Elizabeth Earle's Blog, page 14
November 27, 2012
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED
I usually start off the blog by saying "so much has happened" but it really has.
I'm going through some troublesome things and my mind is trying its best to catch up with everything. I've taken two weeks off work to try and gather things together and my passion has remained evident. Writing.
I am submitting my second piece of writing, Edge of Demons to various agents now and with fingers crossed and aiming to get it published. The trick is not to stop. In the past I would have sent a piece of work out to six agents or so, recieved rejections and waited at least another six months before I even attempted again. The trick is not to take anything personally, which is incredibly difficult at times.
Don't stop trying. As soon as you lose hope, that's it. It's ok to have lapses of motivation at times- my biggest one was probably about a year. But the thing is, I started again. I learnt things- valuable experience gained from published Tartarus- details of which can be found on this site and on www.eearle.com
Never be pushy with an agent. Get straight to the point with your letter. Don't point out any negatives. Who it's going to sell to, what age range, what genre, which author owuld your book be sitting next to, and so on.
Why are you different? Why will you sell? With your writing, I cannot say it enough, but if you've read it, don't write it. Be something different. Don't use cliché terms. Write how you talk. One of my favourite authors is Danny King, because he uses such real dialogue, puts real characters into his storyline, whether their are disgusting, unpolitically correct or downright wrong.
Do your research. Don't send your piece of writing to an agent who only represents romance if you're selling thrillers. Make sure your writing is perfect- send it to a couple of friends to see if they notice any mistakes. Bad editing is abysmal is this business.
Every year you write, you improve, your writer voice develops and experience and confidence grows.
Knowledge is power, armour yourself with is and throw yourself out there with your work until you finally are picked. Don't be dismayed- an agent will sometimes take on only two new writers a year.
It is very difficult to get published without an agent, but sometimes it's good to self publish at least once in your career, to arm yourself with the knowledge of what goes into successfully promoting a book, and I can tell you, it is exhausting, time consuming and stretches your knowledge.
If your book was inspired by a significant event, contact magazines with your story- Tartarus was inspired by my Night Terrors, and papers soon started writing stories about the sleep paralysis that created my first novel. It has now given me a standing to get my second novel published.
Try your best, and never, never, never give up.
I'm going through some troublesome things and my mind is trying its best to catch up with everything. I've taken two weeks off work to try and gather things together and my passion has remained evident. Writing.
I am submitting my second piece of writing, Edge of Demons to various agents now and with fingers crossed and aiming to get it published. The trick is not to stop. In the past I would have sent a piece of work out to six agents or so, recieved rejections and waited at least another six months before I even attempted again. The trick is not to take anything personally, which is incredibly difficult at times.
Don't stop trying. As soon as you lose hope, that's it. It's ok to have lapses of motivation at times- my biggest one was probably about a year. But the thing is, I started again. I learnt things- valuable experience gained from published Tartarus- details of which can be found on this site and on www.eearle.com
Never be pushy with an agent. Get straight to the point with your letter. Don't point out any negatives. Who it's going to sell to, what age range, what genre, which author owuld your book be sitting next to, and so on.
Why are you different? Why will you sell? With your writing, I cannot say it enough, but if you've read it, don't write it. Be something different. Don't use cliché terms. Write how you talk. One of my favourite authors is Danny King, because he uses such real dialogue, puts real characters into his storyline, whether their are disgusting, unpolitically correct or downright wrong.
Do your research. Don't send your piece of writing to an agent who only represents romance if you're selling thrillers. Make sure your writing is perfect- send it to a couple of friends to see if they notice any mistakes. Bad editing is abysmal is this business.
Every year you write, you improve, your writer voice develops and experience and confidence grows.
Knowledge is power, armour yourself with is and throw yourself out there with your work until you finally are picked. Don't be dismayed- an agent will sometimes take on only two new writers a year.
It is very difficult to get published without an agent, but sometimes it's good to self publish at least once in your career, to arm yourself with the knowledge of what goes into successfully promoting a book, and I can tell you, it is exhausting, time consuming and stretches your knowledge.
If your book was inspired by a significant event, contact magazines with your story- Tartarus was inspired by my Night Terrors, and papers soon started writing stories about the sleep paralysis that created my first novel. It has now given me a standing to get my second novel published.
Try your best, and never, never, never give up.
August 29, 2012
TARTARUS ON KINDLE!
Hi guys,
Just to let you know that Tartarus is now available to buy on kindle for only £4.59!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=tartarus+e+earle&x=0&y=0
Here's the first chapter to get you going ;)
Chapter
one
Stillman
It
started with a
f
a
l
l
Chest burning, throat stinging from screaming, she scratched at cement
to get to her feet. A loose paving slap sent her falling again, her knee
smacking hard against the ground. Knee throbbing, she hobbled along the black
pavement. She had hoped to lose him down the labyrinth of alleyways. Had hoped
to survive. Where was the exit?
She turned into an alleyway, its
shadows masking a brick wall at the end. Bricks and poles from an old
construction site offered no hiding place, no escape.
“Shit.” She twisted round to turn
back. The tall black shape before her swallowed all hope of exiting. Adrenaline
vomited into her brain as a sudden slice of metallic light came from the
figure.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tired
feet dragged her body back, until wet brick soaked her back. Terror scorched
her muscles still. It lasted for-
0.49seconds
The figure stepped forward.
Her fingernails tore through air as she snatched up a brick and threw
it at her pursuer. Hearing a stumble and a grunt, she leapt forward, shoving a
wheelie bin in his direction. A slither of light marked her vision. Watery
knees buckled. Wet brick walls floated in her vision as she realised she was
falling. The sudden crack of concrete slapped the air out of her lungs. On
impulse, she brought up her knees. Weight met them instantly, nails ripping
into her calves. A growl grated through her ears as she kicked out. It was cut
off shortly with a thud and clattering of metal.
Rolling, her hands darted out at the surrounding stone for anything
that could be used as a weapon. Cold hardness met her fingers. A shadow fell
upon her and her ankles were suddenly seized, dragged her stomach against the
ground. She twisted in time to see the black shape dive towards her, her pupils
suffocating in the sickly light of that thin, white knife.
Inhaling her scream, she swung.
Blood sprayed as metal slammed into skin and muscle. Teeth splintered,
fractured and wrestled free from thick roots. A hard jaw jammed down and bit
through soft tongue. Bone cracked and finally snapped. A scream that could have
been long, clear and shrill, gurgled instead, cut off by a crumbled fall at her
side.
Each rib throbbed with her every heartbeat. Screams and sobs froze in
her throat as she stared at the figure. Black folds of torn material hid his
features from sight. The fleeting view of the savage broken face and shining
teeth was all she had.
Vampire.
She fought to push herself up. Grit and stray shards of glass clung to
white forearms through the fight to become vertical. The world turned into a
nauseating haze of circles, the trickling warmth from her shirt cooed for her
to be still. Muscles went slack and eyes rolled as she fell into blind
oblivion.
A frozen
grip woke her. Her knuckles and palms ached. Smudged skies and wet bricks
glistening with slugs’ lazy trails crosshatched around her. She drank it in.
Her head wouldn’t turn. Groaning, she rolled to her left and saw that she was
still clenching her weapon from last night.
