1987
Somewhere in The South of England …
The sun had already started to set as Oscar pulled over.
His car, a battered black Golf with one working speaker and a rucksack of half-folded clothes on the backseat, had started coughing two miles past the last petrol station. The needle hadn’t been quite red, but close enough. Now it sat dead on the verge of a single-track lane, mist curling over the fields.
Oscar’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, “—Brilliant—”, he hissed under his breath, closed his eyes for a second and then kicked his way out of the car.
The damp road curved out behind and ahead, vanishing into the brambles and low stone walls of nowhere. A sign post stood casually beside him …
‘Welcome to Wrenford. Please drive carefully’
The air was still, no wind, just the soft crunch of his leather loafers on wet gravel.
A crow sounded once in the distance, then stopped.
The fields on either side rolled gently upward, but everything felt closed; bushes grown too high, trees twisted too tight …
He walked for ten, maybe fifteen minutes before he saw the rooftops and electricity pylons; stone cottages, chimneys, a low pub with peeling red paint.
Wrenford was a postcard, one of those villages you drive through on the way to somewhere better - no people in sight, just a warm yellow glow in a few windows, neatly trimmed hedges and a few sparrows pecking into puddles.
Oscar peered up at the next sign above him, this one suggesting something closer to comfort.
Oscar shoved the pub door inward and entered with a yawn.
Warmth folded around him at once, thick with woodsmoke and damp wool; the smell of ale, old varnish, rain drying slowly on stone.
Flames burned in a wide fireplace to the right, its crackle catching on the rims of pint glasses and the edges of faces …
Conversation dipped and rose again, a few eyes lifted - not startled, not curious enough - just the right amount of acknowledgement with a glance that told him this place was theirs, not his.
Oscar swallowed as the pub door clanked shut behind him.
Behind the bar stood a woman in her fifties, platinum blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that looked like it had been redone several times that day - her sweater sleeves were rolled, her hands steady as she wiped the counter - when she looked up, her gaze landed on Oscar and stayed there.
“Evening, love,” she said, warmly, as though she had been expecting him, “You look like you’re here for a reason.”
“My er, my car,” Oscar said, thumbing over his shoulder, “It died about a mile back. I don’t suppose you’ve got a phone I could borrow?”
The Landlady’s smile did not quite reach her eyes.
“Course,” she tipped her head toward the bar, “Sit. You’ll have a glass of wine, or …” her eyes narrowed at his leather bomber jacket, “… Is it a pint.”
It was not phrased as an offer.
Oscar took the closest stool, rested his forearms on the bar and glanced around, his blue eyes assessing his surroundings, “A “A pint, please,” he sniffed.
It was what he expected - an awkward environment created due to a stranger walking into a pub that wasn’t used to strangers - a few odd looks, nothing hostile, nothing warm - just that quick, practiced scan people gave when something new disrupted the rhythm of a place they’re used to:
A farmer in his late sixties with a gold tooth at the far end of the bar leaning on a walking stick looked Oscar over, then turned back to his pint.
A middle aged lady in a short dress sipping a gin and tonic by the window with her arm in a cast met his gaze for half a second too long, then looked away as though she’d been caught doing something impolite.
A sad looking woman in a beanie, face gaunt, her frail hand holding her husbands - perhaps she was ill - she couldn’t take her eyes off Oscar …
Oscar attempted to cheer her up with a little wave, however her quick look away suggested she wasn’t interested.
Oscar shuffled awkwardly on his stool - just when he thought there would be no small talk possible in the slightest, a voice arrived at his side.
“It’ll be the best pint you’ve ever had, believe me …”
Oscar turned his head.
Perching at the bar with a rum glass mostly filled with ice was a man perhaps twice Oscar’s age, mid forties, maybe, old enough to know himself, young enough to still enjoy it.
He was good-looking in a quiet, unshowy way; jaw length dark hair pushed back from his face, a short beard that suited yet softened him. Besides the kind of features that drew your eye without demanding it, what mostly stood out was the ease of him, the confidence to take the stool beside Oscar without asking, to speak as though the space between them already belonged to him, as though Oscar’s arrival had simply given him a reason to move.
Oscar shook his head as he quickly reminded himself to respond, “Just er, just passing through,” he chuckled unintentionally, then bit his lower lip straight after, “Heading to Hexham … Was er, was meant to be there by six.”
The man lifted his glass in a small, private salute, “Well, you’re in Wrenford now,” he took a sip, watching Oscar over the rim, “You been to a party?”
The Landlady placed a tall pint of beer on front of Oscar - he smiled and mouthed the word ‘cheers’, grateful for company of the glass - it gave his hands something to do. He took a quick sip immediately …
“It’s my birthday,” he didn’t even wince as he swallowed down the fizz, “Or was. How did you—”
“—I can smell it on you,” the man sneered, “You’re the partying type.”
Oscar grinned over his glass and took another sip, “Is it that obvious?” He closed his eyes as the beer hit his stomach - when his eyes opened he found himself wiping some drool from his lower lip, “Christ, that is good …”
The man’s gaze wandered over Oscar, “Told you,” unhurried yet interested; it travelled over his soft, tanned hands, the pinks of his fingers and the neat trim of each fingernail; the glimmer in his eye caused by snorting drugs in Essex bars, the thickness of his lips stained red from kissing girls who were just as drunk as he had been, the curl in his hair parting that might have been more neatly styled several hours ago, the damp cuffs of his jeans, the white of his socks that tried to tell people he was stylish, the leather of his loafers, marked with mud from the lane …
“Your shoes are soaked,” the man said gently, “You should take those off, before you catch something.”
Oscar let out a short laugh, it sounded wrong in his own ears, “I’m er, I’m alright,” he could actually of really done with removing his shoes, but the idea of sitting in a pub shoeless made him realise he’d only draw wondering eyes closer, when he was more keen to nudge them away.
“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged, then added, almost kindly, “We take care of people here, y’know. Especially visitors,” his eyes lifted again, green, amber, or were they red? Oscar couldn’t tell if it were the fireplace playing games before the man leaned in and whispered with a smile, “… Especially ones who look like they pay well …”
Oscar felt the heat of the fire at his back, the air close and watchful; the warmth seemed to press inward, not just against his skin but beneath it - he realised he was suddenly very aware of himself, his posture, his breathing, the space his body and its youthful appearance occupied not only on the stool, but within the pub itself.
“Well,” he raised both eyebrows, surprised at realising a sex worker had joined him, “I didn’t expect a place like this to—”
—The man turned and offered his hand.
“They call me Reid.”
Oscar hesitated - after all, he hadn’t come here looking to make friends - where was that bloody phone?
The longer Reid held out his hand, the quicker Oscar had to take it - the grip was firm, lingering just a second longer than necessary - rough, as if used to manual work instead of sexual labour.
“Oscar.”
Reid smiled, slow and knowing, “Welcome, Oscar …” his hand slid away, “… You’re just in time …”, his smile lingered for a moment after the words left him, and then he was gone, not abruptly, just finished.
He slid from the stool, placed his empty glass of rum at the bar, and disappeared through a side door Oscar hadn’t noticed before.
The space beside Oscar cooled at once, as though it had never been occupied at all.
Oscar chuckled into his pint, “Okay then,” his confusion aimed to the Landlady who returned with a cloth deep inside a wine glass.
“Reids in his own world,” she reassured, “You staying the night, then?” Her question felt like a need to change the subject.
Oscar’s eyebrows flattened into a deep line, “Er, I—” … he looked down at his drink, then at the ticking clock above him, “… I was hoping to get the car sorted, give my … My girlfriend a call.”
She nodded, as if he’d confirmed something rather than suggested it.
“Road’ll be worse after dark, and there’s rain coming again,” she glanced toward the windows, where the glass had begun to mist, “You won’t get a tow out here tonight.”
Oscar clenched his teeth, took a big gulp of his pint and bobbed his left knee repeatedly, speaking softly so as to hide the urgency, “It’ll only be quick.”
“We’ve rooms,” the landlady added, “Above the pub. Nothing fancy. But clean. Warm …” a pause, a change in tone, flirtatious now, “… And you’re already here.”
The words landed gently as Oscar glanced back at his drink, half gone now - the flames from the fireplace weren’t the only things warming his middle - the quiet murmur of the pub settled back into itself.
“Oh yeah?” He grinned at her generosity, entertaining the village’s charm for now, “How much?”
The landlady put away the now clean wine glass and adjusted her blonde bun for the sixteenth, seventeenth time of the day, “A hundred quid usually, but because yer good looking and that beer’s on the house, I’ll give one to you for eighty, breakfast included.”
Oscar placed the pint glass back on the bars surface and wrapped his bomber jacket tighter around his chest.
“I’ll pass,” he shook his head before glancing up at the Landlady, his stare remaining on her eyes as a way to assert himself, “Just the phone …”
The Landlady exhaled through pursed pink pips, then reached beneath the bar and brought out a landline phone - old and yellowed, the cord stretched tight from years of use.
She slid it across the counter, “Be as long as you need,” turned away, and headed to the other side of the bar to serve a waiting regular.
Oscar quickly dialled his girlfriend’s number from memory - boop, beep, boop, boop, boop, beep, boop, boop - the line rang …
And rang …
And rang …
… Until it cut to voicemail.
He hung up without leaving a message.
He tried again.
Nothing …
He dialled his dad, one ring, then silence, the call dropped.
When he set the receiver back down, the Landlady was watching him as she poured a glass of prosecco - not with concern, with something closer to curiosity.
“Everyone too busy to help?” She asked.
Oscar picked up the phone and tried his girlfriend again - after another round of rings and another arrival at voicemail, he spoke into the receiver.
“Lu, hi, it’s me. I’m er, my car broke down just outside a village called …” he had already forgotten the name - he peered at the Landlady, who mouthed it for him, “… Wren, Wrenford. I’m in some kind of pub, the … Laughter’s Rest. Call here when you can, alright, babe?”
The Landlady smirked as Oscar placed the phone down defeatedly.
“They’re expecting me,” Oscar said, though he wasn’t convinced himself, “They’ll call back.”
“Well,” she said, straightening at his choice of words, “Lucky for you, there’s a garage in the village. They’ll take a look at your car in the morning.”
Oscar watched the Landlady as she picked a packet of cigarettes from her bra and snatched one from inside, “Oh? There is?”
“Oh yer,” she said, “I used to shag the owner. He’ll sort it,” there was a lighter inside the pack too - she lit up the cigarette and puffed on it twice, “He won’t charge you,” she then gestured the packet towards Oscar as an offering.
The bluntness caught him off guard - he laughed, briefly, without meaning to, and then nodded quickly.
The Landlady blew smoke towards Oscar and handed him the pack.
Oscar squinted and picked a cigarette out from the plastic gold casing - he popped it on the edge of his lips and then leaned over the bar, his waist hooking the edge.
The Landlady kept her cigarette between her mouth and moved in towards Oscar - sound no longer existed as they both closed their eyes, the amber of her cigarette lighting the end of his.
He dropped back onto his stool and huffed out a cloud of smoke as he looked towards one of the pub windows - it had started to rain and behind the glass everything was fading into dark.
“How far is this garage?” He said, a roll of smoke gathering around his head.
“A few lanes away,” she took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled smoke through her nose like a dragon, “But they’re closed, open at 8. Might as well have another beer, aye …”
Oscar sighed out a snigger and nudged his pint glass closer to the landlady, nodding once.
“Okay, okay,” he gave in, “Guess I’m staying put …”
Oscar stood under the shower longer than he meant to, head tipped back, both fists clenched at his sides while hot water struck his shoulders in a steady, pounding rhythm.
Beer sat sharp and fizzy in his stomach, layered over more pints, over warm glasses of cheap wine from earlier in the afternoon, over everything else he’d swallowed and sniffed since celebrating his birthday earlier in the day.
