The Endless Depths Of A Stolen Soul - Chapter One.

Hello! Please find below the first chapter of my novel "The Endless Depths Of A Stolen Soul". Over the next few days, I will be uploading the first three chapters via Vocal.

If you are interested in this 'sneak peek', please feel free to look into reading the full book which is available on Amazon and kindle (+ Kindle Unlimited).

Once more, the second part of this series is also available in both formats too.

1

Oliver had always considered himself to be a good person. Even as he cuffed the hammer against his father’s temple, he scrambled desperately to deny the lingering likelihood that he was not. The festering detail within this prospect, which had slithered to the forefront of his mind, then buried its razor claws deep – it provided him a staggering sense of satisfaction. A sensation within his gut which was not exactly ‘pleasure’, though feasibly its most adjacent synonym. It wasn’t the sound, although that ‘crack’ was oddly soothing, nor the streak of blood which trickled from his temple and tickled against his cheek. Like rain slithering down glass on an inclement afternoon. Nor the helpless glint he had in his eye, which was undoubtedly the nearest he’d reached to grumbling the words: “I’m sorry”.

It was something else. Something more. The release, he deduced. The release of a quarter century of pain. Two and a half decades of emotion laid bare. Payback for thousands of hidings. He thought, “Hey, what’s one wallop in exchange for the in-numerous wallops I’d suffered throughout the years? What difference does it make?” The difference was straightforward. One lifeless body, spread amongst the grit and grub of their kitchen tile. Yet, the adrenaline warped all logical principle. It kept repeating, whispering somewhere deeper than his ears. Far beyond their canals and ridding all other thought. Like water, lodged in the ear, reciting the sinister twist and curl of logic – “Now we’re even”.

Truth is - it was a long time coming. Though, as he paced along the roadside heading directly out of town, he fiercely debated whether he truly desired his father to wake. The sun lowered below the treeline which encompassed either side. Consuming the grey of road, and white of fog in a clementine glow. Leaves grinded together and weeds chuckled mockingly with each icy blast of frosting breeze. He scaled the mountain of both options. Aside from his wounded father, few people could guess where Oliver was headed. If the cruel man were to never open his eyes again, he would, in turn, never open his mouth. Thus, offering no clue to the direction of Oliver’s escape. This, with the favourable advantage that he’d seldom spew the typical toxic bile of hatred, the norm of the Turner household. Then again, if he survived the assault, Oliver wouldn’t have killed a man. No matter how little he believed the existence of heaven’s pearly gates, holding that prospect beneath his sleeve would yield clear benefits in-case he was wrong. He countered such concern, however, with rebuttal that it was an isolated and wholly unique case. Little more than an anomaly amongst an otherwise pristine record of ‘moral goodness’. Nothing but a coffee stain on a file riddled with integrity.

Disregarding this little ‘incident’, Oliver’s past behaviour was decidedly impressive. As a child, even, he rarely muttered a word, no syllable, out of line. This, truthfully, in thanks to Mr Turner’s looming judgement. A tip toe out of line would be dished with a swift crack across the base of his skull – even before the thought could fester and plunge beyond the gaps of his wonky teeth. All, of course, with a painted smile, and subsequent chuckle – in the company of others. It was playful. Tongue wrapped firmly in cheek. Leisurely walking the line with the aptitude and talent of Philippe Petit crossing his tightrope between the twin towers in ’74. Just enough to consider it jovial. He was frighteningly proficient at it, like it was his calling. The other parents couldn’t have known this ‘clip around the ear’ was a mere precursor for the pummeling to come. Yes, when slipped into shadow, from prying eyes, the open palm would clench into a tight fist. That was when blows would trickle lower. From the base of the cranium, to below the ribs. It was surgical, striking the kidney with perfect force and scrupulous precision. When giggled “Now, now boys’” would melt into vile, and spiteful diatribe layered alongside hateful rhetoric. Slinging about weighty slurs, the boy couldn’t begin to understand at such an age. By the roaring tone and crimson shade of his father’s face, he extrapolated the lesson that they were the antithesis of complimentary. An aptitude for intimidation was, unquestionably, the nearest Mr Turner strayed toward talent.

