Relight my fire, p.1
Relight My Fire, page 1
About the Author
C. K. McDonnell is the paranormal pen name of Irish bestselling author C. K. (Caimh) McDonnell. He is a former stand-up comedian and TV writer who now spends all his time writing books as his dogs don’t like it when he leaves the house.
When not writing about the adventures of the staff at The Stranger Times, he is the author of the increasingly inaccurately titled ‘Dublin Trilogy’ series and its various spinoffs, all of which have been Amazon bestsellers on both sides of the Atlantic. The Stranger Times won Best Audio at the 2023 British Fantasy Awards, a fact Caimh constantly endeavours to drop into casual conversation. He lives in Manchester with his wife (aka ‘Wonderwife’) and the aforementioned two dogs.
To find out more about Caimh, visit whitehairedirishman.com, and to find out more about The Stranger Times, and to join the mailing list for updates plus a free short story collection, go to TheStrangerTimes.co.uk.
And while you’re about it, why not check out The Stranger Times podcast which features short stories set in the world of The Stranger Times, written by C. K. and read by some of the finest stand-up comedians willing to do it for the money?
Also by C. K. McDonnell
THE STRANGER TIMES
THIS CHARMING MAN
LOVE WILL TEAR US APART
C. K. McDonnell
* * *
RELIGHT MY FIRE
The fourth Stranger Times novel
To Zombie Gary, for the friendship, the laughter and, most of all, the zombies.
To Christopher Brookmyre, for being the originator of the frustrated rockstar genre of fiction.
And to the dead, who I am reliably informed cannot sue.
Author’s Note
It has been brought to my attention that authors should probably start including a note at the beginning of their books indicating whether artificial intelligence was used in its writing. First off, I am inherently suspicious of such a thing as, while I have my doubts about whether AI can come up with a novel that is any good, it can definitely write a note telling you it didn’t.
Second, I own a dog. Two, in fact, but one of them in particular is a high-maintenance, over-anxious, allergic-to-everything, financially crippling idiot. One day, I’ll probably be able to buy a robot to walk the idiot, feed the idiot, groom the idiot, give the idiot all of his various medications. It’ll even stand outside getting soaked while holding an umbrella over the idiot’s head because he’s terrified of the rain but is having one of his dodgy belly days. I can get a robot to do all that, and then I will have lost the greatest friend I have ever had.
Creativity isn’t about imitating others to get it right, it’s about getting it wrong in the right way. So, rest assured, I wrote every word of this bugger, and I even held an umbrella over its head while it worked out some issues in the rain. Seriously, I stood in a downpour for twenty minutes because Chapter 56 wasn’t quite working. You’re welcome. Let’s see AI do that.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to walk the beloved idiot immediately because we live in Manchester and it is currently not raining.
Caimh (C. K.) McDonnell
Dramatis Personae Drinkiposium
The Stranger Times staff
Vincent Banecroft – editor. Whiskey, occasionally rum/whatever is available.
Hannah Willis – assistant editor. Milky coffee or white wine.
Grace Yeboah – office manager. Builder’s tea, three sugars.
Ox Chen – features writer, UFOs and conspiracy theories. Unpronounceable Russian energy drink banned in twenty-three countries.
Reginald ‘Reggie’ Fairfax the Third – features writer, paranormalism. Herbal tea/G & T.
Stella (no known last name) – trainee journalist. PRIME.
Mannyfn1 – printer/Rastafarian. Tea au naturel (like himself)/herbal cigarettes for his glaucoma.
Greater Manchester Police
DI Tom Sturgess – Detective inspector. Diet Coke.
DS Andrea Wilkerson – Detective sergeant. Glass of malbec, preferably large.
Other Parties
John Mór – pub landlord/Folk elder. Pint of London Pride.
Cogs – bard/man who can only tell the truth. What have you got?
Zeke – talking dog/not-really-a-dog. Whatever Cogs has.