His head felt buoyant, slightly detached, as if it belonged to someone half a step behind him.
He laughed to himself once, quietly, then stopped.
The room steamed up fast, his thoughts slid, he closed his eyes …
The day bled back in flashes; applause, balloons, a birthday cake, his name etched out in icing, family, friends, and then a row with his Dad …
Something else threaded through it …
A sound.
Not in the shower, not in the room the Landlady had kindly given him, far beyond the walls of the pub …
Muted, rhythmic, human …
Oscar frowned and tilted his head, water running into his ears - voices, dozens of them, low, overlapping, and under it, or inside it, a rise and fall that might have been chanting …
He reached out and twisted the tap.
Creak.
The water cut abruptly, a silence rushing in to replace it.
Drip, drip, drip …
The sound didn’t stop.
He stepped out of the shower, skin prickling in the cooler air, and dragged a towel over himself without much care.
His heart was beating faster than it should have been - too much drink, too much sniff - he was still buzzing, wired, the afternoon refusing to leave his bloodstream, and now the two generous pints from the landlady adding to it all …
He threw on his t-shirt, underwear and yanked on his jeans.
Barefoot and damp, he crossed to the window.
Outside, Wrenford lay pooled in darkness; a few lights burned softly and beyond them, at the edge of british countryside normality, The Village Hall stood alone, lit from within, windows glowing like watchful eyes.
The sound came from there.
You’re just in time.
Reid’s voice surfaced uninvited, neat and mild, as if spoken only seconds ago.
Oscar pulled the curtains shut with a sharp movement and stood there for a moment.
“Go to bed, you twit,” Oscar muttered.
He draped the towel over a nearby chair, crossed to the single bed, and lay down on his side.
The discarded pieces of the day lay in a heap by the wall; bomber jacket shrugged off and thrown, loafers tipped on their sides, white socks half inside out - evidence of a version of him that celebrated his birthday with people he loved and recognised, before arriving here, in a place where he knew no one.
Oscar switched off the lamp and rolled onto his front, burying his face into the pillow.
Sleep tugged at him, thick, uneven and with it, came fragments …
His mum’s bathroom toilet, carpeted and loud with cheering mates …
His reflection, flushed, white dust wiped away hastily from below his nose.
Party popper remains over his shoulders, hands clapping at his back, someone shouting about Hexham later, about a party, about not letting the night finish …
A furious argument with his dad, about being too high, ‘you knocked over your aunts glass of bubbly, you fucking idiot!…’
Keys in his hand, the engine coughing into life, tears burning his eyes, the road blurring …
You’re just in time.
The words threaded through it all, folding the memories together until he couldn’t tell which came first.
Oscar groaned softly and rolled onto his back, then sat up.
His heart was racing now, too fast, skittering - the chanting hadn’t stopped, if anything, it had grown steadier, more assured.
He couldn’t just lie there, after all, he was being kept awake.
He stood and slipped his loafers on easily.
He paused at the door, listening.
The pub was quiet, almost expectant, as if everyone had left and gone to this party in The Village Hall …
Oscar opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the corridor, then began to move carefully downstairs, drawn not by curiosity exactly, but by something looser and harder to name.
Outside, the night waited.
And The Village Hall’s lights burned on, patient and unwavering, as if they’d been left on for him.
“Take it all!
Take it all!
Take it all!”
Oscar was pushed forward with the sound, carried rather than walking …
Bodies pressed in from every side; shoulders, elbows, hot breath on his neck.
The Village Hall was packed, far more people than he’d thought possible for a place like Wrenford; young, old, thin, heavy, familiar faces from the pub, others new to him, all moving as one, all chanting the same words with frightening conviction.
“Take it all!
Take it all!
Take it all!”
His mouth was dry, his head throbbed, he needed a drink, something cold, something grounding …
He craned his neck, searching stupidly for a bar, for a counter, for anything recognisable - there was nothing - just people, heat and noise …
He was shoved again, spun slightly, then forced to a stop …
The chanting faltered.
Oscar looked up, and his jaw fell open.
At the centre of The Village Hall’s main stage, a young woman lay collapsed on the wooden floorboards beside a waist high stone basin that seemed to be foaming from the top.
The woman as blonde as he, basically naked all for the cotton, torn loin cloth knotted around her hips, though it was the stillness of her body that struck him more than anything else.
Her chest rose shallowly, her limbs were slack, breasts parted, nipples firm, as if whatever had been asked of her had been taken to its limit.
Behind the stone basin stood Reid, steam curling around his face.
He was dressed like a jester.
His hands were raised, fingers curled unnaturally like claws …
His jaw was clenched so tightly Oscar could see the muscles jump beneath his skin.
Compared to the person Oscar had met at the pub, Reid didn’t look ordinary at all - he looked feral, as if he’d just finished something that required effort.
Kneeling at the woman’s feet was the farmer from the pub.
The one with the gold tooth and the walking stick.
His back was to Oscar.
He rocked slightly, making a clicking sound with his his throat.
“… Cleck! Ugk! Cl, cl, uhk, uhk! …”
It suddenly wasn’t human, unlike any sound Oscar had ever heard, as if something was breaking from within.
When the woman was suddenly lifted by several people and carried off behind the stage, the clicking cut dead.
Silence fell.
The farmer let go of the stick.
It clattered to the floor.
Slowly, he stood.
Straightened.
Then he took a step …
And another …
He walked perfectly, easily, like a man decades younger.
The gold tooth popped out of his mouth and fell to the floor like a penny, replaced by a new real white tooth …
The hall erupted so quickly, so loudly that Oscar’s shoulders lifted into a startle.
Cheers tore through the crowd, people surged toward the farmer, hands reaching, voices raised in celebration …
Oscar was shoved backwards by the force of it, stumbling, heart hammering, vision tunnelling.
“Bloody, christ!—” Oscar went to leap forwards, but in the chaos, he caught Reid’s eye.
Reid smiled, the bells to his jesters hat jingling above the cheer.
Then he pointed.
Straight at Oscar.
You’re just in time.
Something in Oscar broke loose.
He turned and forced his way out, lungs burning, pushing through bodies until cold air hit him like a slap.
Huff, huff, huff …
Outside, he barely made it a few steps before retching, vomiting into a puddle by the hall wall.
“—Bleergghh!—”
His bile, yellow and chunky, a mixture of the afternoons party food and the pubs beer, blended with the rainwater as the moonlight shone down over his shame.
His hands shook, his vision swam.
You’re just in time. You’re just in time. You’re just in time.
The words echoed, over and over, folding in on themselves.
And then—
—Oscar woke.
Daylight pressed softly through the thin curtains.
His head split with a dull ache.
His mouth tasted sour.
He was sprawled on the single bed, still fully clothed, limbs heavy, sheets twisted beneath him.
Hungover and …
Being watched.
“Morning,” Reid announced his presence casually.
Oscar jolted, scrambled and spun so that he faced Reid.
“Fucking h, hell!” Oscar’s cheeks boiled pink, “How, how long have you been standing there?”
Reid folded his arms and trailed the tip of his tongue over his top row of teeth.
No longer dressed as a Jester, he now stood suited in a mechanics overalls.
“I fixed your car,” he said, “You’re free to go.”
Oscar stared at him, questions crowding his throat.
The hall … The woman … The old man … The clicking …
But beneath the confusion, beneath the fear, something else stirred.
Something he hadn’t expected.
Disappointment.
Oscar stood on the gravel in his bomber jacket, the events of his birthday and the strangeness of last night pressing behind his eyes like a slow, patient thumb.
His car sat a few feet away.
Fixed. Cleaned. Polished to a brightness that didn’t match the rest of the village. The paintwork caught the sun like it was new. Even the tyres looked scrubbed.
Oscar blinked at it.
“That’s … Impressive,” he said, fingering the inside of his jacket for his wallet, “How much do I owe you?”
Reid didn’t look up straight away - he ran his thumb along the bonnet, wiping away a speck that might not have been there in the first place - when he did look back, he smiled.
“Who said anything about paying?”
Oscar frowned slightly, “You … In the pub, you said you help visitors,” he cocked an eyebrow, “… ‘Especially ones who look like they pay well’ …”
Reid’s smile deepened as he gave a small, conspiratorial wink.
“I said, and did, a lot last night.”
He held out the keys.
Oscar took them, turning them once in his hand, feeling the weight - he didn’t put them in his pocket, not just yet.
“Yes,” Oscar said lightly, “I’ve got to ask, what the bloody hell was all that?” He chuckled.
Reid tilted his head, as if he had already planned what to say.
“Come this evening,” he said bluntly, “We’re doing it again.”
“It,” Oscar looked down at his feet and pursed his lips, “… What is ‘it’ …” he asked.
Reid stepped back, gesturing vaguely toward the rest of Wrenford.
“You’re about to cross into unfamiliar ground, my boy. You’re—”
“—You’re just in time,” Oscar said, finishing his sentence for him.
Reid laughed quietly, pleased, everything was going as scheduled.
Oscar hesitated, then nodded toward The Village Hall, though it wasn’t visible from here, “It was like a … Healing thing, right? That old bloke. He can walk now.”
Reid’s tone requested something Oscar didn’t expect was so needed.
“That ‘old bloke’ owns the farms around here, he stocks the pub, the butchers, have some respect …”
Oscar scratched the back of his head, “Ss, sorry,” he mumbled.
Reid went to his desk to pick up a wrench, “He’s signed up to the first marathon he’s run since 1948. What we have here is special, Oscar. You won’t want to miss it.”
Oscar looked down the lane that cut out of Wrenford, sunlight pooling along it.
Beyond it were fields, roads, service stations.
His friends, his girlfriend, Hexham.
The party that had continued elsewhere … More presents for him, champagne, vivid clarity instead of the mysterious.
Then he looked back at Reid.
At the man who had watched him sleeping. The man who stood in a village that did impossible things to people. The man who spoke like staying was the most important decision in the world.
Oscar leant against the side of his car.
“Is she alright?” He asked suddenly, “The girl.”
Reid had already turned away, lifting the bonnet of another car - he didn’t look back.
“You can go back to your mates,” he said, “To a birthday you celebrate every year. Get rat arsed and wake up feeling worse than you did this morning. Or you can stay where you are and witness something you won’t ever see anywhere else, ever again,” he began to crank at something with the wrench, “What’ll it be?”
Oscar slipped the car keys into his jacket pocket as his stomach growled, sharp and insistent.
He swallowed, not giving a full answer, but inching closer to what Reid needed.
“Can we eat first?” Oscar asked.
The Landlady arrived at their table, setting the plates down as if she’d done it a thousand times already.
Roasted potatoes, crisp and glistening, and half a roasted chicken for Reid. A glass of iced water placed carefully beside it. For Oscar, pie and mash, steam lifting as she slid it across the table, followed by a pint of beer beaded with cold.
She didn’t ask who was having what.
They sat opposite each other by one of the window’s - sunshine beamed into the pub, rays of light confident and glowing, catching the specs of dust that floated through the pub air.
With daylight filling the surroundings, details surfaced that the night had hidden; a jukebox humming quietly in the corner, a dartboard scarred with old impact marks, dog bowls lined neatly near the door, filled with fresh water …
However, it was the pub clock was what drew him in.
It hung above the bar, charming and deliberate, the very clock he had checked last night before giving in to the Landlady and staying over.
Its brass rim had dulled to a honeyed brown, the cream face was marked with Roman numerals worn thin where generations of eyes had passed over them - it looked respectable, trustworthy.
And yet …
Oscar checked it, then checked the light outside, the times did not agree - was it really only 12.25?
The minute hand seemed reluctant, dragging itself forward as if it resented being hurried - when he looked away and back again, he had the odd sense it had moved more than it should have, as though time in this place did not advance so much as rearrange itself when no one was watching …
No one else looked up, no one appeared concerned.
