Pale Kings: Merrywhile, #0.5

By Gareth J. Southwell

Dean's got a bit of a problem.

 

Just three days into his stint minding the family shop and already there's a jagged hole in the wall where the new smart-drugs vending machine used to be, courtesy of the local psychopathic heavy. But as the clock ticks down on his father's return, hope appears in the guise of an enigmatic beauty, a girl stepped straight out of Dean's dreams, proposing a wild and improbable plan that could just change all their lives – maybe even for the better.

 

Pale Kings is a sharp-witted and comical journey into the crazy world of contemporary fine art, the illicit potential of virtual reality gaming, and the neurotic susceptibilities of robotic guard dogs.

This novella is a prequel to MUNKi, the first of the Merrywhile books. Set in the near-future, this is an ongoing series of sci-fi stories – novellas, short stories and full length novels – with a loose chronology, but which can be read in any order. They involve various characters and their dealings with Merrywhile Industries, a giant tech company with ambitions to take humanity to the next level – whether it wants to go there or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WoodPig Press
• Release date: May 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739300500

Book preview

Pale KingsTitle Page

Pale Kings

Gareth Southwell

First edition published by

Gareth Southwell, May 2021

This edition published by

WoodPig Press, February 2023

Copyright © 2023 Gareth Southwell

Cover design: Copyright © 2023 Gareth Southwell

Graffiti brushes courtesy of Brusheezy

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7393005-0-0

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7393005-1-7

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations, incidents, locales, etc, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of these fictional elements to actual persons, organisations, etc, is entirely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders, or it has been assumed that material used is in the public domain. However, the publisher will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For any queries relating to any of the above, please contact the publisher:

www.woodpigpress.com

For Tes

Explainer of TikToks

Connoisseur of Crocs

With all my love

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!’

John Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Contents

Pale Kings

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The Merrywhile Books

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Pale Kings

Dean doesn’t know what he’s said, but she’s laughing, head thrown back, mouth wide, eyes closed, unselfconsciously abandoned to the moment. Not that she’s anything to be self-conscious about, mind you – that auburn hair, so long and straight, dropping down almost half the length of herself, like . . . like curtains; those deep green eyes, so green they’re almost glowing, almost like – well, no, not traffic lights exactly, but . . . And that skin, so pale it makes her freckles jump out like German measles. Why German, anyway? Was that where—

Tik.

But those teeth – pristine perfect, not a filling in sight, just regimented rows, all lined up, as white as . . . like the fridges in the shop! And wall-to-wall teeth, you know? Like that actress? Whatshername. Andie? No. In that old film, where she’d been . . . well, a prostitute, basically. But a sweet one – like, she didn’t really want to be. A prostitute. And then this rich guy had shown up, all sharp suits and golden watches, rented her as his girlfriend-for-the-weekend, and then afterward, when he was done with her, when you thought she’d been scrumpled up like a used tissue, dumped right back into her shitty little life and was back there stuck forever, he’d shown up again, like a—

Tik.

. . . Julia somebody?

And then Dean’s lost her. They’re supposed to leave together – aren’t they? Where to? But the house is suddenly rammed, jam-packed, crammed like a gig or a post-match pub, so tight he can barely breathe, hardly budge, squeezing his elbows past backs and shoulders, easing knees between crannies of bums and thighs – and he realises with mounting panic that he’s not actually heading out but further in, the passage narrowing, the bodies closing in upon him like walls, like a trap triggered in a raided tomb, pressing in against him, pushing him—

Tik.

And everyone is here – family, friends, even people he knows off the telly – not, you know, that Dean’s ever really known anyone off—

Tik.

Dean, have you seen your mother? his father asks.

Mam? No. But I . . . I need to find—

Come on, now, good boy, get your brain in gear for a change. She won’t have gotten far on foot.

Tik.

What is that?

And now Dean’s helping look for his mother too, but all the time wondering where the girl has gone.

Julia . . . ?

Tik.

And there it is again. A tap – is it? Dripping? Or a—

"Dean."

No.

"Deeeean."

Not a tap.

Deeeeeeeean.

For crying out loud.

He prises open his eyes, behind-the-lids blackness blurring with the still-dark morning. He eases himself up, sighs, then sweeps back the duvet, swivelling his feet round and down onto the cold bare boards of the bedroom floor. He grinds the heel of a hand into the socket of an eye and yawns.

What time is it?

Tik.

Time-to-kill-him o’clock.

He stands unsteadily, listing momentarily into the bedside table, then rights himself before wobbling over to the window to part the curtains on the expected.

Fuck’s sake, Low.

Sorry, Dean. Thought you might be up.

Up? It’s . . .  He flaps a listless hand at the still-on-duty street lights, the horizon’s non-glow, the barely outlined silhouette of the steelworks – well, not the steelworks anymore, of course.

And what the fuck was . . . ? Were you . . . ?

"Pebbles. Tiny pebbles, mind. In case you were sleeping. Like, really sleeping, I mean. So I thought, you know, gentle tap would—"

Why not just text?, knowing it as he says it, remembering, pinching the bridge of his nose. Because you won’t—

Dean, you know I can’t have a—

—use a phone. Yes.

—phone. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. You know, before it went.

"Before what went? Went where?"

I’ve had an idea. About the hole.

Jesus, Low. Are you serious?

Dean stares out at a horizon still refusing to brighten.