It was a long metal pole, chipped and dented in places, stained ruby
at one end. The night’s events suddenly dawned on her, in one sudden jolt of
acknowledgement. Her breath caught as she sat up quickly, the blood rushing to
her skull. Nausea filled her mouth with bile. She turned, just managing to spit
out the acid before spluttering onto her lap. Barely managing to swear, she
wiped her lips, allowing her hazy vision to focus.
“Jesus-“
The body was gone, but the blood
was still there. Her clothes were instantly soaked in sweat as she struggled to
her feet. Grey surroundings burnt her eyes with a hostility that made her
muscles cramp. What was going on? She swayed on her feet and put a hand on a
wall to steady herself, the pole still locked in her grip. She looked down at
it.
“Oh god.”
Dropping it, her ears popped with
the ring that echoed around her.
They’re
back… The thought pinged through her entire body, her
stomach flipping again at the possibility. But
the rules! They were supposed to stay down there! She spat again, but this
time redness came from her lips. Watching it dissolve into the surrounding
dampness, she shook her head. Tartarus…
She was never sure after that how long she stayed in that alleyway
after that, mumbling to herself. All she knew was when she left, the pole came
with her. The familiar cramping in her fingers was like a soothing balm of
distraction.
She stuck to quiet streets like an
addict would to heroin. Her eyes throbbed from looking behind. Where was she?
How far had she come? Patterns of concrete ran beneath her feet in various
shades of charcoal, moss, slate, and dirty nothingness dotted with past
people’s gum. She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see people’s expressions when
they saw her. Didn’t want to know the reality of her state. Her side ached and
felt sticky.
She had been cut. Her uncle had told her that it was better to be
stabbed and feel pain, than not at all- because that was when you were in
trouble. Holding onto that thought, her feet started to pound the streets.
She couldn’t remember how she had gotten home- how long it had took-
what time it was- nothing. Her hand trembled as she held the door handle.
Tartarus…
She didn’t have a key. It didn’t matter. The door was unlocked. The
door was never unlocked. She walked in. Her hand absently trailed the deep
grooves in the wall, her brain faltering in the information it was taking in.
Her home looked like a three year old’s attempt of a montage. The chaos was
sickening. Broken furniture littered the room like pretty confetti at a doomed
wedding. She put a hand to her aching temple. Faces flashed through her mind,
none of any importance until she came to one.
Megan.
She staggered into the living room,
spots of blood splashed across the carpet like ink blots.
No. no. no, no.
She followed the trail until she
could see a pale hand stretching out from behind an upturned sofa. Fear coiled
in the pit of her stomach as she stepped closer to see whose arm it was.
Knees buckled. Her body suddenly
held no sensation. There was no such thing as weight. No such thing as gravity.
No such thing as life. Salvation. God. That face… That sweet face... She
retched and curled up onto herself as her stomach convulsed. Her throat and
nostrils burnt. Her jeans were soaked through with hot acid. A bubbling started
in the back of her throat until she couldn’t contain it. She screamed then, her
sister’s staring eyes forever carving into her soul.
Something
had escaped from Tartarus.
* * *
“Fucking
twats,” she mumbled under her breath as she started sorting out table 28’s
bill. “Absolute wankers.” Diane Stillman looked up to see the masses of people
sitting on their arses stuffing their faces full of Oliver’s’ finest food and
barking at the other waitresses for their drinks, their bills, a new set of
cutlery, a new life, a new fucking face- everything.
She tightened her apron around her
waist, wishing she could tighten it around the fat child’s neck on table 12
instead. All the brat had done since he had waddled in was scream and cry.
“I-hate-children,” she said,
crushing each word out through her teeth as she scrubbed a table clear.
Come on, she thought to herself. I
should be bloody used to it now. She heard a table call behind her for service
and ignored it. It’s just a job.
“Waitress?”
She gritted her teeth and dug her
nails into the cloth. Fixing a smile onto her face, she turned to the table of
three people.
“I ordered the chicken Caesar salad
and not the chicken Caesar salad wrap,” a woman complained.
Looking at her pasty complexion and
the three inches of grey root amongst all that dyed ginger, Diane was tempted
to walk away. You ordered what you got. I
repeated the order to you twice.
She reached out for the woman’s
plate, focusing her eyes on anything but the glistening sheen of sweat on the
heifer’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll have
that changed for you.”
The woman’s pudgy little fingers
snaked out onto the rim of the plate, pulling it away from her. “No- it’s all
right,” she said, blinking more than necessary in alarm. “I’ll have this.”
Diane straightened up.
Then why the fuck say anything?
She nodded her acceptance of the
woman’s choice and apologised again before gathering some plates from a nearby
empty table. Why do I have to pretend I
care? Sorry that your chips aren’t
crispy enough. Sorry there’s too much ice in your coke. Sorry you don’t have a
straw.
The sound of each plate being
stacked became louder and louder with each thought.
Like I haven’t got other things to worry about.
“I don’t give a shit! You can all
shove it up your arses!” She wanted to scream. But instead she feigned a
worried expression. “Oh, I’m very sorry about that- I’ll just go and sort it
out for you. I’m really sorry- I won’t be a second.” She was good at
pretending.
“Yep,” she quietly muttered to
herself, “I’m an expert at that.” She was the perfect waitress. Putting up with
the crap tips, the lofty customers showing off to their friends, the glares,
the stares of greasy Bulgarian chefs down her top, whilst putting up with the
incessant screaming of children, the shrill voices of the managers demanding
for the salad bar to be filled up, the constant clinking and clanking of
plates, following by the chorus of:
“We’d like our bill now.”
“Can we order?”
“Where are our drinks?”
“We ordered our desserts 20minutes
ago.”
“This isn’t what I ordered.”
“Can you wipe our table?”
“Do you take card?”
“Can I have my change?”
“My coffee isn’t very hot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?”
It’s more than I can take sometimes.
But no matter how much she hated
her job- it paid- and the tips were good- not to mention that she was a fucking
good waitress. She needed something to keep her mind active- pay the bills and
all that shit. Jobs had been hard to get after the War in 1996 against the freaks,
and she was lucky to have one. Megan and she had worked together at a pub a
couple of years before her death, three years ago. People were shaky after the
setup of Tartarus and were desperate to see a friendly face. Diane was good at
replicating the one she once had. Megan never had to pretend.
Diane couldn’t get her face out of her mind. Her voice.
A plate, slick with gravy slid from
her grasp. It smashed to the ground and drowned out the image of Megan’s ripped
throat.
* *
*
A
distorted face stared at her, bubbles marking like diamonds on stretched flesh.
The face blinked at her, eyes grey and watery. Diane closed her eyes to her
reflection and pressed the cold glass to her burning forehead. Animalistic
panting burnt a hole in her earlobe. She hunched up her shoulder trying to hide
from it. A night out with Paulette did not always appeal to Diane. It was
mostly because Paulette would get touched up in a corner of the club with a guy
in a Fred Perry jumper, leaving Diane standing awkwardly with a glass of water
in one hand and a half drunk Smirnoff Ice in the other. But not always. The
rest of the time it would be the guy in Adidas.
This time it was a guy in a plain
black shirt. Slim pickings here tonight. She didn’t even know why she had come
out. It was a Wednesday night and wasn’t exactly, “banging,” as Paulette would
say. She glanced to nattering barmaids behind the back bar, in their tiny
skirts and crop top combos- a dress code that the club insisted upon. Diane
didn’t suppose they minded, due to the overload of lipgloss and black
eyeshadow. She never understood why women wanted to go out looking as though
they had a blowjob smeared all over their lips. But then again, maybe looking
like a sperm-hungry woman was the come on these days.