It was quite surprising, though, that Turner’s actions hadn’t eventually spread about the town like a cancer. The business of all seemed public domain amongst the hushed whispers shared between friendly glimmers of smile. ‘Your business is their business’, a mocking town slogan conjured by Oliver at age 16. This, one reason why Oliver dreaded his father’s waking. He couldn’t bare the awkward sideways glances and venomous whispers. No, ‘Chamomile’ was a judgmental place, with its nebby residents almost parasitic in their desire to squirm into the business of others. All while offering a ‘shoulder to cry on’ and relaying confidential intelligence and sharing witch-like cackles beneath the blanket of shadow. With this, Oliver had always desired to leave town, but his father did not allow it. See, Chamomile prided itself on being amongst ‘Britain’s Kindest Villages’. It even had an award, of which they paraded like the Lombardi Trophy, or Stanley Cup. For Oliver, and Gavin, it was the most gratifying point of ridicule. They often cracked wise about the ludicrous nature of such an accolade. Its suggestion that kindness was somehow quantifiable, and something above itself – a simply abstract and perspective-based construct. Satirising images were painted with painstaking detail from the paintbrushes of their mocking tongue, of judges inspecting with narrowed brows, and arched backs, with clipboards pursed in hand. Grinding pencils against paper, in the shape of an oval around a number that rated their “good mornings” on a scale between 1-10. Deducting marks, if the accompanying grins were shorter than 3 seconds, or longer than 5. Suggesting that Chamomile was victorious in thanks to their ironclad handshakes which were weightier than nearby ‘Rosewater’s’ and without the soggy, damp, and downright moist palms of ‘Little Rest’s’!

A few years prior, they’d become recipient of a ‘Natural Beauty’ award. Of which was far from debate. Chamomile had an aesthetically seductive allure. Famed for its river, which rolls in a relatively shallow stream that dribbles downhill, until it meets the centre. Plunging into a girthy lake that’s water mirrors the cloud above. Bordering the lake, like the folding lid of an envelope, lasting sandstone buildings with a continuity that seldom splinters until we reach the church. Looming over the centre of the lake, it opted for classical architectural integrity that harkens the Georgian era and teased glimpses of Victorian renovation. Once more, Chamomile was a geographical marvel. Circumambient in upwards inclines in every direction, often portrayed as the ‘town in a hole’. Settlers disregarded the clear susceptibility to flooding, when blinded by its captivating splendour. Rising waters became a yearly skirmish. Folk would be pictured assisting one another in this struggle, only adding a heft to the town’s claim of unrivalled kindness. The funniest thing, Oliver noticed in years more recent, that upon earning the award folk were slouching upon a monumental false sense of security. They’d won the award. Savoured the recognition with ravenous and salivating lips. Thus, there was nothing else to prove. Whenever their toxic behaviour reared its head, representatives fell back upon the award. As though such a thing could exonerate themselves and devastate the credibility of all onward accusations.

With vicious honesty, whilst hovering above his father’s bludgeoned body, Oliver wasn’t particularly consumed with dread. He denied it, but the sensation was more comparable with excitement. A spontaneous delirium clattering him like the hammer did his father. The mist of blood was like a ‘party popper’ missing the afterward smoke, and its accompanying smell. The smell instead was the same as before. Stale sweat, and the kitchen’s crusted mould. “Finally!” He told himself. “Finally! He could live upon his own terms”. Move to London. See about a career in Television and Film. An actor, he could dream! He could dream, finally, he could dream. Before, he could only banish such bombastic hopes to the darkest corners of his mind. The nearest he’d reached to its exposure was a glint in the eye of the ‘better’ parents as they soaked in his portrayal of ‘Joseph’ in the Chruch’s rendition of the nativity. Quite possibly, the most gleeful experience of his childhood. Definitely amongst the few notable enough for mention. An opportunity to be himself. Escape the gloom of his world and wear the face of another. The delight shattered the second his feet clopped against the tile of his home, and the door creaked to a close behind him. Slingshotting him back to reality with a savage brutishness that gave him whiplash.

