Pilgrimage Read online

  Pilgrimage

  By Carl Purcell

  Text copyright © 2014 Carl Purcell

  All Rights Reserved

  Written by Carl Purcell

  Edited by Jim Parsons

  Cover Art by Ebook Launch

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9941926-1-5

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedicated to Roslyn MacKay

  The English teacher that made school enjoyable

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Afterword: The Mythical Australia

  About The Author

  No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.

  -The Buddha

  Prologue

  Geoffrey shot upright. He reached for his side arm and scanned the room, corner to corner. The pounding came again and he dropped prone. He held his breath, listened to the vibrations rolling through the walls until the pounding stopped. He groped along his thigh, looking for the grip of his gun but only finding his shorts. Then the pieces fell into place. He wasn't under attack; he was in bed. He didn't have his gun, because he was retired. He let out a long, relieved sigh and sat up. He could still feel the adrenaline coursing, the mounting pressure in his muscles to hit something or run away or both.

  Before his eyes could completely adjust to the still darkness of his bedroom, he flicked on his bedside lamp. He peeled his sweat-soaked and tired old body from the bed and made his way to the bathroom to towel off. Once upon a time this much excitement was normal. Of course, back then he could finish his morning stretches without the sound of his bones cracking. The pounding came again. Somebody was knocking at the door. Probably a neighbour. No doubt Mrs Wilkinson coming to complain that Sparky had gotten off his chain and gone exploring near her house again. He had moved out to the country to get some solitude. Mrs Wilkinson had had the same idea but there wasn't enough empty land between them to match her idea of solitude ; she’d held a grudge against him and Sparky ever since they moved in.

  He hung up his towel, wrapped himself in a bathrobe and headed downstairs to the door. The pounding continued.

  “I'm coming!” he shouted. “Ease off the door, will you? Bloody hell.”

  He unhooked the chain on his door, turned the lock and pulled it open. On the other side stood a man – a man with dark, sunken eyes and skin stretched so tight over his high cheek bones it looked painful. The gaunt, suited figure smiled and gave the slightest of nods. Geoffrey felt his stomach turn and his half-digested dinner creep up his throat.

  “Good morning Geoff—” The man began. Geoffrey swung the door closed. The man jammed his foot against it. Geoffrey struggled against him but the door wouldn't budge. The man on the other side - no, not a man – to call him a man was an insult to men. He'd given up his humanity long ago. He was a monster, a devil. His name was Lloyd Crane and where he walked, death followed. Lloyd curled his long, bony fingers around the door and pushed. Geoffrey recoiled, letting the door open.

  “What do you want?”

  “Is this any way to treat a guest, Geoffrey? You know, you should be more like Griffith's parents. They were very hospitable.”

  “You bastard. What did you—” He continued backing up, keeping Lloyd at more than arm's length.

  “If I were you, Geoffrey...” Lloyd stepped in, closing and locking the door behind him. “I'd be more concerned about what I might do to someone who isn't so hospitable.”

  Geoffrey sighed and turned. He walked from the door to his kitchen and flicked on the light. There was no use fighting it. Coffee was what he needed now. Coffee and a miracle. Lloyd followed him as far as the kitchen and then took a seat at a table by the kitchen window. Outside, on the other side of the veranda, the moon's reflection rippled in the currents of the Hawkesbury River. A single light hung in the distance off a boat cabin roof.

  “This is a beautiful house you have, Geoffrey.” Lloyd said, still looking out the window.

  Geoffrey didn't answer.

  “It must have been expensive. I'd love a house like this. This view, all that space between you and the neighbours, the quiet. There mustn't be any noise out here at all. You would have to scream pretty loud for the neighbours to hear you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, I'll begin with coffee, since you're up. Actually, make that a tea. I'm dying of thirst.”

  “You're already dead.” Geoffrey scoffed. “And I haven't got tea.”

  “Then I suppose I'll go without.” Lloyd shrugged, still smiling, now watching Geoffrey's every move. Even when he turned away, Geoffrey could feel Lloyd's eyes burning holes into him.

  “If you don't want anything, you can get out.”

  “How about a sandwich?”

  “How about no?”

  “You're not doing yourself any favours, Geoffrey. Or perhaps you think—”

  “Listen.” Geoffrey sat down opposite Lloyd, coffee in hand. “You're either going to kill me or you're going to get out. But either way, you're not getting anything from me.”

  “You know, on second thoughts...” Lloyd reached his gaunt hand over the table and took Geoffrey's mug. “I think I will have a coffee.” He took a sip, slurping the coffee as long and as loud as he could.

  Geoffrey sat and did nothing.

  “Go and wake him up.” Lloyd said.

  “He's not here.”

  “Go and wake him up.”

  “I just bloody-well told you he's—”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Gone. And I'll be damned if I’ll tell you where he is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Go to hell. That's why.”

  Lloyd sighed. “What is it about him that inspires so much loyalty? Is his safety worth so much more than yours?”