Or maybe Diane was just an uptight fascist, deficient of sex.
Stains from beer, spilt alcopops, sloppy tequila and sambuca shots
covered the table in a sticky film of filth. She didn’t notice until she leant
forward, her forearms immediately cloaked in the mix of disgusting liquids,
merging the hairs of her arms together. The sickly sweet smell was
overpowering, making her nostrils burn.
She swore and made wet rings on the
table with her glass of water, as if to cleanse the surface. She wiped her
forearms dry on her black trousers- a stark contrast to Paulette’s costume for
the night.
Her eyes wandered a few metres away
to a dark corner. It was difficult not to make out Paulette’s bright purple
sequinned skirt and the tight yellow vest that revealed more tit than what Lady
Godiva would approve of. But whatever those fashion magazines said about
dressing to nab a man, Paulette had clearly succeeded.
Tilting her head, Diane assessed the man. Nothing extraordinary about
him. Sandy
hair. Light eyes with dark circles. Medium height. Medium build. He had offered
to buy them a drink. Naturally, Diane declined. She didn’t accept drinks from
strangers. Paulette didn’t seem so concerned.
Pushing the half drunk Smirnoff Ice away from her in disgust, Diane
hoped that someone would collect it before Paulette would notice. Partly
because she had drunk enough.
But mostly out of spite.
A high-pitched sigh set her on edge
and she soon found her eyes drawn to them. Teeth gritted in revulsion, as she
stared at the man’s hands slithering up Paulette’s thigh. She leaned forward to
stand. She should get Paulette out of here. Enough was enough. As if sensing
her thoughts, he looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, making her step
falter.
Diane scowled.
He winked and put two fingers in his mouth whilst Paulette was
nuzzling his neck, all the while staring at Diane. Fingers came glistening from
his mouth in the flashing neon lights. They looked like slugs to Diane’s eyes.
He winked again before sliding his hand up Paulette’s sequined skirt. Paulette
made a sound as though she had just been stabbed.
Time
to leave.
Diane stood, not caring about
knocking several glasses to the floor and strode over to them. “I’m going now, Paula,” she said,
expecting a hasty stop in their activity. Nothing of the sort happened.
“See you later, babe,” the guy who had said his name was Matt, the
movement of his hands unrelenting.
“Paulette-“
“Ok, I’ll see you later!”
came an exasperated snap.
Diane’s jaw hardened. Fucking
cunt.
Draping her jacket across her arm,
she wished hadn’t even bothered to iron her shirt for the night.
Prick.
Prick. Prickprick prickprickprickprickprickprickprick.
Painted
faces seemed to leer at her as she walked out, her boots making loud snaps on
the floor. Hatred of the people she passed grew. They were all here for one
reason. To get fucked. It was a cattle market. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Everyone was out to get their piece of meat for the night.
How unhygienic.
The music did nothing for her. She didn’t want to listen to some
ghetto king rapping about all his bitches and jewels. Like she gave a shit. All
she wanted was to get home. Finding the exit, she pushed past the eager queue
of students trying to get in and suddenly regretted the seven pound entrance
fee.
How could everyone go on as if nothing had happened? As if a war had
never occurred? The only thing that had changed was that Halloween was no
longer celebrated in Britain. No one needed reminders. No one spoke about it.
It was just done.
Taxis drove past bearing their wares of pristine fucked up society
back home to either fuck or throw up. The fares of taxis had gone up since the
war. They had learnt they could make a killing from scared girls whose parents
insisted on them always getting taxis as night time, no longer trusting the
public transport whose bus shelters were poorly lit and not covered by CCTV.
Some people had taken advantage of that fear- had caused riots even after the
peace treaty had been signed, after Tartarus had been opened and closed. Their
excuses of burning down buildings and ransacking shops were based on
exclamations of fear and protest against the unnatural that now lived below
ground.
Diane pulled out her wallet. £2.61. She growled in annoyance and
shoved it back in her bag. The entrance fee had rinsed her, and she hadn’t
brought her bank card out. Fuck it. She’d walk.
Diane wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. It was like she was daring
whatever had come at her three years ago to make an appearance. To finish the
job. She daydreamed of different scenarios where she would have the upper hand,
how she would wrestle the truth from whatever creature had come to her that
night. Who had murdered Megan Stillman?
Drunk people littered the streets,
as it is usually the case on a Friday night. Repulsion made her nose twitch as
she watched people howl at passing cars, laughing and shouting at each
other. She envied their jovial state.
Why did they let themselves get like that? They worked all week in their shitty
low-paid jobs at Tesco or fuck knows where, just to blow their money at the
weekend. The lads all getting together drinking cider, maybe snorting a bit of
cocaine before, maybe pop a few pills, talking about how they fucked some girl
or other, or how much of a slag that Gemma was, but how she gave great head.
She could imagine the girls getting ready, pushing their boobs up, worrying
about cellulite, swearing about the sudden appearance of a cold sore, talking
about how weirdly shaped Steve’s cock was. Fucking pathetic.
Bitterness had poisoned her mind for the night and directing her
hatred towards society made her feel better.
How dare they pretend it had never happened. As though Tartarus didn’t
exist.
She hated the repetition of these people’s lives. The casual
acceptance of the nine to five. Working until they were sixty and old just so
they could be finally free with retirement. Staying with the shitty
boyfriend/girlfriend they had been with for the past year because they were too
scared to be on their own.
She didn’t want to be stuck here for
the rest of her life. Fuck- even she had dreams. A bigger picture in mind. She
wanted her own bookshop- not a big dream, but it was what she wanted. Just to
work for herself would be a fantasy enough. But that had gone out of the window
with Megan’s murder. All of her spare time was spent researching theories into
why someone would harm her. How. When. Diane’s younger sister had been training
to be an archaeologist. She was quiet. Harmless.
Biting her lip, Diane halted the train of thought in her mind. If it
started she would be up all night in the kitchen researching. And she was so
tired of it all. Her family had called her obsessed. Wanted her to get help. It’s over Diane. Let it go, they would
say. So she had moved away, shut them out. She couldn’t bear for them to tell
her to stop. She could never stop.
“Nice,” she observed as she walked around a splatter of beige vomit on
the ground, holding her breath. She refused to breathe again until she had put
twenty paces behind her. Stupid- she knew. When she was younger, she used to
walk past a boy’s house that she hated. His name was David Mockley. He was the
sort whose idea of lunchtime at school was picking his nose. Every time she
walked past she used to hold her breath until she couldn’t hold it anymore, as
if she was afraid of breathing in the same scummy air as him. She remembered
seeing his mum beat him but it was normal at the time. She saw a lot of her
friends get beaten by their mums. But shh,
don’t tell anyone, they’d say. He’s been naughty, yeah? Let’s keep this between
us. You’re such a good girl, Diane.
Keeping her head down these days was a priority. No one wanted to
attract attention to themselves. She had moved away to a new town, gotten herself
a new job, new friends. A new start. At least that was what it was supposed to
be. She had joined various self-defence classes in 1996 as soon as the war
started. Her dad had demanded it of her and her sister- the incentive of a box
of Maltesers each if they did. It was nothing special. Just basic common
knowledge moves. Bit of boxing. Just the usual kick and punch before it
happened to you. It was a bitch though to keep it up every morning, but it was
something she tried to keep up- even though the war was over. People called her
paranoid but it didn’t matter. They didn’t know. They knew her by a different
name, as a different person with a false smile. It suddenly struck her that she
couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed.