“You enjoyed your acting today, didn’t you? Not a ‘puff’ are ya? Loads of actors are.” His old man snarled whilst resting a cigarette from his bottom lip. It bounced upon every syllable as though its tangerine tip tried to hypnotize him. Despite the chortle the statement came packaged alongside, the gritted teeth behind it and sharp expression in his narrowing pupil warned him there was a single appropriate answer. At least, one that would leave Oliver unmarked. So, he vibrated his head. He was unsure of the true definition to the word but trusted his instinct. He should treat no further.

The odds of success for such a career, he presumed, were starkly in his favour. He was often remarked as a ‘handsome’ man, behind the greasy mask of shoulder length hair that he’d worn since his teenage years. He had been blessed with emerald green eyes, fair skin with dimples. Even, arguably his most notable feature beside his hair, a small diamond shaped birthmark beneath his right eye. At 5’10, he wasn’t the tallest but wasn’t the shortest either. The young man even had the occasional prospect of love. He’d gotten close to two young women in his reasonably short life. Both squandered by his clamped tongue, however. Women, reasonably, struggle to nurture a bond with a counterpart that avoids eye contact and mutters each word beyond the tightened vice of his jaw. These failed bonds didn’t break his heart, they simply disappointed him. He had little interest in the women, but their presence might have somewhat squashed the overwhelming sense of loneliness in his heart. A loneliness which felt like a black hole in his chest which clambered up through his throat and to the dimples upon each cheek. He thought, if he escaped Chamomile, things might change. “In London, you’ll get to be whoever you want” he whimpered to himself and swore that the road wasn’t this long the last time he had travelled it. The bag slumped across his shoulders was growing heavier by the second, and his legs ached with burning calves that distanced itself from the winter’s chill. Despite it all, he needed to resist all urges to stop. He was still so close, he could see the briefest glimpse of chamomile with a hard squint. Even so close, he had little doubt that his handiwork had been stumbled upon by now. If not, then the incoming seconds which galloped by quicker than he could catch them. All this, as he copped sneaking sideward glances to the trees and vines which ambushed him at both sides. A nagging feeling associated with it. Far more culpable than paranoia. One that his movements were being observed. In fact, he had suffered this exact foreboding impression the moment he’d stepped foot on to that road. That sense of suspicion only tempering the deeper he wandered into his pilgrimage. Only now, as the sun lowered, he could swear he noticed the occasional silhouette of a humanoid slipping between trees and dipping into cover. Not approaching, yet. Stalking him.

Surely it wasn’t noteworthy. Any authority would have sprung upon him the moment they’d realized he was both alone and unarmed. He wasn’t a violent man. All but his father would attest to that. In his ideal world, the best-case scenario, no matter how cruel it seemed, his father would not wake to utter such discrepancies. With his father’s nature, it would likely be the finest result for many others too. But in London? Maybe he would ‘make it’. Be beloved, finally. He would have even settled for simple admiration. God knows that phrase was never synonymous with himself within the ‘lovely’ town of Chamomile. No, as he got older, he was more the subject of sideways glances similar to those he gave the woodland on his escape.

When Oliver’s battle with his own crippling anxiety began to usher itself toward monumental defeat, the same people that praised the young boy for his quiet nature eventually found it easier to ignore him in adulthood. Deeming his unkempt appearance and lack of social grace an oddity rather than aiding through such struggles. You see, a shy temperament seemingly loses its charm the further you stray beyond adolescence. With Oliver’s refusal, or inability, to slip into a fake smiling mask, alike the others, he’d gathered the reputation of the town’s ‘peculiar man’. An accolade unusual to find in a place that prides itself on its kindness to others. Just another reason as to why Chamomile had left a somewhat bitter and unsavoury taste in Oliver’s mouth. Of course, if he ever were to point out such a hypocrisy, folk would fall back onto this award as validation. So, he didn’t begin to try.

