Forgotness: Book 1: 200m
Wham to Feizor

“Really?” I was quite shocked.

“Really?” I asked again. Of no one in particular, not even God. I could feel him shaking his head and reaching down to lift me out of the rear floor well.

“Do you really think you are going to get away with that?” I could hear the girl’s footsteps fading away as she ran off.

She wasn’t going to avoid God’s damnation at death but it did look like I was going to have to speed up the process, The Monasteries would be wasted on her. I probably wouldn’t even bother with a Last Supper.

I got up onto the back seat. My groin was delicate. Even after all these years since the Viennese choirmaster’s knife, a well aimed blow could crumple me.

Well, I would give her a well-aimed blow when the time came.

I pulled myself out of the car. I couldn’t see anyone. I started off at a jog and soon got up to a sprint.

I reached a high fence. She would have been stuck here. Left or right? Left, they always thought left was unusual. I jogged down the fence line. Hah! A gap. I squeezed through into a trailer park.

I ran down the first row of lorries and then the second, running quietly, hoping to catch her movements. Nothing. Beyond was a wide open space and another row of trucks on the far side.

Lord, where was she?

Then it came to me, as it does. I could see an eighteen wheeler leaving the park. She was going to be hiding in the back of that. I started to run again. It was five hundred yards away.

But the trailer park was not tarmacked. It had big deep puddles and a covering of lumpy cinder that slowed me down.

By the time I reached the gate the lorry was 700 yards away, slowly making its way through town. I watched it turn left: it was heading north.

I run everyday, perhaps not in this clothing but that was not a problem. My body was sore, but what was that when you were doing God’s work? Not even an inconvenience, more like a reward. I liked the pain. It was encouraging to know that I laboured for the Lord.

When I turned the corner I could see that the lorry was still the same distance away. My only hope was to catch it as it slowed down going up the slope out of town.

The driver changed down gears to go up the long hill. I was six hundred yards away.

I imagined Jane sitting in the trailer, probably laughing at the way she had escaped, counting my money, throwing away my prayers.

I noticed a dark figure rolling out of the ditch behind the lorry, chase after it and then jump up onto the back of the trailer. Within seconds the figure had climbed up and disappeared under the cover.

They hadn’t seen me. Or at least they had given no sign that they had seen me. Who could it have been?

I ran on. Five hundred yards, four hundred, three hundred and the lorry was nearing the top of the hill. Two hundred. I heard the lorry change up a gear, it was starting to pick up speed. One hundred and fifty yards. I could read its number plate and I memorised the contact phone number stencilled on the trailer. Fifty yards and I was still gaining but only just, if it could just hold this speed for a little longer, just another minute, give me another thirty seconds! I could smell the fumes from the exhaust.

But it was not to be. It reached the top of the hill, changed gear in rapid succession and was off into the night.

I stopped to catch my breath.

But only for a second. Then I set off back down to Tissington.

I found a pay phone in a bar by the waterfront and phoned the Head Office to get the address of the Tissington Parish priest. Then I woke the priest and commandeered his car and took a few hundred dollars off him. I drove back to the port and using a tyre wrench as a crowbar forced open the boot of my car and got my suitcase out.

Then I drove off in pursuit of the truck which now had a good two hours head start on me.

I hoped it was heading to Buxton.

I stopped at an all-night garage and bought a disposable mobile phone and entered the number of the trucking company. They were closed. I would start again at 8am and keep dialling until I got an answer.

In the meantime I drove through the night as fast as the car and the road would let me.

I had daily prayers to catch up on and I found them calming in their repetitiveness. They cleared the mind and let God in.

I hoped I would learn why I had not caught up with the truck. I knew all would be revealed in good time but it was always nice to be given a heads up. God did work in mysterious ways.

My rosary beads trickled through my fingers as I mouthed the words.

The sun was rising as I drove into Buxton. The streets were empty but I found a cafe close to the centre of town. I waited in the queue and bought a coffee and a cheese sandwich. I asked where the lorries might go in Buxton, was there a business park or something like that? The cafe owner was not helpful but someone else in the queue pointed out that nothing would be open yet anyway and that most truckers liked to stop at a cafe just out of town.

I thanked the man and went back to the car. It seemed probable that I had driven right past Jane. I had let myself down and I had let the Lord down, again. I threw away the sandwich as penance and headed back the way I had come.

It was, as I suspected, right on the road I had driven in on. I could even see the lorry parked in amongst a row of other trucks. I should have been paying more attention earlier.

I parked as close as I could to it and sat watching the lorry and the cafe for a few minutes just to see if Jane would appear.