Her hands curled into fists in her pockets as she quickened her pace.
* * *
He was hurting her. He liked to come to her when
she was upset, firing up her emotions. He liked to make her feel helpless.
Pathetic. She was. He hurt her to get to Diane.
“Come
with me,” he would purr, fire dancing along his tongue. “Let me take you to a
place where it’s hot with green fire.”
She
wouldn’t say anything. She was always too afraid. She watched him pull the
little girl’s hair, making her scream. He laughed. She wanted to go to him.
Exchange herself for Megan. Take me, she wanted to say. Just stop it.
“Come
to me.”
She
couldn’t.
He
pulled the girl’s hair again harder.
She
wouldn’t.
He
pulled out a knife and slit her throat.
“Goodbye
Diane.”
Her
legs were twisted in the covers when she woke, sweat making them damp. Her
breathing came out fast, making her heart pound. She lay back down on the
pillows, exhausted but too tired to go back to sleep. She would just get eaten
by his dogs again. She had to put up with this nearly every single night. Him
taunting her, laughing at her, torturing her. Making her relive death after
death after death. Fall down cliffs, limbs being torn apart, skin being sliced,
being raped, and cut, burnt alive- she had been through it all. She had really
struggled with it when she was younger but she was trying to control it. Her
parents had wanted to take her to a vicar to be cleansed. What a stupid idea, she thought rubbing her hands over her face. Like that would stop him.
She wanted to get out of bed and get
a glass of water, but a childish side of her was too afraid to.
“I’m such a dick,” she muttered,
kicking the sheets off hot legs. She walked downstairs to the kitchen and put
the lights on. Blinking at the brightness, she sat down at the kitchen table.
The police hadn’t done anything
about Megan’s death. They had done their searches and picked out their
suspects, all to no use.
“It’s someone from downstairs!” she would shout to their paling faces.
“Can’t you see it’s someone from Tartarus?”
“That place is shut up, miss,” they would say, their jaws clenching
down in denial. “A treaty was signed. You need to forget all about it.”
Megan had been ill before she died, so it seemed of little importance
to those who had the power to do something. Maybe it had been a kindness she
had been taken? People had mused. Rather that than the illness. Diane had
pushed the police, believing the evidence too stark to deny.
“Maybe it was an animal?” the police had suggested.
Diane had flipped. “What kind of fucking animal do you think could
tear out her throat in England?” she had screamed.
“A big one,” had been the answer. The police were reluctant to
question anyone below, but they had questioned the neighbours, looked at CCTV,
to find nothing. So disturbances had been reported, no sights had been seen.
Diane had felt hope rise in her chest. Maybe now they would investigate
Downstairs. Maybe now they would listen-
Apparently not.
It was part of the peace agreements when the war was over. Mind each
other’s business.
That’s
politics for you.
A groan escaped her throat. Resting
her head against the table, she wondered if Paulette got home ok. She knew she
shouldn’t have left her, but the patience for Paulette’s antics had worn thin.
Diane rubbed her palms into her eyes, trying to resist sleep. The Man would be
waiting for her.
A sudden crash and a sprinkling of
glass made her jump up from her chair. Her heart felt as though it would crack
her ribs with its furious beating. Ears burning for any other sound than the
wind outside, she spun around to see her curtains blowing and glass glinting
across the floor.
Her body froze, assessing the
situation. She could hear nothing. She could see nothing from out of the
window. It was raining outside.
“For fuck’s sake!” She walked over,
too pissed off to even think of putting her slippers on and stopped at the
sight of a brick on the floor.
What the fuck?
Kneeling down, she picked it up, tiny shards of glass sticking to her
fingertips. A grubby note was wrapped around it, kept in place by an elastic
band.
COME TO TARTARUS
Her hands throbbed painfully and she threw the brick on the sofa,
swearing. Her lungs burnt, suddenly unable to take in enough air. The faint
splatter of rain touched the back of her neck, making her shiver. What the fuck
was that about?
“What’s wrong with the envelope through the door method?” She went
over to the window. “Too cheap for stamps?” she yelled outside, furious. She
kicked a pillow across the floor with a scream of outrage and looked back at
the note,
Tartarus. The Underground city where
all non-human species lived. Vampires, demons, werewolves- all that usual
bollocks. She didn’t know what other species of weirdo they had down there- she
didn’t have the list. They had only emerged in the last fifteen years, and it
was still a taboo subject to mention in polite conversation. People were afraid
of what they don’t understand- quite reasonable she thought. She kept herself
to herself. She didn’t bother anyone- she just got on with her work. If people
left her alone she did the same. No one wanted to talk about Tartarus. Let it
be forgotten along with the people it took and the buildings that fell.
She sat down on the sofa, note
crumpled in her hand. Tiredness wracked her shoulders. Her sister’s killer was
somewhere in Tartarus. She had waited three years for the police to do
something. For someone to help her- anyone. But no one even talked about
Tartarus anymore. No one dared to, lest something heard them and rumble awake
in the darkness.
Who was fucking with her? The
letters on the note burned into her vision, black lines of provocation.
Diane Stillman had run out of
options. The police continuously refused her pleas of sending an investigation
down there, private agencies called her mad and the government ignored her
countless letters. The case was closed on her sister’s murder.
After three years of fighting
Upstairs, it looked like she was about to change tactics.
She looked around her rented apartment, hating the mushroom coloured
walls, the salmon pink carpet and the browning tiles in her kitchen- the crappy
restaurant job she would have to get up early to go to- the shitty mates. What
did she have keeping her here?
“Fuck it,” she said. “If they want
me, they’ve got me.”
That’s how her life started in
Tartarus. The Underworld of Hades.
Just to let you know that Tartarus is now available to buy on kindle for only £4.59!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=tartarus+e+earle&x=0&y=0
Here's the first chapter to get you going ;)
Chapter
one
Stillman
It
started with a
f
a
l
l
Chest burning, throat stinging from screaming, she scratched at cement
to get to her feet. A loose paving slap sent her falling again, her knee
smacking hard against the ground. Knee throbbing, she hobbled along the black
pavement. She had hoped to lose him down the labyrinth of alleyways. Had hoped
to survive. Where was the exit?
She turned into an alleyway, its
shadows masking a brick wall at the end. Bricks and poles from an old
construction site offered no hiding place, no escape.
“Shit.” She twisted round to turn
back. The tall black shape before her swallowed all hope of exiting. Adrenaline
vomited into her brain as a sudden slice of metallic light came from the
figure.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tired
feet dragged her body back, until wet brick soaked her back. Terror scorched
her muscles still. It lasted for-
0.49seconds
The figure stepped forward.
Her fingernails tore through air as she snatched up a brick and threw
it at her pursuer. Hearing a stumble and a grunt, she leapt forward, shoving a
wheelie bin in his direction. A slither of light marked her vision. Watery
knees buckled. Wet brick walls floated in her vision as she realised she was
falling. The sudden crack of concrete slapped the air out of her lungs. On
impulse, she brought up her knees. Weight met them instantly, nails ripping
into her calves. A growl grated through her ears as she kicked out. It was cut
off shortly with a thud and clattering of metal.