  “It's not about loyalty. I like him fine and I owe Edan enough to put one of his students up for a few nights. Maybe I would tell you where he went if I thought it would save me. It's not like you'll catch up to him. He's got days ahead of you.”

  “What's your point?”

  “The point is, I was dead the moment I opened the door. Whether you get what you want from me or not, we both know how this ends. You've got nothing to threaten me with.”

  A pause followed. The kitchen and its two inhabitants sat silent and still. In the next room a clock ticked. Then the bells chimed three times. Geoffrey smiled.

  “If—”

  Lloyd swept the table aside. The coffee mug shattered against the wall. He grabbed Geoffrey by the neck. With one push he overturned the chair and Geoffrey's head hit the glass tile floor. Lloyd shouted, spraying spit and anger over Geoffrey's face. All Geoffrey heard was a distorted drone as the man tightened his grip. Geoffrey pulled in vain at his hand. He gasped for air. Then the pain hit. It started in his neck and spread in
all directions. In seconds it hit his heart and his whole body surged with agony. His body thrashed against the floor. He couldn't help it. His eyes bulged until he felt they were going to burst. He couldn't feel Lloyd's hand any more, couldn’t feel anything but the pain. Unable to control his body, Geoffrey beat his head against the floor and the world spun. He gagged and sucked the air but got nothing.

  When he'd retired, he’d become a pacifist. He hadn't so much as touched a gun or raised his voice in years. He'd tried to put all the violence behind him. He'd seen enough in fifteen years in the military and twenty-five years on the force. Some people could escape it. Some people had all the luck.

  The world faded at the edge of his vision and darkness crept in around him until, at last, what life his old bones still had, blinked out.

  Chapter 1

  Roland gripped the sides of the machine to steady himself and stared at the ATM screen until it came into focus. A whole twelve dollars and eighty-three cents in his account. Another full twenty dollars sat in his wallet. Roland considered the best way to make this money stretch out for the rest of his life and then decided, screw it, he wanted another drink.

  For a while, he'd had it good. The accident had left him a little scarred and very unemployed. The foreman said they couldn't have a reckless alcoholic working construction. True, maybe. Maybe he shouldn't have been working there, shouldn't have been operating a nail gun when he couldn't see straight. Whatever. They still owed him for his hospital bills if nothing else. He had phoned up a lawyer and the lawyer agreed. The worker's compensation tribunal had agreed, too. They decided he even deserved a bit more.

  After selling his car and moving into a cheap hotel, he made that pay-out stretch over six months. Now a big door stood between him and an easy future and the sign on the door said: Sorry, pal. You're shit out of luck.

  Or maybe he was just staring at the door back to the bar-room and maybe he was so drunk, he didn't have the slightest clue what the sign said. It didn't matter, anyway. His good friends Jack and Daniels were waiting for him back in the bar and he wasn't about to let a little thing like being broke get in the way of his favourite pastime. He grabbed the door handle, steadied himself, and headed back to the bar.

  The bar was busy; a handful of non-regulars were drinking tonight. One corner of the room had been taken over by a crowd of bikers passing through. Two blokes looking like they'd come straight from the gym sat at a table near Roland, chatting up a petite blonde thing in a tank top that Roland also hadn't seen before. The blonde's dark haired, be-spectacled friend sat alone at the table beside them. Roland wasn't sure why they'd chosen to ignore her. There was nothing wrong with the way she looked. If he were a younger man, he might have taken it upon himself to correct that injustice. But all he wanted was to drink and let drink; they'd all chosen a fine place to spend their evening.

  Roland liked the Oxley Tavern and liked that most everybody there on any given night knew him by face or by name. The bar-room was long overdue for refurbishing; the once navy blue carpet had been stained a variety of interesting colours over the years – spilled beer, vomit and even a little blood – but half the lights didn't work, so you couldn't really tell. But for all its faults, their prices couldn't be beat and the staff were friendly. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

  He grabbed another drink and took it to a table in the corner, where he could nurse it quietly and watch the horse races on the TV. He got comfortable in his chair, sat back and prepared to spend the rest of the night there.

  Then something caught his eye; somebody he didn't know had just walked in. He wasn't the only one to notice the new-comer. The kid turned heads like a rat walking into a five star restaurant. They were all strangers to Roland, but they still looked like they belonged. This new-comer at the door couldn't have looked more out of place if he’d tried. Young, clean cut, smiling, full set of teeth, backpack hanging off his shoulders and crisp white sneakers on his feet.

  He walked up to the bar said something to the bartender. The bartender gave the kid a look he usually reserved for people who had run out of money and were still trying to order a drink. The kid said something else and the bartender poured the kid a lemonade. Roland didn't mind non-drinkers in the pub any more than he minded non-smokers, vegetarians and Catholics. As long as they didn't try to push their beliefs on him, they could think what they liked. His curiosity satisfied for the moment, he turned back to his beer, smiled and brought it to his lips like a lover.