She could, I thought, still be in the trailer or sitting in the cafe watching me.

I took my jacket off and got out of the car. It was not much of a disguise but it might give me a few extra seconds.

I walked over to the back of the truck and climbed up and looked under the tarpaulin. The trailer was full of soil. There were hand and footprints everywhere. I could see where they had slept and probably had sex together. There were remains of food. Nothing personal though, no bags to come back for: they had left.

I climbed out and dropped to the ground straight in front of a man, presumably the driver.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He started. “I knew there was someone back there.”

I ignored him and went back to my car. The driver followed me, shouting. I put on my jacket. He recognised me now for what I was, a Priest, someone you do not mess with.

“Oh Father, I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you. Do forgive me, I thought you were... sorry, nothing.”

“Any idea where they went?” I asked him.

“Who? What? Them? It was more than one. Little Fu...Sorry. Er, no.”

“No one came into the cafe who wasn’t a driver? No family cars for them to get lifts with?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Who has left in the last half hour or so?”

“No one, none of the trucks can get in anywhere until after eight thirty. A couple of vans have come and gone. One had a trailer actually.”

“Remember anything about it?” I asked.

“Er, it was white. Probably a builder’s?”

“What’s it to you Priest?” Asked a surprisingly aggressive voice behind me. Most people are naturally quite afraid of us. After all, we are above the law having both diplomatic immunity and the complete cooperation of Prince John. But we also have an ambience of superiority that I like to think shows that we know more about, well, everything in life and the afterlife.

I turned to face the new speaker.

He was, much like any driver of lorries anywhere, large in all the obvious dimensions.

“Do you know where he went?” I asked quietly and politely.

“Are you interested in stowaways?” That was a mildly interesting reply, I thought. Then I caught a glimpse of his reversed ring. Ah! a mason, of course. They do like to consider themselves somehow equal to the clergy, laughable really but surprisingly useful sometimes, times, for instance, like this.

“Maybe I could buy you a coffee?” I offered.

“You’re very kind but maybe you would like to step into my office?” He pointed to a garishly painted truck across the car park.

“Yes,” I said, “that sounds like the very place. So, tell me, do you have a lot of ‘brothers’ in this line of work?”

I tried not to make my emphasis sound too comical. I don’t think he noticed. Probably just delighted to show me his cab.

He enjoyed unlocking his truck from a distance, the whole rig flashed in some specific order of lights. It probably looked more impressive at night. He climbed up one side and I the other.

“Dennis,” he said, holding out his hand when we were both seated, “Irish coffee?”

“Thank you Dennis, Father Jacob. Yes I would like a coffee, thank you.”

“I thought you might.” The great buffoon said, chuckling. I wondered how long this was going to take and whether it was going to be worth it in the end. He handed me a coffee from his thermos.

“This is an impressive machine.” I said looking round the dismal interior of black plastic and polyester curtains.

“OK Father, I’ll get to the point.” He said putting down his mug. “You’re after that girl we saw getting into the back of... of my friend’s trailer, aren’t you?”

“And if I am?” I asked.

“Well, my friends have other interests let’s say, but maybe, for the right price we can come to an arrangement that will appeal to all of us.”

“And what sort of arrangement would appeal to your friends exactly?”

After that it all got a bit boring really. Dennis seemed unsurprised that I wanted Jane dead and agreed to killing her once his friends had raped her. I would pay two hundred dollars now and three hundred when I saw the body. Dennis said I would be able to see the body in the morning. We agreed a drop off point for the rest of the money: under the Withens Brook Bridge on the A6024. Dennis made various poorly veiled threats about not paying up which I ignored and that was that. I handed over two hundred dollars.

While he was making the call to his friends I checked his itinerary for the next couple of days. It was all listed out on a clipboard tucked into a bay behind the gear stick.

When the call was finished he recounted the money and held out his hand.

“Cheers Gerard. Good doing business with you. Hope we don’t meet again.”

I suspected, well, I knew, he was being funny so I smiled and thought it best to give him a decent professional warning.

“Yes, I hope for your sake we don’t.” For the first time since we had met I saw a slight hint of fear, or maybe just doubt, that he might have finally gone too far this time, in his life.

And in a way I hoped he was right. I didn’t like it when people thought they were our equals. They needed to be shown the error of their ways.

I climbed down from the truck and considered going to the Buxton parish office but I decided that it was best to keep my current activity separate from our official endeavours. And anyway, the parish priests could be so provincial. Some even thought that they were here to help the locals. They had lost sight of the bigger picture. They had got too close to this world and forgotten about the next.

Instead, I booked myself into what Buxton presumably thought was their best hotel.