By the door, half-hidden behind a coat stand, was a cluster of walking sticks.
They leaned together in a loose bundle, made of different woods, cut to different heights; one had been polished smooth by decades of use, another looked barely worn at all, its handle still sharp-edged, almost new - none of them matched.
They looked finished with - not stored, abandoned.
There was no sign asking people to leave walking sticks there. No names. No tags. Just a quiet accumulation, as though people arrived in Wrenford needing support and later forgot they had ever leaned on anything.
Outside, the village sat exactly where it always had.
Inside, Wrenford had already begun its work.
The Landlady moved away as Reid nodded at Oscar’s beer, “Earth to Oscar?”
Oscar blinked himself out of his daze and looked at Reid, “Sorry, I er, was admiring the … Decor.”
Reid gestured to Oscar’s pint, “I asked if you had a problem …”
Oscar’s eyebrows lifted, “A problem?”
Reid had already started eating - he tore into the chicken with his hands, skin ripping, meat pulled clean from the bone - he chewed slowly, firmly, fingers slick with grease - when he spoke, it was around the mouthful.
“You were a bit pisshed lasht night,” he said, “High on something by the look of you. You’re hungover now. And you’re about to shink a beer.”
Oscar stared at the pint, then let out a short laugh, “Oh! Do I have a drinking problem? …” he scoffed, shook his head and produced as much of a believable response as he could, “No, no.”
The pint looked up at him as Oscar thought of the wine bottles in his room, two a night, sometimes - the way he’d learned to time his own kind of recycling - the outside town lanes after late gigs, slowing just enough to toss empties into hedges and fields so his mum didn’t see how often the bin filled …
He picked up his knife and fork instead and began cutting into his lunch, “So, how long have you lived here?” he asked, aiming for lighter ground.
Reid didn’t hesitate.
“Forever,” he said, “Since I was a little boy.”
The sunshine warmed against the window - Oscar wanted a sip of beer but after Reid’s comment, he had to be patient - besides, he was becoming too mesmerized by how ravenous Reid seemed, “Jesus,” he said lightly, “You eat like you haven’t seen food in days!”
Reid glanced up, mouth still full, “You’re not at your parents,” he said, “Food’s hot. You’re hungry. Use your hands …”
Oscar looked down at his pie and mash, “Oh, er, that’s not really—”
“—Not the mash,” Reid said, “I’m not an animal,” he tore off another piece of chicken, sucked briefly at his fingers, then wiped them on a napkin with a cheeky grin.
Oscar hesitated, then set his knife aside - he used his fork less carefully now, scooping mash, breaking the crust with less delicacy than he was used to - gravy pooled and ran, it felt wrong, yet oddly relieving.
Oscar swallowed down the goodness, eyelashes fluttering shut at the taste, “—Bloody hell, this ish amashing …” he scooped more mash into his mouth, then some more pie, chewing, chewing, gulping, smiling, chewing, chewing, gulping, smiling.
The Landlady smirked from the bar.
Even with the food tasting this good, Oscar couldn’t stand it a second longer - he picked up his beer and took a swig, the weight of the booze and its arrival in his stomach immediately giving him the buzz he craved.
“Get in there, son,” Reid grinned, picking a bone from the chicken, cleaning it of flesh with his teeth, “Take it all.”
Oscar glanced at the walking sticks for a moment, still, with gravy caught at his chin - take it all - he looked over at Reid again and decided to quench more than his thirst, “So what’s the trick,” he said, “How do you do it? How much are they paid?”
Reid kept eating.
“It’sh magic,” he said, gulping down the torn shreds of chicken, “It can’t be explained with words. You won’t believe me till you're a part of it.”
Oscar absorbed that in silence, “Like, a magic show?” He still wasn’t convinced.
Another voice joined them then - the woman from last night, the one with the beanie and the sad looking face.
She approached Reid as if she were a cloud of dust; pale, light, gaunt, barely there - when she spoke, she did it in a whisper.
“… Will you be there tonight?” She asked.
Reid dropped the bone to the near empty plate and sucked grease from his hands as if it were normal, “Don’t you worry, Cass. I’ll be there. And so will Oscar, this blue eyed young man across the table,” he gestured to him with his palms, “He’ll be the star of the show! Newbie n’ all that …”
Oscar gulped down some of his pie and sat back, “I don’t know about joining in!” He clenched his teeth, unsure if he sounded eager or intimidated - so he cleared his throat and firmly said, “I’ll er, I’ll just watch, or something …”
Cass nodded slowly, failed at smiling and then shuffled towards the pubs exit.
Oscar hid a burp and then took another sip of his pint, his free hand cutting deeper into the pie, his hungry actions now almost mirroring Reids, “Is she alright?” He asked, “Cancer, or …?”
Reid picked up his iced water and allowed his mouth to rest at the rim.
“Only got a few months,” he said, “No cure.”
Just as Oscar was about to finish the mash and say something polite like ‘oh, that’s terrible’, the Landlady called out for him from behind the bar.
“Essex boy!” She said brightly, “Your girlfriend’s on the phone …”
He reacted before he thought - chair legs screeched as he stood, heart jumping, already reaching.
“What! She, she is?—”, suddenly—
—Reid’s hand closed around Oscar’s wrist.
Oscar froze as Reid stood.
Their eyes met, close now, too close.
Reid’s grip was warm, grounding, and for a split second Oscar forgot where he was meant to be going.
Reid leaned in and brushed his thumb across Oscar’s mouth.
“You had gravy on your lip,” he said quietly.
Oscar flushed, breath catching as Reid released him at once, as if nothing had happened.
Flustered, Oscar turned and hurried toward the phone, already smiling as he picked it up, his voice lighter than it had been all morning.
Reid waited as the Landlady returned to the bar.
She watched Oscar talk, laugh, pace slightly as he spoke … Comfortable, familiar.
She kept her eyes on him but mouthed her words silently towards Reid, even if he was on the other side of the pub.
“… He’s leaving,” she said calmly, “His mother has been worried. They’re all at his mates in Hexham, his girlfriend too,” her voice was quiet, only someone close beside her should be able to hear her speak, but Reid could note down every single syllable metres and metres and metres away, “He’s going to meet her in a few hours …”
Her ears twinged, everything in the pub fell silent except for Oscars voice on the phone, she could hear everything in his throat, she could feel the vibration in his chest as he spoke.
“I’ll be there by seven.”
“No, I’m fine. Honestly …”
“The car’s sorted. I’m already packing.”
The Landlady left the bar and began clearing the plates.
As she passed Reid, she leaned in, smirking.
“That was almost a third soul in two weeks,” she murmured, “Mother would’ve been very happy with you.”
Reid watched Oscar through the window reflection as the sun kept shining.
While the bones on his plate started to grow stale …
Oscar closed the boot with a quiet finality.
He turned, brushing pollen from his sleeves as if to shake Wrenford from his shoulders.
Reid was standing outside the garage, hands on both hips, watching.
Oscar hesitated.
“Well,” he said, slipping his keys into his hand, “It’s been brief ...”
Reid’s expression didn’t shift, “You seemed into it,” he sniffed, “At the idea of a good time tonight.”
Oscar smiled awkwardly, “Yeah, erm, it’s the girlfriend, I … I’m being summoned.”
Reid stepped forward and held out a hand, “I know what it’s like to be ruled by a woman,” he joked, grinning again.
Oscar shook it, firm, professional - the grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks for sorting me out,” Oscar said, pulling back, “I mean that. The car, the pie, and er, say thanks to the Landlady, for the room.”
“Sure,” Reid nodded down the countryroad and winced, “You’ll be fine out there, I think.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes slightly, “You make it sound like I’m going to war!” He climbed into the drivers seat as Reid smiled, but said nothing.
The car started without hesitation, the engine hummed, smooth and eager.
Oscar wound down the window, “See ya, Reid.”
Reid raised a hand in parting, but didn’t step back.
As Oscar drove down the gravel track, he glanced once in the mirror.
Reid was still there, hand still raised, unmoving.
Oscar turned a corner and within a matter of minutes, he was back on the road.
“What a bunch of weirdos …” Oscar chuckled.
Oscar drove for an hour.
The road unwound gently through the hills, narrow and silver-edged, the hedgerows slipping past in soft, brambled whistles. It felt good to be moving, to be out in the fresh air, the blue sky, the strangeness of Wrenford thinning behind him with every turn.
The farther he got, the more last night seemed like something theatrical, intense in the moment, but harmless in hindsight.
He put the radio on.
Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up was playing until it crinkled into static.
He tried another station.
More static.
Oscar frowned and switched it off.
Somewhere around the second hour, the sky turned dimmer.
The sun dipped quietly, its light draining out of the air like it was being drawn away by hand.
He flipped on the headlights, checked the time, he’d be home by early evening.
At least he thought …
But then …
A flicker of discomfort.
He scratched at his forearm.
Then the other.
A tight, dry itch, like sunburn that hadn’t arrived yet.
He checked his arm and saw nothing.
He then rubbed his neck and shifted in his seat.
Ten minutes later, the itch was back - under his t-shirt now, along his ribs, the waistband of his jeans began to feel wrong, restrictive - his back twitched against the seat …
“Bloody hell …”
Oscar tried to focus as trees blurred past, the road dipping and turning …
Then he passed it.
A crooked farm gate.
A sheep, standing still in a field, staring.
He blinked.
Hadn’t he seen that before?
He shook his head, “No way …”
Still, he turned off at the next junction; a new road, darker than the last, threading through low woodland.
He followed it for twenty minutes … Maybe more.
Then the sign appeared.
WRENFORD — 1 MILE
Oscar pulled over hard, tyres crunching against the verge.
He sat there, breathing.
His pupils were blown wide - he could see the edges of the dashboard like it was midday - he touched his face, cool with sweat - his shirt stuck to the small of his back, his fingers gripped involuntarily against the steering wheel, like if they didn’t, he’d sink into the seat.
He opened the door and stepped out.
The air was colder than it had any right to be - still, dense …
He turned and looked behind him.
The road was empty.
The itch was gone, but in its place was something worse.
A quiet.
Not just outside, but inside him, like a held breath, like a muscle waiting to be used.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he got back in the car, his hands were steady yet his heartbeat was not.
He turned the engine back on.
Vrrm …
And drove back toward what he had no choice to be Wrenford.
The village was exactly as he had left it.
No time had passed, or too much had, he couldn’t tell.
Lanterns lined the green now, glowing soft and amber - the windows of The Village Hall were bright, like stage lights behind thin curtains - the pubs front door stood open, a warm spill of light fell across the flagstones, the sign dangling ahead, still reading ‘The Laughters Rest’ …
The Landlady was waiting.
She didn’t speak when his car approached, just gave a small nod and stepped aside as the VW hummed to a stop.
Oscar rolled down the window, speechless, uncertain.
“You’re just in time,” the Landlady said, “But have a bump first. I think you’ll need it.”
Oscar didn’t ask how she knew what a ‘bump’.
He stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.
He had one question, something he had to ask right now, right this very moment.
“What’s going on?”
The Landlady placed a comforting palm against his left cheek as the moon glowed over the village.
“We found it in your jeans whilst you were sleeping …”
The previous night, in the pub’s spare room - vomit stained his lips, he lay sprawled and out for the count - when he woke, Reid had no only been standing there watching, he had finished investigating - he and the Landlady had fingered through Oscar’s pockets during his slumber and found—
“—We’ll call the police,” the Landlady didn’t hold back, “Unless you join us tonight.”
—Oscar licked his lips nervously as he watched the Landlady’s mouth move - he had been caught out and now they were probably going to take his car, the cash he had in his wallet …
He lowered his head and closed his eyes, “My dad’s going to fucking kill me …”
“You’re in trouble, love. But, the room is still open,” the Landlady whispered, “Go have a moment to yourself …”
With no hesitation, Oscar went to head inside but the Landlady pressed a her palm against his chest and stopped him for a moment.
