DARK BECKONING

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Online Price:   $31.00

ISBN: 978-1-921240-62-1
Format: A5 Paperback
Number of pages:353
Genre: Fiction/Thriller

                                                            Author Biography                                                                                                                               

The author was born in Kilmarnock , Scotland and emigrated as a three-year-old in 1956.  

He has a Diploma of Arts and worked as a Production Designer in television for eleven years and then as a kitchen designer.  

Dark Beckoning is his first novel and three others are underway. He currently resides in rural Victoria .

PROLOGUE

1.

Marty was an inquisitive kid. At nine years of age, most kids have a fascination for the forbidden, but no one could hold a candle to Marty’s penchant for being nosy. So, when his parents told him to stay away from the Ramp, it was akin to waving a red rag at a bull. After all, Marty had played at the Ramp before and just couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, so as he dawdled home from school on that late autumn afternoon he tossed around in his mind the consequences of what he was about to do. Marty and his family were from Northern Holland and he carried in him the determined, often stubborn streak, which earmarked his ancestry. But he was also very much aware of the caning his backside would receive if his parents found out he had ignored their very explicit instructions, besides Marty was an inquisitive kid.

He stood in the small clearing watching the late afternoon sun cast a myriad of shadowy patterns through the naked branches of the densely packed willow trees surrounding the area, as he immersed himself in his own little fantasy world. Perhaps because of his drifting mind, he failed to notice the unearthly silence that had fallen over the area since he had entered the private domain, or, perhaps it was the sudden silence that enhanced his fantasy. The symphony of sound that normally greeted any visitor to the clearing was shut off suddenly as if a cosmic disc jockey had whipped the playing arm off a recording of innumerable birds, frogs, crickets and the distant lowing of cows in nearby fields. Perhaps, if Marty had not been so hypnotised by the play of light and shade and the appeal of his own fantasy, he might have noticed the unnatural atmosphere and perhaps then, he might have heeded his parents warning... but, then again, Marty was an inquisitive kid.

As he wandered through the shadows, he picked up a twig that had dropped from one of the trees and began to parry and thrust with it as if in an imaginary sword fight, which was just where his mind had placed him. His eyes fell upon the centre of attention in the clearing, the Ramp and for an instant, his fantasy soaked brain tried to register on his conscious mind that something had moved ever so slightly within the shadowy area underneath the Ramp. But, he was enjoying himself too much to heed the possibility of any warning or danger and he dismissed the fleeting notion as a trick of the light. Marty wandered over to the Ramp pretending he was Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, just waiting for the skeleton army to come bursting out of the ground as had happened in the movie his parents had taken him to see at the drive-in theatre. He would drive them off as Jason had done and escape with his glittering prize, in this case, an oily rag which he planned to discard long before he got home. Man, Marty loved that movie.

He stood before the Ramp waving his stick like a sword, totally absorbed in his battle with the skeleton warriors leaping off the Ramp at him, oblivious to the fact that his own grunts and groans were the only sounds to reach his ears and oblivious to the black tendril which extended from under the Ramp and crept towards his shoe. As the ropy tentacle of slithering blackness touched the toe of his shoe, the clearing erupted in a cacophony of noise as the surrounding wildlife suddenly found voice. Marty’s piercing scream of terror was lost in the explosion of sound. Moments later, the deafening sounds subsided to a more natural level as one adventurous cricket scuttled past the Ramp, stopping for an instant to investigate the crumpled football beanie that had previously adorned the head of a would-be Argonaut. Deciding that the beanie was inedible, the little creature quickly continued on its way as if fearing a similar fate to the stick-wielding boy. Marty’s devastated mother stood before the investigating officer, wringing the beanie in her hands, the only tangible evidence of his inexplicable disappearance off the face of the earth. When asked why he would have gone to that area despite strict instructions to the contrary she could only stumblingly reply… “Marty was such an inquisitive kid.”                              

2.

Four years later…  

Air rippled under the structure like disturbed pond water and blackness spilled out of the shimmering orb onto the concrete base of the Ramp. It paused and became still as if listening… sensing.  

