This Burdened Clay: Chapter One

The opening salvo from my new sci-fi horror novel.

Over the next few weeks I’m giving you lovely people a sneak preview of the first three chapters of my soon to be unleashed sci-fi horror novel, This Burdened Clay. Upon release sometime in March it will cost just 0.99 for a limited time, so keep ‘em peeled.

Grab yourself a mug of tea and a biscuit and get comfy. Here’s chapter one.

1: Caleb

Fran Gera squinted through the windscreen. Rain exploding on the glass transformed lonely office windows, taillights and road signs into impressionistic smears. The wipers did nothing to diminish the effect, and neither did the alcohol and painkillers in her bloodstream.

An ambulance veered around a traffic island to overtake her, its lights going but no siren. It was not for Caleb; he was already at the hospital.

Headlights loomed from her left and she jerked the car to the right before straightening up, the rear tyres losing traction. She bared her teeth and cursed and swigged from a week-old bottle of water. A yellow sign said Works happening at night.

A call from the Emergency Duty Team had roused her from a groggy doze, splayed on her sofa with YouTube still playing on the television, the algorithm left to its devious work.

“It’s Jo on duty. Caleb, your new case. He’s kicked off.”

Rubbing her aching hip, Fran had hobbled to the bathroom. She put the phone on speaker, gargled with mouthwash and raked her hair into obedience while her cat Ferenc eyed her with disdain from the doorway. Jo could share only a fractured account of the events leading to Caleb ending up at hospital: a stolen moped, a fight, sexual assault.

Fran swung her little Toyota into the A and E car park. A police officer was stationed under the curved awning of the building’s entrance, speaking into a radio attached to his vest. Beside him lay a battered pastel-blue moped which was decorated with soil, leaves and smears of blood like some environmentalist art piece. The handlebars were twisted like a broken neck and the padded seat hung askew. Fran recognised the officer: Stuart something, a formidable man of unabundant patience.

She approached and flashed her ID card. “Evening officer. I’m here for Caleb McGregor. I’m Fran, his social worker.”

“In there.”

“What’s the story?”

“He’s smashed his way into the foster carer’s booze cupboard, loaded up on Jack Daniels and sexually assaulted the foster carer’s daughter. She went ballistic, obviously, then he’s stolen a moped out the garage and gone scrambling up the canal path.”

“There was a fight in the home?”

“No, on the canal. He’s started mouthing off at some lads at the Waterside pub and got in to a ruckus. Took a pasting but one of them ended up in the canal.”

Fran exhaled. “Did you arrest him?”

“Not yet.”

“Just let me speak to him, alright?”

The officer scowled and said nothing.

Inside, the severe lighting and germicide stench cleared the vestiges of her tramadol haze. About a third of the stiff blue plastic chairs were occupied by bored and anguished punters. A pre-teen with one arm in a sling persisted valiantly with some game on a tablet perched on his knees. An old man rubbed his sternum and sweated.

Caleb would have stood out even without the black eye and dried blood covering the pale skin of his face and neck like a birthmark. His bearing was military. Stern facial contours spoke of natural authority like a Roman bust, but were offset by soulful eyes, full lips—the upper swollen and cut—and a thatch of dark, wavy hair. His hands were folded neatly in his lap while a female police officer held a cotton pad to the gash at his temple. Constable Bhavna Shan was a sweet-natured young officer, professional but a soft touch. A bonus here maybe.

“Good to see you, Fran,” the officer said.

“Evening Bhav, slash morning. And you must be Caleb. I’m Fran, your new social worker. Mind if I sit?”

“Not my hospital is it? You dumb?”

Caleb’s voice carried the soft Scottish inflection common to Garby, the midlands town sometimes known as Little Scotland. Workers flooded down to the steelworks in the 1930s, and the accent persisted through the decades, though by the mid-eighties the coke ovens and blast furnaces were cold and silent. The town never recovered, and its metrics for employment, literacy and deprivation were grim.

“I get that you’re in pain Caleb, but let’s treat each other with respect, alright?”

He pulled out a mobile phone and fiddled with it in his lap, ignoring her. His rudeness was performative, she sensed, not yet calcified into instinct. Good.

“I can’t promise to fix everything but I’ll listen to you, if nothing else. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s what the last one said, the fat Elvis. Where’s he gone?”

“He left to run an ostrich farm believe it or not.”

Caleb snorted. “Swear?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

Caleb’s appreciation of the absurd was something to work with. The previous social worker did indeed resemble late-stage Elvis, albeit with a Birmingham accent and a club foot. He was a decent worker but should have said goodbye to the kids on his caseload.