“And then come to The Village Hall …”
Oscar blinked as the landlady whispered, just as the sunlight dipped over the hill.
“… There might be a way out of this …”
The bedroom curtains had been drawn almost completely shut, soft amber from the hallway light bleeding in through the narrowest seam.
The bed was made again, tucked and reset.
On the bedside table was a short, tidy line of fine white powder, trimmed with care - beside it, the bag of cocaine he had been given at his birthday party from a mate, along with a tightly rolled up twenty pound note.
Reid and the Landlady were using this discovery against him.
What they didn’t know is that the dust on the table could give him his own sense of armour.
Oscar stepped in quickly, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his loafers - he leaned against the door and shut it with his back.
He didn’t smile, he didn’t speak, he didn’t even breathe, he just unintentionally allowed himself to be manipulated by his addiction, by what the Landlady and Reid had found in his jeans.
He folded down in one smooth motion, crouching by the table, placing the politely left rolled up note against the end of the line and his left nostril.
The first hit was delicate.
Sssssnnnif!
The coke hit the back of his throat with a bitter snap and lit up the centre of his brain like a fuse.
A comforting strobe went off behind his eyes, his breath remained in the base of his neck, then released, “—Guuh!—”, he exhaled through his nose and sat back on his heels - the threat of police, of his parents knowing he did drugs, it all fizzled away in an instant, but remnants of worry still remained.
So he did another.
Sssssnnnif!
This time, the burn was brighter, angrier, more possessive.
It chased into his sinuses and left his skin tingling like champagne foam, his worries disappearing in the click of a finger.
He felt his t-shirt collar cling to his muscles, the waistband of his jeans became snug, his skin not quite his own.
“Armour on,” he grinned.
He paused, wavered, blinked hard, and then he did a third line.
Sssssnnnif!
The third line was bigger, more impatient - it didn’t creep, it grabbed.
His heart rattled against his ribs like a fly trying to find the window, his jaw clenched, he rubbed a knuckle under his nose, sniffed, stood, paced.
He had to do as they asked. Do as they ask, then go. Don’t even drive, why drive? Walk. Run. Just do what they want. Then go. Don’t ask anything, just leave, it’s fine you can just leave just do what they want you to do and get out, get going, get home, it’ll all be over soon, fuck I wish I never came here, bloody hell what a mess don’t worry it’ll all be over by tomorrow, just do what they want, do as they asked, this is easy, it’ll be easy, it’ll be fine …
The mirror above the desk caught his reflection - pupils like saucers, skin too flushed, lips slightly parted.
He looked wired, lit from the inside, now scratching himself with a growl.
His hands wouldn’t stop moving, ghosting over his thighs, his arms, his stomach.
“Grr, grrn!—”
The itch was back and his fingernails were almost clawing through his t-shirt, his jeans.
“—Grraaahh!—”
This was more than a surface itch, it was under the skin, under the surface of him, like something in him wanted out.
His gaze snapped to the window.
The village green beyond was soaked in moonlight now, save for the familiar soft halo of lantern light surrounding The Village Hall, like the night before.
His car was still there, silent, black, fixed and gleaming slightly with dew - he almost hated it, because it failed at taking him out of here, and succeeded in returning him to a situation far beyond anything he expected to be in.
His fingers twitched toward his jeans pocket, toward the keys.
He took them out and placed them on the bedside table, amongst the debris of coke.
Get in the car and drive away as fast as you can if they call the police you can just deny it but you’ve just done coke what if they breathalyze you you have to stay and get do what they want give them all your money give them the car your cash whatever they want you can’t drive like this you’ll crash.
His thoughts were a stampede, on fast forward thanks to the cocaine, paranoid and anxious, utterly filled with adrenaline and an extreme level of confidence.
An armoured suit and a cage, both at once.
He walked to the window and rested his forehead against the glass - cold against the sweat on his brow.
“… You’re such a prick …” he whispered to himself.
No answer came, just that familiar hum, that whispering tide of people gathering, a single body becoming a crowd.
Oscar stepped back from the window as passing clouds concealed the moon.
Sweating and so fucking high, he left the room and headed downstairs to see how he could get out of this mess.
Soft torchlight flickered along the path - no wind, no insects, just footsteps in damp grass and that quiet murmur of people walking with purpose.
Oscar wasn’t the only one.
They were all going, steady, silent, some hand-in-hand, some alone, but none of them seemed confused, none of them questioning why Oscar was gurning and sniffing.
Even if they were, Oscar didn’t feel out of place anymore, even if he was the only one that stood out once again.
His loafers thudded against the path like the footsteps of everyone else’s shoes, his breath fogged in the night air, not from cold, from speed - he was walking faster than he meant to.
His hands were still twitching, his jaw had locked again, he couldn’t stop chewing the inside of his mouth.
He wiped his face and didn’t realise how much he was sweating.
By the time he reached The Village Hall, he wasn’t sure if the lanterns were flickering or if he was.
Inside, it was almost silent.
The air hit different, like a warm towel after rain - there were rows upon rows of chairs now, all filled - dozens of villagers sat with backs straight, eyes forward, expressions neutral, expectant.
There we candles everywhere.
Oscar moved quietly into an aisle seat near the back.
No one looked at him.
No one had to.
His skin prickled with the weight of being seen without being stared at.
The Village Hall’s wooden stage floor had been cleared of last night’s activity; no loincloth clad woman, no farmer discarding his walking stick …
Instead, dangling from the wooden beams above the stage was a single length of rope, its end hovering around six foot above the floorboards.
Just below the rope was that waist high stone basin …
Oscar wiped his nose again with the back of his hand; it was damp, tingling, maybe bleeding, maybe just raw from all the sniffing, he couldn't tell anymore.
His tongue lolled against the roof of his mouth, slick and hot, gums loose, jaw still grinding with quiet intent. Every surface in The Village Hall seemed closer, sharper … The chairs, the floor, the faces, it was like the world had leaned in.
The energy in the place was electric, not like before, not eerie, not sacred, this was wired, tinsel static, like a Christmas raffle about to be drawn, but instead of raffle tickets, it was him, he could feel it in his blood, his sweat, he knew it.
The coke gunning through him was in sync with The Village Hall’s pulse; flickers of flame in the surrounding lanterns, bodies rustling against fold-up chairs, murmurs of conversation that sounded like prayer and gossip at the same time.
And then he spotted her.
Cass, was it?
She was sitting near the centre aisle, in a wide-backed chair brought in from somewhere else, too soft and padded to belong to the hall. Her husband was beside her, his hand resting on her forearm like an anchor, like a weight. Cass looked worse than ever, face sunken, her beanie concealing a head that once had hair, hair that had been victim to endless rounds of chemo. Her jumper and jeans clung to her thin frame and her breathing was visible even at a distance: deep, deliberate, slow, as though she had to choose each inhale.
Her husband stared straight ahead - there was a wetness in his eyes but he didn’t blink.
Oscar couldn’t ignore the way she kept glancing up at the stage, not with fear, but with hope, real, desperate hope …
Just in front of her, curled beside an old woman’s feet, was a scruffy dog with a cone around its head - one of those plastic veterinary shields, taped at the neck, cloudy with scratches.
The dog’s eyes were closed, its body rose and fell in a deep, unbothered rhythm. Despite the bustle, the shifting chairs, the smell of food, the murmurs and the light, the noise … The dog didn’t stir. It simply slept, there in the middle of it all, as if this chaos was normal. As if this ritual, this frenzy, this gathering, was no stranger to it at all.
Reid appeared from the shadows of the stage, causing The Village Hall to go quiet.
He stood by the basin, calm, still, dressed in the same jesters outfit as last night …
His feet were bare, and the lantern light burnished the sweat on his collarbone like gold.
He looked across the room and found Oscar instantly.
He didn’t move, didn’t nod, didn’t point.
His eyes sparkled orange and slowly, manically, his smile twisted into a devilish, satisfied grin.
Suddenly, all the lights flicked on.
No warm lantern glow, no comforting candle light, no mysterious hum.
Just the bright white buzz of The Village Halls lights and Reid’s sinister sneer.
“You’re just in time.”
Oscar winced at the brightness of the lights as Reid stepped forward.
He raised one hand and the silence became total.
Then he spoke, voice even, like a teacher at a school assembly: “Tonight,” he said, “Like last night and like last week, and like the thousands of weeks before this one …
… Someone has been named as The Successor …”
Reid stood beside the waist‑high basin at the centre of the stage, hands resting lightly on its rim, and waited for the murmur in The Village Hall to settle.
Oscar became acutely aware of his own breathing, of the way his heart seemed to thud too loudly in his chest - the cocaine sharpened everything, the buzz of the ceiling lights felt brighter, the distance between bodies felt smaller.
“We gather,” Reid said, “Because our people need help,” he slid his finger inside the basins water and then sucked on his fingertips, “Not the kind of help you can buy,” Reid purred, “Not the kind you can schedule. Real help. The kind that changes lives forever …”
There was a faint stirring in the crowd. Oscar shifted in his chair, his left leg bounced, he folded his hands together to stop them shaking, aware that his confidence felt artificial …
“I know some of you doubt,” Reid went on, his eyes travelling across the audience, “That’s healthy. Doubt keeps us honest,” his gaze landed on Oscar, “And doubt is loudest when something is new …”
Oscar felt his throat tighten - he did not look away, but he did not nod either - his suspicion sat heavy and immovable, a knot in his gut - this was wrong, he knew that, the drug only gave him the courage to stay seated, to keep watching, to convince himself that the chemical confidence would protect him, even if thousands of questions swamped his mind - what are they going to do shall I just give them my wallet and my car now I can always suggest walking home no one has to run god I hope they don’t kill me …
Reid dipped his fingers into the wide stone basin once again, “Sue,” he said gently, “Would you come up, please?” A woman stood shakily from the third row.
Oscar recognised her - he’d seen her in the pub, laughing stiffly, her right arm locked in a pale blue cast and sling - she moved carefully as she made her way down the aisle, her face tight with a mixture of embarrassment and hope.
Reid took her good hand and helped her up the steps, “You’ve seen how this works,” he said.
Sue nodded, her mouth trembled - Reid guided her to the basin - he lowered her head, not forcing, just firm, until her face hovered above the bowl.
“Take it all,” he said.
She hesitated.
Then she leaned in.
The Village Hall was utterly silent as Sue pressed her lips to the surface of the water.
She inhaled sharply, then again, deeper this time.
She licked at it, awkward and unselfconscious, as if drinking from a stream.
Her shoulders shook, a clicking sound escaped her throat, half sob, half gasp …
“—Hukk! Click, clkk!—”
Oscar’s mouth remained open, he couldn’t blink as he watched.
Sue straightened suddenly, coughing, laughing, crying all at once.
She looked down at her arm, at the cast.
Slowly, she slid it free of the sling.
The cast cracked.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
Sue flexed her fingers.
Then she lifted her arm.
Higher.
Higher still …
Her face broke open - she screamed, a raw, joyous sound that tore through the hall like a siren …
“—TAKE IT ALL!—”
The place erupted.
People were on their feet, clapping, shouting, crying openly - Sue was laughing now, shaking, holding her healed arm aloft as if she’d won something she never thought she’d have again.
Oscar did not stand, he stared - his mouth was dry, his heart hammered against his ribs, his brain scrambled desperately for an explanation, any explanation that would restore order; a staged cast, a planted actress, a coincidence timed too perfectly …
Reid waited for the noise to die down before speaking again, “As usual,” he said, “The Gift leaves a residue. And as usual, it must be replenished.”
He turned, his hand resting now on the almost empty basin, “The Successor must endure The Four Practises … ” he said calmly, “… The Successor must now stand …” Reid’s head lifted, “… You, young man. The one who bought evil into this peaceful place …” he said.
