The Darkness of Bones by Sam Millar Read Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Millar
wallet gone, worsening an already dire situation.
Now, all of the buildings had been transformed to ruins, their naked stomachs roofed by tin-covered wrecks of concrete and decaying brick, seemingly forgotten by everyone except the homeless and avoiders of the law. Only one building remained moderately intact, untouched by property developers or nature, looming defiantly in the background, bleak and uninviting: Graham’s Orphanage.
The orphanage had been part of the town’s outer landscape for decades, and had even been used as a backdrop for a Charles Dickens film. At the height of its power, it held over two hundred children, most of whom occupied the large, eel-like dormitories. Legal wrangling over ownership had prevented much-needed restoration work from being carried out, allowing the great building to decline even further.
The cold began to nip, forcing Charlie to pick up his pace. Even as he carefully avoided the slippery patches of ice and mud, his mind was preoccupied with finding shelter quickly in the old building. The booze had narrowed his memory of the filthy wasteland, and he was finding it difficult to manoeuvre and remember in the gloved darkness. The remaining cheap wine coursing through his veins granted him some warmth, but he knew it was only a matter of time before even that deserted him, leaving him to succumb to the cold.
Walking determinedly ahead, Charlie was slightly fearfulof ending up like Ben Mullan, dead, his frost-riddled body discovered next to a rubbish skip on the outskirts of town, parts of his feet devoured by foxes and rats.
Quickly pulling the collar of his overcoat up to his ears, Charlie began to hum a little ditty, mocking the anxiety eating at his stomach: “When Jack Frost comes—oh the fun. He’ll play mischief on everyone. He’ll pinch your nose, ’cause he’s so slick, but just be careful, or he’ll bite off your dick …” Charlie grinned at the words. “Jack, you cunning bastard, you won’t get—
arghhhhhh!
” He went crashing through the dilapidated basement’s storm shutters, jagged wood shredding his face, spiking it with enormous splinters, banging his head on the way down.
Then darkness came …
How long he remained unconscious was debatable. Had he been sober, there was little doubt he would have been dead.
“Could have snapped your stupid neck,” admonished Charlie, unnerved, desperately trying to orientate himself in his surroundings as he removed a match and groped to strike it. The tiny head turned the darkness white—only for a few seconds, but enough to see a rusted sign dangling on a nail, directly above his head: “Place all dirty linen in baskets provided. Divide sheets from pillowcases. Failure to do so will mean removal of all privileges.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll sort all that out in a minute, once I have a browse. Wouldn’t want to lose privileges on my first day, sir. And you wouldn’t mind kissing my smelly arse, sir?” Charlie chuckled. “You’re one lucky bastard, Charlie Stanton, landing in a pile of shitty rags, breaking your fall.”
Teasingly allowing the match to burn his skin, Charlie struck another one as he eased himself out of the large metal,linen basket. Old yellowed newspapers littered the floor and he quickly coned one, lighting it like a medieval torch. The air in the basement hung unnaturally, the smell reminiscent of stale tyres and cat piss. But there was another smell, a recognisable stench sitting just outside Charlie’s grasp. He tried to remember, tried to call up where he had been in contact with any part of it before, but couldn’t pull the random composition together.
Abruptly, his eyes caught a small movement, coming from the far corner. Rats. They seemed to be glaring at him, their yellow eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, their sharp teeth ready for snapping.
“Get the fuck, you dirty bastards!” He swept the torch in the rats’ direction, loving the power he had to make them disappear—if
Now, all of the buildings had been transformed to ruins, their naked stomachs roofed by tin-covered wrecks of concrete and decaying brick, seemingly forgotten by everyone except the homeless and avoiders of the law. Only one building remained moderately intact, untouched by property developers or nature, looming defiantly in the background, bleak and uninviting: Graham’s Orphanage.
The orphanage had been part of the town’s outer landscape for decades, and had even been used as a backdrop for a Charles Dickens film. At the height of its power, it held over two hundred children, most of whom occupied the large, eel-like dormitories. Legal wrangling over ownership had prevented much-needed restoration work from being carried out, allowing the great building to decline even further.
The cold began to nip, forcing Charlie to pick up his pace. Even as he carefully avoided the slippery patches of ice and mud, his mind was preoccupied with finding shelter quickly in the old building. The booze had narrowed his memory of the filthy wasteland, and he was finding it difficult to manoeuvre and remember in the gloved darkness. The remaining cheap wine coursing through his veins granted him some warmth, but he knew it was only a matter of time before even that deserted him, leaving him to succumb to the cold.
Walking determinedly ahead, Charlie was slightly fearfulof ending up like Ben Mullan, dead, his frost-riddled body discovered next to a rubbish skip on the outskirts of town, parts of his feet devoured by foxes and rats.
Quickly pulling the collar of his overcoat up to his ears, Charlie began to hum a little ditty, mocking the anxiety eating at his stomach: “When Jack Frost comes—oh the fun. He’ll play mischief on everyone. He’ll pinch your nose, ’cause he’s so slick, but just be careful, or he’ll bite off your dick …” Charlie grinned at the words. “Jack, you cunning bastard, you won’t get—
arghhhhhh!
” He went crashing through the dilapidated basement’s storm shutters, jagged wood shredding his face, spiking it with enormous splinters, banging his head on the way down.
Then darkness came …
How long he remained unconscious was debatable. Had he been sober, there was little doubt he would have been dead.
“Could have snapped your stupid neck,” admonished Charlie, unnerved, desperately trying to orientate himself in his surroundings as he removed a match and groped to strike it. The tiny head turned the darkness white—only for a few seconds, but enough to see a rusted sign dangling on a nail, directly above his head: “Place all dirty linen in baskets provided. Divide sheets from pillowcases. Failure to do so will mean removal of all privileges.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll sort all that out in a minute, once I have a browse. Wouldn’t want to lose privileges on my first day, sir. And you wouldn’t mind kissing my smelly arse, sir?” Charlie chuckled. “You’re one lucky bastard, Charlie Stanton, landing in a pile of shitty rags, breaking your fall.”
Teasingly allowing the match to burn his skin, Charlie struck another one as he eased himself out of the large metal,linen basket. Old yellowed newspapers littered the floor and he quickly coned one, lighting it like a medieval torch. The air in the basement hung unnaturally, the smell reminiscent of stale tyres and cat piss. But there was another smell, a recognisable stench sitting just outside Charlie’s grasp. He tried to remember, tried to call up where he had been in contact with any part of it before, but couldn’t pull the random composition together.
Abruptly, his eyes caught a small movement, coming from the far corner. Rats. They seemed to be glaring at him, their yellow eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, their sharp teeth ready for snapping.
“Get the fuck, you dirty bastards!” He swept the torch in the rats’ direction, loving the power he had to make them disappear—if