CHAPTER ONE
Chapter One
DARKNESS
Charles stumbled into the room, and fell hard into the thickly padded parlor chair. He was alone in his Kensington flat in the west district of London.
The dizziness caused him to lean forward, and rest his head in his hands which only made it worse.
He shouted for his wife, Emily, but got in return only the hint of his voice echoing off the walls of the empty apartment.
“Left early … taken the children … she could always tell … always knows when ….
His head suddenly reared back as his narrowing vision erased all color in the room, and replaced it with only shades of gray. It was happening again.
It had been nearly two months since the last episode. He’d actually begun to have hopes of getting well again, now those hopes were smashed.
“God no. Oh God not again, please no … I thought I was over it,” he murmured in despair.
There was no use resisting. As it had done so many times before, his sick mind was cruelly, inexorably, returning him to that terrible day at Jutland.
Heavy beads of sweat formed on the forehead of Lieutenant Commander Charles Courtland of the British Royal Navy. He began trembling in cold fear of anticipation of the horror his mind was about to perpetrate. His “dark spells,” as Emily called them, always began this way.
His head suddenly jerked fully rearward hitting the backrest. The imagined sensation of falling backward into an abyss caused him to grasp the arm rests in a death grip. Waves of terror washed over him as the darkness swallowed him deeper into the pit of blood and despair.
How many of these spells had there been in the last year and a half since being so terribly wounded in the Great War? How many since 1916—twenty, fifty, a hundred? He’d lost count. They always started the same way. Familiar things would lose not only color, but form. Then the name “Jutland” reverberated in his head, growing unbearably louder with each echo. The laden drops of sweat formed rivulets running down his face, pausing only when encountering one of the lines or wrinkles that had not been there before the war. His hands shook uncontrollably, even though they tightly grasped the arms of the chair. His vision narrowed into a dark tunnel with a sense of falling deeper into the darkness. As he plunged downward with increasing speed the light at the tunnel’s upper end grew dimmer until it disappeared completely.
Deeper into the blackness he descended while his thoughts punished him with images of battle, so vivid he became oblivious to all else around. Though his eyes were open he saw only what his mind showed him. He was forced to relive the sight of flames, smoke, and carnage. His uncontrollable thoughts replayed the sounds of heavy naval gunfire, exploding ships, and screams of dying men.
In this nightmare he’d stay until his cruel mind took pity, and slowly released him from the torment. The dim light reappeared and gradually grew brighter as the blood soaked images blurred, and faded. Color and shape returned to familiar objects. The thunderous blasts of roaring guns, and gut wrenching screams grew fainter. Gradually he’d become aware of only the sound of his own breathing. Regaining his sense of time and place, Charles would be physically spent and emotionally drained from the experience, spending the rest of the day in deep depression.
It was always the same, except this time he’d descended so deeply into the cycle of horror he never heard Emily return from her shopping with the children.
While still at the bottom of the pit there came a distant voice, not the usual lamentations of torn and bleeding men, but that of a child’s voice screaming, “No Brent, don’t!”
In the same instant, the misplaced voice coupled with something touching his face. The intrusions were bringing him out of the nightmare too quickly. In that moment, the images and sounds of battle were intermixed with sights and sounds of another place and time. The confusion only added to the nightmarish terror. The mixture of unrelated images fighting for control of his senses served to multiply the madness. With his mind still between the nether region of night and the light of reality his right hand swung as though it was spring loaded. It hit the little boy with such force he was sent flying backwards into the French door. His head shattered one of the glass panes, before he fell to the floor where he lay bleeding and crying.
The sounds of shattering glass, and loud sobbing brought Emily screaming from the kitchen. A frightening scene greeted her. Charles was still seated, his head resting in his hands, and shaking violently. Her son was lying on the floor, amongst the chards of broken glass with his little chest heaving in pitiful sobs.
She picked the child up, and rushed to the bathroom where she wrapped a towel around his bleeding head. Ten year old daughter Anna, crying and trembling followed her mother.
“Get your coat Anna!”
Emily grabbed Brent’s coat from the hall closet, and wrapped it around him. Neglecting to don her own coat against the cold November day, she left without saying a word to her husband. With the injured child in her arms, and Anna following, she hurried out to the street, and hailed a cab. Emily directed the driver to take them to the London infirmary, a few miles away. All the while she cradled her son in her arms while Anna sat frightened alongside.
Alone in the flat again Charles senses had fully returned from his “black spell.” However, the sight of blood, and broken glass on the floor coupled with the echoes of his wife and children’s screams left him unable to move for a time.
“I cannot allow this again. I have to leave, go away from here. I’ll go back to sea again. Yes, that’s it … the sea. It always calmed me, made me see things more clearly. Perhaps it can wash away all these memories.”
He called his friend Captain Peter Abbott, and told him he was ready to return to sea duty.
“We’ll be quite happy to have you back Charles. Are you quite sure you’re well enough?”
“Oh yes, quite sure. Fit as a fiddle, shipshape and ready for duty.”
“Very well then, glad to hear it. I’m sure we’ll have an assignment for you in two or three weeks then.”
“Thank you, sir. You can reach me at the Plymouth Naval Base.”
“Plymouth! Why won’t you be at home?”
“Oh, I … I think it will do me well to get back into stride gradually. Lord knows Emily must be sick of having me underfoot. After all, the poor girl has had to put up with me at home over a year now.”
“Very well then old boy, we’ll talk soon.”
Charles hung up the telephone.
Yes, he was quite sure Emily was fed up with him by now. She’s dealt with this long enough, and now he’d hurt the boy. God, he’s only five years old, and he did see him standing there. He did see him and struck him anyway. How could it be that his son, a child, brought out the worst in him?