Dr Veronica Carter – Founders’ representative. Cosmopolitan.
Tamsin Baladin – millionaire entrepreneur/Founders recruit. Cucumber water.
Alan Baladin – millionaire entrepreneur/monstrous megalomaniac. Blood.
Prologue
And with a gasp, she was awake.
The first thing she became aware of was the torpid thumping of her heartbeat reverberating through her body.
Shyanne blinked repeatedly, trying to bring the world into focus. It was a world she did not recognize. She was in a room with what seemed to be discoloured metal walls, and there was no other furniture except for the metal chair she was sitting on.
No. Not sitting on, strapped to.
She looked down at her hands. Metal clasps were securing her forearms to the arms of the chair. She tried to move her feet but something was holding them in place, too. And her chest – there was something across her chest. She drew her head back and looked down. There was a metal restraint there, too. Beneath it, she could see that she was wearing a green hospital gown.
Two cannulas were inserted into the top of her right arm; one tube was attached to a blue IV and the other to a green. They led off to something behind her she couldn’t see.
Incongruous plinky-plonky music was being piped into the room from unseen speakers. It was the kind of stuff wellness spas played during massages in the mistaken belief it provided ambiance.
The cloying sound from the tinny speakers was joined by a female voice. ‘Test thirty-one; 11.22 a.m. Subject has regained consciousness. Seems relatively alert.’ The tone changed from clinical to irritated. ‘Do you have to eat that in here?’
‘What?’ came a gruff male voice. ‘I’ve not had me breakfast. I’ve got to do the clean-up after and—’
Shyanne tried to speak, but she couldn’t. The noise coming from her throat was no more than a wheezy rasp.
‘At least use a plate. You’re leaving crumbs everywhere. You unhygienic toad.’
Shyanne gagged, worked her jaw and desperately tried to locate her voice. The slow drumbeat of her heart picked up pace ever so slightly as she did so.
She finally spoke, her voice croaky. ‘Hello?’
‘And do your flies up, you awful worthless lump of ineptitude.’
The response to this was an unintelligible grumble.
‘I can hear you!’ shouted Shyanne, finding volume at last.
The voices stopped, then the woman spoke in a sniping whisper. ‘The mic is live? You blithering idiot!’
‘Have you got it on mute?’
‘Of course, I’ve—’
‘Please talk to me,’ pleaded Shyanne. ‘What’s going on?’
The voices stopped squabbling and after a moment, the female voice came through, louder now, speaking in a slow, measured tone. ‘OK, Shyanne. You’re all right. Relax. Everything is fine.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You are safe. There was an accident, but you are OK now.’
An image flashed into Shyanne’s mind. She was looking down at a supermarket shopping trolley, trying to lean on the handle as it rolled away from her and she stumbled to the ground. ‘I don’t …’
‘For the record,’ said the voice, ‘can you please tell me your full name?’
‘I …’ Shyanne scanned the room again. The tempo of the drumbeat kicked up another notch. ‘Where am I?’
‘You are in a hospital. Just relax and let me help you. Now, what is your full name?’
‘Shyanne Jane Rivers,’ she said, almost on autopilot. She looked down again. ‘Wait, why am I strapped to this chair?’
‘It’s just a precaution,’ answered the voice. ‘Now, what are your parents’ names?’
‘Martin and Philomena Rivers’ – she paused – ‘only, Mum is dead.’
‘Excellent. I mean – and are you married?’
‘Yes, to Kieran. Oh God, where’s Kieran? I need to speak to Kieran.’
‘He’s waiting outside.’
The tempo picked up once more. ‘The kids? Someone needs to pick the kids up. Sarah’s at ballet and Tom’s at … his friend’s house …’ The friend? How could she not remember Tom’s friend’s name? ‘I … I can’t remember but Kieran will know. Tell him to get the kids.’
‘Your children are with Kieran. Everything is fine. Try to remain calm.’
‘I want to see them.’