Rolling, her hands darted out at the surrounding stone for anything
that could be used as a weapon. Cold hardness met her fingers. A shadow fell
upon her and her ankles were suddenly seized, dragged her stomach against the
ground. She twisted in time to see the black shape dive towards her, her pupils
suffocating in the sickly light of that thin, white knife.
Inhaling her scream, she swung.
Blood sprayed as metal slammed into skin and muscle. Teeth splintered,
fractured and wrestled free from thick roots. A hard jaw jammed down and bit
through soft tongue. Bone cracked and finally snapped. A scream that could have
been long, clear and shrill, gurgled instead, cut off by a crumbled fall at her
side.
Each rib throbbed with her every heartbeat. Screams and sobs froze in
her throat as she stared at the figure. Black folds of torn material hid his
features from sight. The fleeting view of the savage broken face and shining
teeth was all she had.
Vampire.
She fought to push herself up. Grit and stray shards of glass clung to
white forearms through the fight to become vertical. The world turned into a
nauseating haze of circles, the trickling warmth from her shirt cooed for her
to be still. Muscles went slack and eyes rolled as she fell into blind
oblivion.
A frozen
grip woke her. Her knuckles and palms ached. Smudged skies and wet bricks
glistening with slugs’ lazy trails crosshatched around her. She drank it in.
Her head wouldn’t turn. Groaning, she rolled to her left and saw that she was
still clenching her weapon from last night.
It was a long metal pole, chipped and dented in places, stained ruby
at one end. The night’s events suddenly dawned on her, in one sudden jolt of
acknowledgement. Her breath caught as she sat up quickly, the blood rushing to
her skull. Nausea filled her mouth with bile. She turned, just managing to spit
out the acid before spluttering onto her lap. Barely managing to swear, she
wiped her lips, allowing her hazy vision to focus.
“Jesus-“
The body was gone, but the blood
was still there. Her clothes were instantly soaked in sweat as she struggled to
her feet. Grey surroundings burnt her eyes with a hostility that made her
muscles cramp. What was going on? She swayed on her feet and put a hand on a
wall to steady herself, the pole still locked in her grip. She looked down at
it.
“Oh god.”
Dropping it, her ears popped with
the ring that echoed around her.
They’re
back… The thought pinged through her entire body, her
stomach flipping again at the possibility. But
the rules! They were supposed to stay down there! She spat again, but this
time redness came from her lips. Watching it dissolve into the surrounding
dampness, she shook her head. Tartarus…
She was never sure after that how long she stayed in that alleyway
after that, mumbling to herself. All she knew was when she left, the pole came
with her. The familiar cramping in her fingers was like a soothing balm of
distraction.
She stuck to quiet streets like an
addict would to heroin. Her eyes throbbed from looking behind. Where was she?
How far had she come? Patterns of concrete ran beneath her feet in various
shades of charcoal, moss, slate, and dirty nothingness dotted with past
people’s gum. She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see people’s expressions when
they saw her. Didn’t want to know the reality of her state. Her side ached and
felt sticky.
She had been cut. Her uncle had told her that it was better to be
stabbed and feel pain, than not at all- because that was when you were in
trouble. Holding onto that thought, her feet started to pound the streets.
She couldn’t remember how she had gotten home- how long it had took-
what time it was- nothing. Her hand trembled as she held the door handle.
Tartarus…
She didn’t have a key. It didn’t matter. The door was unlocked. The
door was never unlocked. She walked in. Her hand absently trailed the deep
grooves in the wall, her brain faltering in the information it was taking in.
Her home looked like a three year old’s attempt of a montage. The chaos was
sickening. Broken furniture littered the room like pretty confetti at a doomed
wedding. She put a hand to her aching temple. Faces flashed through her mind,
none of any importance until she came to one.
Megan.
She staggered into the living room,
spots of blood splashed across the carpet like ink blots.
No. no. no, no.
She followed the trail until she
could see a pale hand stretching out from behind an upturned sofa. Fear coiled
in the pit of her stomach as she stepped closer to see whose arm it was.
Knees buckled. Her body suddenly
held no sensation. There was no such thing as weight. No such thing as gravity.
No such thing as life. Salvation. God. That face… That sweet face... She
retched and curled up onto herself as her stomach convulsed. Her throat and
nostrils burnt. Her jeans were soaked through with hot acid. A bubbling started
in the back of her throat until she couldn’t contain it. She screamed then, her
sister’s staring eyes forever carving into her soul.
Something
had escaped from Tartarus.
* * *
“Fucking
twats,” she mumbled under her breath as she started sorting out table 28’s
bill. “Absolute wankers.” Diane Stillman looked up to see the masses of people
sitting on their arses stuffing their faces full of Oliver’s’ finest food and
barking at the other waitresses for their drinks, their bills, a new set of
cutlery, a new life, a new fucking face- everything.
She tightened her apron around her
waist, wishing she could tighten it around the fat child’s neck on table 12
instead. All the brat had done since he had waddled in was scream and cry.
“I-hate-children,” she said,
crushing each word out through her teeth as she scrubbed a table clear.
Come on, she thought to herself. I
should be bloody used to it now. She heard a table call behind her for service
and ignored it. It’s just a job.
“Waitress?”
She gritted her teeth and dug her
nails into the cloth. Fixing a smile onto her face, she turned to the table of
three people.
“I ordered the chicken Caesar salad
and not the chicken Caesar salad wrap,” a woman complained.
Looking at her pasty complexion and
the three inches of grey root amongst all that dyed ginger, Diane was tempted
to walk away. You ordered what you got. I
repeated the order to you twice.
She reached out for the woman’s
plate, focusing her eyes on anything but the glistening sheen of sweat on the
heifer’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll have
that changed for you.”
The woman’s pudgy little fingers
snaked out onto the rim of the plate, pulling it away from her. “No- it’s all
right,” she said, blinking more than necessary in alarm. “I’ll have this.”
Diane straightened up.
Then why the fuck say anything?
She nodded her acceptance of the
woman’s choice and apologised again before gathering some plates from a nearby
empty table. Why do I have to pretend I
care? Sorry that your chips aren’t
crispy enough. Sorry there’s too much ice in your coke. Sorry you don’t have a
straw.
The sound of each plate being
stacked became louder and louder with each thought.
Like I haven’t got other things to worry about.
“I don’t give a shit! You can all
shove it up your arses!” She wanted to scream. But instead she feigned a
worried expression. “Oh, I’m very sorry about that- I’ll just go and sort it
out for you. I’m really sorry- I won’t be a second.” She was good at
pretending.
“Yep,” she quietly muttered to
herself, “I’m an expert at that.” She was the perfect waitress. Putting up with
the crap tips, the lofty customers showing off to their friends, the glares,
the stares of greasy Bulgarian chefs down her top, whilst putting up with the
incessant screaming of children, the shrill voices of the managers demanding
for the salad bar to be filled up, the constant clinking and clanking of
plates, following by the chorus of:
“We’d like our bill now.”
“Can we order?”
“Where are our drinks?”
“We ordered our desserts 20minutes
ago.”
“This isn’t what I ordered.”
“Can you wipe our table?”
“Do you take card?”
“Can I have my change?”
“My coffee isn’t very hot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?”
It’s more than I can take sometimes.
