Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy #1) (2 page)

Natalie hooked her hands under his arms, positioned herself so they were face to face, then heaved. Johnny could feel the strength dwindling out of her. He sensed more than felt his heavy bulk slide up onto the stage. Natalie collapsed and Johnny shuffled his head back around towards the Garden.

“Holy shit!”
he muttered, biting his lip in fear, in shock, in confusion.

He stared out over the battling sea of humanity in sheer horror. The panicked screams of thousands smashed and reverberated off the walls, swelling towards the
ceiling where they were swallowed by the eager
darkness.

“What the hell is causing this?” he said aloud, to no one in particular.

***

The man called Loki stared out the window of his hotel room on West 34
th
Street, the hard approximation of a smile curlin
g his lips as he watched the
panic take hold fiftee
n floors below. He laughed
as pathetic streams of the damned tripped and fell from the blood-soaked exits of Madison Square Garden. Their screams were muted by the triple
-
glazing.
Shame
, he thought. He itched to be among them, to feel their distress, their suffering. He laughed again, a sound lacking any trace of humour. He shook his head as the cops
arrived
- the so-called forces of good- red lights flashing, as if that was going to help. They had
no idea
what was happening. They were
no
match for what was coming.

“Hey, George,” a feminine voice floated from the room behind him. “Would’ya look at this,” he heard the sound of the TV as she turned the volume up. “Something’s happened at the Garden. They say it’s the
worst
thing since 9/11.”

Pathetic
moron, he thought. Typical home-grown American bitch. The vice he never should h
ave allowed himself, but one
he indulged to help make the waiting that much sweeter. He felt nothing but contempt for her.
Th
ere he watched real life and death unfold, whilst in th
is
room she lay sprawled on the four-poster bed, clad in lace, sipping wine and watching television. It was the same the world over, he knew. Untold human hordes sat around their squawking boxes, insulated from reality, happy in their sublime ignorance, ingesting the fast food that was literally killing them. But then, why did they need real life experience when they had Hollywood blockbusters, Sony Playstations and the World Wide Web?

He pa
dded back to her, a
force of nature, his every movement seemingly effortless. He sneered at the half empty bottle of California red before turning cold, violent eyes on the girl.

He revelled in her expression of fear. His nostrils flared. This was it. This prime piece of American sweetmeat had a body like a
Victoria’s Secret catwalk model:
tanned skin, a flawless face
, eyes that drew you
in
like warm, liquid gold;
narrow hips, and an ass so soft and smooth it was like resting your balls on a Versace cushion.

“George,” she swallowed nervously and waved towards the TV. “Have you seen this? I really need to go,”
her eyes were wide
. “My brother was at this concert. He
’
s
in there.
”

“You have been fully compensated for the whole night,” he told her, lips stretched with cold mirth. He spread his hands. “After all, what do you Americans say? A deal’s a deal?”

“But…my brother-”

“Take off your robe,” he told her. “And put your head agains
t the window. That way you need
n
’
t miss a thing.”

He laughed as she complied. He could tell she was already exhausted from the evening’s previous efforts. He didn’t care. She meant nothing to him. She was soft candy, bought and paid for. A sack of sugar w
ith no name. He would use her
tonight, then throw her away as he continued to prepare for the coming battles that would bring Hell itself to this
aimless
world.

“For
Gorgoroth!”
he whispered into
her ear
as she watched
distressing scene
s
below. She would bear witness to that what those on the ground could not- the twisting malevolent vapours that teased and trickled their way up through the Garden’s roof, drifting higher and higher into the ever-darkening New York night.

2

YORK, ENGLAND

My mobile vibrated. I fished it out of my pocket and checked the screen.

Number unlisted.

A
bloom of fear spread through
me. For
the last
twenty
-
three months I had sprint
ed for the ringing phone or the chiming doorbell, always hoping it would be Raychel getting back in touch.

I was still waiting.

“Hello?
”

“Is that Mr
.
Dean Logan?”

The voice held that formal quality that could freeze the breath in your throat.

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m ringing about your daughter,
Mr.
Logan.
I’m ringing about Lucy.”

Lucy?

“There has been an in
cident, sir.” The voice was
steel, intended for the delivery of bad news. “Lucy is okay, but she cut herself tonight. I can’t go into details over the phone but could you come to York District Hospital? You may want to pick up some of her things from home first.”

I closed my eyes tight
.
Oh, Lucy. You’re all I have left. What have you done now?

***

As I wrenched open the door to my house, I saw my shattered face reflected in the broken mirror that dominated the hallway. Blood smeared the glass.

My daughter’s blood.

Oh, God. First I’d failed my wife, now I’d faile
d my daughter
. I wanted to scream,
to put my fist through the
door. Instead I glanced at my best friend, Holly.