“Hold that pad yourself now, Caleb. Officer Shan’s got better things to do than stand there all night like a bollard. Does your mum know what happened tonight?”

Caleb shrugged, and for a moment his expression was one of such undisguised sorrow that Fran was transfixed.

“I’ve called her,” Bhavna said. “She’s on the south coast with her partner, er, Ezra. She’s okay. Worried, obviously.”

A look passed between Fran and the officer. Give me a minute with him.

“Guys,” Bhavna said, “I’m gonna hunt down some coffee. The machine here’s broke but there’s one down the corridor, I think. You two want anything?”

“No ta.” Fran said. Caleb shook his head.

The instant Bhavna left the room, two young men burst through the main doors. One was small, ginger and soaking wet, the other lanky with big ears and bovine eyes. They marched towards Caleb.

“Oi dickhead,” Big Ears shouted.

Caleb sprang to his feet and vaulted over the row of seats away from the attackers.

Fran stood and raised placating hands. “Lads, just—”

Ginger shoved her aside. She stumbled and her handbag hit the floor, spilling its contents. The receptionist spoke urgently into her phone. Bhavna reappeared from the corridor and yelled at the men to leave, but they ignored her and closed on Caleb, who shimmied and evaded them like a rugby winger. He flicked a V-sign and danced away, trainers squeaking on the floor, and deftly toed a woman’s handbag into their path. Ginger tripped and sprawled in the lap of an elderly woman who shoved at him in disgust.

“Away tae fuck, yer daft shite!”

Bhavna grappled Ginger to the floor with a balletic wrestling move, twisting his arm behind him and subduing him with a knee in his spine. He squawked in protest while she spoke into her radio.

The boy with the tablet stared wide-eyed in his father’s arms. “That’s not quite right, try again!” the tablet said.

Officer Stuart Something appeared, grabbed Big Ears’ neck with one meaty hand and slammed him into the nearest wall. Big Ears’ face was squashed against a poster about prostate screening, and the bearded man in the poster seemed to smile at him in fatherly indulgence. A hospital security guard emerged from somewhere and stood watching with his mouth open.

Bhavna hauled Ginger to his feet. “Let’s step out and have a chat, alright fellers?”

After the officers had hauled away the intruders, Caleb and Fran regarded each other in silence over the heads of the cowed and embarrassed patients. For a moment she felt a surreal connection to him, as if they were the only real people in the room, like strangers chancing upon each other in a basement of dusty mannequins in some abandoned building. He helped her gather the contents of her spilled handbag, peering at a card of tablets. The security guard took a quick glance around and retreated.

“You alright Fran?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Knob heads. I know the ginger one, he was couple o’ years above me at school. He’s a dick. Should o’ seen ‘im when ah pushed ‘im in the canal.” Caleb’s accent had intensified a little so dick came out deck.

A blue-clad medical person appeared and called for him.

“Want me to come through with you?” Fran said.

“Naw, you just wait here.”

Cheeky bugger. “Will do.”

Fran rubbed her face and released a slow breath, feeling every eye in the room upon her. She pulled her phone from her handbag, swiped the screen into life with shaking fingers and opened her work email app. For a few minutes she tapped out notes, not bothering to correct the typos, and sent them to herself. A shadow fell over her and she looked up in surprise.

The foul mouthed elderly lady held out a plastic cup of something hot and brown. “Get this doon ye, hen. Yer bairn dinnae seem a bad sort.” She grimaced. “Blootered wee roasters comin’ ‘ere, bletherin’ out their bawbags. Some coupons on them eh?”

What? “Oh thanks love, you’re a diamond. Have you been seen yet?”

“Naw. Cannae be arsed tae wait n’more. Ah’m gaun hame. Ah’ll return in th’ morn if ah’m no deed bah then. Night hen!” With that she shuffled out and was swallowed by the darkness, the automatic doors swishing closed behind her.

The hot chocolate was watery and too sweet and she winced, placing the cup carefully on the seat Caleb had vacated. He was elated now, she considered, his enemies vanquished. But graver battles may have been lost already. His quick feet could not evade the wrath of his foster carers or the youth justice system. She had not even had a chance to discuss the events of the evening with him as yet, including the supposed sexual assault against the foster carers’ daughter.

Under the braggadocio Caleb was surely frightened, steeling himself for another rejection in his short, chaotic existence. Perhaps his actions were driven by a subconscious need to deliver the rejection into being, to cut the hair holding the Sword of Damocles so it no longer hung above him. This would reinforce his view that he could not be loved, was not deserving of it. Rinse and repeat.

She scolded herself. He doesn’t belong in that box, not yet. You’ve only seen him at his worst. Stop projecting. She wanted another tramadol; pain in her hip was building like the noise of an approaching train. Or maybe it was the pull of addiction.