But no matter how much she hated
her job- it paid- and the tips were good- not to mention that she was a fucking
good waitress. She needed something to keep her mind active- pay the bills and
all that shit. Jobs had been hard to get after the War in 1996 against the freaks,
and she was lucky to have one. Megan and she had worked together at a pub a
couple of years before her death, three years ago. People were shaky after the
setup of Tartarus and were desperate to see a friendly face. Diane was good at
replicating the one she once had. Megan never had to pretend.
Diane couldn’t get her face out of her mind. Her voice.
A plate, slick with gravy slid from
her grasp. It smashed to the ground and drowned out the image of Megan’s ripped
throat.
* *
*
A
distorted face stared at her, bubbles marking like diamonds on stretched flesh.
The face blinked at her, eyes grey and watery. Diane closed her eyes to her
reflection and pressed the cold glass to her burning forehead. Animalistic
panting burnt a hole in her earlobe. She hunched up her shoulder trying to hide
from it. A night out with Paulette did not always appeal to Diane. It was
mostly because Paulette would get touched up in a corner of the club with a guy
in a Fred Perry jumper, leaving Diane standing awkwardly with a glass of water
in one hand and a half drunk Smirnoff Ice in the other. But not always. The
rest of the time it would be the guy in Adidas.
This time it was a guy in a plain
black shirt. Slim pickings here tonight. She didn’t even know why she had come
out. It was a Wednesday night and wasn’t exactly, “banging,” as Paulette would
say. She glanced to nattering barmaids behind the back bar, in their tiny
skirts and crop top combos- a dress code that the club insisted upon. Diane
didn’t suppose they minded, due to the overload of lipgloss and black
eyeshadow. She never understood why women wanted to go out looking as though
they had a blowjob smeared all over their lips. But then again, maybe looking
like a sperm-hungry woman was the come on these days.
Or maybe Diane was just an uptight fascist, deficient of sex.
Stains from beer, spilt alcopops, sloppy tequila and sambuca shots
covered the table in a sticky film of filth. She didn’t notice until she leant
forward, her forearms immediately cloaked in the mix of disgusting liquids,
merging the hairs of her arms together. The sickly sweet smell was
overpowering, making her nostrils burn.
She swore and made wet rings on the
table with her glass of water, as if to cleanse the surface. She wiped her
forearms dry on her black trousers- a stark contrast to Paulette’s costume for
the night.
Her eyes wandered a few metres away
to a dark corner. It was difficult not to make out Paulette’s bright purple
sequinned skirt and the tight yellow vest that revealed more tit than what Lady
Godiva would approve of. But whatever those fashion magazines said about
dressing to nab a man, Paulette had clearly succeeded.
Tilting her head, Diane assessed the man. Nothing extraordinary about
him. Sandy
hair. Light eyes with dark circles. Medium height. Medium build. He had offered
to buy them a drink. Naturally, Diane declined. She didn’t accept drinks from
strangers. Paulette didn’t seem so concerned.
Pushing the half drunk Smirnoff Ice away from her in disgust, Diane
hoped that someone would collect it before Paulette would notice. Partly
because she had drunk enough.
But mostly out of spite.
A high-pitched sigh set her on edge
and she soon found her eyes drawn to them. Teeth gritted in revulsion, as she
stared at the man’s hands slithering up Paulette’s thigh. She leaned forward to
stand. She should get Paulette out of here. Enough was enough. As if sensing
her thoughts, he looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, making her step
falter.
Diane scowled.
He winked and put two fingers in his mouth whilst Paulette was
nuzzling his neck, all the while staring at Diane. Fingers came glistening from
his mouth in the flashing neon lights. They looked like slugs to Diane’s eyes.
He winked again before sliding his hand up Paulette’s sequined skirt. Paulette
made a sound as though she had just been stabbed.
Time
to leave.
Diane stood, not caring about
knocking several glasses to the floor and strode over to them. “I’m going now, Paula,” she said,
expecting a hasty stop in their activity. Nothing of the sort happened.
“See you later, babe,” the guy who had said his name was Matt, the
movement of his hands unrelenting.
“Paulette-“
“Ok, I’ll see you later!”
came an exasperated snap.
Diane’s jaw hardened. Fucking
cunt.
Draping her jacket across her arm,
she wished hadn’t even bothered to iron her shirt for the night.
Prick.
Prick. Prickprick prickprickprickprickprickprickprick.
Painted
faces seemed to leer at her as she walked out, her boots making loud snaps on
the floor. Hatred of the people she passed grew. They were all here for one
reason. To get fucked. It was a cattle market. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Everyone was out to get their piece of meat for the night.
How unhygienic.
The music did nothing for her. She didn’t want to listen to some
ghetto king rapping about all his bitches and jewels. Like she gave a shit. All
she wanted was to get home. Finding the exit, she pushed past the eager queue
of students trying to get in and suddenly regretted the seven pound entrance
fee.
How could everyone go on as if nothing had happened? As if a war had
never occurred? The only thing that had changed was that Halloween was no
longer celebrated in Britain. No one needed reminders. No one spoke about it.
It was just done.
Taxis drove past bearing their wares of pristine fucked up society
back home to either fuck or throw up. The fares of taxis had gone up since the
war. They had learnt they could make a killing from scared girls whose parents
insisted on them always getting taxis as night time, no longer trusting the
public transport whose bus shelters were poorly lit and not covered by CCTV.
Some people had taken advantage of that fear- had caused riots even after the
peace treaty had been signed, after Tartarus had been opened and closed. Their
excuses of burning down buildings and ransacking shops were based on
exclamations of fear and protest against the unnatural that now lived below
ground.
Diane pulled out her wallet. £2.61. She growled in annoyance and
shoved it back in her bag. The entrance fee had rinsed her, and she hadn’t
brought her bank card out. Fuck it. She’d walk.
Diane wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. It was like she was daring
whatever had come at her three years ago to make an appearance. To finish the
job. She daydreamed of different scenarios where she would have the upper hand,
how she would wrestle the truth from whatever creature had come to her that
night. Who had murdered Megan Stillman?
Drunk people littered the streets,
as it is usually the case on a Friday night. Repulsion made her nose twitch as
she watched people howl at passing cars, laughing and shouting at each
other. She envied their jovial state.
Why did they let themselves get like that? They worked all week in their shitty
low-paid jobs at Tesco or fuck knows where, just to blow their money at the
weekend. The lads all getting together drinking cider, maybe snorting a bit of
cocaine before, maybe pop a few pills, talking about how they fucked some girl
or other, or how much of a slag that Gemma was, but how she gave great head.
She could imagine the girls getting ready, pushing their boobs up, worrying
about cellulite, swearing about the sudden appearance of a cold sore, talking
about how weirdly shaped Steve’s cock was. Fucking pathetic.
Bitterness had poisoned her mind for the night and directing her
hatred towards society made her feel better.
How dare they pretend it had never happened. As though Tartarus didn’t
exist.
She hated the repetition of these people’s lives. The casual
acceptance of the nine to five. Working until they were sixty and old just so
they could be finally free with retirement. Staying with the shitty
boyfriend/girlfriend they had been with for the past year because they were too
scared to be on their own.
She didn’t want to be stuck here for
the rest of her life. Fuck- even she had dreams. A bigger picture in mind. She
wanted her own bookshop- not a big dream, but it was what she wanted. Just to
work for herself would be a fantasy enough. But that had gone out of the window
with Megan’s murder. All of her spare time was spent researching theories into
why someone would harm her. How. When. Diane’s younger sister had been training
to be an archaeologist. She was quiet. Harmless.