Just like the night before, Reid pointed directly at Oscar, only this time, there would be no turning around to leave.
Every face in The Village Hall turned toward Oscar.
He felt heat rush to his skin, his ears rang, for a split second he thought he might actually throw up again, the absurdity of hearing his name spoken aloud in a place like this felt overwhelming to say the least …
“You were led here, to Wrenford,” Reid continued, “Your path brought you back when you were free to go. The village wanted you to pay in it’s own special way …”
Oscar stood without remembering deciding to.
“The village will allow you to leave, I promise you that,” Reid said, “But to be fully freed, you must submit …”
The chanting began, low at first, then swelling, “—Take it all! Take it all! Take it all!—”
Oscar glanced from side to side, his nostrils flared, he placed his fingertips over his chin, “D, don’t call the police. Please, my dad will go mad …”
Reid circled the basin, “Inform our beloved people here what sinful substance you arrived with. The very sinful substance that rests at the back of your tongue in this very moment …” Reid grinned again, “… Come on, boy. Submit …”
Oscar grunted, “Coke! Coke … I, I had coke with me. Alright? It was my birthday, for god’s sake! I, I got lost, I didn’t realise I …”
The dozens within The Village Hall gasped, moaned, retracted in disgust.
Oscar held his hands up, “I’m sorry! I, I didn’t mean to, to do …” the confidence surged within him, he tutted and rolled his eyes, “It’s just coke, for crying out loud—”
—A silence filled The Village Hall.
Reid raised out his left arm and stretched out his index finger.
He fingered for Oscar to come to him.
Oscar’s legs moved as if disconnected from his thoughts - the cocaine buzzed violently now, confidence curdling into panic.
He walked slowly down the aisle, eyes following his every step …
He climbed onto the wooden village hall stage and began to bargain, “You can have my, my car … I’ve got ca, cash? …”
Before he could question the dangling length of rope, Reid took his hands …
They were warm, steady - the stage floor creaked softly beneath Oscar’s loafer clad feet - he was so damn high, too high to trust anything - he looked down at Reid’s hands, curled softly around his own - sweat beaded its way down the dip of Oscar’s spine, pooling at the base, dampening his t-shirt. His heart thudded behind his ribs like a rabbit inside a box - the air smelled of wood polish, old people’s perfume, dried flowers, this Village Hall, so simple, so british and benign, yet every eye in the room was glued to him, silent, expectant, patient, as if they’d done this many times before, but not like this …
Reid’s touch wasn’t possessive, but tethering - Oscar felt like a balloon on a string, his resistance the only thing stopping him from floating away.
Reid turned to the crowd.
“The stone basin,” he said, “will decide which of The Four Practises The Successor begins with tonight …”
Suddenly, seam curled upward from the surface of the basin’s water in pale white ribbons, The Village Hall filled with gasps, several of the audience members clapped through tears, someone shouted, “—It’s happening again!—” and another, newer to the village, just sobbed openly, “—A miracle—look!—it’s real!—”
Oscar stared, wide-eyed, the heat shimmered above the bowl, and he realised - this wasn’t like boiling, it was boiling; furious, rapid, volcanic …
He turned to Reid.
“The car, mate, just take the car—”
Reid let go of his hands, suddenly, as if he were done holding them.
Then he ordered: “We’ll need your jeans.”
The Village Hall hushed.
Oscar’s lips pressed together, “My, my jeans?”
Reid nodded slowly.
Oscar scratched the inside of his ear and cleared his throat, “I’m n, not taking off my jeans …” he said firmly.
Reid didn’t blink, “You’re not?” He stepped closer, voice deeper, “You have no real choice but to trust me, boy. You’ll take off your jeans, and then we can act out the first of The Four Practises. Once all four practises are complete, we’ll forget we ever saw you. You don’t want to leave those in need hanging, do you?” He glanced towards Cass.
Oscar looked out at the crowd.
Some were watching him with awe, some with hunger - one woman had her hands clasped at her chest, eyes glassy, another man looked at Oscar as if he owed them this.
Cass looked like she was hanging on for dear life …
Oscar’s voice was dry, low, almost inaudible, he had been holding off on asking since he arrived on the stage, but now he just had to …
“… What are you going to do to me? …” he whispered, almost too quietly.
Reid tilted his head, “What?”
Oscar clenched his fists and tried again.
“… What are you going to do to me?”
Reid smiled slowly, “My boy ... The question is more, what are you going to do for us?—”
Oscar looked down at the floorboards of the stage he stood on - he was still buzzing, still high, but it wasn’t fun anymore - it was fast, fast and raw and wrong …
Suddenly, the simple solution of handing over the materialistic elements of his belongings fizzled into a dire realisation that this village, these people, wanted so much more.
Reid said one final thing in an effort to nudge Oscar into making the right decision.
“… Seven years in prison for drug possession, or one night on our stage. Take your pick …”
Oscar slid his palms over his face and held them there for a few seconds.
He then slid off his loafers.
The leather made soft taps on the wooden floor, his feet, now bare, made no noise at all as he planted them over the wooden floor.
He hesitated, then undid the button on his jeans.
Completely manipulated and utterly blackmailed, he shoved his jeans down in one swift motion and kicked them away from his feet and over the tops of his loafers.
He stood in just a pair of white briefs and his black t-shirt.
There were audible reactions from the crowd; someone cooed, someone else wolf-whistled, he could hear low laughter, sharp with disbelief.
Reid then spoke with a growl.
“Successor, you will call me ‘Jester’ from now on. Do you understand?”
Oscar smirked and shot an embarrassed look into the floorboards.
Reid looked at Oscar just once, his narrowed eyes repeating the words, ‘do you understand’.
Oscar tutted and scratched the back of his head, sniffing up more chemicals as he tongued the inside of his cheek.
“… Yes, Jester …” he said reluctantly, quietly.
Reid grinned and then said:
“… Tie him …”
Oscar’s body jolted - he turned, as if to run, but the two men who’d brought the water were already moving.
They surged forward, grabbing his arms - one hooked around his chest, the other grabbed at his wrist …
Oscar shoved back hard and caught one of them with his elbow - the man stumbled, swore, collapsed sideways into the curtains - Oscar twisted, but another hand came for him …
Cass’s husband …
He moved with astonishing speed - he climbed onto the stage, eyes wild, lips trembling, and went to grab Oscar’s wrists, “Please—”, the husband whispered, “—Please. She needs this! …”
Oscar used his feet to kick - he launched them at the husband, heels smacking into the husbands chest, knocking him back as the other two villagers wrestled with him also; the two villagers hands gripped his wrists, forced them high - before he knew it, the villagers began to tie his wrists to the rope dangling above the stage as the husband crawled towards Oscar and hugged his legs, keeping them still - the entire process was silent, besides Oscars growls, grunts, and the squeak of rope knotting tighter together as the seconds went by.
They tied him tight, arms up, chest out against the air, t-shirt lifting a little above his waist, his stance forced to tip-toe …
He spun and bit, breath shallow, eyes wild - his briefs clung to his behind, every muscle in his body strained against the ropes, but it was no good.
He was caught, the rope knotted well, the villagers and Cass’s husband backing off.
Reid peered into the stone basin, the water had finished boiling, but it was no longer clear.
“The basin has boiled the water the colour black …” he announced.
He reached out a hand.
From the shadows of the stage, the Landlady stepped forward.
No longer dressed in a fuzzy pink sweater, she instead wore a linen gown and her blonde bun had been removed, her hair now bouncing on her shoulders with every step.
In her hands was a wooden paddle.
She placed it gently in Reid’s palm, head bowed.
Reid turned to the crowd.
“Which means the first of The Four Practises is ...”
He looked at Oscar.
Then raised the paddle.
“… Pain.”
The basin at the centre of the stage shimmered, black as oil, bubbling gently.
Oscar ignored the basin but glared at the paddle in disbelief, he twirled on the spot, straining in the ropes, his arms stuck in a tight upward line …
The audience watched on quietly as Reid stepped forward, paddle in hand.
“A black boil means you must endure forty lashings …” he said simply, patting the paddle once against his palm, “… As The Successor, your submission will cleanse the black water in the basin. Bring it back to the clear water of the river …” he looked out at the audience and smiled, “… Once it’s clear,” he said, voice syrupy, “I will decide who from the village drinks next,” his eyes landed on Cass - she managed the ghost of a smile - her husband had returned to her side and held her hand tightly, both of them trembling.
The rest of the villagers who had taken part - those who held ropes, poured water, tied knots - now returned to their seats … All except the Landlady. She remained by Reid’s side, expression unreadable, her hands clasped behind her back like she were watching a school assembly.
Reid turned back to Oscar.
“Would you like something in your mouth?” He asked, almost gently, “To bite down on? I always found it helped …”
Oscar shook his head quickly, determined to see this through as quickly and as quietly as he possibly could.
Reid sniggered, “Is that a no? A no …”
Oscar pursed his lips and pressed his chin into his chest.
“No, Jester …”
Reid stepped behind Oscar, the stage creaking underfoot.
“Now, shout as loud as you want,” Reid advised, “This is going to hurt …”
There was a silence, one that lasted a little too long - Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and braced, “—Just do it …” he said through gritted teeth.
The first blow came with no warning.
THWACK.
It was sharp - not a slap, not a sting - a full bodied strike.
The flat of the paddle smacked across the lower curve of Oscars backside, loud as a firecracker - the noise echoed through the rafters.
Oscar lurched forward with pressed lips, legs staggering, but the rope held.
He was yanked back mid-step, his heels lifted, he couldn’t not be on tip toes, his head bowed, his breath wedged at the back of his throat.
The burn spread across his skin almost instantly.
He blinked, stunned.
Reid circled him like a teacher inspecting posture.
“Just do it Jester … Please, do not forget the Jester. Now, I can’t hold back, Oscar,” he said evenly, “We need emotion. We need truth. We need that water to feel you …” he nodded to the basin, still bubbling black, “… It needs to be clear, so,” he added, arriving behind Oscar again, “Brace yourself …”
THWACK.
The paddle smacked higher this time, catching both cheeks, flattening them before they bounced like ripples in flesh.
Oscar hissed, deep and furious, a sound dragged up from somewhere in his ribs.
THWACK.
The third came faster, Oscar’s knees buckled slightly, his lips pressed together again, tighter …
THWACK. THWACK.
Four. Five!
Oscar’s eyes bulged as he bit his lip - the pain grew, sharp red lines of heat bloomed across the backs of his thighs and his buttocks - his briefs did nothing to soften the blows …
Six. Seven. Eight!
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
Oscar twisted in the ropes, trying to turn, trying to pull free - his t-shirt clung to his spine, his briefs were riding up, his skin was beginning to glow.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve!
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK!
“Still black,” Reid said casually, glancing at the basin, “Let’s keep going.”
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
By fifteen, Oscar was roaring aloud with each strike - his breathing ragged, hot in his chest - his shoulders throbbed, his legs quivered.
Sixteen. Seventeen.
Oscar catapulted upward, towards The Village Hall’s ceiling …
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty!
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
Halfway, his face erupted, veins thick, eyes shimmering, forehead pink, “—GOD!—”
Reid stepped around to look at him - Oscar was dripping sweat now, his mouth trembled.
“Pfft, God can’t save you,” Reid said softly, “This is what it means to submit. To give yourself to us, entirely.”
Oscar shook his head, “… It’s juss, just coke … It was just ff, fucking coke …”
THWACK. TWENTY-ONE!
He gasped, a little scream caught in his throat.
THWACK, THWACK! TWENTY-TWO. TWENTY-THREE!
His butt cheeks bounced, jolted, then clenched instinctively before the next came down.
THWACK! TWENTY-FOUR!
