Life at the End of the Road Read online

  Rey S Morfin

  Life At The End Of The Road

  Smoke Without Fire - Book 1

  Copyright © 2019 by Rey S Morfin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  For Laura, wherever you are.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The Shadows of the Trees

  This Is Your Great Western Service to Highford. This Train is Formed of Eight Coaches.

  The Cat, The Father, and That Which Lurks in the Forest

  In Regard to the Foxes

  Our Father, Who Art in Heaven

  Into the Fire

  Youth

  The Legend of the Burning Boy

  Burn the Witch

  The Deafening Silence of Local Buzz

  This Chapter is a Work of Fiction and Such Will Be Claimed in a Court of Law

  The Body

  An Innocent Man

  Guilt & Rage

  The Root Cause

  Laura

  Run

  In Defence of Drug Use

  The Shadows of the Trees

  The Battle at the End of the Road

  Loose Ends

  Blame

  The Undying Legend of the Burning Boy

  ‘Smoke Without Fire’ Continues

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ‘Are you lost, little boy?’

  I looked around to find an old lady peering from her front porch. It was the only house in sight and she looked friendly, so what was the harm in answering? Even if Mum said I shouldn’t talk to strangers. That was just about men in vans, wasn’t it?

  ‘A little bit, yeah. My Mum was around… but now she’s not,’ I replied.

  The old woman smiled sweetly at me. ‘These woods can be a little like that, I’m afraid. Often that people get lost in here.’

  I remained still, nervous, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ the old woman continued.

  I remained quiet, so the woman pressed on.

  ‘I have tea, and biscuits. And I can give someone a call to let them know where you are.’

  I again didn’t say anything, but followed the old woman into her house. It was decorated just like my Grandma’s. Lots of lace on things. I didn’t like lace. That was for girls, Dad said. There was also a smell - a musty smell hiding beneath the scent of freshly-baked cookies. I didn’t know what it was but I didn’t like that either.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute!’ the old woman called out as she hobbled off to her kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room. I took a seat on an old armchair, the pink colour having faded over the years, and the fabric tearing in places. I peered around at the pictures in the room. There were plenty. Most were in black and white like in the olden days. I gathered up the confidence to call out.

  ‘Are you ringing my mum?’

  The question must have caught the old woman by surprise because there was a pause before she answered.

  ‘Not yet, dear,’ she replied, ‘I just need to finish something. What’s your name?’

  ‘Peter. But my friend calls me Pete. That’s cooler, Mum says.’

  ‘Peter is a nice name. You should use that.’

  ‘Ok,’ I replied, having nothing else to say. I knew I wasn’t the best at conversation. Not like the adults were.

  I sat in the living room in silence, legs swinging off the edge of the armchair, which was slightly too tall for me.

  A few minutes passed before the old woman returned with a plate of biscuits and two cups of tea. I reached keenly for one of the cups. I’d always liked tea. Everyone said that wasn’t common for a young man of my age. I wasn’t a young man though, I was a boy.

  ‘No no, you won’t like that one, that’s mine,’ the old woman blurted out when she saw me reaching.

  I reached for the other tea instead.

  ‘What’s wrong with that one?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s made from a special root. It’s a root tea. It’s good for me, but doesn’t taste very nice.’

  ‘Is it for your joints? My grandma has problems with her joints. She talks about them a lot.’

  The old woman smiled. ‘It’s for a lot of things. What’s your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘Mary. I think it’s short for something but I don’t know what.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me my name,’ the old woman reminded me.

  My mouth opened with worry. ‘Sorry. My Mum tells me to stop asking so many questions.’

  The woman laughed and I got a good look at her teeth. They were very yellow. If she went to my dentist then he wouldn’t be very happy with her. She would not get a lolly. Even my grandma didn’t have teeth that yellow and she has problems doing things for herself, or so Mum says. I should remind grandma to brush her teeth next time I see her.

  ‘You can ask me questions. My name is Elizabeth.’

  I once again didn’t reply, and instead my attention drifted to the photographs dotted around the room. Elizabeth seemed to be in all of them, and she looked just the same in every one. The conversation had turned to silence once again, and I looked around the room nervously. Was she going to ring my parents soon?

  ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ the old woman offered.

  ‘No thanks.’ I then second-guessed myself. Was saying no also rude? Wasn’t that ungrateful? ‘Actually… yes please.’

  The woman smiled again and handed me one. I ate it timidly as I continued to look at the photographs. There was something about them that meant I couldn’t stop looking. I knew something wasn’t right about them but I wasn’t smart enough to work it out. My sister would definitely know what it was, but then she wouldn’t tell me and it would really annoy me.

  I pointed at a black and white photograph of the old woman with two younger men. ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re my sons,’ the woman responded.

  ‘Are they around?’