The Very Old Hotel was as I had suspected: the food was hot, the sheets recently cleaned and the decor expensively tired. But I had a long soak in what was probably not a bath used by the Queen of Scots.

Then I went down for lunch and ate an acceptable meal and spent the afternoon on my knees, in my underwear, flagellating my back to make amends for my many failings and failures.

Dennis had been unintentionally helpful when talking on the telephone to his compadres, his brothers. After a brief inspection of the map it seemed likely that the A6024 was not only the road for the drop off for the remaining money but also where the action would take place. Presumably at a suitably far off point, away from prying eyes. So I picked the highest point on the road that had trees around it and decided to head for there.

I considered staying for supper but thought better of it and set off in the late afternoon for the drive north. If I was right I might be in time to witness Jane’s killing at first hand.

I left Buxton and drove north fast. Like most laws in this land, speed restrictions did not apply to me. Considering the steepness of the many hills between Buxton and my destination I calculated that I could be going twice as fast as the van the entire time and that in two and a half hours I would be close behind.

There were, of course, other white vans on the road, but none with a trailer.

It was getting dark when I actually got to the A6024 and, shortly after leaving Woodhead, I thought I saw the van. I decided to turn off my car lights in the hopes that they would not see me following them. This made driving slower but they were not going fast anyway. I tried to keep them a mile or more ahead, their lights occasionally lancing out round distance corners.

After ten minutes or so I was surprised to see that they were signalling to turn off. It’s funny how some people, even those breaking the law in such a dramatic fashion like murder, will still abide by other rules like signalling before a turn, even when there was no one behind them.

A little time later I drove past their turn off and only stopped when I had gone on far enough so that anyone watching would assume that I had driven past. I put my car up on the verge, stopped the car, got out and headed back to the turn off.

The lane shone with white pebbles and silver puddles in the moonlight. I could see a bungalow and out-houses in the distance. The van and trailer was parked to the side where I could just see them. The outdoor lights switched off as I crept forward. This was not what I had lead myself to believe was going to happen, but it was a lot more sensible to do this off the road in a barn than on a main road like I thought the thrill-seeking murder-rapist masons were going to do. Who would have thought they had this much sense?

I went forwards carefully, very aware that this sort of establishment was likely to have the larger variety of guard dog, or worse, geese.

I climbed a fence into the garden. The most likely place was the barn but by now I was beginning to suspect I was very wrong about this, so I went up to the biggest front window and looked in.

A family sat watching the television. Father, mother and two children quietly glued to the box. The adults were drinking tea. I couldn’t help but shake my head in disgust. Such a homely sight might please a parish priest but it made my blood boil. Did the children know one single prayer? Slothfulness, greed, unholiness! I felt like torching the place with the doors nailed shut and them screaming within. Give them a taste of what was to come.

I walked away, not caring now if they heard me or not.

I got back to the car and set off again, this time with the lights on to get some speed up.

But it didn’t take long in the end. A few minutes later I saw reflections from a group of cars’ taillights up ahead. I switched off my own lights again and drove the last mile in the dark.

When I was a hundred yards away I stopped the car and after a few seconds peering into the darkness switched on my lights.

Two cars were up on the verge and what looked like four bodies lay on the road. There was no van.

I got out the car and inspected the bodies. All four were stabbed: one in the eye, one in the belly, one through the armpit and one up through the chin.

“My, Jane,” I muttered to myself, “is this really you?”

The wounds were different. Two different weapons, one a thick blade, the other a needle-like point, a poniard?

Jane could not have done this surely? She had my pistol for a start, why use a knife? This was someone who had the training to kill four men seemingly very quickly and efficiently, there were no other wounds, no misplaced cuts, no actual signs of fighting in fact, just death. Actually, there was a single hand lying on the ground, but still. It looked like some sort of professional? That figure, the dark figure who had got into the lorry as we had come out of Tissington was some assassin who had taken up with Jane? They knew Jane? No. Surely not. Was this just a coincidence then?

The bodies were an hour cold at least. The van must have been travelling faster than I had estimated. Would the alarm be sounded? Yes. How soon? Soon, easily soon, but on the other hand possibly not until morning. I checked the cars. Someone had pulled the distributor caps out of both cars. Why? Unless there were others still alive who could return. They had run off. They would return or keep running to get help. Or make a call.

I was in a quandary now: pull the bodies off the road so I could get past (or just drive over them) and risk coming to the attention of the police for not contacting them about this discovery or; contacting the police and being in control of the situation. There might be other benefits to that.

I pulled out my phone and called the police.

After a few rings I got an answer. I explained what I had found and was put through to the police station back in Buxton where mystification and puzzlement ensued.