‘You will soon.’
‘I …’ Shyanne tugged at the restraints. ‘Let me go. This … What kind of hospital is this?’
‘You’re fine. You became confused, Shyanne, and we just need to make sure you’re OK, and then the restraints will be removed and you can see your—’
‘Confused? What do you mean confused?’ The tempo nudged up again, the drumbeat growing ever faster. Louder now too. ‘How am I confused?’
‘That’s not important,’ said the voice. ‘The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you can get out of here. Now, what is your date of birth?’
‘The seventeenth of June, nineteen eighty-one. What hospital is this?’
‘We’re a private clinic. Where did you go to school?’
‘St Martin’s Primary and … Wait, why do you need to know that?’
‘W e’re just testing your memory. Relax. These are just standard questions. Please, take a deep breath and calm yourself.’
Shyanne tried to comply with the instruction. It felt weird though, drawing breath in. Like something was very wrong. Like she hadn’t been doing it until she’d been instructed to do so.
‘Can you tell me the last place you went on holiday?’
‘Mexico.’
She scanned the room again. There were no windows, and everything was metal. Why was everything metal?
‘OK, Shyanne, did you have any pets when—’
‘What’s that smell?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Shyanne tried to concentrate as the thumping of her heartbeat threatened to drown out her thoughts. ‘It smells of petrol in here. Or something like petrol.’
‘Just a moment.’ Shyanne heard a soft click and then the voice spoke again. ‘Interesting. Subject reports olfactory functionality, which is—’
‘Why did you refer to me as the subject?’
‘I …’ The voice stopped and then could be heard hissing off-mic. ‘The stupid mute button doesn’t work. You had one job.’
‘It was working yesterday,’ whined the male voice.
‘Sorry about that, Shyanne,’ said the female voice again, back to sounding detached and reasonable. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Let me out!’ screamed Shyanne.
‘You need to remain calm.’
‘Stop telling me to stay calm. Let me out!’ The drumbeat was frantic now, her pulse thundering in her ears.
‘Shyanne, if you want to see your—’
‘Let me out!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs, while rocking back and forth, straining every sinew against the metal restraints. ‘Let me out! OUT! OUT!’
‘Just—’
Shyanne screamed again. No words this time. Just wild, visceral rage. Then she turned her head, wrapped her teeth around the tubes that were pumping God knows what into her right arm and wrenched them out.
The flesh of her left forearm was sliced open from where it had worked against the restraint and her entire arm was hanging at an unnatural angle. Like it was broken, but there was no pain. No blood. It meant she could pull it out. She tilted her back and roared. Freedom. Of a sort.
The female voice gave a resigned sigh. ‘11.24 a.m. – Test thirty-one terminated.’
Shyanne screeched primal fury at the soot-marked ceiling as the rhythm of her heart consumed her world, no longer individual beats but one continuous indistinguishable wall of sound.
She waved her freed left arm about, her hand dangling at a sickening angle as she screamed with everything she had.
Some small remaining part of her mind was dimly aware of a clicking noise somewhere behind her.
Then.
A pause of a couple of seconds.
And …
Ignition.
1
The thing about life is that it is fundamentally impossible.