The entity’s senses were universal, its existence eternal and it knew that another part of the cosmic battle would be played out here… it waited. It sensed the approach of a small boy and the proximity of many others, three of whom would play key roles in its manipulations. It sensed the existence of others connected to the three, which the entity had touched in the past, this was appropriate and not uncommon. There were few on any world in any universe that had escaped the touch of the darkness, it was always interesting to revisit those that had managed to survive.

The solitary boy drew near, he would begin the series of events in this realm and if the entity could have grinned it would have done so as it envisaged the coming madness to be inflicted upon these creatures. The darkness waited, as it did so well, and as the boy approached it slid its senses outward.

ONE  

First week of summer... last day of school… a magical combination in the mind of any child. Bill and his Comets were starting to fade, Elvis was in full swing and the Beatles were just gathering serious momentum, like a runaway freight train, but all that was on this small boy’s mind as his sneakered feet slapped the pavement was two months of fishing, riding, climbing trees and general goofing off. ‘Bliss on toast,’ thought Glyn as he neared the intersection of his street, Torella Avenue with Hemley Street along which lay his school, Hemley Primary.

Glyn Wallace was a small skinny boy with wavy brown hair that refused all efforts to be combed into order, unlike his mind which was in direct contrast to his disordered locks. Glyn had topped his class in results in the five years he had attended Hemley Primary, only being pipped for school honours by a strange kid with an unusually high forehead who would eventually end up in a school for highly gifted children. But, school results were a distant sliver of thought as he bounced down the street past some of the smaller two-bedroom cottages on the housing estate. So engrossed was he in the anticipation of the summer vacation that he did not register the sound of a door slamming behind him, nor the sound of running feet approaching fast over the lawns fronting the little houses. A hand on his shoulder and a voice bellowing, “Hey Peewee, wait for me,” snapped him violently out of his reverie as the tall ruddy-­faced youngster fell into step alongside him.

William John Davies, a Welsh boy whose family had moved into the estate in the same year as Glyn’s and whose father, also, like Glyn’s, worked at the massive oil refinery nearby. The housing estate was funded by the refinery and its backers, a Dutch parent company, and supplied housing for its employees at a very cheap rate. It was a mixture of the little two-bedroom cottages, slightly larger three-bedroom jobs, up to the more expansive houses for the refineries executives. Glyn’s father was a security officer at the refinery and Williams dad worked as a fireman so they both lived in the smaller houses on offer. The estate was a mixture of Scottish, Welsh, English and Dutch families, but surprisingly this multi-national mish-mash lived together in relative harmony, bonded by their work and by the ease at which their children forged and maintained friendships. The crime rate was virtually zero around the estate apart from some childish pranks like throwing unripe apricots onto the roofs of houses and listening to them clatter down the tiles as they ran away laughing.

A surly bully of a kid had enticed Glyn into participating one evening and the adrenalin high he had experienced as he had hurled the fruit and then pelted down the street had almost lured Glyn into a new realm where perhaps being the good guy and win­ning at school were not so important. He and Billy Watson had skidded around the block into a vacant parcel of land and Glyn had looked into the wildly grinning face of Billy and for a split second had a glimpse of what would become the disaster of Billy Watson’s life.

Even through this mind boggling moment of epiphany, Glyn had heard the pounding footsteps of someone approaching at a fast clip and had spun on his feet and tore off across the vacant block just as the home-owner had whipped around the corner and grabbed Billy by the scruff and dragged him away. Glyn could still remember looking back over his shoulder as he ran in terror now and could still see that wild grin splitting Billy’s face as he was dragged around the corner. Glyn had been terrified for days that the police would arrive on his doorstep to cart him away, but it had never happened. He had avoided Billy like the plague until he was promoted to High School the following year. Apparently, Glyn discovered later, the home-owner had only kicked Billy up the arse and then told his parents who had grounded him for a while, but, to his credit, Billy had never ratted on Glyn, honour amongst criminals he supposed.

