Dana

Dana

David William Kirby

©Copyright 2014 David William Kirby

Smashwords Edition

The Dogbreaths Publishing

ISBN: 9781311613721

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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01/03/2014

Standing in the center of London’s Kings Cross train station it’s hard to believe there are so many very lonely people in this city. Surrounded as we are, by crowds of fat people, thin people; the rich, the poor and those with kids and those hopeful lovers. Then you see the extremely young and the very old; all going somewhere, watched by those going nowhere.

You can watch them every day dragging their luggage, their battered old cases and their beautifully crafted bags, or perhaps just a dirty old rucksack, behind them. Of course, this is just the baggage you can see.

Some people carry baggage you cannot see, buried under quaint smiles and polite conversation, the baggage of life; hidden in that place we let no-one into. It may be the record of a bad relationship, or schoolyard bullying, it may contain years of hateful regret and loathing. Perhaps it’s the memory of an unfinished suicide note, or a distant incident, a memory laced with guilt? But one thing’s for certain; these bags can be dark and heavy loads.

Occasionally they burst their locks or leak their contents, with trembling lips and floods of tears, when we are hurt or weary of life; or in those quiet moments when we are alone with our real selves. But for most of the time this dark stuff is buried, deep within that person only we know.

Brenda Sullivan had lots of baggage like this.

It wasn't strung over her shoulder next to the fake La Crox handbag she dragged everywhere, or at her feet, neatly shod in a plain pair of cheap sandals. Brenda’s baggage was carried in her heavy 34 year old heart and only seen on lonely moonless nights; when her mind wandered into the past.

At these infrequent times she may find a single tear running down her face, or another line added to the crow’s feet at the side of each eye; perhaps another gray hair would grow. She would have to catch herself from brooding, slipping into it and force it to stop! Then she would push it back down inside; into that inner box marked ‘Do Not Open’.

In the past double vodka, or a gin with lemon, would help to dump these deeply troubling feelings back in there; but that was when she was younger. She was proud to say now that she wasn’t like that any longer.

Others use meditation, some swear by opiates and chocolate, whereas Brenda used to drink to help her keep those feeling locked up tight; but no longer.

She was sober five years and going strong; able to take a deep breath and snap out of that dark space using just her inner strength; a strength born through anger. Brenda used anger to lock those destructive thoughts away unseen; hidden where they can cause no damage.

She was angry at many things in her world, with her parents, the upbringing she had. She was angry with the church and with God; but mainly she was angry with herself. That anger gave her strength.

Brenda looked at the train times and saw the next train to Birmingham was leaving in five minutes from Platform Three. She looked across the heads of the crowds who were also inspecting the transit times and saw Platform Three was just a short walk away.

She flashed her ticket to the staff guarding the platform gates and climbed aboard the Virgin Intercity looking for a vacant seat. The journey was due to take just over an hour. Arriving at Birmingham by fourteen fifteen; enough time to have a bite to eat in the dining car, read a little or get a few moments sleep; but first she needed a seat.

Brenda squeezed into a set of four and found herself sitting opposite an elderly man in a blue suit reading a copy of the Guardian. He smiled as she squeezed by his knees and sat down; he lifted his newspaper to cover his face. It was then she saw the advert for the conference that she was heading to Birmingham to attend. In bold, blue text, the strap-line announced

‘Disclosure 2014 at the Birmingham N.E.C’

Guest speaker Dr. Stephen Bailey who’ll be signing copies of his book

"The Reality of (Benevolent) Alien interaction"

Under the advert was a story about woman who had given birth to a child after her husband’s vasectomy, The Miracle Child, the story proclaimed. Brenda found herself thinking about her own childhood in rural Aghavrin; it was a typical ideal of country living, situated in County Cork, Ireland.

Suddenly a vivid memory flooded into her brain. She was sitting beside an open hearth burning clumps of peat, in that drafty old cottage, which was her home back then. A small two bedroom house with just a kitchen and living room on the ground floor and a bathroom up next to the bedrooms.

Her father Noel Sullivan, the local drunk, was sprawled across their bare concrete kitchen floor. A bottle of Irish-Whiskey gripped in his arthritic fingers. He was, as usual, unshaved and ruddy faced as men who worked the land tended to be in those days.

You old bitch.... The man groaned in his uncouth way as Brenda’s mother entered the room; holding a clean cloth to her head. Noel Sullivan had lashed out as soon as he had seen Mary, his long suffering wife, and punched her. She was glad the punch did not connect properly because of his intoxicated state.

Then he’d stumbled into the kitchen, to retrieve the whiskey, and promptly fallen over. This had saved her from getting a more severe beating. His inebriation prevented movement and this occupied his frustration while she stepped over him. The child was in the kitchen alone which was the only reason she’d followed him into the room.

Shut up… Brenda’s mother said in a hushed voice as a response to his cursing.

…You’re drunk.

And you’re a fucking whore. Noel spat, pulling himself up, and sitting cross legged in the center of the room; taking the top of his whiskey bottle and gulping it back.

Can’t you see you are scaring the child? She said lifting the girl in her arms and placing her on her hip. Brenda remembered putting her arms around her mother’s waist and smelling that scent of hers.

