Fallen Gods: The Complete Saga: Fallen Gods Saga

By T.W. Malpass

This title contains all three volumes of the Fallen Gods Saga in one bundle. It also includes an exclusive Fallen Gods Trilogy cover.

Fallen Gods: Sanctuary 12

FOLLOW HER VOICE

Nine strangers, linked by the inner whisperings of a mysterious little girl. Each must piece together the origins of their other-worldly abilities and the location of the white manor, where they will be reunited, and the questions that have plagued their existence will finally be answered. But someone else marks their every step. The sinister Mr Cradleworth has other plans for them, plans that could bring about catastrophic consequences, not just for earth, but the whole universe.

This epic tale covers half the globe, as it follows each character into the darkest recesses of their soul. Combining eighties-style horror with science fiction, this dark fantasy will take you on a journey you will never forget.

Fallen Gods: Infanticide

FACE YOUR FEARS

An ominous burning cloud covers the skies across the entire world. Scientists speculate on its origins and its purpose. Panic starts to spread like a disease as people prepare for the worst.

Within the relative security of the manor’s walls, the first-born begin to come to terms with their true identity, all accept Jerrico, who soon discovers that Cradleworth has enslaved his home town of Walton.

Meanwhile, Kaleb convinces Celeste to allow him to take on an important but dangerous mission, one which could reveal Cradleworth’s end game.

In this fast-paced sequel to Sanctuary 12, the fallen gods must go head to head with their evil nemesis in a battle to prevent ultimate destruction. 

The Fallen Gods Saga combines classic horror, sci fi and urban fantasy. The idea spawned from the author’s love of 70’s and 80’s horror. Like all good horror of that era, it deals with themes such as unrequited love, loneliness, transcendence, death, rebirth and transformation.

Fallen Gods: Mind Over Matterless

THE FINAL WAR BEGINS

Divided and leaderless, the first-born must fight through the ruined landscape of the Urker invasion to reunite, enlisting human allies along the way.

Meanwhile, Charles Cradleworth searches for his home and his identity under a cloud of amnesia.

New loyalties are forged and armies are assembled on both sides for the final confrontation. In this dramatic conclusion to the Fallen Gods Saga, the first-born must triumph or become part of Cradleworth’s sadistic collection of souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sericia
• Release date: May 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516325658

Book preview

SANCTUARY 12

by

T.W. Malpass

For Damien, Jason and Jessie. Your strength and dignity breaks my heart.

Foreword

This novel features several real locations, as well as many fictional ones. People familiar with these towns and cities will notice that I have been very imaginative with their geography in order to best serve the story. I hope you will forgive this humble writer for his transgressions.

Prologue

The Tourist

1

Finsbury Park, London-1936

A breeze swept through Belmoral Street, one that chilled Harold Manning to the bone. Dithering, he wrapped his chunky cardigan about his waist. The old scarecrow was approaching eighty-two, so being out in this kind of uncompromising weather was asking for trouble. Normally he wouldn’t even peep out from his front door, but today was different. Today his concern for his neighbour outweighed the comfort of an open fire. It was a Sunday morning and only a handful of children played further along the road. Aside from their scampering footsteps and laughter, no other soul could be heard.

Just when Manning thought he might give in to the cold, a figure appeared at the bottom of the street on a bicycle. As he drew closer, even Manning’s weary eyes could distinguish this distant figure as the person he’d been catching his death waiting for. The man’s size dwarfed the two-wheeled frame beneath him. He flinched left and right, struggling with the handlebars, trying desperately to keep his balance. His oval helmet was too large for his head, and in his effort had slipped forward, obscuring most of his vision. On more than one occasion, the bike’s front tyre nearly struck the pavement, threatening to send the out-of-shape constable tumbling onto the frosted concrete. Although bitterly cold, the sky was clear. The early morning sun bounced up from the ice, catching the silver adorning the constable’s helmet, the buttons on his midnight blue jacket and the chain clinging to his pocket watch, though the flattering sunlight failed to transform him into a knight in shining armour. Manning was not impressed. The constable drew up alongside him, panting and sweating profusely from his hairline. Manning tutted. Even he, in his weakened state, would have made it up Belmoral Street with more dignity, bicycle or not. The police constable rested his bicycle against the garden wall next to him, trying to gather himself with deep, laboured breaths.

‘Are you Harold Manning, sir?’ he said.

‘I am, Constable’ Manning replied.

‘Obviously I’m here about your call to the station.’

‘Obviously.’ Manning sniffed. As far as he was concerned, the constable would need to redeem himself considerably following his entrance.

‘Okay, sir. At which house does your neighbour reside?’

‘That one.’ Manning pointed towards the red brick house with the bay windows attached to his own. The pair stood out, neo-Georgian in a street of no-nonsense Victorian architecture.

‘I’m Constable Brower, by the way,’ the policeman said. He readjusted his helmet, pulling on the black polished strap underneath his chin. On release, it disappeared immediately into the folds around his jowls.

‘Constable.’ Harold Manning replied with a curt nod. He was in no mood for pleasantries. It did not look as if this so-called policeman would be of use any time soon.

Brower still didn’t have his breath back. ‘So when was the last time that you saw, erm…’

‘Mr Cradleworth—Mr Charles Cradleworth,’ Manning said. ‘It was five days ago, Tuesday morning of last week. I remember it specifically because I was standing in the living room when he waved to me on his way to work.’

‘And where is it that he works, sir?’ Brower asked.

‘In the city. He’s a stockbroker, a very good one by all accounts. He’s been very helpful to me in the past.’

‘Has he.’ Brower scribbled laboriously into his leather-bound notebook.

‘Look, Constable, I don’t mean to be pressing, but I’m sure it’s clear to both of us that there is something wrong here,’ Manning croaked with annoyance.

Brower cleared his wheezing lungs and puffed out his chest. ‘Now you’re absolutely certain that Tuesday morning was the last time you saw Mr Cradleworth?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Manning’s croak intensified. It didn’t take long for his patience to wear thin with anyone, and Brower’s chubby, cartoon cheeks and bushy moustache were starting to grate on his nerves. ‘Nor have I seen Nancy, his wife, or his two children, Dotty and William.’

