Hey guys,
Apologies about the lack of stories, it’s been a strange old time as of late! I’ve just finished writing this latest piece, set in the “Restorationists” universe. It tells a short sharp tale of a veteran from the boer war meeting some of his old comrades… and his speech of how he is going to kill the ancient all feeling beast of London, which runs the city from the shadows.
As always, I appreciate any feedback or thoughts you may have on the piece.
Cheers,
Jevan Thompson
“ROOM! ROOM-SHUN!” Rory bellowed, snapping his whole body to attention in a mere second.
With the scrape of two dozen chairs, the entire basement stood up in unison.
Drinks were left on the tables, chairs and stools were pushed carelessly aside and conversations were swiftly halted. In the space of a few moments, each man and woman stood, rigid as bayonet blades. It was as though the room had turned into statues.
Granted, it was an odd set of mixed statues, as the clothing varied drastically from each and every person. Some stood in fine formal wear, suits ironed and pressed so firmly, the creases could cut a man. Some stood in factory working clothes, dirty, greasy, coal stained overalls that had once been a deep blue at some distant point in the past. Even a few people stood in the type of clothes a farmer might wear, loose shirts to promote the flowing of air on a hot summer’s day.
Pipe and cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling like a living roof, gently rippling with the movements of the cellar’s inhabitants.
Footsteps could be heard from the basement’s entrance, where Rory stood next to. Sounding distant at first, easily missed, but growing louder and louder with each step.
After a few silent heartbeats, a figure emerged from the stairs.
Although he was dressed well, his clothes bore the telltale signs of travel weariness. His trousers, although pressed neatly with a sharp crease down the center of each leg, had picked up a few more stray fold lines dotted around all over the garment. The jet black shoes on his feet had been meticulously polished at the start of the day, but alas, thirteen hours later, the shoes had accrued some stray droplets of mud and dirt from the streets. His white shirt, no doubt covered in unwanted travelling creases, was cleverly hidden by a smart, military style coat.
A thick, yet tidy brown moustache covered his upper lip entirely, curled to slight curved points at the ends. His weathered face, shaved fresh in the morning, now bore the subtle markings of stubble. A long scar stretched from the middle of his chin diagonally across his cheek to his right ear, and another small one shined above his left eyebrow in the lantern light of the basement.
A grey homburg hat sat neatly atop his head, which matched the rest of his clothing.
He stayed in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the sight of the room with a sern, serious look. It was though his eyes drank in every piece of detail. Scanning and pausing on each face, each drink, each fallen stool.
After what seemed like an age, he turned to face Rory and they clasped hands warmly.
“Good evening sir, the deadshots formed up and ready for your command sir. Do you wish me to stand them at ease?”
“No no sergeant, I’ll address the men, thank you.”
He leant closer in, so only Rory could hear him whisper. “Good to see you again Rory.”
“You too Decklan.” Rory returned, allowing a thin smile to show through his otherwise disciplined face.
Decklan gave a short nod to Rory, then turned to face the room.
“Deadshots! Stand at ease! Stand Easy!” He roared.
The room shook with the thunder of two dozen stamping boots as the people relaxed and stood more comfortably, their shoulders slumped and their arms clasped behind their backs.. There was a distinct pause, with the smartly dressed man surveying them all again.
No one spoke.
Only silence.
Then, Decklan ended his serious facade and a great wide grin stretched itself across his face.
“Hello boys!” He said with a wink.
All of a sudden, the room was filled with raucous laughter and cheers as the people grabbed their beverages and raised them in the air. Gone were the rigid, disciplined stances. Gone were the stiff, emotionless faces. It was though a switch had been flicked, turning it from a military parade into a gathering of fond friends. Rory let loose a hearty chuckle and clapped him on his shoulder as he began to move around the room.
“Come on lads, let’s give a huzzah for Captain Winters!”
“Hip hip, HUZZAH!” The room echoed, raising glasses, mugs, tankards and anything else that would hold an alcoholic drink in.
“Ahh we can do better than that you bastards! Huzzah for Captain Winters!” Rory Bellowed again, waving his hand to emphasize his point.
“HIP HIP, HUZZAH!” The room echoed again, this time a thunderous rumble of stamping feet and drinking apparatus being slammed into the table accompanied the cry, with a following of yet more cheers.
If a man had turned up at that moment, knowing not a single soul, even he would be able to sense the love and radiating glowing energy that came from these individuals. It was though a great hero, who was also a family member, had walked through the door after many years of absence…
To be fair, that was not far from the truth.