Concerning though, the hubbub amongst the trees slowly but surely began to swell in its volume. The figure gliding from tree to tree seemingly wasn’t alone. Silhouetted amongst it, danced many of its friends. At least five, and God knows they were quick. It was, as though, they mimicked each stride the anxious man took himself. Remaining dead level with him no matter his pace. And now, on either side. Left and right. Crunching on leaves and rustling against bushes, he now knew he was no longer alone. But who were they? What were they? And, on Christ himself, was this road ever as long as it seemed now?

Was this the ever-lingering threat of madness catching up to him? It forever loitered about the realms of possibility. He thought it had struck the moment he clipped the tool against his father’s skull, but truthfully it was always there. Just cosily tucked away about shadow, much like the figures in the woods. Lunacy was a concept more prevalent, arguably, in the moments that led to the attack. This, as every memory, every superfluous paternal onslaught, every sly slur, all rushed back to the forefront of his mind. There was simply no room. They squished together, cramming so tight he was sure his forehead would crack, and they would ooze through the hole. It felt wonderful to simply wield the hammer. The intimidation with it evened the playing field substantially. But the memories didn’t let up. His mind was louder than ever, and each and every thought begged him to thrust the weapon against the vicious man’s temple.

Before that, it was a relatively pleasant meal. Only, conversation had a habit of shifting to hateful and cold slur. As it often would. Oliver could have escaped the situation in the moment he’d hit eighteen. If he only were so lucky. No, months before his birthday Mr Harold Tuner found himself bound to a wheelchair. Able to function in most aspects of life, except the ability to live independently. So “what a shame”, he’d mutter whilst trying to fight back a crafty smile, which squirmed across one side of his cheek. It seems the son was bound to the father until death. Of course, this could be avoidable if only the boy had spoken of his father’s true nature. Sadly, this was easier said than done. He’d never felt the inner strength to verbalise the abuse. As it became the catalyst to the loss of all outward points of pride and delight, he simply found peace in acceptance, that it was his life now.

These men amongst shadow were not the police. Chamomile’s force was nowhere near the size to cover even one length of the road. Natural, theoretically, that Britain’s Kindest Town seldom require much enforcement of law. There were just a handful, enough to show face. As Harold Turner proved, crime and bitterness were reserved more so for the inside of homes. The biggest scandal, of which residents could recall, was the arrival of a cannabis farm. This drama came, and was resolved, eight years prior yet somehow found itself an eternally hot topic of discussion. There wasn’t an evening that glided by without some reiteration of the legend, complete with numerous embellishments. Such retelling of the tale conveniently flouted the detail that initial blame was baselessly pinned on the town’s only current black residents. They lived one street over, and it was deduced that the rise of drug abuse synchronized almost perfectly with their arrival. Of course, overlooking the key word ‘almost’. Something teased Oliver that, upon discovery of his father’s bloodied condition, there would be a fresh story to share like fable. Obviously, again, with the key detail of systematic abuse beneath their very nose conveniently absent.

All sense of self-preservation in Oliver’s being pleaded that he’d turn around. Hand himself in. The hideous sensation of concern for his long-term mortality reared its head. An anxiety twirling like a wooden spoon stirring his intestine. Disregarding the tightening of his hamstrings which grinded against his calf as though it tried to carve away bone, then hastened his pace. Gritted his teeth so tight, they almost shattered like glass and dragged one foot ahead of the next. This, when a trio of figures ambled from woods and onto the road ahead. The sun lowered with their arrival, moonlight violently invading the night sky swallowing it in shadow. The image stopped Oliver in his tracks, forcing a standoff rivaled only by the climax of ‘The Good The Bad And The Ugly’. Not a muscle moving, besides Oliver’s calves which began to pulsate.