‘Are you saying that since Tuesday, the entire family has vanished?’ Brower raised his eyebrows and waited for a reply.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, which is why I called the station in the first place. I’m not a time-waster, or a lonely old fantasist. I would have noticed something was wrong much earlier but I don’t get out much now,’ Manning said. ‘My knees make it virtually impossible to walk any great distance, and I’m certainly not equipped for this cold anymore—so shall we get inside?’ Brower straightened himself in response. It was obvious to Manning that this particular bobby had performed nothing more heroic in his past than helping the elderly across the road, or chasing and failing to catch mischievous youngsters.

‘Alright, Mr Manning, escort me to the back of the house and we’ll take a look,’ Brower said.

With disdain, Manning ushered the constable through his modest house into the back garden, where they were able to climb over the low dividing wall. The brickwork of the classic building took on a deep red under the early morning sun and glistened as the previous night’s frost began to thaw. The Cradleworth’s back garden was small and well maintained, with a beautiful water feature at its centre. Nancy had seen it, instantly loved it, and persuaded Charles to buy it for her. Brower squinted through the glass of the window into the kitchen, pressing one of his marshmallow hands against his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. Everything looked neat and tidy around the sink and surfaces, but there were no visible signs of life. Pulling away, he noticed that the back door, rather than being closed shut, only rested against its frame.

‘That can’t be,’ Manning said, the colour draining from his face. ‘I came around here to check before I even called the station. The door was closed, and I’m certain it was locked. I tried to open it.’

‘Couldn’t this mean you may have been mistaken, and the Cradleworth’s are very much at large?’ Brower asked.

Manning sighed, certain that Brower was hoping beyond hope his assumption was correct. ‘I would have known, I would have noticed. I’m almost always at home. I hear every sound, every creaking floor board.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Brower didn’t want to argue. He had a domineering wife at home. He didn’t want confrontations at work if he could avoid them. He also didn’t want Harold Manning to file a complaint to the station. His reluctance to take action had already landed him in hot water with his Sergeant. Brower’s intake of breath relieved the pressure on the helmet strap that cut into the flesh under his chin. Leaning his shoulder into the door, he gave it a firm shove and it opened with a small popping sound. ‘Hello…Mr Cradleworth, Mrs Cradleworth, is anyone at home?’ His voice echoed through the quiet of the kitchen. The only sounds to be heard were the faint shouts of the children playing in the street. ‘Sir—Madam?’ The constable tried again, to no avail. With Manning at his side, he edged his way into the centre room. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the rooms in the house—sparse, cold and unwelcoming. ‘Are you absolutely certain the Cradleworth’s haven’t just gone on their holidays?’

Manning stiffened, not looking quite as frail all of a sudden. ‘Constable Brower, forgive me, but I’m old, not senile. I have known this family for the best part of ten years. I think I would know if they had gone away on holiday. For one thing, Charles or Nancy would have told me. Besides,’ Manning pointed a bony finger at the black leather case at the foot of the stairs, ‘there’s Charles’ briefcase. There is no way on God’s green earth that he would ever step from his front door without it.’

‘When you saw Mr Cradleworth on his way to work on Tuesday, did he have it with him?’

Manning paused, thinking long and hard. ‘I…I don’t remember.’

‘Let’s take a look upstairs then.’ The words more a request for Manning to accompany him than a statement of intent.

On reaching the foot of the stairs, a strange smell greeted them, a potent concoction of strong cheese and dead flowers. When they were halfway up, it became much stronger still.

‘What on earth is that?’ Manning winced, covering his nose and mouth.

‘I’m really not sure. Never smelt anything quite like it before,’ Brower replied. The bushy hedge of his moustache managed to filter out some of the stench, yet it still hit the back of his throat. He covered his face with the cuff of his jacket sleeve. At the top, the landing forked. To the left was the bathroom and guest bedroom, and to the right, the family’s bedrooms. The door to the children’s room was painted white with a small porcelain plaque fixed at eye level. A bear and a doll skipped through a summer meadow beneath the words, William and Dottie’s Room. The door was already ajar, so with the slightest nudge from Brower, it creaked open. Inside was immaculate, as if untouched for years. Various toys and books sat on the shelving above William’s tightly sheeted bed. On Dottie’s bed between her pink fluffed pillows sat a large porcelain doll dressed in eighteenth century garb. It seemed to stare back at them with the most disconcerting realism.

‘Well, there’s not much to see here,’ Brower said. He was right—it looked undisturbed. Even so, the charge of unease that ran through the bodies of both men refused to dissipate. As they moved out onto the landing and towards the master bedroom a few steps away, the smell became increasingly aggressive. This door had no plaque attached to it, and unlike the children’s room, it was closed shut. The constable crept forward, Manning’s spindly frame tucked in behind him, peering over his shoulder. The severity of the stench was sickly, almost burning the nostrils. Brower pushed down on the gold handle and the door opened, juddering slightly on its hinges. The room seemed much larger than any other in the house. The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn, shrouding the place in darkness. Their eyes adjusted enough to see that the top sheet of the bed was a pale colour, precisely tucked into the mattress. On the surface of the sheet, right at its centre, lay something even more curious than the overpowering smell—a circular patch of black dust.

‘Do you see that?’ Manning asked, pointing around Brower.

‘Of course—looks like coal dust,’ Brower said, confused.

‘Well, aren’t you going to check it?’ Although unnerved by the eeriness of the empty house, Manning wasn’t about to see the constable shirking his duty.

Brower gave Manning a reluctant look before approaching the left hand side of the bed and leaning over it. He ran a chubby finger through the middle of the black dust, ploughing a clean line. Holding the end of his finger up to his face, he sniffed the substance, careful not to actually snort it through his nose. He ran his finger through it again, intersecting the first line to create an x-shape. ‘It seems to be some kind of ash,’ Brower said. He moved over to the window and pulled the curtains back to let in the daylight. There was no sound from Harold Manning at first, and then Brower heard his whimpering.

‘Good God—please no, no, no. Oh, no.’ Manning’s voice had thinned, subdued by intense fear and revulsion. The frail old man had shrunk even further into himself. He clasped his hands together, as if in a prayer for salvation. He was cowering, his eyes transfixed on something above the bed.