A small sob slipped out
THWACK! TWENTY-FIVE.
His head fell back, past his shoulders, his eyes glazed over.
The Landlady stepped forward with a pint of beer.
Reid waved her off and instead gave Oscar a wedgie, forcing his briefs high up, the white cotton now snug between his buttocks, exposing each arse cheek in their round, bare, pert display, “He’s nearly there,” he urged.
Oscar winced as the fabric twisted around his penis and balls, his bare arse now even more vulnerable to the paddle …
TWENTY-SIX. TWENTY-SEVEN!
THWACK. THWACK.
Oscar roared through clenched teeth, an animalistic yet contained hiss.
THWACK! TWENTY-EIGHT.
His knees gave out again, the rope held, creak, creak …
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! TWENTY-NINE. THIRTY. THIRTY-ONE!
His voice was gone. Just noise. Just wet gasps and mumbles.
THIRTY-TWO. THIRTY-THREE. THIRTY-FOUR.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK!
He didn’t know what he was saying anymore.
“—Jus, coke, I, I’m sss, sorry I—”
THWACK! THWACK! THIRTY-FIVE. THIRTY-SIX.
“—Please—”
THIRTY-SEVEN. THIRTY-EIGHT!
THWACK. THWACK.
Reid paused and asked, “Please, what?”
This time Oscar did not hesitate.
“—Please, Jester!—”
THIRTY-NINE.
THWACK!
Reid paused again.
Oscar hung like laundry, his buttocks were flushed pink, swollen …
He scrambled on his tip toes, dribble seeped out of his mouth …
Then:
“—FORTY!—” Oscar screamed.
The final blow echoed through the rafters.
THWACK.
And behind him, the basin began to boil …
The black began to ripple …
The colour lifted, slowly, visibly, like ink dissolving in water; swirls of grey, then silver, then …
… Clear.
The hall gasped.
Cass began to cry.
Reid lowered the paddle, slowly, like a priest laying down the cross.
He looked at Oscar who stood with his arms bound tight above him, damp patches clinging to the t-shirt around his armpits, his backside raw and glowing.
“You did well, boy …” he said, turning to the crowd, “… The water is clean.”
Reid handed the paddle back to the Landlady like returning a borrowed tool - she took it with both hands and stepped back into the shadows, her face unreadable again.
Reid turned to the hall.
“Cass,” he said gently, “Come to me.”
Cass rose slowly from her chair.
She looked worse up close than Oscar remembered; thinner, smaller, like someone already halfway absent.
Her husband stood immediately, looping an arm around her waist, helping her take each step toward the stage - the audience leaned forward as one.
When she reached Reid, he cupped her cheek with his palm, “You never expected to live this long,” he said softly, “You thought the ending had already been written …”
Cass’s eyes shone with tears as she nodded.
“But Wrenford,” Reid continued, “Does not believe in endings … Only exchanges …”
He gestured toward the basin.
“You’ve waited long enough, dear girl … Drink.”
Oscar watched everything.
The hall was silent now, not even a breath could be heard.
Cass leaned toward the stone basin and drank like she was desperate, like thirst was something she had forgotten how to satisfy; she made soft, animal sounds as she swallowed, clicking in her throat, breath hitching, shoulders shaking.
Oscar felt sick with awe.
Cass collapsed to her knees.
Someone gasped.
Her hands flew to her head as she tore the scarf away and—
Oscar’s breath left him, “—What …”
Hair bloomed.
It surged back, red and thick and alive, catching the light like copper.
Her eyelashes darkened, her eyebrows filled, her cheeks rounded, her spine straightened, her body remembered itself …
“—Huck! Clk, clk!—” she made the same clicking noises as the farmer from the night before, “—Hkk! Clkk! Nukk!—”
In less than a minute, she stood.
Her husband sobbed openly, clutching her as though she might disappear if he let go.
Cass lifted her face to the ceiling, tears streaming freely now, joy tearing out of her chest.
“—TAKE IT ALL!—”, she cheered.
The Village Hall erupted.
The chant rose instantly, violently, ecstatic.
“—TAKE IT ALL! TAKE IT ALL! TAKE IT ALL!—”
Oscar barely had time to react before Cass turned and crossed the stage.
She didn’t ask.
She didn’t hesitate.
She took his face in both hands and kissed him; deep, desperate, thankful …
Oscar froze for half a second, then kissed her back without thinking - her mouth was warm, alive, the tenderness hit him harder than the pain ever had …
When she pulled away, the chanting softened.
Reid watched Oscar carefully.
“You see?” He said, “You did that, my boy. You. Doesn’t it feel extraordinary?”
Oscar swallowed, his voice came out rough.
“I need to, to go home, je, je …” he could do it, he had to say it, “… Jester. Let me go …”
Reid placed both hands behind Oscar’s head, “… No,” he said, and then …
“… You’re too worthy …”
Reid reached for the middle of Oscar’s t-shirt and tore it open in one clean motion.
Rrrrrrip!
Cool air washed over Oscar’s skin as Oscar grimaced and turned his head to the side, his toned torso revealing itself to the audience - now, almost nude, he had no choice but to be displayed to this village of weirdos, his open underarms, flat stomach and broad chest on full show …
The Landlady returned with a lengthy drape of distressed cloth - she presented it to the villagers, who all bowed their head at the sight of it.
“… The Cloth of Submission …” Ried announced, and, almost too casually, he snatched hold of Oscar’s briefs and yanked them down to his ankles.
Oscar more or less jumped out of his skin - with his hands tied, he could not do anything about concealing himself; instead, he used his knees to try and block the view of his now exposed penis and balls, his butt cheeks bouncing as he hopped in embarrassment, trying his hardest to spin what was now on show away from the audiences eager gaze as Reid successfully pulled Oscar’s underwear away from his feet and threw it to the side of the stage …
“—Calm down, calm down!—”, Reid urged, “—Shhh, shh, this is for you, it is for only you …” he took the cloth from the landlady and secured it around Oscar’s waist with care, “… My chosen boy …” he allowed the cloth to drape over his front and his behind, glancing towards the basin once he was done, “… Now, what colour this time?”
The water roared again, boiling violently, sloshing against the stone rim before settling …
Pink.
Reid faced the crowd, “Pink equals … Pleasure …”
A collective intake of breath jumped through The Village Hall as Oscar wiped his face against his forearm, keen to conceal any tears that had formed during the paddles constant blow against his buttocks.
Reid turned to Cass, “Do you think that dashing husband of yours will allow you to do the honours?”
Cass looked back at the man who had held her through death and nodded once, “I would be honoured,” her husband said, voice confident.
Cass stepped forward, light on her feet, radiant …
She removed her sweater and unclipped her bra, allowing her breasts to fall free.
Oscar blinked once, twice, three times, the sight of Cass’s now plump, healthy, round breasts causing him to try and take a few steps back, but the rope above creaked …
She leaned close to Oscar, dropped the bar to the floorboards and whispered:
“… The honour is all mine …”
The dry drape of cotton did nothing to hide Oscar’s vulnerability; it clung damply to his hips, outlining every tremor of shame that ran through him; his face burned crimson, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance, as though he could will himself anywhere else …
The basin at the center of the stage still shimmered an unnatural, sickly pink; everyone knew the rule: only pleasure - raw, undeniable and pure pleasure - would turn the water clear again …
Cass tilted her head, studying Oscar like a cat deciding whether to play or pounce, “A little birdy told me you have a girlfriend back home, handsome. Is that true?” She asked, voice low and teasing, loud enough for the hushed audience to hear.
He swallowed hard, then gave the smallest nod.
Her smile widened, slow and wicked, “Would she be a little upset if she knew what I’m about to do to you right now?”
Oscar held onto the rope above him, the knots tight around his wrists, “She, she doesn’t have to know.”
She moved behind him, delicate fingers brushing the edge of the loincloth, then lifting it with ease, baring the reddened skin of his buttocks to the cool air and the hungry eyes beyond.
“There’s a good lad …” she peeped down at Oscar’s buttocks, their pink glow from the spanking starting to fade, “… Is your beautiful behind stinging, my little dolly?” She murmured, close enough that her breath ghosted over the nape of Oscar’s neck.
He nodded again, a sharp, involuntary jerk of his head, giving no verbal response - in his mind, he was racing through the seconds, willing this entire night to be done with - he could picture himself in his car, driving far away, or even if he gave the car to Reid, he would happily walk barefoot all the way home, as long as it meant an end to this …
She let the cloth fall back for only a moment before circling to face him once more.
This time she kept it lifted in one hand, exposing him completely.
Oscar gulped and looked down - he attempted to take a step back but Cass tightened her grip on the loin cloth and tugged him closer.
With her other hand, she reached down and wrapped her fingers around his manhood, soft at first, almost gentle, as though testing the weight of his humiliation.
Oscar’s breath lifted, his body betrayed him almost instantly; beneath her slow, deliberate strokes he began to harden, thickening against her palm despite every desperate effort to resist.
“Don’t be shy,” Cass whispered, eyes locked on his, “I can feel you getting solid for me, beautiful boy. So thick and warm already …”
She worked him with steady confidence, fingers gliding from root to crown, twisting lightly at the head until a bead of moisture gathered and slicked her grip.
How was the woman with cancer, frail, thin, lifeless and pale in the pub this afternoon, now doing this to him? Head full with shining red hair, skin glistening with desire …
Oscar’s hips twitched forward involuntarily, chasing the touch even as fresh shame flooded his cheeks.
“L, let go,” he whispered, “Come on …”
“… You let go,” she coaxed, leaning in to drag her tongue along the taut line of his neck, tasting salt and fear, “Release yourself. Help another person, make them as strong, as beautiful as me …” her mouth found one flat nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make Oscar gasp - she sucked on it gently, then harder, while her hand kept its relentless rhythm; slow pulls that grew firmer, faster, coaxing him mercilessly toward the edge …
“This isn’t …” he looked down at Cass’s breasts, “… I sh, shouldn’t …” he turned away, then looked down again.
“You’re a sensation,” she breathed against his skin, “Stood here, spanked raw and shamed in front of everyone … A pretty little coke-head willing to ejaculate all over the stage just to make us all better …”
Behind them, Reid and the Landlady watched in silence, arms folded, expressions unreadable - the audience leaned forward as one, breath held.
The basin began to bubble, faint at first, then more violently, pink water churning …
Cass’s strokes turned urgent - she pressed her body against Oscar’s, breasts soft against his chest, lips brushing his ear, “Come for me, Successor. Right now. Let them all see …”
His thighs trembled, a low, broken sound escaped his throat as the pleasure crested, unstoppable.
“—Mn, oh, oh, mnn …” his mouth opened.
Cass’s other hand slid up his stomach, her fingers pinching and rubbing at his other nipple, “You don’t have to call me Jester, sir, or mistress, or anything. I just want to know … Does it feel good, Successor?” The nipple hardened between her thumb and index finger as Oscar nodded frantically.
“—Yeah, yes …” he muttered.
His penis pulsed in her hand as he began to lose his breath - edged this close, he felt ready, regardless of the circumstance, but just as he thought he would release, Cass let go and stepped back with a smirk.
At the exact moment his body shuddered through the last wave, the basin gave a final, violent hiss …
The pink drained away like blood from a wound, leaving the water perfectly, impossibly clear.
Cass let the loincloth fall back into place over his glistening length.
“—Pl, please, wh … Why …” Oscar looked confused, desperate, his expression soaked with anguish.
She stepped away, wiping her fingers casually on her thigh, and glanced toward the basin with a satisfied sneer.
“He is powerful,” she said to the silent crowd, voice husky with triumph, “Quiet, but powerful. I only needed to nudge him to full pleasure for the water to change …”
Reid’s gaze sweeped slowly across the crowded room; some faces glowed with rude health - younger villagers, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, far from needing the water’s gift - others, older but sturdy, carried the quiet weight of years; they had time yet before desperation would drive them to drink.