It was thirteen years later to the day that Glyn’s premonition came true as he read in the paper about the unfortunate demise of Billy Watson who had been smeared all over the highway by a sixteen wheeler, fully ­loaded and doing sixty miles an hour. Billy, stoned out of his scone, had lain down in the road at two o’ clock in the morning and according to a jogger who witnessed the horror, Billy Watson had yelled out in a dreamy voice with a wide grin on his face just before the massive truck turned him into raspberry jam “God sucks the big one!”

The estate itself covered an area approximately a mile by half a mile. Centrally located within the estate were two huge playgrounds about a hundred yards in diameter. These playgrounds were separated by a double row of houses, which effectively divided the estate in half. An avenue surrounded each playground and was lined with houses of varying sizes; Glyn’s house was on the south side of the avenue and like all of them, faced directly into the playground, where the swings, slides and see-saws quickly became a focal point for nearly all the children on the estate. Torella Avenue in which Glyn and William lived opened out at the east end onto Hemley Street and across from the T-intersection stood three tennis courts bounded by cyclone wire fences fifteen feet high. It was just as Glyn was about to turn into Hemley Street that his friend had bounded up next to him and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Howya doin’ Peewee?” asked the eternally affable Willie.

“I’m doing okay, but thanks to you, you smelly little nose-picker, I nearly filled my pants,” replied Peewee with a huge grin on his face.

Willie guffawed delightedly. Peewee, Willie and their other companion, Davey MacDougall, were inseparable friends, their nicknames and good-natured insults only highlighting the bond between them. The natural curiosity of the eleven-year-olds enabled them to form close friendships despite the differences in origins and cultures; a lesson their parents could well have taken heed of. For although they too formed friendships with their neighbours and workmates, it often seemed with a reticence that escaped their free-spirited children.

Hemley Street Primary School played host to more than just the estate children, it also served a fair portion of the surrounding district and mostly outlying farms. But it was the community atmosphere of the estate that bonded a lot of the children, especially, Glyn, William and Davey.

Peewee and Willie wandered down Hemley Street towards the school. On their left were more of the smaller houses like their own, but on the opposite side of the street, there were no houses. There were the tennis courts opposite the entrance to Torella Avenue , then about fifty yards of open ground before you came to the Community Hall. A big empty rectangular building with a stage at one end and a small kitchen, it was used for meetings, dances, school concerts, markets and as a scout hall. Further along this side of the street, about sixty or seventy yards from the hall stood the small cottage which housed the school headmaster and next to this was the school itself. Hemley Street continued past the school as a dirt road bounded by open paddocks and willow trees through which cows meandered, their soft lowing acting as bass counterpoint to the more shrill tones of countless birds, crickets and frogs. On the left-hand side of the dirt road lay a more densely treed area accessed by a short rutted track; this was the trio’s favourite playground: The Ramp.

Opposite the school, Mirula Road ran away to the west for about three hundred yards, before it swung left into a short, tree-lined court. This was where the executives of the Refinery lived and where Glyn and his friends sometimes rode their bikes and played with the executives’ children. As they waited at the intersection of Hemley and Mirula for the third member of their little clan, Glyn exclaimed, “Jeez Willie, don’t you ever stop?”

It was at this point that Glyn had noticed his pal, as usual, with one finger jammed up his nose as far as the first knuckle and rummaging within as if in search of some long lost treasure.

“Getting much?” added Glyn, a grin splitting his face again.

“Not enough to have for lunch,” quipped Willie.

For Willie had the unfortunate habit of sitting in class listening intently to the teacher whilst one finger would visit his nostrils in search of the ever-present boogies, and any that came out delicately balanced on the end of his finger, promptly found their way into his mouth to be munched on whilst his finger went in search of the next course.

“Your whole hand will disappear up there one day and then you’ll be able to thumb your nose at people without even trying,” laughed Glyn.

“The only thing that will disappear will be my foot as it disappears up your bum, turd-brain,” replied Willie.