  ‘No, they died in the War, I’m afraid,’ she replied, sadly, ‘Do you know about the War?’

  ‘My grandad has talked about it a bit but said I’ll learn about it when I’m older. I don’t know how much older I’ll need to be though,’ I said. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Ah, now I’m starting to see why your mother doesn’t like you asking questions. It’s rude to ask a woman her age.’

  I went red with shame. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  She must be very old.

  ‘That’s quite alright, dear. Lesson learned, I’m sure.’

  A buzzing from the kitchen caught me off guard. The woman hopped up - very easily for someone her age, I thought.

  ‘Just need to get something out the oven, and I’ll be right back!’ she announced.

  I remained silent once again.

  As the woman pottered around in the kitchen, trays clattering against the work surfaces, I started to smell the aroma of the old woman’s tea. It was the musty smell I had noticed earlier. It was very earthy too. Like I had fallen over and got soil up my nose again. That hadn’t been a nice day.

  I found myself reachi
ng over to the old woman’s cup. I hadn’t intended to. I didn’t even want the tea, it smelled bad and it wasn’t mine. It would be rude to drink it. It would be stealing, wouldn’t it? But still I reached, like I was a character in a puppet show and couldn’t control my own actions. Part of this was exciting - I was doing something bad but nobody would know. Maybe this is why some of my friends were so naughty in class - it was a little bit fun.

  I took a big gulp of the tea and very nearly spat it out immediately, however my manners got the better of me, and I didn’t want to make a stain on the carpet. Besides, it would have been evidence that I’d tried some, and I might get caught. If I thought it smelled bad, it was nothing compared to how it tasted. How could anyone drink that? Even if you were ill, there must be some nicer medicine than this. Maybe this is what Mum meant when she complained about the state of the NHS.

  Looking up from the coffee table, I suddenly found myself sitting on an armchair in the middle of the forest.

  Was this the forest he had just got lost in? It definitely looked like it, but then don’t they all look the same? What had happened to the house? Hadn’t it been daytime a minute ago? If there had been anyone to talk to, I would not have been able to fight the urge to ask ‘too many’ questions.

  I looked around. There was nobody. I was alone but for the familiar smell of horrible tea and freshly-baked cookies. Had I imagined the house? But then I was still sitting on an armchair. Where would that have come from?

  ‘Peter!’ Mum’s voice called out behind me. ‘Where are you, Peter?’ My head spun around.

  ‘I’m here, Mum!’ I called back. But she didn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘Peter! Where are you! I’m getting worried!’ she called out again, desperation in her voice.

  I looked around frantically. Where was she? Still nobody was in sight. But I could still hear her.

  ‘Peter!’

  ‘Mum! I’m here!’

  No reply. The voice was gone.

  ‘Mum!’

  Nothing. I began to cry.

  Minutes later I heard Mum’s voice again.

  ‘Have you seen my son? He’s quite young, only eight years old. Messy brown hair. Have you seen him? I think I’ve lost him.’ Mum seemed upset.

  ‘I’m here, Mum!’ I called out again.

  The old woman’s voice answered. ‘No, dear, I’m afraid that I haven’t seen anyone, I’m sorry.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘Yes you have! I’m here! I’m here, Mum! Mum!’

  Silence.

  I scrambled off the armchair and slipped on the wet leaf-covered ground. As I picked myself up, I found the old woman standing in front of me.

  1

  The Shadows of the Trees

  The text that follows is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to genuine events is purely a coincidence. Please think of this as you continue onwards and do not feel compelled draw connections between this book and the later much-publicised events of my life.

  Of course, as is the case with any story that a writer produces, certain characters, incidents and even names are drawn from the writer’s life. For this reason, and this reason alone, the main character shares my name, Rey, and the name Laura is taken from my fiancee, who, as many know, has been missing for several years.

  Again, I stress that the events that occur in the pages to follow do not in any way reflect reality, and I draw from these devastating experiences only in aid of channeling my pain into a project of my own, as has been recommended by mental health professionals.

  It’s difficult to know where to start. As with all things, memories fade - even those of deep and profound trauma. Were we to take record of key moments in our lives as they happened, perhaps we would be more able to effectively communicate our goals, our thoughts, our emotions at the time. However we don’t always recognise the true impact of each moment until days, months, or years later, when we’ve had sufficient time in which to reflect and recognise changes in ourselves. For me, it was not until years later that I understood, in earnest, the full significance of my time spent in Redbury.

  I begin, as many do, by describing the weather.

  The sun shone bright on an uncharacteristically warm Saturday afternoon in early October. From the centre of the city park, away from the pollutants of cars and big industry, it was almost warm enough to sunbathe, and indeed many were. Even brighter than the sunlight was the pale white skin of the British middle class, amongst whom I found myself when I received the call that Laura had been missing for almost two days.