Cass dropped into the chair beside her husband, bare breasts gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the bright lights. She parted her thighs without shame, the new curves of her body on full display; fuller bosoms, narrower waist, hips flared like something sculpted rather than born - her husband couldn’t look away; his stare clung to her as though she were a stranger wearing his wife’s face, hunger and disbelief warring in his eyes.
Reid’s attention snagged on the black Labrador lying motionless at an old woman’s feet - a plastic cone circled its neck, dull fur patched and thin, ribs showing beneath sagging skin - the dog’s eyes were filmed, half-closed, each shallow breath a labor.
Reid crooked a finger, “The lady with the dying pet. Bring him here …”
The old woman tugged gently at the lead, “Come on, Shadow, love,” but the dog didn’t stir - too weak, too close to the end.
Two men from the front row rose without a word - broad-shouldered, callused hands gentle, they lifted the heavy body between them and carried the dog to the stage - they draped Shadow carefully over the rim of the basin so its head hung above the clear water.
At first, nothing …
Then a faint twitch of the nose …
A slow, cautious sniff …
The pink tongue slipped out, touched the surface, tasted - another lick, longer this time - then the dog was drinking in earnest, lapping greedily, water splashing over the stone as its throat worked in desperate gulps.
A wet, rattling cough tore from its chest - the dog jerked, scrabbling against the men’s arms until they released it - it hit the stage floor with a clumsy thud, shook violently, and the cone flew free, clattering across the boards …
The old woman’s hands flew to her mouth.
Shadow stood firmly on all fours, legs that had been sticks now held steady - the dull coat rippled, darkened, thickened into a glossy black sheen that caught the lantern light like oil, yellowed fangs gleamed suddenly white and sharp - the clouded eyes cleared to a bright, fierce amber - the dog barked once, deep, joyful, alive, and bounded across the stage in a single fluid leap, tail whipping the air …
He crashed into the old woman’s lap, paws on her shoulders, licking her tear-streaked face with frantic affection - she wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing openly.
“Take it all, my darling,” she whispered against his fur, voice thick with wonder, “—Take it all!—”
From where he still dangled, arms aching, wrists raw, Oscar watched with something like awe softening the humiliation on his face - his spent penis soft now beneath the damp loincloth, but a faint, involuntary smile tugged at his mouth.
Reid noticed …
He stepped closer, voice deep and knowing, “You’re getting used to this place, aren’t you?”
Oscar didn’t answer - couldn’t - but his eyes flicked to Reid’s, and something unreadable bubbled there, not quite denial.
Oscar muttered a simple request as the cheers from the audience distracted Reid.
“… Leave me alone …”
The applause gradually faded as silence crept back in.
Then the basin began to boil again, bubbles rising fast and angry …
The water shifted, deepened, until it glowed a vibrant, unexpected pale teal colour …
Reid turned to the landlady, his expression had hardened, all earlier amusement gone.
“Get the table,” he said quietly, “And turn off the lights …”
She nodded once, already moving toward the shadows at the back of the stage - Oscar’s eyes followed her as Reid’s tone filled him with anxiety, the coke in his veins wearing off, The Village Hall lights clicking out suddenly.
Reid looked out over the crowd again, voice carrying clear and cold across candlelight, “Pain, pleasure, and now it is time …”
“… Time to purge …” Reid announced.
The village hall had surrendered to the intimate flicker of candlelight, shadows dancing like eager lovers across the walls, casting long, wavering fingers over the gathered crowd.
The air hung thick with the scent of wax and anticipation, every breath shallow, every eye fixed on the stage where Oscar dangled - the loincloth a flimsy veil over his now flaccid manhood, his toned appearance soft but glistening faintly in the warm glow.
From behind the heavy curtains, two villagers emerged, their faces stern as they carried a plain wooden table between them.
It gleamed on four legs with fresh varnish, smooth and unadorned save for the cold steel cuffs bolted dead center - two sets, unyielding and purposeful, glinting like promises of restraint.
Reid stepped forward, his jester's hat tipping slightly, bells tinkling in soft mockery, "To purge you, Oscar," he announced, "We must drain every drop of that vibrant energy coursing through your veins, the chosen flow that makes you so alive, so defiant …”
The villagers maneuvered the table beneath Oscar's suspended form as he watched them with wide, wary eyes, toes barely scraping the floor.
They shoved it forward, knocking into the backs of his calves, forcing him to perch awkwardly on the edge, his feet lifting from the boards.
Panic flared in his chest; he kicked out as if his legs were propellers, but strong hands gripped his thighs, pulling him deeper onto the surface - Oscar twisted in the ropes that burned his wrists, not wanting to beg or plead, he was stronger than that - instead, he spat at the nearest man, “—Pfft!—”, a large glob of saliva landing on the villager’s cheek.
Undeterred, the villagers wrestled his legs into position, bending them at the knees until he knelt unwillingly on the table; ass high, bare soles turned upward to the audience - the steel cuffs snapped shut around his ankles, locking him in place with a final, echoing click.
His body arched involuntarily, the loincloth riding up to expose the curve of his buttocks, arms stretched taut above - he was a picture of exquisite captivity: knees bent, thighs spread, back bowed, every muscle trembling with outrage and exposure …
The basin bubbled suddenly, a brief, furious boil that sent steam curling upward.
Reid's eyes narrowed - it was rare for it to stir without shifting hues, but the teal remained, deep and insistent …
The villagers lit additional candles and placed these on the table, the flickering light surrounding Oscar - then, the villagers melted back into the shadows, leaving Reid to approach.
Oscar shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he glanced down at his near-naked form, the candlelight tracing sweat-slick paths over his chest, his nipples still pebbled from Cass's earlier attentions.
"Only this afternoon you were eating pie and mash with me in the pub, fully clothed, desperate to sink that pint, to fill what needs to be purged …", Reid's grin widened, predatory and delighted as his eyes caught the vulnerability of Oscar’s open underarms …
He reached up playfully, fingers skimming under Oscar's right armpit, a light, teasing stroke that danced over the soft skin, “… Now look at you …” he sneered.
Oscar's reaction to Reid’s touch was electric: his body jerked violently, twisting away as far as the bonds allowed, a sharp, involuntary hiss of frustration escaping his lips, the table lifting from the floorboards for just a second.
The audience gasped in unison, a collective intake of breath as the basin bubbled - fierce, insistent, teal water churning …
Reid paused, turning to the landlady with a knowing nod, "Oh! Our Successor has a weakness!” He looked up at Oscar, who knelt already breathless, “Are you a little ticklish, Oscar?” The audience chuckled.
Oscar grunted, eyes filled with venom - instead, he spat again, this time directly at Reid’s face, “—PFFT!—”
Reid flinched as Oscar’s gob arrived over the bridge of his nose - he turned to the audience and proudly ‘wore’ the saliva as if it were a trophy.
“He’s a feisty little bugger isn’t he?” He playfully cooed, as the audience chortled and applauded, some villagers nodding in response.
Reid turned back to Oscar and curled his hands upwards, fingers splayed and wiggling in the air like spider legs, aiming them deliberately toward the damp, exposed hollows of Oscar’s armpits …
“Now,” Reid’s eyes sparkled, “Let’s give Wrenford what it wants …”
Oscar’s reaction was instantaneous, explosive, yet Reid was still inches away from Oscar’s underarms …
His entire body thrashed violently against the ropes and cuffs, shoulders trying to hunch inward, arms straining downward in a desperate, futile attempt to shield himself, but his wrists were tied too tightly above him, his elbows barely able to bend …
The steel bit into his ankles; the table creaked under the sudden violence of his attempts at leaping away - a sharp, panicked gasp tore from his throat, half-scoff, half-snarl, eyes wide with fresh terror as Reid’s fingers continued to journey towards the wide, open depths between his chest and forearms …
Reid’s fingers danced closer, now just an inch away, wiggling playfully, tracing lazy patterns in the air just above what looked like delicately sensitive skin, “To the observing eye, most of what we do is usually so dark, so gruesome, so disturbing …” Reid purred as Oscar twisted from side to side, head whipping back and forth, “… It’s about time Wrenford demanded something a little more light hearted …”, Reid’s smile widened, slow and predatory, “… It’s an unexpected vision, I’ll admit,” he said softly, fingers still hovering, still wiggling, “… Already losing your mind … And I haven’t even touched you yet …Whatever your feeling, it’s doing a good job,” his eyes shifted towards the basin.
The basin bubbled and boiled, steam rose from the surface as Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and tried to climb up the rope, but the steel bolting his ankles to the surface of the table kept him in his knelt position.
Reid held the pose a moment longer, letting the threat hang in the candlelit air, letting Oscar’s frantic, physical meltdown feed the simmering teal in the basin, “Wrenford has spoken,” his wiggling fingers lowered slowly, the promise of chaos replaced by something quieter, more deliberate, “It seems to be telling us what it wants,” he circled the table once, bells giving only the faintest jingle, eyes roaming over Oscar’s bound form with the calm appraisal of an artist studying marble, “What we must do …” Reid stopped behind him, close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth of his presence, “… What I must do …”
Reid lifted the back of the loincloth and tucked it into the waist, exposing Oscar’s spanked buttocks; both round cheeks glistened in the candle light, shaking as Oscar tried to wriggle forwards, to pull at the rope and force himself away - he could only lift his behind and drop it, a movement that seemed to turn frantic as soon as he felt Reid’s index finger trace a single, slow line down the curve of his behind …
Oscar was enraged, eyes boiling, butt cheeks clapping, but he said nothing, he just clenched his teeth and glared forwards …
The skin there was hot to the touch, tender and glowing. Reids fingernail skimmed lightly over one fading welt from the earlier spanking, then another, following the raised lines like reading braille.
Oscar gritted his teeth, his hips jerked forward involuntarily, a sharp, natural clench rippling through his glutes …
Reids index finger drifted lower, circling the crease where buttock met thigh, then inward, slow, teasing, until it grazed the sensitive skin just around the tight ring of muscle.
Oscar’s entire body tensed; a low, mortified sound escaped his throat as the fingernail traced feather-light rings, never pressing in, just exploring the puckered rim with deliberate curiosity.
“A virgin as well as a Successor …” Reid noted, “…. Incredibly tight, totally un-touched, he makes love with the front, he does not take from behind …”
The basin answered immediately; bubbles surging, teal water churning harder, steam curling upward in thick plumes …
Oscar’s face burned crimson. He twisted his head away, jaw clenched, hating how exposed he was, buttocks tilted up, cheeks parted by the kneeling position, every intimate inch on show for the silent, watching crowd - so far he had prided himself on not begging, but with Reid’s fingertip still pressed between his buttocks, he realised he didn’t have a choice, “—Please …” he whispered, “… Please don’t fuck me.—”
Reid hummed, “I won’t remind you again, Oscar! Please, what?”
Oscar hissed, “Please … Jester! …—” he grunted, impatient, worried, too aware of how open his buttocks were, how restrained and helpless he was, “—Please, Jester, don’t fuck me …”
Some of the villagers in the audience chuckled.
Reid gawped, “Fuck you! Crikey! We’re not savages … Besides, I don’t really swing that way …” he said conversationally, fingernail now sliding down the silky seam of Oscar’s taint, tracing it end to end with the same gentle precision, “… Wrenford just seems to like how sensitive you are, it’s a shame for you that you cannot hide it …”
He moved on before Oscar could snarl a reply, trailing the single fingertip down the back of one strong thigh - slow, admiring strokes over the defined muscle, the faint dusting of hair, the smooth skin behind the knee - Oscar held back a shiver, the basin simmered, but it did not rage.
“Powerful legs,” Reid observed, almost to himself, “Built for running, fighting… Yet here they are, locked open for us. Gorgeous muscles. Thick calves ...” he arrived at Oscar’s feet, his soft soles upturned, heels snug together, side by side, “… Pretty feet, too … Size eleven?”