The police did’t have much to do in Scotland to be honest. If someone considered doing anything illegal then normally the threat of being put outside the walls, banishment, put an end to it before it had even begun. And there was a lot of military around. In fact, I was expecting the military to get involved quite quickly once news of assassins got out.

I was wondering how to drop that nugget into the conversation when the policeman asked how the deaths had occurred.

“It looks like they were stabbed.”

“A knife fight then?” Asked the policeman.

“I’m not sure about a fight.” I said. “I’m no expert but there are no other wounds, not even a bruised knuckle. I think they were murdered before they knew what was happening.”

“Someone killed four men you say with a knife and there’s no sign of a struggle?”

“That does seem to be the case, Officer, yes.” I replied. “Though there may have been more than one killer, a gang maybe?”

“I think I had better contact the military about this.”

“Goodness, do you think?”

I was told not to move the bodies and to stay where I was. He said someone would be on their way immediately but from Buxton that meant a good few hours before I would be able to get any more information.

“A white van overtook me some time ago. I wonder if that was involved? Maybe they saw something?”

“Maybe, sir. Did you get the numberplate?”

“No, I’m sorry I didn’t. It was dark by then.”

“A big van? Medium? Would you know the make and model?”

“Sorry,” I replied, “I’m not good with makes. But it was medium sized.”

“Yes sir, I’ve got that. Right well, as I said, you stay there, don’t touch the bodies. If you could stop any other traffic from having an accident or destroying evidence then that would be most helpful.”

I could have given the police the numberplate on the trailer but I wanted to speak to Jane before they did. I didn’t want her saying anything untoward.

So, for the rest of the night, and into the early morning I stood by the roadside being civic.

I stopped traffic from both directions. I had to explain again and again what had happened, which was useful: it perfected my story in time for the arrival of the investigating officers.

By the time the military arrived at five in the morning there was quite a queue. A few cars had turned round and gone on the wide loop round the moors but most had just settled down to a night of broken sleep.

So, the army arrived and I explained again what I had found and when, and gave various other bits of information about myself.

The military were very interested in the wounds, as well they should have been. Whoever had made them knew what they were doing. They rolled the bodies over looking for more. So much for forensic evidence! But I think they were right, this was not some knuckle-headed yokels getting into a fight (well, I knew that already) but something much more. Something that did not need clever investigation, it needed to be chased and killed.

It turned out that there had been a break-in by Wetters at Hulland Gate. A mutant! Godless bunch. Now that made sense.

But did it mean that Jane was dead? Was she buried in the soil of the original lorry’s trailer? No. She had been seen by the truckers at the cafe, though not with a mutant. So she was alive and assisted by, or working with, or had become friends with a mutant Wetter?

The girl really was capable of the most extraordinary evil! I felt very justified in wanting her dead as soon as possible. The four masons here were of no consequence in comparison. Jane had to be stopped.

I went up to the Officer in charge.

“Did the police mention the white van that overtook me last night?” I asked, as helpfully as possible.

“Yes, they did Father, thank you.” She replied. I certainly did not agree with women officers but one has to be civil to them sometimes.

“And has it been seen?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure Father. I’m sorry, why do you ask?”

“Well, I can’t be certain but I have been asked to find a young lady who may be in considerable danger. It’s possible that she has been kidnapped by this gang.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Well, she was last seen outside Tissington in the company of a stranger who people, witnesses I spoke to, say looked different, let’s say.”

“Tissington?” repeated the officer, “and when was this?”

“It was two evenings ago now.”

“I see. And this woman is of interest why?”

“I’m sorry Captain, I’m not at liberty to say. But I am very worried for her.” I meant for her soul. Her life could go to hell. Which almost made me laugh. As it was I smiled in the fashion I know upsets everyone: benignly, beatifically.

“I’ll check again, see if anyone has called anything in,” said the lady officer.

The bodies were cleared off the road and the cars drove past slowly to get a good look. This was going to be the story of the week around here. Bigger still when they got to hear that Wetters were involved.

I got in my car and waited for the traffic to clear. I didn’t have much hope that the army would have any news for me but just as I started the engine the officer waved to me and I wound down my window.

“It’s possible the van has been seen.”

“Where is it?” I was annoyed that she made me ask, she could have just said.

“Calderbrook Bridge it seems. About an hour ago.”

“I am sorry, where is Calderbrook?”

“North of the M62, it’s the only way of reaching Pendle by land. Seems your girl is heading north.”

“I am sure she doesn’t want to,” I replied. I thought the woman officer was being bitchy, someone else I would have to deal with later.