“I’m not going back” Oliver hurled to their direction. The words sweeping sluggishly with the gentle push of the wind, toward them like tumbleweed, then passing yonder with no acknowledgement that they were ever there. He assumed, logically, the figures had cut him off with the intent to see that he pays for his crimes. How wrong he was…

So, he took his moment to flee. Hurdling left, amongst the trees and shadow. Refusing to stop, assuring he use the efforts to stray further from the threshold of town whilst assuring an escape.

He didn’t dare to twist his neck to peek behind, but the pattering of pursuers trampling leaves and leaping bushes did nothing but get closer. Tightening to an agonizingly near pace, their commotion so close it almost caressed the lobe of his ear. He was moving quicker than he thought possible. Speedier than he’d moved his entire life, and his heart moved quicker. Though, no matter how rapid the pace, the chase behind became rhythmic in its pace. As though their lungs did not tighten and shrivel as his were, or their chest did not pulsate with such unquenchable momentum that his ribs prepared to snap like the frailest stems of a dying bush. Not alternating to become further, nor closer. A sense, to their prey, that all was simply sport. That the galloping beyond the ocean of trees was the most exhilarating and electrifying excitement they could imagine. That Oliver’s biggest mistake wasn’t rushing into the woods, nor striking his father’s skull with the hammer, it was setting foot onto the road in the first place.

Like the road of past, the detail for Oliver arose that each tree was beginning to seem remarkably similar to the last. There were scarcely any variances that called attention to their otherwise uniform similarity. Like the figures hot on his trail, the trees were plain. Unadorned. Not a single differentiating scratch across bark, or indentation, or marking. Nearer to town, but still far into wood, Oliver recalled scraping “OT + GC” against an old yew. The memory clambering toward the forefront of his mind. These cases of minute nature-based vandalism were common for adolescents. Though, with these, nothing of the sort. No initials, no messages etched into wood. Not even a scratch. And, as he twisted his head sideways for a peek behind, he noticed the glow of the road was nothing but a distant memory. Surely, without question, this was the anticipated arrival of insanity. The confirmation that his logical mind had crumbled. The image of his father, in seemingly deathly disarray amongst his own fluids perhaps the closing nail in the coffin which contained his deteriorating mind.

“Help!” He tossed to nobody in an excruciating wail. The lining of his throat scraping and tearing. “Dear God, help me please!”. He was a devout atheist, or so he thought. Now struggling to find another place to plead in desperation for assistance. Sadly, this proved one of two things. Either, he was accurate in his incredulity, or the Lord had chosen not to listen. Whichever it be, regret cuffed Oliver with the velocity of Archie Moore’s punch. Only one question plaguing his final moments – “Is this what I deserve?”.

Of course, the query was utterly rhetorical. The events of the past can’t be altered, no matter how some may try or how recent the events were. Nothing could change the brief gasp of pleasure as he clocked the man clattering to the ground. And, sure as hell, nobody could reverse the damage of the blow. Despite such, in his final fleeting seconds, Oliver felt a tingle of remorse. He only wished the vicious man hadn’t leered at him in that way. The way he always would. The way that would spit a message of hatred without the need to even pluck and separate his lips. Those looks would slice as deep as the words. It beseeched Oliver to thump his father. It, unquestionably, sealed Harold Turner’s fate. And, unwittingly to himself, Oliver’s too.

The morning that followed bore quite the peculiar anomaly. As always, the stream would begin at the peak of town, and leisurely trickle itself downward. It would weave itself seamlessly between homes and shops beyond the school, then eventually settle amongst the small lake about the centre. So, naturally, the first witness came at ‘Rushford House’ nearing the deepest outskirts of town. Mr Patrick Waverley. Somewhat of a business mogul. The proprietor of three of Chamomile’s six convenience stores in addition to two others in neighbouring Rosewater. The affluent hands of his Armani watch couldn’t have strayed past 8am. He clambered from his shower, fastened a towel playfully loose around his waist and ushered past his marital bedside. Navigating himself through his home’s labyrinthian plethora of hallways to his study. As always, he lifted his blinds, then squinted. Chuckled in disbelief. Somewhat bemused, one corner of his cheek lifted and distorted as it does when one motions to create a ‘clicking’ noise against their cheek. It was a spectacle too bizarre not to find humour. With a quickfire burst giggle, what seemed like a mannequin floated down river and past the gates behind his home. It bobbled and bounced about ripples. He was yet to place his glasses atop his nose but disarmed himself of any concern with firm belief that it could not have been a corpse. There was no face. He could see, even without his glasses, that it had no face and seemed too rigid. Besides, why ever would a body find itself floating downstream in Chamomile? Waverly had specified upon investing in the town with the advantage of its supplementary peace of mind.

