Daisy said.

“You mean you don’t know?” Ollie asked.

“Clearly not,” Daisy said.

“Wait,” Nas said. “Do you mean…”

“She calls herself Naomi Carter,” Lewis replied. “But we’re not sure how much of it is her.”

Jesus,” Daisy whispered. “She went missing the same night I was—”

“Yeah,” Ollie said. “Turns out she did a bit more than go missing.”

“She’s been contacting people,” Lewis added. “In their dreams and things. Something about sleep, your brain’s sort of open to it. Sometimes she warns you of things to come. Other times she points you to things.”

“She contacted you, didn’t she?” Daisy said. “That’s why you came up here.”

“We had to, Daze,” Ollie said. “We’ve been lost without you.”

The tears came back to Daisy’s eyes.

“So,” she said. “Where do we go from here?”

“Come with us,” Ollie said. “Both of you. The way things are going, things won’t be safe much longer.”

“We can keep you safe from harm,” Lewis said. “It’s not just us two, you know. This is big.”

“Right on,” Ollie said. “And we need to be ready for what’s coming.”

“What’s coming?” Nas asked.

Lewis looked hard at her, so much so that she shrank back from him.

Yawm ad-Din,” Nas said, quietly. “Armageddon.”

Daisy folded her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll come with you. We just need to leave a note for Chelsea and Dolly—”

“No time,” Ollie said. “We didn’t just come here for no reason, Daze.”

“What do you mean?”

Ollie leaned forward.

“They’ve found you,” he said. “All of you.”


*


Liberty was awoken by the sound of shouting in her mind. She jolted awake, losing her grip slightly, then reflexively grabbed on to Chelsea’s chest.

Chelsea wheezed, then struggled out of Liberty’s grip. Evidently she had winded Chelsea, and almost crushed her ribcage.

Jesus!” she shouted, muffled through her helmet. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” Liberty said. “Something woke me up.”

She was disoriented. She had been so tired that her displeasure at following the roadways had been drowned out by a desire for sleep. But now she was fully aware of the noise, the smell and the polluted air. She started to feel nauseated, the blighted countryside all around her invaded by roadways, like colonies of contagious bacteria in a petri dish.

Then, something whispered: “Look out.”

Liberty turned.

She saw something flash behind them, then a flash of sparks bouncing off of a crash barrier along the side of the motorway, followed by a sound, a distinct thud.

Now Liberty was turned around, and saw something behind them in the dark – a large, rectangular motorcar, and mounted on its front, a very long, tube-shaped protrusion, half-illuminated by headlights, pointing straight at her.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

There was another flash.

Reflexively, Liberty gripped the bike between her legs and leaned her weight to the right.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chelsea asked.

Her question was answered in the same instant she asked it, as a projectile went sailing past them with a whistling sound, before smacking into the brake-light of a car up ahead.

Another thud.

“Oh, Jesus,” Chelsea said.

She sat up straight, assessing the situation in her mind.

“And we’re two hours away from London.”

“What does that mean?” Liberty asked.

“It means hold on,” Chelsea replied. “We’re not going to be safe until we hit the M25.”

“Wait,” Liberty said. “Surely you don’t mean?”

“I’m going to have to pull a few rabbits out of my hat. Hold on.”

The bike’s engine revved as Liberty gripped on tight.

Behind them, the gun fired again.

Now it was just a question of who blinked first.


*


In a small flat above a tapas bar in Camberwell, four people were waiting for news.

“God, I hope she gets here safe,” Dolly said, biting her nail.

“She will,” Harri-Bec said. “I’ve known Chelsea Rose for years. Nothing could kill that girl.”

Monica Eno sat in a corner next to a reading lamp, very studiously poring over The Hobbit. She had an Oxford Concise English Dictionary that she would occasionally open up and leaf through, before returning to the novel.

“Where did she come from?” Harri-Bec whispered.

“Long story,” Socks replied. “Me and Liberty…something happened, while we were on the run, and she was able to copy our souls into…listen, I don’t get it either, but she’s just really curious and naïve, and I need to look after her.”

Harri-Bec frowned.