  Roland saw the kid again as he walked by, looking for a place to sit. He watched him struggling to navigate the bar room crowd. Then the door opened again. Roland turned to check who was coming in this time. Another stranger, twig-thin, grey haired and dressed in a suit. He looked sickly but moved like a predator on the prowl. Everything about him made Roland uncomfortable. Roland made a mental note to keep clear of him. The grey-haired freak took a long, deliberate look over the crowd from the door and set his eyes on the new kid. The freak slithered through the crowd, right up behind the kid and whispered in his ear. The kid froze up like a dog catching a whiff of something bad. Panic turned his face pale. He looked ready to scream. The freak ran his hand over the kid's shoulder. It make Roland too sick to bear.

  Roland stared down at his drink. He'd hardly touched it. It wasn't really his business. He looked back at the tall, greasy queer. Roland liked this pub. If he got kicked out of this pub too, he'd have nowhere close to home where he could drink. He didn't need to get involved. Normally he wouldn't let that kind of rudeness slide but maybe he would, just once. Live and let drink. If the kid didn't like queers cracking onto him – and why would he? – then he could sort it out.

  But then again, screw it, why not?

  Roland left his beer, trailing his fingers along the perspiring glass and promising to come back. He lurched over to the faggot and tapped him on the shoulder. The freak turned. Roland laid him out flat in one blow. The freak fell back onto the blonde girl as she came from the bar. She fell back onto a table behind her. The table fell, beer splashing over everyone around it.

  The group at the table were all beards and tattoos wrapped in leather jackets – your average biker gang with a not-so-average mean streak. The bikers took a look at the girl and decided she was too cute to be at fault. Then they looked at the sissy laid out on the floor and decided he was too unconscious to be at fault. That just left Roland.

  From the other side of the room, Roland could hear the girl's suitors calling at him and pushing their way through the stunned crowd.

  He had just enough time to look back at his drink before the shit hit the fan.

  The bikers were on him like lumps on a cane toad. The girl's suitors struggled against the bikers for Roland-beating rights. Then security tried to cut in and there wasn't a safe corner left in the pub. They were joined by a handful of working class heroes trying to restore order to the bar.

  Roland wasn't as young as he used to be but age had brought him experience. Even drunk, he didn't take long to slip back into the old routines. First, get them off balance or go for the gut and knock the wind out of them. Then hit them with the knees, elbows and anything sturdy you can get your hands on. Everything looked a little out of focus but, the way Roland saw it, his opponents needed every edge they could get.

  The first biker to come at him dripped cheap beer from his beard. Roland kicked his knees out, throwing him off balance. He grabbed the biker by the back of the head, slammed his face into the bar and let him drop. His friends trampled over him to get closer. One threw a haymaker and another one got behind Roland to cut off his escape. Roland skipped back, throwing his body against the biker behind him. The haymaker hit nothing but air. Roland rushed forward, thrusting his elbow out and hitting Mr Haymaker in the nose. He felt the cartilage crack. Tears started to fill Mr Haymaker's eyes. Roland grabbed a schooner from the bar and smashed it across the blinded biker's head. With blood, tears and shards of glass covering his face, he was out of the game
. But the biker behind Roland had recovered. Roland felt something heavy come down on his back and heard wood splintering. He stumbled on the beer-soaked floor, right into an angry security guard, who tried to grab him but couldn't get a hold; instead he pushed Roland further down. Roland hit the floor head first. A second later someone dragged him up again. Roland didn't check who it was before turning and head-butting them out of his way.

  Roland's head throbbed, his back ached. He felt alive. This beat the hell out of a quiet night watching the races. Roland breathed heavy through a wide grin and looked for a new opponent in the crowd. Anybody would do.

  A blurry bouncer-like figure had a biker in an arm lock. Roland let his eyes focus on the pair, then reached out and wrapped his hands around the bouncer's neck and jerked him back. The bouncer hit the floor. The biker fell too, flattening the bouncer beneath him. Roland launched off the bodies and onto one of the other bikers. They both went down, Roland on top. Without pause, he threw fist after fist into the biker's face. By the time somebody dragged him away, the poor bastard's face was an unrecognisable red and purple mess. Roland thrashed against his captors until something sharp hit his leg. He didn't know what it was, but it made him lose all feeling. He grabbed a chair for support before he went down again.

  Somebody blew a whistle. Shouting followed. Roland caught sight of police at the door. Whoever held him let go and his legs buckled under his own weight. Before he could make another move, somebody slipped his arm over their shoulders and hoisted him up.

  “I got you,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Is there another door?”

  “Behind the bar. Towards the toilets,” Roland answered, not sure who he was talking to. His vision was cloudy and sweat dripped over his eyes. His leg hurt like hell and his stomach was about to empty itself all over the pub, but he was moving, being led by somebody.

  “Got it. My name is Griffith. Try and walk with me. I'm getting us out of here.”

  “Good to meet you, Griffith. I'm—” Roland stopped and swallowed before the remnants of his dinner introduced themselves.