Not that Wayne Grainger didn’t believe in the whole theory-of-evolution thing, it was just that he had realized we’d all been looking at it from the wrong end. We were the result. The result could believe in itself because it was self-evident. Nobody thought about it from the other end of the equation. Imagine being that single-celled organism however many million, billions of years ago and somebody pulled you aside and said, ‘All right, champ, I’m going to level with you; we need you to get your shit together and fast because you and your descendants are going to have to evolve into sponges or something, then fish, then those fish are going to have to decide that water is so last millennium, grow legs and go for a beach holiday. You’ll then become mammals with nipples – nipples are, like, crazy important and pretty fun, and then you’re going to need to become monkeys, and then, here’s the hard bit, stop being monkeys, which is tough as it’s clearly the most fun stop on the trip, but you’ve got places to be and things to avoid being eaten by because, oh yeah, did we mention all the way along everything else has evolved into other stuff designed to kill you in like a hundred different why-you-don’t-go-outside-in-Australia kind of ways? One of those evolutionary bros will be a T-Rex, which will be the size of a triple-decker bus, which doesn’t seem like a fair fight, does it? But don’t worry, they’ll all get wiped out in a mass-extinction event and, heads up, keep an eye out for those big-boss moments too, and run away from any large, rapidly approaching bright lights in the sky or massive sheets of ice heading your way. You don’t want it too hot or too cold. You’ll basically need to Goldilocks the shit out of this, and, assuming you avoid that part of the evolutionary assault course, you’ll need to pick up the pace, because ‘team you’ needs to be evolving into Homo basic, who’ll learn how to use simple tools – just like those lads in school who sat at the back of the bus and the teachers pretended not to be afraid of. Then, eventually, you’re going to end up evolving into man, proper man, with Crocs, and orgasms, and iPhones and student debt, and one day you’ll go to university to study film, while trying to continue evolving by telling people to call you Zack, but Daniel bloody Wallace from your old school will turn up and make sure everyone knows you’re really a Wayne. So, the point is, little single-celled organism guy, that’s the evolutionary slalom run you and the progeny have got ahead of you, and the question is, are you up for this?’
They’d have reasonably said, ‘No, thanks, that sounds like a total nightmare. Entirely impossible.’ And they would be right. From their perspective, life is so utterly unbelievably improbable as to be fundamentally impossible.
The thing is, once you realize life is fundamentally impossible, it is a wonderfully freeing thing. It being impossible means that the impossible is not impossible. Ipso facto, QED.
Jeez, whatever was in these tablets he’d scored from Deano was good. Really good. Wayne needed to write this stuff down. He’d meant to take one when they went out later, but he didn’t like the idea of not knowing what was coming. He’d had an awful experience with vodka in sixth-form college and he really did not want to shit himself again. The social stink of that had not washed off. Daniel bloody Wallace had only kept schtum about it after Wayne had slipped him fifty quid, but it didn’t feel like a long-term solution. He had been considering leaning into it and becoming a total party monster, but he wasn’t sure he had the constitution for it.
Still, now he knew anything was possible.
Wayne had always secretly believed, deep down, that he could fly. The old him knew that was nonsense, the new him was more of a freethinker. Wayne couldn’t fly, but maybe Zack could? Mankind had been stuck in the mud for quite some time now. A bit of evolution was required and maybe he was the man for the job.
Some small part of his brain was also aware that he was not the first person to take drugs and decide he could fly. So yes, he was going up to the top of a thirty-two-storey building, but he wasn’t going to jump off it. He wasn’t an idiot. Doing it up there just meant distractions would be kept to a minimum. It felt like he was meeting the sky halfway.
Deano had nabbed the security code for the roof when the window cleaners had been in a couple of weeks ago. The view from up there was absolutely mental. They’d gone up last Monday for a quick recce.
Wayne stopped at the top of the stairs, gathered himself and punched in the code. After a moment, the light turned green and the door buzzed open. This was a sign from the universe. It was behind him all the way on this one. He could feel it in his bones.
The sight of Manchester lit up and laid out before him wasn’t any less breathtaking the second time around. Up this high, how could you not feel like a god?
With a gust of wind, the door slammed shut behind him. He looked at it. The first time they’d come up here, Deano had wedged the door open. Why had he done that? There was a code panel thing on this side too, wasn’t there? He had a sudden sinking feeling that he might not have been paying total attention to everything Deano had told him. Along with Zack’s strong, reassuring voice in his head, telling him he could fly, there was now another little, distinctly Wayne voice informing him he might be in the shit here. Maybe he should try to open the door now? See if he was in trouble in the unlikely event he couldn’t fly?