The sheer terror in Manning’s face made Brower want to run from the house without ever looking back. He forced himself to stare upwards, and what he saw there at number sixty-six Belmoral Street, would haunt his every dream until the day he died. A blackened tapestry of scorched and twisted bodies hung above them. Brower struggled to make some sense out of what he was seeing. It was Nancy Cradleworth, her two children at either side of her. They had been crucified to the high ceiling with thick iron pegs. Nancy had a peg piercing each shoulder blade and both of her feet. The children were skewered either side of her, their arms left free, and they clung desperately to their mother. The flesh of all three was burnt to a crisp. In their cauterised expressions lingered horror and profound pain. Even through the coating of black frost, the heartbreak of seeing her children reaching for her was etched upon Nancy’s face. Their mass of entangled limbs had begun to meld themselves to one another, almost as if out of fear, and not fire.

Manning continued his wailing, fixed in place. A relentless trembling coursed throughout his body.

Constable Brower groped his way back to the old man, hypnotised by the demonic work of art leering over them. A tracing of ash drifted down from the petrified corpses onto the bed-sheet. From the corner of his eye, Brower could see the old man being violently ill. Brower curled his lip in disgust, a sense of revulsion breaking him from his dark trance. ‘I’m calling the station,’ He gave the horrendous vision one last glance before hurrying through the door and down the stairs.

Manning fell to his knees, eyes drawn back to the ceiling. His whimpers became sobs. He wrapped his arms around his body in a desperate bid for comfort, oblivious to the strands of saliva hanging from his quivering chin.

Chapter 1

Alice in Wonderland Syndrome

1

Cavity, Arizona-2006

A dirty green Buick swung onto the straight road that led into the belly of the massive trailer park. The glow of late evening fell across rows of flat tin roofs, making them glint in the unforgiving desert. The car conjured a whirling tail of sand at its rear. As it passed through the entrance of the park, a shaggy-looking mongrel yapped at its bumper, giving chase for a few seconds before it lost interest, turning its back to the car and burying its teeth into the bridge of its own tussled hide. The Buick took the very first right turn and started to slow down.

The area was vast, the park simply one link in a chain that wrapped itself around the neck of east Mexico. Cavity was perhaps one of the most impoverished and forgotten sites of the western United States. Its corroded trailers spiralled out across the desert into a huge circular metal collage, as if the community had been lost to some kind of fatal disaster, then unearthed again. The inhabitants of the trailer park existed day by day in appalling conditions. Some had fallen on hard times and been relocated here, but for most, this was their birthplace and would be their final resting place. For all the poverty present in Cavity, the greatest affliction was the absence of hope. Desperation spread like infectious weeds, coiling its way around the citizens, sucking away any ability to envisage something better. The people would feed on each other, attempting to regain what they had lost in order to survive. Staring into the bleakness with nothing to hold on to.

The Buick ground to a halt outside the trailer with a star spangled banner painted on its roof.

###

Across the way, a muscular man wearing a grimy vest and a deep red bandana with black markings cooked meat over a portable barbecue. The smell of fresh hamburger and steak spread through the already claustrophobic atmosphere, into the open windows of the nearby trailers. A couple of neighbours opened their doors to take a look at what James Derby was cooking. He glanced up, casually acknowledging his audience. The slab of meat was of infinitely more interest to him. He pressed his spatula down, applying pressure to a steak. The blood oozed and bubbled to the surface of the flesh, as the raw flames licked around it. Looking up, he scowled at the passengers of the Buick parked opposite.

###

‘Prick! Is he ever gonna give it up?’ the Buick’s driver said. She scowled back, pressing her middle finger against the window. The man’s frown deepened and he turned his attention back to his barbecue, shaking his head.

‘I guess he ain’t,’ replied her female passenger. ‘Why you let him get to you, Taylor? I can never be bothered to look in the guy’s direction.’ She glanced nervously to the trailer they’d parked alongside.

‘I don’t like what’s behind his eyes. He looks at us like we’re fucking sub-human or something.’ Taylor laughed. ‘Christ, the irony.’

Martha sniggered at Taylor’s observation. She noticed the little white bull terrier peeping out from beneath the steps of his owner’s mobile home. He was shielding the rest of his compact body away from the heat of the afternoon sun. Martha thought he was cute, and would often give him a quick stroke when Derby was inside or distracted. She couldn’t remember the little fella’s name. Her failure started to annoy her. She pictured the brown patch of fur over the dog’s right eye, a detail that brought his name back to her mind—Finch. Cute name too, she thought. Well, the law of averages demanded that even James Derby had to get at least one thing right in his life. She just wished the time would come when something went right for her. Good luck had been scarce for Martha Johnson. The hope of a sudden turn in fortune was what had kept her going to the ripe old age of twenty-three. She imagined a lifetime’s bad luck lurking within the flimsy walls of the battered trailer she was about to enter, before scolding herself, reminded that something other than despair resided there.

Taylor watched Martha thinking. She studied the internal struggle evident in her youthful face. ‘You okay?’ Taylor reached across the gear stick, brushing two fingers over Martha’s forehead and pushing a lock of her autumn-red hair from her eyes. Martha turned, opening her eyes to gaze at Taylor. They were a deep, emerald green, so vivid that people suspected she wore contacts. In reality, only her hair colour was faked, no longer the mousy-blonde she’d hated. She had thought it made her look as dreary as she used to feel. The only person who preferred it the way it used to be was Taylor.

‘No. You gonna make it better?’ Martha asked.

Taylor’s face flushed. They moved as one, leaning forward. Bodies intertwining, their lips touched. The interior of the car was clammy. Martha could smell the peel from the orange she’d eaten earlier, mixed with the stale smoke of Seneca cigarettes. She didn’t know why, but Taylor’s kisses always felt like they were slowly freezing time, pressing in, hard and wet.

At a crash from the barbecue outside, they jumped apart. For a few seconds they stayed silent, until they guessed what had happened and dissolved into laughter. Taylor’s head came to rest on Martha’s shoulder. ‘Looks like we’ve got an audience again,’ she said.

‘Aw, let him watch,’ Martha replied. ‘It’s the closest he’ll ever get to sex—with a human anyways.’

###

James Jimmy Derby was ogling their passionate kiss, telling himself he was in no way aroused by it. So focussed on appearing totally disgusted, he brushed his hand against the burning steel rim of the barbecue grill. He flinched at the sharpness, sending his knee crashing against the solid drum below. Derby tried his best to pretend he was just minding his juicy steak, and not desperately trying to prevent himself from crying out or screwing up his face with the pain—hissing fat splattered across his thin cotton pants.