Biting her lip, Diane halted the train of thought in her mind. If it
started she would be up all night in the kitchen researching. And she was so
tired of it all. Her family had called her obsessed. Wanted her to get help. It’s over Diane. Let it go, they would
say. So she had moved away, shut them out. She couldn’t bear for them to tell
her to stop. She could never stop.
“Nice,” she observed as she walked around a splatter of beige vomit on
the ground, holding her breath. She refused to breathe again until she had put
twenty paces behind her. Stupid- she knew. When she was younger, she used to
walk past a boy’s house that she hated. His name was David Mockley. He was the
sort whose idea of lunchtime at school was picking his nose. Every time she
walked past she used to hold her breath until she couldn’t hold it anymore, as
if she was afraid of breathing in the same scummy air as him. She remembered
seeing his mum beat him but it was normal at the time. She saw a lot of her
friends get beaten by their mums. But shh,
don’t tell anyone, they’d say. He’s been naughty, yeah? Let’s keep this between
us. You’re such a good girl, Diane.
Keeping her head down these days was a priority. No one wanted to
attract attention to themselves. She had moved away to a new town, gotten herself
a new job, new friends. A new start. At least that was what it was supposed to
be. She had joined various self-defence classes in 1996 as soon as the war
started. Her dad had demanded it of her and her sister- the incentive of a box
of Maltesers each if they did. It was nothing special. Just basic common
knowledge moves. Bit of boxing. Just the usual kick and punch before it
happened to you. It was a bitch though to keep it up every morning, but it was
something she tried to keep up- even though the war was over. People called her
paranoid but it didn’t matter. They didn’t know. They knew her by a different
name, as a different person with a false smile. It suddenly struck her that she
couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed.
Her hands curled into fists in her pockets as she quickened her pace.
* * *
He was hurting her. He liked to come to her when
she was upset, firing up her emotions. He liked to make her feel helpless.
Pathetic. She was. He hurt her to get to Diane.
“Come
with me,” he would purr, fire dancing along his tongue. “Let me take you to a
place where it’s hot with green fire.”
She
wouldn’t say anything. She was always too afraid. She watched him pull the
little girl’s hair, making her scream. He laughed. She wanted to go to him.
Exchange herself for Megan. Take me, she wanted to say. Just stop it.
“Come
to me.”
She
couldn’t.
He
pulled the girl’s hair again harder.
She
wouldn’t.
He
pulled out a knife and slit her throat.
“Goodbye
Diane.”
Her
legs were twisted in the covers when she woke, sweat making them damp. Her
breathing came out fast, making her heart pound. She lay back down on the
pillows, exhausted but too tired to go back to sleep. She would just get eaten
by his dogs again. She had to put up with this nearly every single night. Him
taunting her, laughing at her, torturing her. Making her relive death after
death after death. Fall down cliffs, limbs being torn apart, skin being sliced,
being raped, and cut, burnt alive- she had been through it all. She had really
struggled with it when she was younger but she was trying to control it. Her
parents had wanted to take her to a vicar to be cleansed. What a stupid idea, she thought rubbing her hands over her face. Like that would stop him.
She wanted to get out of bed and get
a glass of water, but a childish side of her was too afraid to.
“I’m such a dick,” she muttered,
kicking the sheets off hot legs. She walked downstairs to the kitchen and put
the lights on. Blinking at the brightness, she sat down at the kitchen table.
The police hadn’t done anything
about Megan’s death. They had done their searches and picked out their
suspects, all to no use.
“It’s someone from downstairs!” she would shout to their paling faces.
“Can’t you see it’s someone from Tartarus?”
“That place is shut up, miss,” they would say, their jaws clenching
down in denial. “A treaty was signed. You need to forget all about it.”
Megan had been ill before she died, so it seemed of little importance
to those who had the power to do something. Maybe it had been a kindness she
had been taken? People had mused. Rather that than the illness. Diane had
pushed the police, believing the evidence too stark to deny.
“Maybe it was an animal?” the police had suggested.
Diane had flipped. “What kind of fucking animal do you think could
tear out her throat in England?” she had screamed.
“A big one,” had been the answer. The police were reluctant to
question anyone below, but they had questioned the neighbours, looked at CCTV,
to find nothing. So disturbances had been reported, no sights had been seen.
Diane had felt hope rise in her chest. Maybe now they would investigate
Downstairs. Maybe now they would listen-
Apparently not.
It was part of the peace agreements when the war was over. Mind each
other’s business.
That’s
politics for you.
A groan escaped her throat. Resting
her head against the table, she wondered if Paulette got home ok. She knew she
shouldn’t have left her, but the patience for Paulette’s antics had worn thin.
Diane rubbed her palms into her eyes, trying to resist sleep. The Man would be
waiting for her.
A sudden crash and a sprinkling of
glass made her jump up from her chair. Her heart felt as though it would crack
her ribs with its furious beating. Ears burning for any other sound than the
wind outside, she spun around to see her curtains blowing and glass glinting
across the floor.
Her body froze, assessing the
situation. She could hear nothing. She could see nothing from out of the
window. It was raining outside.
“For fuck’s sake!” She walked over,
too pissed off to even think of putting her slippers on and stopped at the
sight of a brick on the floor.
What the fuck?
Kneeling down, she picked it up, tiny shards of glass sticking to her
fingertips. A grubby note was wrapped around it, kept in place by an elastic
band.
COME TO TARTARUS
Her hands throbbed painfully and she threw the brick on the sofa,
swearing. Her lungs burnt, suddenly unable to take in enough air. The faint
splatter of rain touched the back of her neck, making her shiver. What the fuck
was that about?
“What’s wrong with the envelope through the door method?” She went
over to the window. “Too cheap for stamps?” she yelled outside, furious. She
kicked a pillow across the floor with a scream of outrage and looked back at
the note,
Tartarus. The Underground city where
all non-human species lived. Vampires, demons, werewolves- all that usual
bollocks. She didn’t know what other species of weirdo they had down there- she
didn’t have the list. They had only emerged in the last fifteen years, and it
was still a taboo subject to mention in polite conversation. People were afraid
of what they don’t understand- quite reasonable she thought. She kept herself
to herself. She didn’t bother anyone- she just got on with her work. If people
left her alone she did the same. No one wanted to talk about Tartarus. Let it
be forgotten along with the people it took and the buildings that fell.
She sat down on the sofa, note
crumpled in her hand. Tiredness wracked her shoulders. Her sister’s killer was
somewhere in Tartarus. She had waited three years for the police to do
something. For someone to help her- anyone. But no one even talked about
Tartarus anymore. No one dared to, lest something heard them and rumble awake
in the darkness.
Who was fucking with her? The
letters on the note burned into her vision, black lines of provocation.
Diane Stillman had run out of
options. The police continuously refused her pleas of sending an investigation
down there, private agencies called her mad and the government ignored her
countless letters. The case was closed on her sister’s murder.
After three years of fighting
Upstairs, it looked like she was about to change tactics.
She looked around her rented apartment, hating the mushroom coloured
walls, the salmon pink carpet and the browning tiles in her kitchen- the crappy
restaurant job she would have to get up early to go to- the shitty mates. What
did she have keeping her here?
“Fuck it,” she said. “If they want
me, they’ve got me.”
That’s how her life started in
Tartarus. The Underworld of Hades.