“Something’s shifted,” she said. “Things just aren’t simple any more, are they? Back when it was Chesterton, it was…very clear and direct who the enemy was. Now…”

“Welcome to the real world,” Dolly remarked, bitterly. “The dominoes have started falling.”

A landline phone trilled in the hallway. The three looked at each other, and Monica looked up from her reading momentarily.

“I’ll get it,” Harri-Bec said.

She walked into the hallway and picked up the phone.

“Hello? Yes, they’re here. Alright. Understood. Once I have news on that I’ll let you know. Okay. Thank you. Bye.”

She returned to the room.

“That was K-Os,” she said. “She wants us at the Lucky Devil in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?!” Dolly said. “Christ, but Chelsea—”

“It is what it is,” Harri-Bec said. “Don’t shoot the messenger. We’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“Right, well, that’s very fucking comforting of you, Harri. Bliat.”

“What’s that word mean?” Monica asked.

“Never you mind,” Socks said. “Read your book, Monica.”

Monica looked at him sulkily and then returned to the book.

“It’ll be fine,” Socks said. “Listen, Dolly, let’s just get ready to go, alright? It’s like Harri said. If Death came for Chelsea she’d stick two fingers up at him and keep on going.”

“Christ, I hope you’re right,” Dolly said. “Alright. You going to—?”

She gestured at her chin, indicating Socks’s beard.

“Razors and shower gel,” Socks said, grinning. “Funny the things you miss while on the lam.”


*


The world had gone beautiful.

He knew this the second he was in the field, all poseys and marigolds, bluebells and tulips and begonias, on a hillside, an endless, eternal hillside. Was this Heaven, perhaps? He had never believed in God, but in this place, he felt the promise of something beyond this life. A place of peace and becoming. It was a nice thought.

He was walking a path through a patch of petunias when he saw the figure ahead of him. His first thought was that this did not belong in the tableau. Like a Francis Bacon intruding on a Monet. Horror and degradation and pestilence hanging over a joyous scene. Yet, he could not look away. He tried to call out to the figure, but all speech stopped in his throat.

The figure turned to him.

It was a man in military uniform, his eyes clouded and empty, one eye hanging half out of the socket, blood oozing down his face. There was a hole in his head. His lips had shrivelled, peeling back to reveal his teeth, clenched together like a memento mori. His facial expression, as far as it could be discerned, was one of peace, but at the same time, hatred.

He knew then that he was looking into the face of Warrant Officer Carlson.

“Carlson,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m dead,” Carlson replied, though his mouth didn’t move. “You killed me, Captain.”

“That’s right, I did,” the Captain replied. “But I had to.”

“Perhaps,” the ghoul replied. “It’s quiet out here.”

“Yes,” the Captain said. “Where are we, Carlson?”

The ghoul made a sound like a death rattle in its throat. Its teeth parted, and a wheezing cough of a laugh issued from its putrid, decaying throat.

“Carlson?” the Captain said.

“Don’t you know, Captain?” Carlson said.

Behind him, there was something bright, brighter than the Sun, rising above them, distant and yet not distant, far, far too close. Something fungiform, fast and all-consuming.

By rights it could be called Armageddon.

And as the flowers flashed into flame, and a wave of condensation came rushing up towards them, Carlson pointed at his killer.

“It’s Hell, sir.”

And he heard the sound of a door, the size of the Sun, slamming shut. A bang like no other.

He fell to his knees as the explosion obliterated him, gazing up at the sky.

There, perched above it all, was a red sphere, indifferently hanging over everything.


*


The Captain woke with a start.

Climbing out from under the covers, he marched to a bathroom, cleaned himself, then dressed in his uniform. He grabbed an eyepatch and positioned it over his eye.

Just a dream, he thought, positioning the beret on his head. Only a dream.

Wheezing now, he patted his pockets for the inhaler, taking a puff on it.

Grabbing his cane, he went from the room.

He felt a single drop of sweat roll down his forehead.

He reached up and wiped it away, then looked at the glistening drop on his fingertips.

Something wrong with the heating, perhaps.

He shook his head, then walked away.

He was going to get what he wanted today.

And what he wanted was the Rollerskater.


Another time, another place…


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ARC FOUR: BLOOD MOON
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII