Read Online The Chosen Seed by Sarah Pinborough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Pinborough
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come. ‘It’s been such a long time.’
‘He’s not ready yet. He’ll tell us when and where.’
‘And then we can go home?’
‘And then we can go home.’ She smiled as she spoke, but her heart twinged. She hoped they could go home. ‘I feel stronger already though,’ she added. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Play me some music,’ he said after they’d sat for a moment in silence. ‘There should always be music.’
And so she did.
He moves through the bitter night, his feet pounding against the pavement, thumping out his rage with every stride. His anger makes him stronger than he’s been in a long time and he fights the urge to become everything that he is; to shake off this tiny, frail body. But he can’t afford the wasted energy; he’d only have to pay the price later. These things have become a consideration .
He pauses on the Embankment and looks out at the other side of the city carved off by the midnight river. Lights twinkle merrily, and further ahead another bridge is lit defiantly against the night. It is beautiful, and the thought feeds his bitterness. He prefers the bitterness to the fear; the fear makes him feel even weaker than his decaying body. The fear makes him feel like one of them, and that he will not abide .
He turns his back on the water and faces the biting wind. His anger at the futility of their situation was fading. He would recover himself and start planning – tomorrow. He wouldn’t give up – he never had. But for tonight, he would let his power be felt in other ways. It was time to spread his word. For the first time that evening, he is smiling .
Cass was in the dream again. It wasn’t a room, as such; it was a space somewhere between : a place where people became trapped. Cass was pressed against the pale wall, held back by a pressure he didn’t understand, and in front of him his dead brother and dead father stood facing each other. His father was burning, the fire engulfing him from head to feet, his thin hair waving upright in the orange and red flames as if he were under water. Cass could see him; his skin sizzled slightly, but it stayed pale, and his mouth hung open, as if trying to produce words that wouldn’t come. He didn’t look at Cass but stared directly at Christian.
His younger brother was wearing the dark trousers and pale blue shirt he’d been wearing the night he died. His tie was loosened. His shiny black brogues had spots of blood on them. He stood a few feet away from their burning father, the heat lifting his blond fringe as if he were standing in a breeze. Tears ran in streams down his pale face and evaporated on his cheeks. A drop of blood fell from the arm by his side and landed on his shoe. The sound made Cass’ eardrums ache.
Between his father and his brother, a Rastafarian teenager sat cross-legged, holding a baby. The teenager had no face,but he was staring at Cass from somewhere within the dried bloody mess under his hair. He cradled the baby carefully.
Cass tried to take a step forward, but something pulled him back and he gasped as cold fingers pinched his skin. It wasn’t a wall behind him at all; it was the dead, and they were tugging at him. Hands came up through the floor and pulled him down until he was lying on his back. He called to Christian and his father to help him, but they didn’t move. He didn’t exist to them. He wasn’t there.
Cold bodies swarmed over him and he knew who they were; he recognised their touch. Kate, Claire, Jessica, the poor boy they had thought was Luke, the people Solomon had killed, the student suicides, the doctors, the Jackson and Miller boys. There were so many, and they all blamed him.
He tried to scream, but fingers crammed into his mouth and tugged at his tongue. They were all over him now, pulling his clothes away, eager to tear at his flesh. He caught flashes of hair and angry eyes amidst the rotting skin. For a moment, the ceiling above flashed into view: twinkling eyes within a ruddy
‘He’s not ready yet. He’ll tell us when and where.’
‘And then we can go home?’
‘And then we can go home.’ She smiled as she spoke, but her heart twinged. She hoped they could go home. ‘I feel stronger already though,’ she added. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Play me some music,’ he said after they’d sat for a moment in silence. ‘There should always be music.’
And so she did.
He moves through the bitter night, his feet pounding against the pavement, thumping out his rage with every stride. His anger makes him stronger than he’s been in a long time and he fights the urge to become everything that he is; to shake off this tiny, frail body. But he can’t afford the wasted energy; he’d only have to pay the price later. These things have become a consideration .
He pauses on the Embankment and looks out at the other side of the city carved off by the midnight river. Lights twinkle merrily, and further ahead another bridge is lit defiantly against the night. It is beautiful, and the thought feeds his bitterness. He prefers the bitterness to the fear; the fear makes him feel even weaker than his decaying body. The fear makes him feel like one of them, and that he will not abide .
He turns his back on the water and faces the biting wind. His anger at the futility of their situation was fading. He would recover himself and start planning – tomorrow. He wouldn’t give up – he never had. But for tonight, he would let his power be felt in other ways. It was time to spread his word. For the first time that evening, he is smiling .
Cass was in the dream again. It wasn’t a room, as such; it was a space somewhere between : a place where people became trapped. Cass was pressed against the pale wall, held back by a pressure he didn’t understand, and in front of him his dead brother and dead father stood facing each other. His father was burning, the fire engulfing him from head to feet, his thin hair waving upright in the orange and red flames as if he were under water. Cass could see him; his skin sizzled slightly, but it stayed pale, and his mouth hung open, as if trying to produce words that wouldn’t come. He didn’t look at Cass but stared directly at Christian.
His younger brother was wearing the dark trousers and pale blue shirt he’d been wearing the night he died. His tie was loosened. His shiny black brogues had spots of blood on them. He stood a few feet away from their burning father, the heat lifting his blond fringe as if he were standing in a breeze. Tears ran in streams down his pale face and evaporated on his cheeks. A drop of blood fell from the arm by his side and landed on his shoe. The sound made Cass’ eardrums ache.
Between his father and his brother, a Rastafarian teenager sat cross-legged, holding a baby. The teenager had no face,but he was staring at Cass from somewhere within the dried bloody mess under his hair. He cradled the baby carefully.
Cass tried to take a step forward, but something pulled him back and he gasped as cold fingers pinched his skin. It wasn’t a wall behind him at all; it was the dead, and they were tugging at him. Hands came up through the floor and pulled him down until he was lying on his back. He called to Christian and his father to help him, but they didn’t move. He didn’t exist to them. He wasn’t there.
Cold bodies swarmed over him and he knew who they were; he recognised their touch. Kate, Claire, Jessica, the poor boy they had thought was Luke, the people Solomon had killed, the student suicides, the doctors, the Jackson and Miller boys. There were so many, and they all blamed him.
He tried to scream, but fingers crammed into his mouth and tugged at his tongue. They were all over him now, pulling his clothes away, eager to tear at his flesh. He caught flashes of hair and angry eyes amidst the rotting skin. For a moment, the ceiling above flashed into view: twinkling eyes within a ruddy
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