I set off. Jane was nearly eight hours ahead of me now thanks to the bungling masons. All those songs about oranges and rolled up trousers, what a waste of skin. At least I wouldn’t have to pay for their efforts. But they had! Ha! A joke.

There then followed a long and tediously windy drive north, first to one coast then over to the other side, zig-zagging across this literally god-forsaken land, chasing a whore and a devil mutant wetter.

I needed to catch up on my prayers and I found the hard plastic ribbing of the parish priest’s cheap car quite satisfying to rub the welts and crusted sores on my back. My shirt would be bloody tonight. But I kept it up for a serious round of praying and self punishment.

My mission was simple really. For as long as I stayed in Topland I had to inflict personal damage on the Linux clan and its acolytes. To wound and tar its image of openness and freedom and generally be a thorn in its side. I had been following the Sisters of Mersey on their tour hoping for a way to hurt Linux and the appearance of Jane had provided that. It should have been simple enough: visibly and physically stop anyone getting close to the the band. It had seemed a reasonable plan at the time and the opening dramatics had gone well. But Jane had proved more able than anticipated.

I just could not understand this mutant connection. Was she really so liberated as to find it easy to join forces with a deformed Wetter?

This was becoming less about inflicting damage on Linux and more about Jane herself. Burning felt more appropriate now.

At noon I reached the Calderbrook Bridge and as I crossed it I was waved down by a soldier.

I stopped and opened my window.

“Mind if we check your car sir?” Asked the soldier. “If you could step out.”

I got out the car. Immediately his attitude changed.

“I’m sorry Father. We’ve been asked to stop and search all traffic over the Calderbrook Bridge.”

“So I hear.” I said allowing some anger into my voice. “But I fear that they have already got through. So why you have to stop me I don’t know.”

“Wasn’t my watch Father.” Said the soldier defensively. “But we’ve been told there may be more. So we have to search everyone I am afraid.”

“What time did they drive through here then?” I asked.

“I’m sorry sir you’ll have to speak to my CO about that.” He pointed to a cottage at the end of the road. A cosy billet for a layabout I thought.

“Thank you, I shall. Are you finished now?” I asked as he closed the boot of the car.

“Yes Father, thank you.”

I got back in the car and drove the short distance to the cottage, parked and knocked on the door.

A young man appeared doing up his top button as he opened the door. There was a slight pause to his actions when he saw who it was.

“Can I help you Father?” He asked.

“Yes. I am in pursuit of gang in a white van who have kidnapped a girl, a young girl. I have been told that she passed through this checkpoint earlier this morning. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the van and its occupants. The girl is in considerable danger.”

The young officer stared at me for rather a long time.

“As I have already explained, but I am happy to tell you too, yes, a van did pass through here this morning. We checked it thoroughly and there was only one occupant, a young woman who was willing to let us look in the back of the van. She seemed happy and unconcerned. There was no gang of mutants, no mutant assassins. No sign of danger. It was, in fact, clean.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Did you manage to enquire why she was here or where she was going, alone in this empty neck of the woods?” I asked pointedly.

“Yes,” replied the officer, “we did. She said she was working with a group of musicians and was looking for machines and materials for the band to make music with.”

“Make music with machines and materials?” I asked not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice now. “Really? And you believed this?”

“Why not? That pretty well defines how music is made don’t you think?”

“And the name of this wonderful group of talented musicians?”

“I think she said The Sisters of Mersey.” He was smirking now. “Good band.”

Sometimes I felt let down by the lack of smiting by the power that is.

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Yes, Scotland, by ferry from Keighley.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” And I wanted him to believe me that for all his facetiousness he had helped me.

And the thing was, he had. I knew Jane was telling the truth about Scotland: she was running to Linux, it was her only hope of protection. She lied about Keighley though. It would be difficult to get a Wetter onto a ferry. But there might well be places they could cross elsewhere.

I got back in the car and looked at the map.

There was a possible route west: over Colne and Clitheroe to the Forest of Bowland but then another journey to the mainland: Wham to Feizor, but that was too long with too many sea crossings. The north east was a shorter route, maybe just a single boat trip somewhere over Skipton or West Marton.

They were able to travel fast and hide on land, but at sea there would be nowhere to hide.

I decided that I needed a boat, that I needed to get ahead of them and be waiting for when they crossed.

I phoned the Cardinal’s Office and explained what I wanted.

I was phoned back twenty minutes later. There was a Fisher Of Men patrol boat only thirty miles to the west. It could get to the King’s Causeway in Briercliffe in two hours. Briercliffe was only 20 miles from Calderbrook.

I set off.

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