  It had been her mother that had called - my future mother-in-law, I should say. While our relationship had always been polite in nature, the simple fact that we had little to nothing in common other than Laura herself meant that our conversations had always been strained - of which both parties were painfully aware. This was the first conversation we’d had to which this didn’t apply.

  Laura had returned to her home town of Redbury three days ago after a similar call from her mother announcing the death of the family dog. He had been Laura’s companion through her younger years, so she felt it right that she travel home to say a proper goodbye. Since her parents had long since separated, this also meant that her mother had lost her only cohabitant - and the subject of her long-running, if largely-unloved, doggy Instagram profile.

  Between my ever-increasing anxiety and our recent habit of fighting, Laura and I hadn’t left things in a good place. There was a half-hearted goodbye said, and a half-second kiss on the cheek, and Laura left our shared flat, suitcase in hand. She’d packed heavy for a four day trip - a remark which I had vocalised, only contributing to the growing hostility between us.

  Having done my duty of saying goodbye, I had crashed back into bed for another couple of hours of sleep - and I dreamt. Amongst the typical panic and confusion of my rest, Laura was reaching out, screaming at me to not let her go. She is somehow simultaneously my fiancée and my year 8 maths teacher. I’m late for school, and I’m late to find Laura. I can’t do both. I can’t risk detention again. Emma tells me her dog is stuck up a tree and it’s my fault. I can’t get the dog out of the tree because I’m in detention. And where is Laura, isn’t she supposed to be around here? Why can I hear her screaming?

  For what would be only the first of several occasions still to come, I woke up in a sweat, clutching my bed as I grounded myself once again in reality, and scrambled to remember the details of my nightmare.

  Of course, the dream was my guilt and insecurity manifesting itself in my subconscious. While there had been some recent friction between Laura and I, I was of the opinion that this was a temporary state of affairs, caused only by external factors. The last few years, we’d been happy, with the exception of the odd blip that I assumed all couples went through.

  Recently, I had been going through a few very minor issues of my own, which, had they not all happened at once, I believed I would have been able to easily overcome. It was the classics: work stresses, decreasing fitness, increasing weight, money worries. Being unchallenged and unfulfilled by my job left me out of energy in the evenings so I didn’t exercise. This lack of exercise lead to my increasing weight, which further stressed me out at work. …And I didn’t have any money. I was under no illusion that I, or my problems, were particularly special, nevertheless they were causing me overwhelming anxiety, shakiness, and - recently - panic attacks.

  After awakening from these vivid dreams, I would stare upwards at the shapes dancing across my bedroom ceiling. These were shadows of the swaying trees, cast by the streetlight outside. Typically I thought this lamp was positioned too close to the building, shining too brightly - but when there were these sleepless nights, the light was oddly comforting.

  Occasionally I thought I could see things in the shadows. I pretended there was a secret message, something that I needed to decode. These absent thoughts were just like the games of my youth - staring out of the window of my father’s car and imagi
ning myself flying along the landscape, or closing my eyes so hard that I could see shapes beneath my eyelids. I often searched for more meaning in the universe, but this wasn’t a religious or otherwise spiritual endeavour, it was simply a game I played.

  If Laura hadn’t been away, I could have looked to my side and found her lying there peacefully. Gone were the days where she would wear a silk nightgown to bed, and instead Laura snuggled up in one of my old t-shirts and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. I couldn’t say which I preferred - while the appeal of a nightgown spoke for itself, there was some indescribable satisfaction in seeing Laura finding comfort in my clothes.

  For a moment, I thought I spotted a cat in the swirls, eyes piercing into my soul, but when I tried to focus on it, it was gone. No matter - a glance at the alarm clock told me that it was 5.30am, which was more than late enough to get up and begin preparing for the work day ahead.

  I started the day with my morning exercises. 20 each of push-ups, sit-ups, mountain climbers, bicycle crunches… or whatever I could be fucked to do on that particular day.

  I followed this with a quick shower - hair, armpits, crotch. For special occasions, such as an important meeting or a date night, I would expand washing area to limbs.

  I then would leave house by 7.44am to arrive at work at 9.00am on foot. Or, if I was feeling lazy, I could get to the bus stop by 8.24am for the 42 bus to arrive at work at 8.51am. Often I would miss this bus and arrive late.

  When I got to work, I would greet the team, talk about our evenings, latest Netflix offerings, and whether we got sufficient sleep last night, before finally getting down to work.

  I worked in a bland office building owned by a company who tried very much to make it not look like a bland office building. There were bean bags in the lobby in place of actual chairs. There was a pool table in the break room, which went unused for fear of people looking like they didn’t have enough work. There were various pieces of art lining the walls - art that I was fairly sure was in stock at IKEA three years ago.