“Wait here.”

The TV was blaring away to itself. I heard something about a disaster a
t Madison Square Garden. A
high-class
hooker
thrown out of a
twenty-storey
hotel room opposite.

Holly reached out to wipe away the tears that ran down my
cheeks. I blinked, unaware I‘d been crying.

“Not a chance, Dean. I’m coming with you.”

I headed straight for the stairs, then stopped and just star
ed. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

Lucy.
My daughter had faced up to her mother’s mystifying disappearance the way a coward take
s
on
a prize-fighter
- by
hit
ting the canvas and covering
her eyes. I wished she would share. I would gladly take the pain. I blamed myself when she
had cut herself the first time. But now?
Had I neglected my own daughter yet again?

Would they take her away from me?

“D
ean
,” Holly had been around me long enough to gauge where my thoughts were heading. “Just go upstairs and pack her an overnighter. Now.”

I started up, feeling numb. I entered Lucy’s bedroom. A typical teenager’s domain, complete with the mess of books, magazines, school clothes, sports equipment, hair scrunchies, conditioner,
pre-
conditioner, body lotion, anti-dryness lotion, and CDs filed everywhere except in the CD rack- a room packed with my daughter’s fast-moving life, but not with her.

   Holly stood before me, deliberately filling my vision. “
Listen to me, Dean.
This is not your fault. It’s not Lucy’s fault. It’s
hers.”

Holly pointed
towards one of only two framed pictures of Raychel that still remained in the house.

“Raych
el left you,” Holly said
. “She didn’t care about her husband or her daughter, or
how
her leaving would
affect you
both.”

I was still struggling to cope with Raychel's disappearance, and Luc
y was living
life with a
slab of guilt fixed
around her shoulders. Guilt that was unfounded, yet undiminished with the passage of time.

I found one of Lucy’s sports bags and filled it. Ten minutes to the hospital.

***

My wife,
Raychel
,
had left us one cold,
winter’s
day in ‘05. In the morning she was there, in the evening she was gone. We had heard nothing from her in twenty
-
three months. Not even a false alarm. At first, the police had been suspicious, but no longer, which in some ways was even worse.

All that remained was a shattered husband and a seriously fucked-up kid called Lucy- once a ray of shiny
happiness- who now believed
she had
caused
her mother
to
abandon the family home.

I had turned to the bottle. Lucy had turned to self-abuse. It had taken a life-altering moment- me stumbling into the bathroom, whisky bottle held upright like a guiding light,
to see
my daughter sobbing in the bathtub, hair and clothes and face covered in sweat and puke and tears, her blood sprayed across the white shower curtain, to shatter my depression and recognize hers.
That
and the loving help of Holly, who had always been around.

Now, I teetered above a black abyss of guilt, unresolved loss and deepening money troubles. One day, I feared, I would embrace the abyss
. But I would never let i
t happen whilst Lucy needed me.

We entered the hospital. This impersonal concrete
-
clad place of the dying, the ill, and the needy with its nervous, troubled rooms.

I walked the stark corridors
that night, the success of
tonight’s
first
business ventu
re- the treasure hunt- put aside
. The incident with the
giant
vermin that followed-
forgotten. My throat was dry. I
recognized
the craving for a
spirit that I thought I had exorcised over a year ago.

I finally found Ward G3
and turned to Holly before going in.

“I’ll be right here
.” S
he sat outside the room.

I took a
deep breath
and walked into Lucy’s hospital room.
P
ain and weari
ness enveloped me as I saw Lucy
lying on the hospital bed like the palest flower against the whitest sheet. In sharp contras
t, her locks of wavy brown hair
spread out
all
over the pillow.

She blinked
at me. “Hey, old man.”

It broke my heart. For six years she had made fun of my age, and in return I made fun of her youth, calling her youngling, or munchkin, or worse, but not tonight.

Tonight, I just couldn’t get past the heart-rending sight of her.

“How are you feeling, Luce?”

“Okay, I think. I should be okay for squash next week.”

Lucy was a great player.
National standard. Lately I’d
begun to think it was a way for her to channel aggression. “We’ll do our best.”

“They made me turn my mobile off.”

I glanced towards the muted TV. Saw the same coverage of the Madison Square Garden tragedy I’d overheard b
ack at our house. I turned away
, got a look at Lucy’s bandages. One was wrapped around her upper right arm, and two smaller ones covered her wrists. I felt my control slip. “I thought we‘d gotten past the worst
, Luce
.”

Lucy’s eyes flashed.

“
Your mother
left us,
”
I tried again.
“
All I
’
m trying to do is keep things together.
”

“
By ignoring it?
”
Lucy hissed
.
“
By pretending it
’
s all
alright
and nothing changed?
”