That smell could dissolve fear and make the child deaf to bad language or threats of violence. Her mother placed a soothing arm over the child’s head and pushed her to her beating heart.

Come darling… Mary whispered softly into the child’s ear. …let me take you to bed now.

You fucking old whore! The old man mumbled, wagging a crooked finger in their direction.

If I have to come over there, I’ll batter the both of you. Do you hear that woman? I’ll batter the both of you.

Excuse me… A tall, blond haired man asked; instantly snapping Brenda from her daydream.

…is this seat taken?

No, help yourself. Brenda smiled making room for the well dressed stranger to sit down. He was thin and his smart blue suit, a crisp white shirt and blue tie gave a sophisticated impression; as his knee touched hers for a millisecond she felt a shock of excitement run down her spine. He smiled awkwardly and she saw his teeth were straight and white; he smelt good.

Just then a whistle blew and the train burst into motion. Brenda glanced out the window as the platform slid past, leaving waving people with hankies, porters pushing bag carts and cleaners sweeping the platform. The platform was covered by an almost endless span of iron and glass, which made up part of the new refurbished station, began to fade into the distance.

She looked around the carriage, past the flickering copy of the newspaper in the old man’s fingers, to the next aisle where a woman with two small children sat.

They were smartly dressed in school uniform and one was eating from a packet of crisps. His sister played quietly, on a hand held gaming device in the seat next to the old man, while their mother peered out of her window bored and weary.

The gentleman sitting next to Brenda reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large smart-phone which he then used to search the World Wide Web. She was, at first, interested to see if it was the one of the trendy new Apple devices, or perhaps one of the fancy Androids people in London were always armed with. Instead she found herself peering at the screen as he typed a familiar name.

Oh, Dr. Bailey? Brenda remarked seeing the face of the middle aged doctor come up on the phone’s Wikipedia pages.

You have heard of him? The man smiled. He scrolled down the page and read a few words from the introduction for her to hear:

Phd, Doctor of Philosophy, MD, hypnotherapist and U.F.O researcher

Yes, that’s him… Brenda replied. …I’m going to Birmingham to see his presentation. I have a thing about aliens and I have a thing about Dr. Bailey.

Wow... The man smiled. …I’m going to the NEC too. It’s a long journey so I thought I’d have a look at Bailey’s background on the way, you know, see what his credentials are.

Don’t let me interrupt you. Brenda smiled. I may have a snooze anyway, I am so tired.

Yes… The man replied as he made himself comfortable. …train journeys always take it out of me too. I’ll be shattered by the time we get there.

He turned his attention back to his phone and began to read in silence as Brenda looked out the window and watched the passing views. Row upon row of neat rear gardens and Victorian terraces; the dirty rear of office blocks and occasional underpasses, flew by as the train started to pick up speed.

She found herself feeling very sleepy and her eyes began to close as the noise of the train began to echo in her ears. The hypnotic flow of endless garden fences and miles of low slung cable flickered past her eyes; like the swinging watch of a stage mesmerist.

Then, quite un-expectantly, she recognized a familiar sensation; a fearful introduction to something odd. She saw a sudden sparking and flashes of blue, gilt-edged neon, flickering out the corner of her eyes. Gemlike sparkles and intense hues of color; ranging from ruby to emerald, sapphire to quartz; appeared to glitter just outside the window.

Then a fleeting sense of isolation and a familiar anxiety began to vex her thinking; as it always did at times like these. Brenda recognized the smell of ammonia filling her nose and her heart began to beat faster.

She saw an electric blue flash, like a high voltage spark, shooting across the tops of her eyelids. Then the scene was plunged in an unearthly silence and when Brenda opened her lids; time had stopped still.

The boy eating the crisps had a crumb, hanging mid-air, between his chin and his shirt, the young girl was about to smile joyously for winning a particular level of her game; but instead was frozen in time like a shop manikin.

The man reading a copy of the Guardian was stiff and static mid-paragraph, his eye glasses perched unsteadily upon the end of his bulbous nose; a stray droplet of clear mucus hanging from his hairy nostril.

The sound of everything had stopped too, no clatter of steel wheels against track, no laughter of children or the low hum of women gossiping. There was nothing, except a blaring and deafening silence, an empty void that threatened to blow out her ear-drums.

Outside the train window, instead of consecutive rear gardens speeding past, Brenda saw only a thick white mist, sparking every now and then with those familiar electric blue stars; a swirling array of foul miasma, electric and all engulfing, like a long dead fog. It was a frigid cold gas or thunder promising cloud; devouring her senses in that familiar fashion only she recognized.

Not now… Brenda peered through the train window at the billowing clouds of gas rising and falling outside.

…please not now… she cursed under her breath. …not again.

2

1987 County Cork, Ireland.

Stretching out from the southern coastline of Ireland, County Cork, reached inland almost to the Northern border; the green fertile earth gave truth to the endearment ‘Emerald Isle’.