###

Martha lost her train of thought and became still, gazing beyond her partner and into space. Taylor couldn’t figure precisely what was running through that mind of hers. These distant trances were a common occurrence, and nothing could break her free of them. It was simply a case of waiting it out. Taylor often wondered if it would be possible to join her, wherever she went. She became so engrossed in the thought that she didn’t noticed Martha was back with her again.

‘You thinking about tomorrow?’ Martha said.

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you’re still planning on killing yourself.’ Taylor didn’t sound angry, more disappointed.

‘You should know better than anyone that I’ll be one of the best riders out there,’ Martha said.

‘No one’s saying you can’t ride. No one’s saying you can’t win, but tell me honestly that you’re not taking one huge gamble on this,’ Taylor said. ‘Even if you do finish, what if you don’t win? All that money—the money you’ve saved for you and Davy?’

‘We’ve discussed this,’ she replied.

‘Yeah, well why bring it up then?’ Taylor snapped back. She folded her arms, pulling them tightly to her chest.

‘I was trying to be considerate.’

‘I’m sorry, Marth, I’m just thinking of all the things you wanted to do for Davy with that money.’

‘That’s the problem, if I don’t get him out of this place soon, in a few Christmas’s, he won’t be asking for toys anymore. He’ll be asking for drugs, or a fucking gun.’

‘Like the one his big sister has?’ Taylor instantly regretted making the comment, even more so as she watched the change in Martha’s face. ‘That was shitty. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.’

‘I know why—cause it’s true. The Switchblade could change that for—’

Taylor knew why she’d paused, but there was nothing to be said about it. ‘And if the worst happens?’ Taylor asked.

‘You know I wouldn’t want him to be anywhere but with you.’ Martha reached out again, touching her face. One touch was all it needed.

Taylor’s arms loosened, opening up her body. She sighed and looked into her girlfriend’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want him anywhere else either.’ Both, as always, timed their reactions to perfection, lips meeting at the same moment.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Taylor smiled.

‘Pick me up at the usual time?’

‘Yeah—sure.’

‘I’ll miss you tonight,’ Martha said.

Taylor rolled her eyes at her obvious tease. ‘Get out, bitch.’ She nudged Martha out through the door and started the engine.

‘Ok, bye bye,’ Martha stood grinning through the window of the car.

Taylor eased away through the trailer park with a grin of her own.

Martha watched as the Buick meandered around the first couple of turns on its way to the entrance. The sun had almost disappeared from sight. There was a fresh chill in the air, which Martha hadn’t felt in the car. After staring at the dust trail Taylor left behind, she turned to face the trailer. Life left her weary, but right now, she needed to be strong more than ever. The inside of the trailer home was almost as grimy as the outside. The drapes were pulled across its tiny windows, shrouding the place in a gloom that only increased as day ebbed away. Every surface, the tops of cupboards and the sink units, were littered with spirit bottles, old magazines, bits of screwed up paper; some holding within them a few scribbled words, and some smudged with suspicious, greasy stains. As Martha took a step inside the sole of her high-top trainers peeled away from the sickly linoleum like one of her own leg waxing strips. The sound disgusted her. The glow from the TV illuminated the smoke and dust hanging in the air. The sound on the set was turned down, and the station showed a news report of a suspected murder that had occurred in Dansbury, Arizona. A neatly dressed female reporter delivered a monologue on the current investigation. The photograph of a young man, who appeared to be the prime suspect, flashed up on the screen.

The noise of a shifting body drew Martha away from the television, toward the sofa to her left. The woman who lay upon it turned to face her. Her left arm slid from her chest onto the cushion and her forearm hung over the side, palm up. Martha didn’t bother looking at the weird markings stretching across the scrawny flesh. She stared with abhorrence at the woman’s features. She was only eighteen years Martha’s senior, but most wouldn’t guess that. Her face was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones protruded unnaturally from her withered skin. Her lips were dry and cracked, with poorly applied lipstick smeared across them—deep red—cheap and slutty. Her hair had the appearance of an old, deserted birds nest, the victim of too many home bleaching kits. She wore a revealing black cocktail dress, the very same dress she’d worn on her evening out the previous night, creased beyond recognition. One of her small, sagging breasts peeped out through the deep v-neck split at its front. The dress had twisted up during the woman’s snooze, accentuating its shortness. The trim of her lace underwear showed at the top of her thigh. The tights worn with the dress were now lying on the floor. Martha thought she would do well to keep them on. Her bony legs were so white they looked better suited to a week old corpse. Not wanting to look at the pitiful mess any longer, she turned for the rooms situated at the back of the rig.

‘Been out with little miss sugar ass again, have we?’ a voice croaked from the sofa.

Martha looked back and saw the woman struggling to haul herself into a sitting position. ‘Hmm. Since when have you ever given a shit about where I’ve been, or what I’ve been doing?’ Her voice remained calm, devoid of emotion.

‘Since my own flesh and blood became a pussy-licking dyke, maybe,’ the woman said.

‘Well, I’m happy to disappoint you, Val. If something wrongs you, then it must be fucking right.’

‘What’s wrong? Realised that real men ain’t like your daddy?’ Val said it as if she’d not even heard Martha’s reply to her previous comment.

‘Nah, I just figured you’d had enough cock for the both of us.’

Val hurled a sarcastic cackle Martha’s way, which broke into a cough. She pushed her back further up the sofa in a bid to stop herself from choking. ‘You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? There’s such a surprise on its way to you, girl,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, really?’

‘Doug’s looking for you. Someone broke into Bevan’s car last night. Doug seems to think you’d know all bout it.’ The woman had managed to straighten herself out.

‘What the hell would I want with that heap of shit?’

‘Well, Doug thinks different. He’s coming by for a chat tomorrow.’

‘Fuck Doug,’ Martha said. ‘Do you honestly think I’m scared of him? Besides, I won’t be here tomorrow.’

‘Off with your girlfriend?’

‘Like I told you—none of your business.’

‘I’ll make it my business if you bring the cops to my door. You’re the talk of the town. Don’t think my ears ain’t open to what you’re up to. I know your crew have stepped up their operation. There’s more places being turned over than ever before.’