She fired a pre-emptive email off to the Placement Team’s duty address, letting them know Caleb might need an emergency bed within the hour. Immediately an email pinged back, demanding she capture the details in a form. Hunched over like a crone, she filled in the details, scowling at the tiny check boxes. Seconds after hitting Submit, the phone’s Exorcist ringtone intruded into the silence. She accepted the call and a male voice introduced itself as Stephen Orgill, Caleb’s foster carer.

“Yeah, hi Fran. You’re the new social worker, I take it. Listen, it’s the last straw. We’re not having him back. Miriam, that’s my wife, she’s wondering whether to carry on fostering at all. I understand what the lad’s been through, we’ve been on the training but for God’s sake, first he sets fire to the curtains, calls Miriam a see you enn tee and now this.”

“Stephen, I think we—”

“I’ve had to tie the garage door closed and I’ve sent a man and van to get the moped, which I hear is bollocksed, pardon my French. I’m pressing charges.”

Bhavna returned. Fran gave her a wave and pointed towards the treatment area, then went outside into the warm spring air. The rain had stopped and a couple of nurses stood smoking a little distance away. The mangled moped was still there.

“Stephen, slow down a little. Is your daughter alright? Emily, isn’t it? Was she able to explain what happened exactly?”

“She’s fine. He got into bed with her, drunk out of his mind. He sort of lay against her and put his hand on her thigh, Emily says. Nothing worse than that, thank God. I don’t think he knew what he was doing. She doesn’t want to take it any further, I don’t think, but she won’t have him back in the house. I can’t blame her. It was wholly inappropriate.”

“Okay Stephen, we can support Emily if she needs any help and wants to talk about it. I get that everyone’s blood’s up right now, but please don’t do anything hasty. We could arrange a night or two elsewhere for him, let things settle and then see where we’re at.”

“No Fran. We’re not having him back, I’m sorry. I’ve got to protect my family, you understand. And my property. Like I say, I’m pressing charges for the theft and damage.”

Her sympathy was undercut by a simmering anger. “Stephen. I understand you’re upset and if you won’t have Caleb back then we can’t force you. But you have foster carer’s home insurance, do you not?”

“It’s not about the money. He needs to understand that actions have consequences, and our premiums—”

She raised her voice until his fell silent. “Let me ask you a question, Stephen. Would you press charges if it was Emily who stole your moped? What would it take for you to call the police on her? What would she have to do? If you had a son and he got into bed with Emily would you call the police? The local authority pays you to act as parents to the children and young people we legally look after, Stephen. Parents.”

A long pause. “Is he alright?”

“Bruised and battered, but yeah. Still handsome. Some lads followed him here to the hospital but the police dealt with it. We’ll pop over soon and collect his things. It might be easier if Caleb stays in the car.”

“Okay. We only ever wanted the best for him, Fran. He’s a great kid in a lot of ways, really smart, adores his mum and his cousin, but…look, give us a call when you’re on your way, I’ll stay up.”

“Alright Stephen, thank you. I know you’ve done your best for him. It just wasn’t the right fit, maybe. It happens.”

*****

Room by room, Fran and Stephen gathered up the articles of Caleb’s life and erased all evidence of his ever having been there. Caleb waited in the car. This process always reminded Fran of the sad archaeology of sorting through the home of a deceased loved one, as she had after the death of her parents. Fran caught a brief glimpse of Emily, Stephen and Miriam’s daughter, disappearing into her room.

Stephen peered under Caleb’s bed using his phone as a torch. “How come you came out tonight, Fran? It’d normally be a duty worker wouldn’t it?”

“I told them to always call me if any of my kids got in bother, whatever time. It’s not really protocol. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Well it’s good of you. Can you claim the hours back?”

“Fat chance. Tell you what, we have this absolute sweetie who needs a home right now. Thirteen year old girl. Her mum abandoned her to go and shack up with her boyfriend in Spain. She fended for herself for two weeks until anyone knew anything was amiss. She’s a poppet, honestly. She could do really well with you. Emily would love her, I bet.”

Stephen shuffled backwards from the bed and peered up at her. “Oh yeah? Alright, email me would you?”

Battered football boots, a framed picture of his mother, toiletries, clothes and various oddments. Caleb’s belongings were packed into flimsy pastel-bright holdalls, provided for the very purpose of sparing kids in care the ignominy of their worldly possessions being stuffed into bin liners. Fran carried a supply in her car boot. ‘YOU MATTER!’ was emblazoned on the holdalls in big, cheerful letters. Kids had adopted this as a euphemism for being moved out of a foster placement at short notice. They caught me smoking weed again so I’m being youmattered. Doreen had a heart attack so they had to youmatter me.