And with that, both boys broke into gales of laughter as David ‘Davey’ MacDougall approached along Mirula Road . The smile that lit up Davey’s face when he first sighted his companions soon expanded to giggling when he heard their laughter, for although he wasn’t aware of the joke, it was enough that he was in their company again.

“What’s up?” he inquired.

“Only Willie’s finger,” gurgled Glyn. “Up to the elbow that is.”

“Or my foot up to the knee, depending on where you’re standing,” choked Willie.

Davey stood patiently, with a grin from ear to ear, waiting for his pals to calm down from their hysterical cackling, so he could get some sense from them. He wasn’t too hopeful. As he watched them, he pondered on how basically different they were and yet how close they had become since they all met five years ago. Glyn and himself had been born in Scotland , but had arrived on the estate at too early an age to have retained much of an accent. He had met Glyn on the very first day of school five years ago and something had seemed to pass between them even at that early age, but they had only been part-time companions until a few months later when a freckle-faced Welsh kid had seemingly provided some sort of emotional link between the three boys, because they had become inseparable, drawn together not only by childhood friendship, but, also by some inexplicable bond that none of them could attempt to explain until many years later when events would shape and alter their lives forever.

Davey watched Peewee, tears streaming down his cheeks, his wavy brown hair falling over his forehead, and saw more than the short skinny kid that anyone else would see at first glance. Davey knew from their play together that Glyn’s exterior belied the wiriness of developing muscles and that his mind was razor sharp, both at school and when in pursuit of less demanding pastimes. Davey’s attention switched to Willie who was sitting on the ground holding his stomach, still laughing heartily. He was a good head taller than Glyn and about as skinny, his teacher once describing the red-headed, freckle-faced boy as being like a bunch of rubber bands in perpetual motion, because Willie could run like the wind. Once he got those gangly legs motoring you were left chewing dust. Davey pondered that he was the ‘big-boy’ of the trio, as tall as Willie, but big-boned and solid for his age, a product of many generations of Scottish dockyard workers topped by a shock of jet-black hair.

Glyn and Willie slowly returned to the world of sanity, Glyn wiping the tears from his face and Willie regaining his feet and slinging his schoolbag over his shoulder.

“Have you guys finished yet?” asked Davey still grinning. “We’ll be late for school if you don’t cut your comedy act.”

“Okay, okay, we surrender,” gasped Glyn. “We’ll come quietly; I’m going to bust something if I laugh any more.”

“Only Willie’s finger if you poke him on the nose,” quipped Davey.

“Oh, please, no more,” pleaded Willie his arms wrapped around his middle again. “You two will be the death of me; laughter poisoning the doctor will say.”

“That’ll be more like boogie poisoning,” added Davey unable to resist joining in on the joke.

With their renewed laughter ringing through the cool morning air the three friends crossed Hemley Street at the school crossing and made their way into the school grounds. Hemley Street Primary was nothing fancy as far as schools went, it was one of the first schools built in the district and the original bluestone single classroom still stood, front onto Hemley Street . The newer half-dozen classrooms extended back from this structure in a straight line, the northern aspect of these buildings overlooking an unpaved car park and bicycle racks. The southern side looking out onto an asphalted quadrangle and playground, beyond which were the toilet blocks and then the grounds of the headmaster’s cottage.

At the eastern end of the school buildings a line of huge pine trees ran from north to south separating the quadrangle and buildings from an acre of open field which served as sports ground and general play area. This was bounded by simple wire fences, which formed the school boundaries. Hemley Street Primary was rustic and quaint but, it served its purpose as the springboard for young children to begin the long haul to maturity. Some would have to get there sooner than others.

The three boys paused at the gateway entrance to the school and as one they looked longingly down the dirt road as it speared past the school-grounds towards the welcoming willow trees where they would probably spend a large portion of their holidays playing. The boys all looked at each other with big cheesy grins on their faces, knowing full-well, without speaking, what each was thinking and with great anticipation of the weeks ahead, as one, they turned and walked through the gates. If they had stood there a few moments longer they would have sighted the lone figure trudging dejectedly along the dirt road towards the school.