DARKNESS
Charles stumbled into the room, and fell hard into the thickly padded parlor chair. He was alone in his Kensington flat in the west district of London.
The dizziness caused him to lean forward, and rest his head in his hands which only made it worse.
He shouted for his wife, Emily, but got in return only the hint of his voice echoing off the walls of the empty apartment.
“Left early … taken the children … she could always tell … always knows when ….
His head suddenly reared back as his narrowing vision erased all color in the room, and replaced it with only shades of gray. It was happening again.
It had been nearly two months since the last episode. He’d actually begun to have hopes of getting well again, now those hopes were smashed.
“God no. Oh God not again, please no … I thought I was over it,” he murmured in despair.
There was no use resisting. As it had done so many times before, his sick mind was cruelly, inexorably, returning him to that terrible day at Jutland.
Heavy beads of sweat formed on the forehead of Lieutenant Commander Charles Courtland of the British Royal Navy. He began trembling in cold fear of anticipation of the horror his mind was about to perpetrate. His “dark spells,” as Emily called them, always began this way.
His head suddenly jerked fully rearward hitting the backrest. The imagined sensation of falling backward into an abyss caused him to grasp the arm rests in a death grip. Waves of terror washed over him as the darkness swallowed him deeper into the pit of blood and despair.
How many of these spells had there been in the last year and a half since being so terribly wounded in the Great War? How many since 1916—twenty, fifty, a hundred? He’d lost count. They always started the same way. Familiar things would lose not only color, but form. Then the name “Jutland” reverberated in his head, growing unbearably louder with each echo. The laden drops of sweat formed rivulets running down his face, pausing only when encountering one of the lines or wrinkles that had not been there before the war. His hands shook uncontrollably, even though they tightly grasped the arms of the chair. His vision narrowed into a dark tunnel with a sense of falling deeper into the darkness. As he plunged downward with increasing speed the light at the tunnel’s upper end grew dimmer until it disappeared completely.
Deeper into the blackness he descended while his thoughts punished him with images of battle, so vivid he became oblivious to all else around. Though his eyes were open he saw only what his mind showed him. He was forced to relive the sight of flames, smoke, and carnage. His uncontrollable thoughts replayed the sounds of heavy naval gunfire, exploding ships, and screams of dying men.
In this nightmare he’d stay until his cruel mind took pity, and slowly released him from the torment. The dim light reappeared and gradually grew brighter as the blood soaked images blurred, and faded. Color and shape returned to familiar objects. The thunderous blasts of roaring guns, and gut wrenching screams grew fainter. Gradually he’d become aware of only the sound of his own breathing. Regaining his sense of time and place, Charles would be physically spent and emotionally drained from the experience, spending the rest of the day in deep depression.
It was always the same, except this time he’d descended so deeply into the cycle of horror he never heard Emily return from her shopping with the children.
While still at the bottom of the pit there came a distant voice, not the usual lamentations of torn and bleeding men, but that of a child’s voice screaming, “No Brent, don’t!”
In the same instant, the misplaced voice coupled with something touching his face. The intrusions were bringing him out of the nightmare too quickly. In that moment, the images and sounds of battle were intermixed with sights and sounds of another place and time. The confusion only added to the nightmarish terror. The mixture of unrelated images fighting for control of his senses served to multiply the madness. With his mind still between the nether region of night and the light of reality his right hand swung as though it was spring loaded. It hit the little boy with such force he was sent flying backwards into the French door. His head shattered one of the glass panes, before he fell to the floor where he lay bleeding and crying.
The sounds of shattering glass, and loud sobbing brought Emily screaming from the kitchen. A frightening scene greeted her. Charles was still seated, his head resting in his hands, and shaking violently. Her son was lying on the floor, amongst the chards of broken glass with his little chest heaving in pitiful sobs.
She picked the child up, and rushed to the bathroom where she wrapped a towel around his bleeding head. Ten year old daughter Anna, crying and trembling followed her mother.
“Get your coat Anna!”
Emily grabbed Brent’s coat from the hall closet, and wrapped it around him. Neglecting to don her own coat against the cold November day, she left without saying a word to her husband. With the injured child in her arms, and Anna following, she hurried out to the street, and hailed a cab. Emily directed the driver to take them to the London infirmary, a few miles away. All the while she cradled her son in her arms while Anna sat frightened alongside.
Alone in the flat again Charles senses had fully returned from his “black spell.” However, the sight of blood, and broken glass on the floor coupled with the echoes of his wife and children’s screams left him unable to move for a time.
“I cannot allow this again. I have to leave, go away from here. I’ll go back to sea again. Yes, that’s it … the sea. It always calmed me, made me see things more clearly. Perhaps it can wash away all these memories.”
He called his friend Captain Peter Abbott, and told him he was ready to return to sea duty.
“We’ll be quite happy to have you back Charles. Are you quite sure you’re well enough?”
“Oh yes, quite sure. Fit as a fiddle, shipshape and ready for duty.”
“Very well then, glad to hear it. I’m sure we’ll have an assignment for you in two or three weeks then.”
“Thank you, sir. You can reach me at the Plymouth Naval Base.”
“Plymouth! Why won’t you be at home?”
“Oh, I … I think it will do me well to get back into stride gradually. Lord knows Emily must be sick of having me underfoot. After all, the poor girl has had to put up with me at home over a year now.”
“Very well then old boy, we’ll talk soon.”
Charles hung up the telephone.
Yes, he was quite sure Emily was fed up with him by now. She’s dealt with this long enough, and now he’d hurt the boy. God, he’s only five years old, and he did see him standing there. He did see him and struck him anyway. How could it be that his son, a child, brought out the worst in him?
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