An emergency foster bed was found for Caleb in an isolated village a twenty-minute drive away, with Derek and Jenny Robinson, a saintly, stalwart couple who specialised in emergency foster care. Over the years they had shared their home with kids who had suffered every type of adverse childhood experience one cared to imagine. Toddlers emaciated by Dickensian levels of neglect, Somalian former child soldiers, teenaged girls traumatised and infected by grooming gangs.

Further conversations with Officer Shan and Caleb back at the hospital were also productive. Sexual assault charges could still be brought against Caleb regardless of Emily’s willingness to cooperate, but Fran persuaded the officer to process the incident under the police code Outcome Twenty-Two. This would require no admission of guilt or further legal action, provided Caleb engaged with “intervention activity” geared towards preventing further offences. In practice, this would mean a dozen one-to-one sessions with the sexual risk prevention officer working in Fran’s department.

“I’ll come and say goodbye,” Stephen said as he and Fran crunched along the gravelly driveway to the car, drizzle spotting the cheery holdalls. Caleb stared ahead in the passenger seat with an elbow propped on the open window, while Fran and Stephen loaded the holdalls into the car boot. Fran slammed down the lid and as Stephen turned away, she popped a tramadol tablet into her mouth and dry swallowed.

Stephen bent to Caleb’s window. “Caleb mate, for what it’s worth I hope it all works out for you, and…” He trailed off as the window hummed upwards, Caleb’s middle finger extended in his direction. Stephen made a what can you do? gesture at Fran and went back inside the house. One by one the lights in the windows were extinguished.

Later, Fran and Caleb ate fast food in her car in a deserted retail park, the Toyota drained of colour in the sickly yellow cone of a security light, looking like underwater footage of a tiny shipwreck. Pink stuff dripped from Fran’s burger onto her car seat while Caleb slurped the dregs of his milkshake.

“Jenny and Derek are fantastic, honestly. I’ll come and see you in a couple of days and go through a questionnaire with you if that’s okay. Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?”

“Not really.”

Fran dabbed at the burger sauce on her seat with a napkin, and threw shreds of lettuce from the window. Then she gazed ahead, allowing silence to bloom into the space until it pressed against him like a slow motion airbag.

“I didn’t ask to live there, did I? It was shite. Stephen’s awright but Miriam’s a bitch. Stuck up as fuck.”

“That doesn’t excuse what happened with Emily, Caleb, getting into bed with her. You know you can’t do that.”

“I was pissed, alright?”

She dropped it, for now. “You went full Evel Knievel on the moped, eh?”

“Evil what? Tell you what though, this old fucker on a boat down at the canal, she come at me like that bitch in her cellar in Evil Dead, threw a plant pot at me. That’s what cut ma head. Evil Dead Two maybe.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say bitch so much. I think it was Evil Dead Two.” She adopted a corny demon voice, curled her fingers into claws and leered at him. “Someone’s in my fruuuit cellaaar.”

“You’re dumb. You like horror movies, aye?”

“Guilty pleasure.”

“Like what?”

“All sorts. The old eighties stuff with the gory latex effects. Reanimator, From Beyond and stuff, you know? Video nasties, they used to call them. Pretty tame now.”

“I like the found footage stuff. Hell House, Graveyard Shift, that Spanish one, Rec.”

“I love Rec. But you know, as your social worker I can’t condone you watching eighteen-rated films.” She looked at him deadpan and he snorted.

“Help me with this crap,” she said. They gathered together the detritus of their meal, got out the car—Caleb wincing and moving stiffly—and dumped the rubbish in a nearby bin. Then they leant against the car next to each other, staring into the green-black mass of a dripping hedgerow. A pale and featureless retail unit loomed like an alien spacecraft.

“My head was all fucked,” he said. “My ma texted the other night for the first time in ages. She’s shacked up all lovey with that dickhead Ezra. Professor ponce.” He fiddled with the splint on his fingers, then turned to her. “You heard of a YouTuber called Uptown Top Dankin? Ben something, his name is. Does jokes and stuff.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Mum says he’s my dad. It’d be like you finding out, I dunno, your dad was Cliff fuckin’ Richards or somethin’.” Fran opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off. “You my cousin’s social worker too now?”

“Blake, yeah. I’ve not met him yet. What’s he like?”

“Different to me. I need a kick up the arse, he needs an arm ‘round the shoulder, know what I mean? He’s in one of those Sagan Protocol clubs where they come up with ideas about the aliens and all that.” He held her gaze. “Do right by him or I’ll hold you accountable.”

A sudden mindless percussion sounded on the tarmac as the rain returned in a fury.

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