The King's Men

PROLOGUE

It moved through the city with the consistency of a wisp of cloud dancing on the heat of a summer’s night.

This was taking far too long; where could The One possibly be? It had already checked the hospital and the doctors’ surgeries. It had never questioned the Big Man’s orders before, but if It couldn’t find what It was looking for soon, It was going home. It was bloody knackered. The Big Man had no idea how long it took to pass through the Dimensions any more, not since He semi-retired, leaving It to do all the hard work.

And now, to top it all off, it was being followed.

No doubt about it, the city of Worcester had changed a lot in 400 years. Even now, though shrouded in the sticky midsummer darkness with few Humans on the streets, It was amazed at the myriad ways in which the place had altered. The houses were now stone, the carriages motorised. Electric light filled the streets and music blared from the public houses. The main difference though was the very feel of the place. Ladies and gentlemen, God has left the city...

No wonder this was the Battlefield.

This was trouble. Whatever was following It was getting closer; much closer. Too close in fact. Suddenly Its consistency was broken into a multitude of fragments.

“Hey George, the bloody net didn’t work!”

“Why, what is it?”

“It’s like a little cloud.”

“How many times have I got to tell you fellers, if it’s a bloody cloud then use the hand-held vacuum cleaner!”

“It’s not a bloody cloud George.”

“No George, it’s not. Mr Pump is quite right. It was more fluffy and wispy. Like a miniature sheep after a bath.”

“What’s it doing now?”

“Well it’s just sort of reformed and wafted up Friar Street.”

“Well then get after it you lazy b******s!”

“Aye sir!”

That was close. Too close…It was getting too ancient for this; too sloppy. Capture in this Dimension was not an option; the mood the Big Man was in these days meant you couldn’t be sure He’d come and get you back.

The sound of iron-shod boots on the cobbled streets was directly behind and getting closer. There must be five of them, maybe even more. This was no good. It needed a Safe House, and it needed one now.

And there, as if He had answered Its call, rose the majestic hulking frame of the Cathedral, its tower illuminated against the star-filled sky. It would be safe here. They couldn’t follow It here.

“It’s gone into the Cathedral grounds, George!”

“Then get on and follow it lads!”

Bugger.

That wasn’t right. They shouldn’t be able to follow It here! This was just getting annoying.

And then, in the distance, a baby cried….

The One! It simply had to be The One! Of course! It felt so stupid; this was obviously the location!

The children’s cries rebounded through the warm still air, rebounding off the walls, graves and statues.

“Where’s it gone?”

“I don’t bloody know Mr Pump!”

“Keep it together now lads! I don’t want this b*****d getting away!

“Aye sir!”

Concentrate. It had to concentrate. Don’t listen to the echoes, listen for the source. Where is the source? Concentrate…

Suddenly It knew and suddenly It zoned in, wafting gently around Its target. There was no doubt in Its mind. This was The One.

A child It had expected, but this wasn’t a child. This was a baby; a delicate new born, frail and tiny, crying in a blanket filled with poo.

The jobs It had to do.

“Stop what you’re doing and move away from whiffy little nipper!”

No! No, this wasn’t fair! It was so close. It had to complete Its mission. There was no choice. It was going to have to break the first Rule; It was going to have to show Itself.

A crack of thunder tore through the heated air as if the Cathedral itself had split asunder. Thousands of feet into the sky pilots reported to ground control the sound of a choir falling through the clouds. Throughout the city those abed slept peacefully, whilst those awake suddenly took kindly to their fellow man. In the night-clubs and pubs landlords took record profits as patrons each attempted to order a round for everyone on the premises.

In the graveyard, a single white feather drifted gently to the scorched grass.

“Oh bloody hell George, it’s a bleeding Angel!”

“It not bleeding at all. Don’t over-exaggerate.”

“Mr Pump is quite correct, I have rather over-egged the pudding again.”

“Shut the f**k up lads!” A crooked, blind figure groped to the front, guiding his path with a walking stick which just occasionally, accidentally, whacked one of the assembled men in the goolies.

“Gabriel? Gabriel. Is that you?”

Yes George.

“S’bout bloody time! Lads, you’re dismissed. Mr Pump, John-boy, you’re with me.”

The majority of the men began to amble through the graves, laughing and lighting roll-up cigarettes on their way back to Friar Street.

How you been ol’boy?”

I’m not a boy, George. I’m an Angel. We’re asexual. I believe what you mean is, “Where have you been old person?”

“Don’t be a prick, Gabriel. Just tell me who I’ve got to train up so I can get on with dying.”

It’s this baby.

“Don’t be silly. It should be young John-boy here. He knows the trade; I’ve been showing him the ropes. He could take over tomorrow.”

It’s this baby.

“What about Mr Pump? He’s damn good too.”

It’s this baby.

“What about one of the other blokes? I could get them back from the pub if you like?”

Why do you insist on arguing? It’s this baby.

“I argue because I want to bloody die! If it’s a nipper then it’ll be decades before I get six-feet under!”

You do have fifty-one years of your contract left to serve George.

“Sod that Gabriel! I’m getting too old; I’m falling apart bit by bit. My eyes have gone! It’s time for someone else to take over. That’s why I’ve been training this lad!”

I’m afraid I cannot help you George. It must be the baby. The Big Man has spoken.

“The Big Man hasn’t spoken in years and you know it.”

Not to you perhaps but I met him for brunch yesterday.

“Look Gabriel, we’re old pals, stood here on a pleasant summer’s night having a bit of a chinwag, so let’s cut the crap shall we? Can’t you, sort of, make John boy here my heir? Accidentally, like? Then I can train him up for six months before propping up the bar in the Cardinal’s Hat for the next fifty years?”

If it were up to me George I would, but it’s the Big Man’s decision and He’s been really grouchy lately; trouble with his son. The lad doesn’t want to follow in the family business. Daddy issues. It’s the Big Man’s own fault; He never showed him much love when he was young. Like I told Him at the time, “Big Man, don’t forsake him,” I said. Not that he listened.

“Oh come on Gabriel! I’ve done a good job, I’ve kept the front line safe! Go back up and put in a word for me will you?”

Sorry George, it’s more than my job’s worth.

“Not even if I say please?”

No George.

“Lot o’bleeding good you are. Just do what you have to do and piss off.”

George sat down on a small tomb, pulled out a can of extra-strong lager and drank it in a single gulp.

“So it’ll be another sixteen years before training even begins?”

Yes George.

“Bloody hell. Mr Pump, John-Boy, wake me up in 16 years. I’m getting drunk.”

© 2015 Peter Richard Adams

Author's Note

The prologue for a book I never wrote much more of...

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Reviews

David Jae

I love the characters that you create, as well as a rich narrative that is engaging and well-written. Your use of dialogue is very good and this was a pleasure to read. Well done.