The next witness came partway into town. En-route to ‘Oak Tree Primary’. Chamomile’s premier institute of education. A feat that loses its remarkable reputation, when considered alongside its rival – ‘Oak Tree Secondary’. The compound where students embark upon their lengthy disillusionment with the world about them. It was a daily walk for mother/daughter duo Harriet and Hailey. The maternal Harriet’s eyelids were drooping, and almost submerging the balls they paired in shade. What little she saw, was blurred in the eye’s exhaustion led moisture. The night prior, for her, was hell. Only challenged by Oliver’s. For a reason perhaps even mysterious to Hailey herself, the daughter screeched the entire night, without letting up into the early hours of the morning. The justification for demonic howls was simple, clear, and ironic – She was tired. Needless to say, Harriet was dissatisfied as Hailey renewed her onslaught of wailing demands for their morning walk. Harriet only offered a multitude of ‘No’s’. Each sharper than the last, nearing the might of razor’s edge. By the time they reached the riverside, the school in the distance like a mirage, the mother only had strength to lift one hand with a limp and wearied palm. Hailey twisted to the river, with enough time before the bell rang, and tossed twigs from the bridge into the flowing stream which curled below. She cheered in triumph whilst they darted downstream or submerged beneath water to never rise again. Harriet noticed something, as she balanced her elbows against the bridge’s walling foundation and ogled onward. It wasn’t a corpse. It couldn’t have been. It was too fleshy. Rigor mortis would have surely stiffened its joints, she concluded. Surely, maybe, it was a drunk. Perhaps, Donald Pierson? The local drunk, famed for stunts of that nature. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Although, admittedly, it would be the first time he’d been submerged in the river. It floated too quick to catch, so she telephoned the authorities. Convinced her assumption to be true, she noted to them its matching seemingly jaundiced yellow skin and no hair.

The third, and final, witness or witnesses were in the town’s center. All simultaneously, as it slid into the lake. Arms spread outward, like preparing to embrace a loved one, with the ‘face’ side facing into the blackness of the lake. Everybody within eyeline of it noticed. Slowly gathering into a mob, all vying for the briefest glimpse. Each set of eyes shared an interpretation which differed from the other. It defied explanation. It wasn’t a corpse; it couldn’t have been. Though, then again, it was. What else could it have been? It was an average height, 5’10. Devoid of distinguishable features. Quite literally. A fleshy blank slate. No face. No muscle. No fat. The bare bones template of the human form. Vague enough, even, to mystify its sex.

The crowd would later discover, the body was indeed a corpse. If one could define it as that. The blank slate of Oliver. Eyes removed and seamlessly replaced by uninterrupted skin as though they were never there. As the case with all that made him individual. Even the diamond birthmark atop his right cheek. Erased. Replaced by buttery yellow skin that was yellowing in the condensation of the winter sun, as though his basic sense of individuality was too much to ask. A lifeless sack of flesh. The etched shape of a person. Little could the crowd guess that the very fate would soon linger above their own head. For each and every one of them, dangling precariously like the final thread of a string.

If it remained, the crowd would see the remorse painted in detail across the cheek of Oliver. God knows, it was there as he died. He would have wished they could see it. The sadness stretched cheek to cheek across his chops. Sorrowful, in a way, that the eyes he struggled to escape watched over his death like he was an exotic animal at a zoo. It was true, the words which his father would spit in gleeful fury across the table most dinners – “You’re never going to make it out this town alive”.