‘Christ, you sound like the Sheriff. Why don’t you ask him for a job?’ Martha replied. ‘Maybe you could teach the kids around here the dangers of using drugs. You’re a walking example.’

Val growled up at Martha like a mistreated Doberman. ‘You don’t know shit about me, just like you know shit about life. Try living in this puddle of piss for a while longer. See how you feel when you’ve walked in my shoes.’

‘I’d rather die before I’d walk in your shoes.’ Martha turned again for the rooms to her back.

‘Oh yeah, you plan to fly the chicken coop with your little stash.’ Val raised her voice, lifting her hand to her chest in discomfort.

The comment stopped Martha dead in her tracks. She sucked it up to mask her distress in the time it took to face her mother. ‘If you knew where it was, it would be gone already,’ Martha said, giving Val a mocking smile.

‘You’re getting twitchy, they say, taking more and more risks. It’s only a matter of time before they make something stick, and I’m gonna have all the time in the world to search when it does.’ Val’s smile was full of malice; in the gloom of the trailer, her smudged mascara made her seem even more hideous, like some sort of demented clown.

‘Why don’t you just turn your own daughter in then?’

‘I might!’

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ No way would Martha let her see even a hint of distress. With a half smile, half grimace, she glared down on her despotic parent before taking a few steps towards the other rooms.

‘If you’re lucky enough to get away, don’t think Davy is coming with you either. The boy stays with me.’ This outburst seemed to delight Val the most.

Martha paused for a moment. She thought about opening her mouth and decided it was better to remain silent on this one. The boy stays with me. That’s how she saw him, as, the boy, like he was a fucking hostage in a ransom plot. Not that Martha needed any more reasons to get her brother far away from this nightmare. She knew from her own harrowing experience that Val wasn’t like most mothers. No, this time she wouldn’t take the bait. She would carry on walking and lock the bedroom door behind her. As it slid shut, Val gave a brief stare of discontent before her eyes drifted back to the mesmerising imagery of the TV set.

The sight of Davy always picked Martha off the ground. He was sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, his little legs barely reaching the edge of his single mattress. He had turned seven, three and a half weeks ago, but was very small for his age. Both Martha and Val were short, but Martha clung to the hope that Davy would turn out more like his daddy. He’d already begun to look like him. His hair was the same thick oak brown as his namesake. It had the same smell and texture when Martha ran her fingers through it. David Johnson Junior was a living memory, but also much more. To Martha, he represented the only means to her salvation, a selfish but necessary way to view the child. Her teen hopes had faded into disappointment, and disappointment had led to bitterness and despair. In a way, Martha thought it fortunate she no longer resembled her old self. It was best not to think about herself. If she was to get them out of this mess, it was with Davy where her focus must remain, almost exclusively. If she could do something positive and get him away from Cavity to something better, spare him from what she’d endured, it could go some way to redressing the balance for some of the terrible things she’d done.

Davy was still unaware of his sister standing in front of him. With his head down, he avidly studied the comic book that lay across his lap. He sported a set of headphones that were much too large for him, engulfing his ears. He wore the dungarees Martha bought for him on his sixth birthday, faded and virtually worn out at the knees. It had been the last time she’d paid for a present with money she’d earned legitimately. He’d hardly taken them off, apart from the times she had convinced him they needed a wash. The other kids on the trailer site always teased him about his dungarees. They weren’t cool anymore. They hadn’t been cool at the time Davy had first gotten his hands on them. He didn’t care—the kids could say what they liked. If Martha thought they were cool then he did too. Despite his lack of height, the dungarees were not a perfect fit, only reaching down to the tops of his ankles. She’d tried to prise them away from him by offering to buy him a new pair, but he remained steadfast in his reluctance.

Eventually, Davy glanced up from his comic and was delighted to see Martha standing there in a daydream. ‘Hi Marth, did you have a good day?’ He pulled the headphones from his ears, setting them down on top of the comic book.

Martha snapped out of herself and beamed a smile in his direction. ‘It was good, thanks, soldier,’ she said.

‘Is Taylor okay?’

‘She is. She sends you hugs.’

‘Send me hugs back, please.’

Martha nodded and moved over to the bed, sitting down beside him. Davy leant his head upon her chest, wrapping his arms around her waist.

‘Why doesn’t mom let Taylor come here anymore?’ he asked.

‘It’s complicated, baby, you know—hard to explain.’

‘Taylor makes you happy, what’s wrong with that? She loves you.’ Davy went coy as soon as he said the words.

‘Oh really!’ Martha replied. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘Err…b…because I asked her, and she told me the truth, but she made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. Please don’t tell her I said anything.’ He wasn’t afraid of Taylor, no one could be. He just didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Martha experienced an unexpected rush of warmth. Taylor had never told her she loved her to her face. In fact, Martha had never considered it herself until now. The warmth quickly faded when she realised she could not reciprocate that love. Her primary objective had always been Davy. As a result, she’d kept Taylor at a distance. ‘You two been gossiping about me behind my back again?’ She tickled between his ribs with her free hand, and they both chuckled. Martha’s laughter continued, but then Davy fell into a thoughtful silence.

‘Marth, doesn’t mom want you to be happy?’

Martha rolled her eyes. These were the conversations she never wanted to enter into with him. They would lead him down roads to a world she was determined he would never be part of. ‘Mom has her own problems, sweetie,’ she replied.

‘I don’t like the way she talks to you. She shouldn’t talk that way.’

A small trace of anger resonated in the little boy’s voice; it was beginning. ‘Hey, don’t you worry about me, kido.’ Martha pulled him closer.

‘That’s not fair. If you worry about me then I worry about you. You may be my big sister, but I’m the man of the house since dad went away.’

Right then, Martha could have held him for eternity. She knew he was just trying to be brave and take on responsibilities that he didn’t have the slightest comprehension of. She pulled him even tighter to her chest. Nothing was going to touch him while he was still a little boy. She would die before she would let that happen. ‘It looks like you’re gonna watch out for me whether I want you to or not then.’

‘Yep,’ he replied.

Martha knew she needed to change the subject, for her own sake. ‘How was school?’ she asked.

Davy screwed up his face with indifference. ‘It was okay, I guess. Boring mostly. We are going to paint pictures of our favourite things tomorrow, so that will be good.’

