Kismet by Wayne Sharrocks (Due out late
2009/early 2010).
Synopsis:
For Billy Evans, the past was a haunted
place that left an indelible imprint on the
here and now. As he struggles to piece his
life together he finds himself drawn back into
a world of violence and terror.
Already emotionally struggling with the
passing over of his remaining family, a chance
encounter further clouds the border between
reality, perception and illusion.
He has spent his life struggling to escape
his past but now with memories triggered, he
finds himself with no option but to begin an
emotive quest for revenge, retribution and
finally redemption.
A brief taster…
William had soon become a solitary figure, a
loner rapidly retreating into a world of
fantasy and dreams, although fear and loathing
(both of himself and his tormentors) was never
too far from the surface of his
emotions.
He wished that he could just walk away from
his troubles but wasn’t sure if there even
existed a place that far. As a result, at
night he would take a handful of his
Grandmother’s sleeping pills to aid his
slumber and to dream that he was invisible.
Although he could not find the courage to
actually put an end to all of his suffering he
just hoped that one day his eyes would close,
never to re-open. Much as he yearned to
believe that he would be rewarded in the next
dimension, he suspected that the only Earth
that the meek were to inherit was likely to be
six feet deep.
As William sat upon his bed he swept his
fingers through his long chestnut mane,
pushing it back to reveal his cat like emerald
eyes, lined with kohl and features that looked
as if they could have been chiseled from the
finest marble. He stared at his reflection in
the wardrobe mirror but the image that was
reflected back to him was far from the
reality. He felt ugly and worthless.
Reaching over to his bedside cabinet he slid
open the top drawer (which was lined with
felt), parted his carefully rolled socks and
underwear and removed the razor blade from its
place of hiding. He then unbuckled his
trousers and slid them down to his ankles
before methodically slicing at the young and
tender flesh of his thigh. As he did so,
rivulets of vivid crimson trickled from the
fresh wounds, seeping over faded scars from
previous out lettings and as it did so he felt
the tension ease and the by now well worn
escape route from his emptiness, depression
and unreality kick in, his mind validating his
inner pain with an outer expression, thus
avoiding the yearning for suicide. This was
his way of coping, his gift for survival in a
world full of ignorance, intolerance and pain.
He was alone in the world, so as words were
not an option this was the only way that he
could find to express emotion and maintain a
sense of connection and self worth. His own
coping mechanism honed from years of practice
and necessity.
Alas as the years passed the victimization
both at school and outside the school gates
had only intensified, so he became
increasingly unable to peel the scars from his
fractured mind. Consumed by hate and a
yearning for vengeance, he vowed that
everything his tormentors held dear would one
day be taken away from them and that all the
pain and anguish that he had experienced would
be relieved…
CHAPTER ONE
THE BEDSIT
William’s room, (or Billy as he now preferred
to be known as) was one
of three in an inconspicuous lodging house,
just off Eardley Road in Streatham Common,
London, in which he shared both bathroom and
kitchen facilities. The tenants of the other
rooms worked for a living, so that thankfully
he was on his own for the majority of the day,
but even when they were home their paths
rarely crossed. He liked it that way, as
although his childhood lisp and stutter had
all but been eradicated, thanks to a great
many speech therapy lessons, he had remained
very much a loner.
He had realised very early on in life that
social interaction for him rarely ended with a
positive or healthy outcome. There always had
to be winners and losers and sadly for Billy
he seemed to constantly find himself in the
latter category, well for the moment at least.
For if all his dreams and visions came to
fruition all that would change and he would
finally be somebody.
Billy’s room had a radiator but the landlord
had vowed that the central heating bills had
become too expensive, so had taken to setting
the timer for just an hour or two a day, then
padlocking the heater cupboard, so that the
dial could not be tampered with by
unauthorized hands. As a result of these
somewhat Draconian measures, Billy had taken
to sitting in the kitchen area with the oven
and hobs lit for warmth or lazing idly
steeping in a hot bath and topping up the
water at regular intervals. He realised he
could have always tried to seek out a job, but
as he held no qualifications and a somewhat
chequered school attendance record, (due to
the many sessions of therapy and later the
flagrant truancy) he realised that the chances
of gainful employment were quite slim to say
the least. Anyhow, what with his lack of
people skills (hadn’t that been how his
therapist had phrased it?) and his lack of
experience in the work arena, he couldn’t see
how he could possibly compete for a vacant
position, even in the unskilled sector, what
with an immigrant workforce on tap who, due to
family necessity, where willing to toil long
hours for a meagre salary, no questions asked.
For the aforementioned reasons (and many
others beside…) Billy now found himself
living in the crumbling bedsit with a trickle
of state cash for provisions and sustenance,
dreaming of a day when all that would change,
but for the moment he had to content himself
with purchasing the London Evening Standard to
begin the search for somewhere better to live.
The bedsit was fine for now, but he needed
somewhere that he could be alone. He had
things to plan, work to do, and although he
had yet to formulate quite how, wrongs to be
put right…
CHAPTER TWO
THE TRIGGER
It was a glorious summer’s day and the clouds
appeared to float majestically in the bright
azure sky. A crowd of somewhat bedraggled
feral looking children had gathered on a patch
of seemingly untended recreation ground, some
perched high upon rusting swings that squeaked
wearily in the brisk summer breeze, whilst the
remainder were either engaged in kicking a
battered football around or feverishly pulling
on cigarettes wrapped around their thin
nicotine stained fingers. The youngsters
looked on boredly as throngs of commuters
filed their way past, through the litter
strewn city streets, like an army of
industrious ants, preparing themselves for
another day of commercial toil, in a futile
bid to keep the tax man sated and roofs over
their rapidly balding heads.
William Evans had always lived in London,
although his new accommodation was a fairly
fresh acquisition, thanks to his recently
deceased Grandparents and a favourable
probate. As his Mother had died during
childbirth and his Father was unknown, (as his
birth certificate readily taunted him every
time that he was called upon to produce it) he
was brought up by his Grandparents, who
although did their best by him, were always
quite frail and riddled with sickness.
Whilst they had always ensured that he had
food on the table and a roof over his head
alas, they were from a different generation so
could be of little aid to him during his
traumatic and fearful childhood.
Sometimes the generation gap had never felt
so wide, but he still thought of them in fond
terms, especially now as he was back living in
the family home and thankfully well rid of the
rodent infested bedsit that had been his place
of sanctuary for the past few years.
The family home was a narrow Victorian brick
house with little natural light, situated at
one end of a terrace of thirteen. Fortunately
for Billy he had never been one for
superstition.
As Billy closed the door behind him and
stepped out onto the street the wind ruffled
his newly dyed raven mane, (which fell just
below his shoulders) causing rogue strands to
dance and sway like marionettes in the breeze.
Alas the High Street never appeared to change,
there were meandering queues at the cash
machines, with kids tugging at their parents’
sleeves, urging them to buy something once the
seemingly magical machines had conjured up
some paper money…
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