August 13, 2012
ANOTHER BITE!
Another bite of Tartarus to keep you going until dinner...
She
drove her way back down towards The Cage, despite Sharon’s warnings. She
had to go down there. She had to check out this Jason Everett. Find out what he
knew. She put her library forms safely in her glove compartment and promised
herself that she would fill them out later. She gritted her teeth as she drove
downwards, passing their flat. That was if
she made it.
She still had no idea about what had
happened last night. Swearing suddenly, she touched her neck. She had forgotten
to ask Sharon
for another amulet.
“Bollocks.” She probably should have turned back then and got it- or
even better- maybe she should have stayed there- but she carried on. She
absently locked her doors. It took her another fifteen minutes drive on a
continual downwards spiral before she could see the spires of The Cage.
“Good,” she grumbled. Her head was
starting to feel dizzy. Parking it where Sharon
had parked her worn out beetle the other day, she took a deep breath. She
fancied a gin and tonic but guessed that maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea
right now. She needed to keep a clear head.
“For Megan,” she said quietly to
herself. Her head touched the wheel as she said a silent prayer to no one in
particular. She shook herself and unlocked her doors. Her pole made a clinking
sound as she settled it roughly on the ground like a staff as she got out of
the van. It was much warmer down here than it was on Level One. She heard music
playing. What time was it? Was The Cage open all day every day? She figured
that it must be near six and locked up.
Diane looked at the blackness
surrounding her. Everything seemed as though it was covered in a layer of
scuttling beetles, their backs glinting in the dim light. She shook her head,
feeling nauseous.
“Concentrate,” she breathed as she
started to walk towards the club. She had to do this. It was for Megan. It was
all for Megan. There was no queue or bouncers at the door. She frowned as she
peered through the dark glass. It was too dark to see anything, but music could
be heard. She gave the door a push and swore when it wouldn’t budge.
“Fuck.” She bashed her pole down
onto the ground in frustration, wishing to split the world in two at the
impact. Moving it away, she frowned at the crack that had formed beneath.
Ignoring it, she walked around the building, hoping to find a side door.
It was a small alleyway, the floor
wet and being dripped on from overhanging rock. Bins were stacked down here
next to crates of empty bottles and other rubbish. She scowled when a great
droplet splashed on her head. She felt as though she had been shit on by a
stray bird and brushed her hand over her head just to check. It was probably
one of the most embarrassing things that could happen to you when you’re
walking about town- for a bird to crap on you- the oh shit reaction or how am I going to hide this without anyone
noticing, or there was tripping up in public. The embarrassed laugh that would
follow, wondering whether anyone would help you up, or if you should pretend
nothing had happened or should you stay on the ground, howling in pain so
people would take you seriously and stop laughing.
What
a ridiculous thing to think of right now.
The door was locked, and wooden. She
smiled. Old wood. She looked back up the alleyway and saw that she was out of
view. The padlock was small and simple. A few sharp strikes with the pole and
it gave way. The vibrations snapped their way up her arm and made her teeth
ring. The padlock was hot by the time she wrenched it off. She opened the door
with her foot, ready to strike. The room was dark.
The blackness came over Diane in
choking waves. She hesitated and then forced herself to walk in. She closed the
door quietly behind her and allowed her eyes a few moments to get used to the
lack of light. It seemed like a kitchen, although she wondered who would ever
order cheesy chips from a Vampire club. She shrugged it off and walked through
to the other side. She made out the shape of a door. Holding her breath, she
reached for the handle and was relieved to find that it unlocked. Releasing her
breath, she opened the door, blinking furiously when light blinded her from the
other side.
She paused and listened. Opening the
door a fraction more, she peeked out. There was no one around. She quickly made
her way out, shutting it behind her. She looked from left to right and found
herself in a dark concrete hallway. Lights blinked on and off above, making her
feel uneasy. An idle breeze crept its way over her skin, making her clench
teeth. She forced herself not to rub her arms. Every sense inside her screamed
to get out. But she couldn’t. The floor was wooden so she stepped lightly to
avoid noise, wanting to run instead of suffering the pathetically slow crawl.
She chose to go left and found herself at the top of some stairs. She strained
her eyes but still couldn’t see where they finished. It was a black space that
followed, empty and absorbing. She swallowed. Her ears started to prick. She
turned right and heard voices and froze. Blood seemed to congeal in her veins.
She hadn’t thought about what she would do if she was caught. How many could
she take on? The odds swung in and out of her mind while her instincts were
screaming, move move move! She
stepped back, considering complete retreat.
“Fuck.” She stepped quickly
downstairs where it wasn’t lit, hoping that they would pass. She stopped
halfway, not wanting to go any further. The wood was cold and very slightly
damp. Her hands clenched the old stairs, dirt and soggy mulch from the wood
slithering under her fingernails, and concentrated on the voices. She wished
her heartbeat would quieten. There were two of them. Both male. If she was
found skulking, she would be in so much shit.
Diane froze as they stopped at the
top of the stairs, dust spinning from the top and going into her face. She was
aware that she was in plain view and hunched her shoulders, licking the dust
from cracked lips. They were so immersed in their conversation, that they
didn’t even notice her.
Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck! Moving lower down into the shadows, she hoped to dear God
that she was keeping quiet. Hoped that they would move away. She stepped
backwards into the shadows, and turned, searching for somewhere in the abyss to
hide. She searched blindly with her hands, and was glad when cold stone met her
fingertips and not a heap of metal to crash and make a racket. Pressing her
back against it, she shuffled along, just making out the shape of crates of
bottles. She felt sick as she heard the creaking of the stairs as they came
down, step by step.
She had hoped they would stay where they were.
She wondered if they knew she was there. Was that why they were coming
down? To search for her? She slid silently behind a crate and pulled herself
into the smallest shape she could, sliding the pole behind her in easy reach.
She wished that she was back in her apartment Upstairs, in her warm bed on a
Sunday morning with a box of Maltesers and with nothing to do- safe and warm in
her thick duvet. She felt grit slide its way into a cut in her hand, tiny
stones pressing against sore skin as she fought to keep her huddled shape
still.
For a while Diane heard nothing. She crunched her eyes shut, desperate
not to see when they switched the light on. She waited a while and opened her
eyes, glad for once to still be in cloying darkness. She leant forward quietly
and peered through a slit between two crates.
Her eyes strained to make them out.
Two men.
“It’s a bit early isn’t it to
prepare the stage?” she heard one say, the sudden sound of his voice obtrusive
in her sensitive eardrums.
“Everett fancies a mess-around I suppose,” the
other said. Diane watched them walk to the other side of the room, still not
flicking on a light. She was grateful. But then one of them stopped and looked
around.
“What’s up?”
She could feel him narrow his eyes
at the spot she was hiding behind. Sweat started to prickle between her
shoulders, making it unbearably itchy. She slowed her breathing- tried to hold
her breath even.
“I don’t know…” He took a step
towards her. “I just feel something’s…”
Closing her eyes, she willed herself
invisible. She could hear him draw closer. She knew the tip of her boot was
sticking from beside the crate, but to draw it away would attract attention.
She forced her panicking muscles still, urged herself to listen to anything but
the soft moan of old wood beneath footfall.
Hungry for more? Tartarus is available to download on Kindle NOW or buy online on paperback at Amazon, Waterstones or all other major book retailers.
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August 10, 2012
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