‘I’d forgotten how much you liked to paint when you were a baby. You didn’t care about things like brushes back then.’ Martha smiled. ‘I can pick up a paint set when I’m out tomorrow if you like—that cool?’

‘Yeah, that’s cool.’ Davy lifted his head from Martha’s chest a little so he could look at her.

‘Well, did you expect anything less from such a cool sis?’

Davy chuckled. ‘Your head’s getting too big.’

‘Oh, that right?’ Martha pinched his left hip.

‘Yeah, your head’s getting so big, you might not be able to fit it into your helmet at the race tomorrow.’

Stunned, Martha stopped the tickling. ‘Jesus Christ, you don’t miss a trick, do you?’ she said.

‘Err, nope.’ He was completely unfazed by the subject, just proud he was able to catch her out.

She leant forward to kiss the crown of his head. ‘I’ll let you get back to your comic book now.’

‘Okay.’ He already reached for his headphones.

‘I’ll come back for a cuddle before you go to sleep.’ As she moved from the bed, Davy gave her a quick wink, repositioning his headphones and turning back to the latest page of his comic. When satisfied that he was suitably distracted, Martha dropped to her hands and knees and crawled under her own bed. It was the third floorboard down from the left hand corner of the room. One precise tap at one end with her knuckles and the other end lifted up slightly. She struggled to reach the back pocket of her jeans. Twisting uncomfortably, she groaned as she fumbled. Eventually her discomfort was rewarded, and she came away with a thick wad of notes. It amounted to approximately two hundred and fifty dollars. That was the best price she could get for Tiffany Harrington’s necklace. God knows, she tried for more. Martha only knew her name because of the engraving on the inside. As she had stood in Tiffany’s darkened bedroom the night before last, shining a torch over the glinting piece of jewellery, all she could think was that the engraving would shave off an ample chunk of the price. The words read, This will always be your home. Love from the staff at the Winterspring Restaurant and Grill.

She placed the roll of money into the clear plastic bag that sat in the gap underneath the floorboard, company for the several other wads. She gave the board another little tap to knock it back into place.

When she joined Davy again, he reached out towards her. ‘I like it when you stay home at night,’ he said.

She gazed into his eyes and tried to picture him as a young man, wondering how much like his father he would look. ‘I like it too,’ she replied.

‘I heard you talking on the phone about your bike. That’s how I knew.’

Martha turned him on her lap so they were face to face. ‘You know it’s something I gotta do, don’t you?’

‘I guess so,’ Davy said, losing eye contact.

‘What’s on your mind, little man? Come on, spill it.’

‘Nothing. I had a dream about you last night…a bad dream.’ Suddenly the tough kid Martha pretended to see melted away like a cheap magic trick.

‘What happened in the dream?’

‘You went away.’

‘Davy, look at me. I know what I’m doing. I won’t do anything stupid and hurt myself.’

‘I know that. You didn’t die in the dream.’

‘What then?’ Martha urged.

‘You just left. You left me alone.’

‘And do you think that’s how it is, or is it just your overactive imagination?’ Although she did her best to contain her emotion, she couldn’t.

‘My imagination.’

Martha knew he was lying. ‘Where’s this come from, Davy? That fu—Val?’

‘No, it’s not her.’

He wasn’t lying this time; she saw it written in his eyes. His intuition hadn’t just touched a nerve; it had gone right to the bone. ‘Everything I’ve done has always been to give us a chance of a new life—both of us. You believe me, don’t you?’ Martha pleaded.

‘I don’t care where we are, even if we stay in this place forever, as long as I’m with you’.

Martha pulled him to her breast, moving her chin onto the top of his head so he could not see her face. Eventually you will care; she thought, too fucking late. If something didn’t happen soon, she knew that the mask she wore for him every day would slip. To any sane person in Martha’s predicament, there was certainly no other choice to make. Even so, she knew that in just over twenty-four hours, she could lose everything on one of the Switchblade’s lethal bends; Davy, the money, her freedom, maybe even her life— everything. It was so tempting to grab a few essentials, throw Davy onto the back of her bike, and ride off into the night. They could just keep heading north, out of this dreadful hole of a place. She wondered how far they could get with the money she already had, until the extra weight of Davy’s limp body broke her thoughts. He’d fallen into an untroubled sleep. Being in his sister’s arms was enough. Though it was clear to Martha that in a couple of years, it would no longer be.

2

Martha could see the decrepit wooden house ahead. Loose boards swung from every quarter in the blustering wind. It looked to her like an aged face with a slanted eye where one of the boards surrounding the second floor window had slipped over the glass. Gazing up, she noticed the clouds in the grey sky rushing past backwards; the most unnatural of movements, as if operated by remote control on fast rewind. The world above seemed a completely separate entity to the one below. Right at the very top of the house was an attic conversion of some kind. Something had drawn her towards the third floor window. She wasn’t sure what, or why. It was instinctive. A figure appeared from behind the dusty glass, half-obscured in the gloom, and suddenly, reaching the third floor was all that concerned her.

Once inside the house, the only traces of a previous occupant were a few bare pieces of furniture. A flimsy wooden chair struggled to stay on its legs in the hallway. A small, jet-black chest of drawers upon which dust and cobwebs had settled stood against the wall adjacent to the staircase. Every surface in the house was coated in equal measure. Struck by the most immense, inexplicable fear, Martha reached the foot of the stairs. She could not see her hand before her, and had no sense as to where she was at all; disembodied. She could move, think and feel, yet she lacked any kind of physical presence. Memories flashed through her mind of travelling in her disembodied form along various roads, some known to her, some unrecognisable. All roads had been journeyed to their conclusion. How could this be? she thought. These were real memories, real journeys, her experiences. How could I forget? More to the point, where am I right now—a dream? The need to reach the attic overcame her, pushing everything else aside. She ascended swiftly through the centre of the staircase, past the decaying banister rails until she reached the third floor. The final set of stairs were unlike the others. They consisted of only four steps. Although they seemed in better condition than the other stairs, their materials felt much older. There was a short landing leading around to the left, ending at the door to a single room. The murky, rotten plaster on the walls was identical to that of the floors below, but the steps she’d just passed, and the crafted frame around the door itself, consisted of something different. The wood was deeper, darker and unblemished. She remembered the chest of drawers she passed on entering the house. As she approached, the door slowly swung open, moving without a creak to reveal the figure she’d seen at the window.