Decklan Winters made his way through the room, smiling, laughing, shaking hands and clapping arms. At some point during the whirl of faces, he felt his hat disappear from his head, with a cheer from the group soon after. Somebody in the mess of bodies pushed a glass of whiskey into his hands.
Eventually, he weathered the storm of happy people and stood atop a barrel over in one of the corners. He took a deep breath in, but Rory beat him to it.
“Right you lot! Settle down! Captain’s gonna speak!” He roared, still somehow good natured and friendly, yet authoritative and firm. The people laughed in response, with bits of bread being hurled at the big man, but sure enough, after a few moments and a few threats, they quietened down and listened in.
Decklan laughed along and held his arms out wide, spilling some of his whiskey on his hand.
“It’s damned good to see you all, here I was thinking you’d have forgotten about me!”
The room cheered.
“How long’s it been now, five years? Six years? To tell you the truth, when I managed to get a letter to Rory I wasn’t sure how many of you he’d be able to drum up, but to his credit I can only spot a few characters amiss.”
He bowed his head.
“I’m grateful for all of you who came. I know you all have your new lives to think about now, I bet most of you have even found some unfortunate buggers as your better halves, am I right?!”
The crowd cheered again.
“They’re will be plenty of time to talk later this evening, god knows we all need to catch up…But for now, I want to press on to the reason while I’ve asked you all to meet.”
Decklan scratched his stubbled chin, before he spoke again. The room stared up at him, ghosts of smiles still on their faces.
“Everyone stood before me. Every person in this room. Every man, Every woman, we were all there together at Ladysmith, fighting for queen and country. Fighting to hold that town. Fighting for each other.”
Solemn nods and murmurs of agreement trickled through the crowd.
“One hundred and eighteen days…one hundred and eighteen long days we stood, waiting for reinforcements. We lost forty up on wagon hill, forty of the bravest men I’ve ever known. Countless others returned alive, but not whole. One hundred and eighteen days of getting pounded by the Boer guns.”
Decklan stopped talking for a moment and looked out to his men, surveying their reactions and their faces. Where only moments ago he had seen nothing but jovial smiles and warm expressions, he was now greeted by stony faces. These weren’t the faces of angry men, or irritated men. These were the expressions of men who had seen the worst in humanity and in turn, themselves.
“One hundred and eighteen days of wondering whether or not they would finally break in. When our General White was told by his superiors to surrender Ladysmith, can you remember what he said? ”
“I HOLD LADYSMITH FOR THE QUEEN!” The room roared.
“And we held it didn’t we?!” Decklan shouted back, shaking a tightly clenched fist.
“FOR THE QUEEN!” The room roared again, the rapturous noise causing some dust to fall from the ceiling boards.
“Yes! And that, Gentlemen, is exactly why I asked you here today.” Decklan said, holding his palms up in a gesture of peace. The room responded straight away, quieting down.
“We held Ladysmith. We bled for Ladysmith. We died for Ladysmith. When we were there, for queen and country, we all saw the same thing. We saw behind the curtain and we saw the one who pulls the strings. Nobody asked for it and it was a terrible reward for our efforts. Everyone here has had to live with that.”
He paused and looked out at the crowd once more, now frozen in icy silence.
“Some of us, the ones not here this evening, want to bury that knowledge and try to get on and live a normal life, which I do not condemn for even a second. If those folks want an attempt of a normal life, nobody has earned it more.”
Although he’d mentally prepared his speech for most of the day, it still took a few seconds for him to find the right words. The crowd remained quiet.
“But you, you all are like me. You can’t go back. Not now. How can you? It’s been digging at your minds, gnawing and scratching away whilst you try to busy yourselves with your day’s work. Every time I close my eyes at night, I see that thing… that creature. You’ve probably wondered why I’ve asked you all to meet after all these years. Well ladies and gentlemen, when I saw what manner of horror was controlling the world and all the affairs of mankind, it didn’t sit well with me. Not one bit.”
He drained his whiskey with one gulp and looked at the crowd again, only this time, there was something different about him. There was fire in his eyes. A brilliant shining defiance that only a few people will ever see, let alone have for themselves.
“We saw one dead out there, which means they can be killed.”
The floorboards gave a weary groan as he jumped off of the barrel, a small patch of dust kicking up from the impact.
“There’s one right here in London, and my aim is to kill the bastard thing.”
Teller of Some Tales 