The county of Aghavrin is a pleasant rural ideal; the area consists of just a smattering of small villages and occasional farmsteads which manage the miles of beautifully crafted countryside; nestled between narrow lanes and empty stretches of road. It is forever lush and green, fertile and warm, an unchanging vista; a picture of times gone by; reminding us all how things used to be.

The Sullivan family were well known in the area between The Dew Drop Inn and Beal-Athana-Marb village; a corner of Aghavrin populated by more cows than human beings.

The family had owned land near the quaint local beauty spot of Mullinhassig Waterfall for many generations. Their isolated farm house stood alone and stark, set between the Glashagariff River and a centuries old peat bog; situated a little back from the quiet lane.

Noel Sullivan was not a well liked man locally, argumentative and sullen he’d been barred from the local watering holes many times in his adult life and was now only suffered for the sake of his wife Mary.

Father Joe Mercer, or Mercy Joe as they called him, the local Catholic priest had asked the bar managers to put up with Noel so Mary could have a few quiet hours alone with their daughter; Brenda each weekend.

It was on one of these weekend evenings shortly after her 7th birthday that Brenda had her first memorable experience. As the clock in the kitchen struck ten pm, the front door opened, and in stomped Noel Sullivan. Swaying and flushed, he stood in the kitchen doorway and snarled across the room at his long suffering wife.

You fucking bitch. As was his usual greeting toward the long suffering woman at this time of the weekend.

So you’ve been at the Inn all night, have you? Mary replied looking up from the sock she had been darning.

I hope you didn’t spend all our money on beer again?

I should knock you out, bitch. Sullivan slurred, flashing his rotting teeth and expressing, his long-held paranoid fantasies.

You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing all day. Hay, do you think I’m stupid?

Mary knew this game well, at first he’d goad her, curse at her and try to get her angry, if she kept her nerve he’d eventually get bored and start singing or go to sleep. She threw him a snarl and sniffed.

I know you’re drunk. Mary looked back at her stitching and hoped he’d go away.

She glanced across the room at her daughter cowering by the warm stove. The child was obviously worried that the situation would descend into violence, so Mary whispered, to sooth the child, gently.

Brenda, go and put your dolls in your bedroom, love, please.

Brenda timidly walked past her alcohol sodden father toward the flight of stairs in the hall dragging Molly, her raggedy doll, behind her. As the sound of loud voices and smashing glass rang out behind her she saw something that caught her eye; there, through the stained glass in the front door; up in that bright field of stars.

There, through the tinted glass, she saw a compelling light shining; calling out to her. It was faint at first but got brighter every second, flecked with dazzling colors, it gripped the girl’s attention. Hanging there, among the glittering stars, the sight called her towards it. The child walked from the house towards the spectacle almost in a daze.

Opening the front door, and walking over the step, she looked out across the yard and the darkened lane. The small outcrop of trees on the other side, which just hid Carrigadrohid Castle in the distance, looked stark and grey in the moonlight. There in the sky, under the full cosmic expanse, she saw an amazing spectacle unfolding. Flashing red here, blue there and every known color in between; a luminous cloud approached the small child.

She stepped towards the object of her fascination as it lowered to the ground, and found it slowly enveloping her; wrapping her up in its bright fluffiness. Once her vision was totally obscured by the throbbing cloud of color Brenda became aware of movement ahead. Vague shapes and shadows in the mist which seemed to come closer.

They surrounded the small child. Small in comparison to her parent’s height the apparitions were at her eye level, which made the little girl feel safe and trusting. Dressed in long black cloaks with deep hoods over their heads these things danced about her and made the child smile.

They did not talk, but they made some noise, a soft and strange hissing and spluttering which seemed to make sense to them but none at all to Brenda. One reached out and she felt the odd rigidness of its fingers stroke the back of her neck, another touched her nightdress and seemed to giggle, Brenda danced with them for a moment and wondered who they were; these creatures of the night, and where they came from.

At 1.30 am Noel Sullivan had shouted and thumped himself into a stupor and was now sprawled across the kitchen floor, a thin pool of saliva collecting around his mouth, with a whiskey bottle clutched in his unconscious hand. Mary looked at her reflection in the kitchen window and ran her fingers over the growing bruise he’d given her.

Stepping over her husband she walked into the hall towards the stairs and noticed the front door ajar. She reached it and peered outside into the darkness, suddenly her gaze saw something, illuminated by the thin strip of light flooding through the open door.

Mary stepped outside and slowly bent over to pick up raggedy Molly, it was damp to the touch, and she felt a sticky substance covering the doll. Between her fingers glistened a gelatinous mass which made the woman frantically anxious.

She turned on her heels and ran through the house, up the stairs, and into Brenda’s bedroom. Mary saw at once that the child’s bed was empty and hadn’t been disturbed.

Brenda? The woman gasped clutching the doll to her chest. Mary turned and ran down to the kitchen thinking that she might be able to rouse her husband; but one sight of him laying there oblivious to everything just made her feel sick. She turned and ran back into the yard. Back to where she had found the doll.

Brenda! Mary shouted into the breathless night. Where are you darling?

The frantic woman ran to the gate and peered across the small lane towards the clump of trees on the other side. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw something caught in a bush just across the tarmac;