A girl, about ten years old, dressed in a tattered nightgown covered with pale-blue dolphins that were swimming in different directions. The girl’s stunted feet were caked in what looked like black soot, which smudged up over the tops of her ankles. Her brown, matted hair fell right down to her thighs, totally covering her face. Deep down, Martha began to realise that her current state and lack of physicality had always patrolled her thoughts; this bizarre-looking child was no different. She had always been there, in the back of her mind, ratter-tat-tatting her broken nails on the window of every dream Martha ever had. She started to recall images more vividly, images of travelling along many roads again, and visits to this very house. In fact, she’d travelled to this house every single time she’d laid down her head at night. The girl had brought her here to show her something, and every time, Martha had baulked against whatever that something was.

Martha glided into the room. The girl now stood right before the window. Her right arm slowly lifted from her side. When it reached nine o’clock, a chubby index finger extended from her closed fist and pointed towards the corner of the room. There lay a bed, its headboard and left side pushed against the wall. The room, along with everything in it, was coated with the most ghastly filth imaginable. Only the sheets on the bed were the purist white, bathed in an ethereal glow. The light didn’t seem to be coming from any other source; it emanated from the material of the sheets themselves. The curves of the top sheet followed the shape of a body. Martha recognised this image as something buried, layer upon layer in her subconscious. Whatever lay beneath the sheet was alive, and it shook with an acute intensity. Its movements were as unearthly as the sweeping clouds in the sky outside. A human body could not move back and forth in such a way. Its outline blurred in its own wake. Martha couldn’t feel the icy prickle of sweat on her skin, or the raised hairs that accompany fear. She’d never felt fear quite like this, but it didn’t prevent her from moving closer to the bed. As she approached, the illumination of the sheets started to fade. By the time she reached the metal frame at the foot of the bed, the shape came to a complete rest. She was close enough to see the sheet’s whiteness tainted with dull shades of black damp, slowly soaking through to its surface. It was so still. If its movements had been alien and disconcerting before, its lack of movement now was equally so. Martha battled with the relentless dread and her need to see what lay underneath, like all the times before. Very shortly, her reluctant wish would be granted.

The silky sheet began to shift, sliding down the body like milk. Martha tried to reach out to pull it away completely, but her consciousness snapped back through the room and down the stairs, hurtling towards the now open chest of drawers on the ground floor. The second she hit, everything melted away.

3

Martha shot up in bed clutching at her chest, sweat streaming from her freezing body. Even though the room was dark, she could make out her limbs again. It took a long time to re-orientate herself; looking across to see her little brother sleeping soundly beside her certainly helped. She was home, but where the hell had she been? What she had experienced only moments ago was lost. She couldn’t remember a single thing about it, except for the fear it stirred within. An awful, throbbing headache swamped her and her whole body became limp with a severe fatigue. She lay back onto the bed, running a weak hand over Davy’s forehead before falling into a deep slumber.

Chapter 2

The J Man

1

Walton, England

Jerrico always scratched his head when he felt agitated or uncomfortable. He realised he’d been doing it a lot lately, quite a realisation for someone who felt agitated and uncomfortable most of the time. He cursed himself, pulling his arms back to his sides. Even the nervous tick he reverted to when annoyed had begun to annoy him. He took great care over his intricately braided hair, and would often catch his fingers in it when he reached for the back of his head. He gazed around the fast food restaurant while he waited for his order. It was one thirty-five in the afternoon, so the place was buzzing. Occasionally, Jerrico would see businessmen in their late forties awaiting their guilty pleasure with furtive anticipation. Their wives fed them on nothing but organic produce, more an exercise in keeping up with the Joneses than a conscious adherence to a healthy lifestyle. Jerrico hated the pretence of it. Even so, he had less contempt for the businessmen than he had for others who ate there. This was largely a place where the typical masses came for their lunch. The noise level was almost unbearable. Even having a conversation was a competition, each person automatically raising their voice to drown out the surrounding others. To the left of him in the next queue was a man so fat that just standing there caused him to break out into a treadmill sweat. The man breathed heavily, his breasts bouncing under his filthy t-shirt with the laboured movement.

‘Fuckinell—ha ha ha!’ a young girl shrieked. Jerrico guessed her to be about seventeen. She continued cackling. He cringed, and wondered if anyone had ever told her that swearing loudly in public places was not the done thing. The cap squad were also out in force. Tall, reedy teenagers in multi-coloured tracksuits, weighed down by fake gold. Some had their caps perched on the tops of their heads, others had them pulled down with the beck tilted forward, masking drug-dulled eyes.

‘There you go, mate.’ The dreaded red-haired waitress dropped his food onto the counter in its familiar brown paper bag. He met her vacant eyes with a glare. ‘Sup?’ she said, stretching her customer service skills to the limit.

‘I’m just wondering if you’ve done it again,’ he said. The smile he gave her was about as warm as his meal.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s quite a funny story, actually,’ Jerrico smirked. ‘The last three times I’ve been served by you, I’ve asked for a cheeseburger with medium fries and a medium coke. Following me so far?’

‘Err, yeah,’ the girl snapped.

‘Every time I’ve walked out of here and opened my bag I find a double cheeseburger, medium fries and medium coke.’

Her mouth hung open. ‘Yeah, that’s the offer, mate.’

‘Oh of course, you mean the offer I never asked for, and the offer I was never asked if I wanted. That offer?’

The girl was becoming more confused and angry. The fragile principals of Jerrico’s argument clearly made her head hurt. ‘Yeah, but I’m giving you an extra burger for less money,’ she said, still bemused.

‘But I didn’t ask for it.’ He sighed. ‘Look, you are the sales assistant. Your job is to take the order and the money, then go and get said order and bring it back to the customer.’

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job.’

‘Why not? You’re telling me what meal I should have.’

‘Fucking hell, I don’t see what your problem is.’ She scowled.

‘Fucking hell?’ Jerrico scratched the back of his head furiously. He could hear a group of youngsters sniggering behind him. ‘You are the only problem here. Your job, my job, and the job of most people usually involves doing a few things repeatedly throughout the day. So can you understand why I’m so amazed that you have failed to do those things the last three times you’ve served me? God knows how many times you’ve done it to other people.’

‘Other people go, great, I’ve got another burger for less money. Thanks, Gemma.’ She grinned from ear to ear. She really believed she’d scored some major points with her comment. So did the kids who were laughing behind Jerrico.

‘Do they? Do they, really,’ Jerrico said. ‘You know what? Keep your double cheeseburger.’ He slammed the brown bag back onto the counter just as the manager, who’d been hovering, waltzed over to the till point.

‘Anything the matter?’ he asked politely.

Jerrico responded by giving the confused girl one last glare before his parting shot. ‘And you always forget the barbecue sauce.’ He remembered the scene in the film, Falling Down, and felt this oddly reminiscent. He thought he’d better turn and head for the entrance before he went Michael Douglas on the whole restaurant. That was it. He would never be seen dead in there again. He rushed out, almost colliding with a couple of people on the way. An old woman and a young girl carrying a baby emerged through the double doors to block his exit. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet until he saw a gap appear once they had passed, and decided to push through before someone else did. He lunged forward, brushing against the young woman, the long strands of her hair flicking against his lips for a second, and something else touched him. Beside the woman stood a child. Slyly, she slipped her hand into his, a cute little girl, no older than eight. She stared up at him, mesmerised, as if she’d just come face to face with Father Christmas. Her mother turned to see what held her daughter back.

‘What’s wrong, hun?’ Stooping slightly, she noticed her child’s grip on the stranger’s hand. Her confused and embarrassed smile became one of concern.

Jerrico could feel her anxiety like the gust of cold air rushing through the restaurant’s open door. She didn’t observe him with the same strange wonderment that her daughter did. All she saw was his ethnicity, his dark, unusual hairstyle, the black eye liner and lipstick, the ring piercing his bottom lip and the curious rabbit tattoo inked on the side of his neck just below his ear. He’d become used to this kind of reaction. The woman gave her child’s arm a tug in the hope it would break her from her inexplicable trance, a trance Jerrico had now fallen victim to as he stared back at her. Time stood still.

‘Come on, Trissy, stop this,’ the woman said. Her tone was abrupt, angry. Jerrico was about to turn for the door and break this curious spell when the girl lurched forward, slipping from her mother’s grasp and wrapping both delicate little arms around his waist. He tried to step back but the booth behind him blocked his retreat. All he could do was raise his arms up above his head, looking desperately towards her mother. ‘Trissy, what on earth are you doing?’ The woman could not help but raise her voice. The slight commotion had alerted a few people standing nearby, and they watched on with curiosity.

Jerrico could feel the girl’s tiny hands locked together against the small of his back, and her head pressing further into his stomach. The woman tugged at her daughter’s shoulders. Although the girl had absolutely no intention of letting go just yet, she was no match for the force of her mother.

‘I’m so sorry about this,’ the woman said. ‘I really don’t know what came over her.’ She barely made eye contact with him as she spoke, but he could see the bright red flooding into her cheeks.

Finally yanked loose from her bear hug, the child’s eyes met with Jerrico’s one last time, strong and unwavering. ‘We knew you would come.’ Her voice was fragile, but her words sounded assured. Another gap for the door appeared. Jerrico did not hesitate. He nodded to the child’s mother in apology, although he’d no idea what he was apologising for; then spun around, slipping through the double doors. He had the feeling, as he gulped down the cold air outside, of finally reaching the surface after being submerged in water. Shaking himself, he tried to pull himself together. He wasn’t in shock. This was the third bizarre incident of its kind in the last couple of weeks; the third child who’d reacted to him in such a way. He was worried instead about why they had done so. There must be a reason, yet Jerrico wasn’t completely sure he wanted to know what it was. As the door to the fast food place swung shut, he caught the faint sound of the woman’s voice. ‘Why did you go to that man like that? You’re not to do anything like that again—do you hear me?’ The girl did not hear her, because she wasn’t listening. She stared through the entrance onto the street, straight at Jerrico.

What the hell do you want, kid, he thought. What the hell did you say to me?

He managed to walk a few steps down the high street before his phone started to buzz in his pocket. He hated the thing, hated the fact that people could bother him when he wasn’t in the mood. He certainly wasn’t in the mood right now. Holding it up, the digital display showed an incoming call, number withheld. ‘Hello,’ Jerrico said.

The voice at the other end replied tentatively. ‘Hey.’ It was her.

‘Hey.’ He cupped his other ear in an attempt to drown out the grinding of a passing road sweeper.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Now that he could hear better, her voice sounded even more strained, barely there at all. ‘I’m fine. Is there something wrong?’

‘Erm…no. I just wanted to talk to you,’ she replied.

‘About what?’

‘Nothing really. I just wanted to talk to you.’

Jerrico sighed and tightened his jaw in annoyance. ‘Why are you doing this, Kate?’ She paused at the question, knowing she didn’t really have the answer. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We’ve been through this time and time again. We decided it was the best thing for both of us, not to get in touch unless it was really important.’

‘This is really important,’ Kate said.

‘Like last time?’

‘That’s not fair. What am I suppose to do? Just switch off my feelings? If I could do that then the decision wouldn’t have been so shitty to make.’

‘Fact remains, it’s been made now, and all you’re doing is making things more difficult for the both of us. It’s bad enough for me, but you’re supposed to be arranging your wedding, for Christ sake.’

‘Yes, I know. Every time I force myself to think about it, you’re in my head.’

Jerrico let out another massive breath. ‘Oh, come on. Think about it this way, then, if you’d chosen me do you think you would be arranging a wedding right now?’ There was no answer. ‘Why are we even having this conversation?’ An awkward silence followed—one very different from the incredibly intimate silences they’d experienced in their past. Back then, just to be in each other’s presence, even over the phone, had been enough. Jerrico wasn’t sure, but he thought she might be crying.

She eventually built up the courage to speak and said, ‘I’ve tried until I can’t try anymore. I’m worn out. Since I agreed to this wedding, I’ve thought more about you than I have about Philip.’

‘So what’s this now? You changed your mind again. Are you on a fucking loop?’ he fumed. ‘Am I the only one who knows we’ve been here before?’

Kate’s gentle sobbing stopped dead. ‘Fine—we’ll leave it at that.’

‘Exactly. I thought we’d done that once before, too,’ he said.

‘That’s how you want it.’ He could hear her disappointment before the line went dead.

Jerrico placed the handset to his forehead, closing