Oscar wanted to scream - a deafening, pure, helpless scream - but he pressed his face into his right shoulder and bit the skin, providing a quick nod as an answer - how could he fight this? He was beyond outnumbered and, above everything else, whatever they were doing to him seemingly worked - people, animals, were healing, because of him …
The basin roared now, boiling furiously, teal water sloshing against the stone sides, steam filling The Village Hall like incense.
Reid chuckled, low and throaty, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted over Oscar's ear, “Hm. You are exceptionally sensitive, aren't you? Every touch sets you off like fireworks. And look! The basin boils in ways we've never seen. Looks I'll just have to tickle you till the water is clear ..." Reid raised both hands slowly, fingers curled like claws, letting them drift upward toward Oscar’s exposed armpits for a third time, “… Cootchie coo, Successor …”
Oscar kept his face at his shoulder, his teeth nipping hard at his own flesh, eyes squeezed shut.
Reid’s fingertips arrived, barely there, a whisper of contact - he threaded them gently through the damp curls of hair in Oscar’s left armpit, then the right, curling and uncurling with idle curiosity …
A wild, barking avalanche of uncontrollable laughter tore out of him, deep at first, then pitching higher as his body convulsed - he thrashed violently from side to side, head whipping, sweat flying from his hair - the sound that left him was half-breathless hysteria, half-roar, grainy and unmanageable, echoing off The Village Hall ceiling …
Reid stopped, and Oscar stopped - the candles continued to flicker, the audience’s jaws were to the floor, a simple huff, huff, huff left Oscar’s throat.
“… The touch is barely nothing …” Reid spoke so quietly only Oscar could hear him, “… But to you, it’s everything …” Reid’s eyes glittered with pure, boyish glee - he allowed the pause to torment as much as the touch, and then, after just two or three seconds, he continued.
He kept the touch feather-light, never digging, never scratching, just that lazy, exploratory threading through the sensitive hair that made up the deep depths of Oscar’s underarms - the occasional brush of a nail across the silken hollow beneath, and still Oscar lost his mind, sudden and explosive laughter pouring out in great, heaving waves, curses dissolving into breathless, broken growls as he twisted and spun, the table shifting a little across the floorboards.
Again, Reid paused, and Oscar dangled.
Huff, huff, huff …
The basin roared in answer, teal water surging and spitting, steam rising thick and hot.
“It’s a lot, isn’t it, Oscar …” Reid enquired.
Oscar nodded quickly into his bicep, a little tear forming at the corner of his right eye.
“Did you know you were this ticklish?” Reid’s enquiries continued.
Oscar shook his head and huffed, nostrils open wide, that tear now rolling down his cheek.
“Did you think, when your car broke down and you walked into our home, that you’d end up like this?” Reid’s fingers remained inside Oscar’s armpit hair, but they did not move.
Oscar turned to look at him, this time he offered his own sinister smile.
“You’re asking a lot of stupid questions,” Oscar sneered.
Reid leaned close again, voice warm with amusement, “It is a joy to feast on you, my boy!—”, he rejoiced, “—It’s never been this easy to purge a Successor before … Keep singing for me, handsome! …”
Reid pulled his fingers away just long enough for Oscar to drag in one furious, wheezing breath, and then brought both hands down in a smooth, deliberate arc to the boy’s ribcage.
The audience cheered and whooped, “—Take it all!—”, the air within The Village Hall turned warm, this sensory exploitation was rather entertaining to say the least, “—TAKE IT ALL!—”
Palms flat, fingers spread, Reid dug into Oscar’s torso with firm, rhythmic strokes, raking up and down the taut flanks, over the ridges of Oscar’s ribs, sweeping across the narrow waist and out over the sharp jut of his hips - slow at first, then faster, a relentless tide of sensation that left no inch untouched …
Oscar’s body snapped rigid, then detonated in violent waves, “—I need to breathe!—”, the table groaned under the force of his attempts at leaping - what came out of his mouth was raw, guttural shouting, “—I need to BREATHE!—”, hoarse, furious roars that cracked into high, desperate shrieks when Reid’s fingers found a particularly tender spot, “—SomeoneSTOPhim!—”, the words exploded between heaving breaths, vicious and unfiltered, dribble flying from his lips as his head spun side to side - veins stood out in his neck, eyes wild with rage and humiliation.”—I need to breathe, I need to breathedamnit!—”
Reid’s claw-like grab delved into Oscar’s stomach, his thumbs pressing into Oscar’s navel, his abs, his lower sides, causing Oscar to shatter in an instant, his torso spinning, twirling, specs of sweat glittering in the air, “—I need to breathe, JESTER!—”, Reid reminded.
Oscar’s wide mouthed laughter was now noiseless, the energy and thrust of hysteria that left his thick throat caused his face to crease, sharp lines forming at either side of his eyes, his tonsils throbbing visibly at the back of his throat.
“—People of Wrenford, no bloodshed this time, just absolute lunacy!” Reid taunted, voice warm with mockery, leaning in so the crowd could hear every word, “He can barely stand it! He’s roaring like a caged animal!—”, his hands swept down to Oscar’s waist, thumbs digging just above the bone of his hips, “—Aren’t I the lucky one? I think I’d go utterly bonkers if it were me up there!—-”
The basin roared too, louder, teal water sloshing violently against the stone, steam billowing thick and hot, as if feeding greedily on every furious, helpless shout torn from The Successor’s throat, until Reid’s fingers lifted away from Oscar’s torso, leaving red lines all over his chest, stomach, waist and underarms …
Reid stepped back with palms raised in mock surrender - the sudden absence of touch left Oscar panting, body sagging from the rope as though every bone had turned to water; sweat poured off him in sheets, chest heaving, ribs flaring with each desperate pull of air - for a long moment the only sound was Oscar’s ragged breathing and the low crackle of candles - huff, huff, huff, huff …
The basin’s water surged upward in a violent column of bubbles, teal froth spilling over the stone rim in thick waves. The roar was deafening - deeper, louder, more ferocious than anyone in The Village Hall had ever heard. Teal steam billowed in great clouds, hot and metallic, carrying the scent of something ancient and vital. The audience stirred, murmurs rising; several older villagers leaned forward, eyes wide with something close to awe.
The Landlady cupped her mouth with both hands, “Well I never …” she whispered, “… Look at it. I’ve never seen it rage like that, not in my lifetime, when it clears … The taste of that water will be richer than anything we’ve known in centuries. A hundred years, maybe more, for every soul who drinks!”
A hush fell again, reverent and greedy.
Reid turned back to Oscar, wiping his hands idly on his jester outfit as he approached - he tilted his head, bells giving a soft jingle, and studied the boy’s flushed, exhausted face with genuine curiosity.
“You doing alright there, good looking?” He asked, tone light, almost gentle.
Oscar lifted his head just enough to fix Reid with a bleary, murderous glare - his voice came out hoarse, scraped raw, but the sass cut through clear as a blade.
“… Fff, fantastic …” he rasped, “… But do that again, and I swear, I’ll bite your fucking fingers off! …” a ripple of nervous laughter passed through the nearer rows as Oscar’s chest hitched with another shaky breath, sweat dripping from his jaw …
Reid’s grin spread slow and wolfish - he leaned in until their faces were inches apart, voice dropping to a velvet murmur that carried anyway in the sudden quiet.
“Oh, my sweet boy …” he said, almost tender, “… Touching you is boiling that basin in ways never seen. If I have to tickle you till you pass out, I’ll do it …”
Just like in the pub only hours ago, Reid used his thumb to wipe something away from Oscar’s lips, however this time, it was sweat, not gravy.
“… Now, let’s see what an object from Mother does to you …” said Reid.
The hush in The Village Hall deepened as a lone villager emerged from the shadows at the back of the stage - a stooped old man with weathered skin and eyes like polished stones, his wellington boots stained with earth.
In his gnarled hands, he cradled a single blade of grass as if it were a relic of the divine.
The audience, as one, bowed their heads in solemn reverence, murmurs of prayer rippling through the rows like wind through wheat.
The villager approached Reid slowly, footsteps echoing on the wooden boards, and extended the offering with trembling fingers.
Reid accepted it with a nod of grave acknowledgment, holding it aloft for all to see.
“This,” Reid announced, voice carrying clear and resonant, “Is a gift from Wrenford’s graveyard, a sacred blade of grass plucked by the Mother herself. She, the first successor, who gave her essence to this village centuries ago. Thin and pointed, no more than fifteen centimeters long, yet infused with the power of our ancestors. A tool for The Four Practises, bestowed upon us for this very moment.”
The audience lifted their heads, eyes shining with awe, a few crossing themselves or whispering ancient words.
Then, without warning, Reid moved behind Oscar once more.
Oscar followed Reid with his eyes, still catching his breath from having his hands all over his torso, “You can’t be serious?” He asked.
Reids free hand grasped the edge of the loincloth, damp and rumpled, and lifted it swiftly, flipping it up over the small of Oscar’s back like unveiling a sculpture.
Oscar began to squirm again; his arms tugged at the rope, that tug became a heavy yank, and then it was a desperate pull …
The boy’s buttocks were fully exposed once more: the red welts from the spanking had more or less faded, leaving his round cheeks glowing in their sweat sheen shimmer, cheeks slightly parted from the strain of his kneeling position, the pale, hairless cleft between them vulnerable and glistening faintly with perspiration.
Reid grinned wide as he raised the blade of grass like a conductor’s baton, “Can’t bite my fingers off from back here, can you!” He taunted, voice booming with wicked glee as brought the tip of the blade of grass down, thin, pointed, deceptively innocent, and let it brush the tight, smooth chunk of flesh that made up Oscar’s taint.
Oscar launched forward, the rope holding his arms high above his head, his thighs doing all they could to connect but it didn’t hide his buttocks, nor the exposed and vulnerable space between each cheek - he was utterly humiliated, his face burning pink as he turned over his shoulder and spat at Reid again, “—PFFT!—” this time, he missed, the gob landing with a splat on the floorboards.
The grass danced mercilessly: Reid swirled the pointed tip in slow, teasing circles across Oscar’s taint, tracing the delicate folds with feather-light precision as Oscar became consumed by his uncontrollable laughter - it erupted out of him in high pitched, breathless giggles that lead to alarmed, endless shouts, rendering him unable to formulate words, it was just that ticklish - his arse cheeks clenched hard, quivering as he tried to squeeze them shut, but the position forced them apart, every futile contraction only exposed more of the tender skin, making the tickling worse - his hips gyrated in frantic, erratic circles, shaking side to side, up and down, as if he could dislodge the torment through sheer force of will, but then, the unmanageable lunacy launched from his throat in an unapologetic and deafening volume as soon as the grass arrived at the centre of his arsehole …
Oscar’s hips bucked harder, arse shaking in rapid, uncontrollable spasms, cheeks jiggling with each desperate twist - the table lifted from the stage once, twice, as the grass whispered over the sensitive stretch, back and forth, light as a breath but sharp as fire, making his balls draw up tight in helpless pulses as invasive cackles exploded from his throat, much to his own dire distress …
“Such manic laughter, Oscar!” Reid purred, “Either you find all this very funny, or someone has a very ticklish arse!—”, he chuckled softly, free hand rising to deliver a sharp, open-palmed spank to Oscar’s right arse cheek - THWACK! - then the left - THWACK! - the slaps, along with Oscar’s maddening howls, echoed crisp through The Village Hall, skin blooming fresh pink under the impact, the sting radiating deep and hot - Oscar’s body jolted with each strike, his manic laughter now dominating his throat and chest, his face a distorted crease of delighted frenzy mixed with absolute horror.
Reid pressed the grass tip harder now, dipping it shallowly into the tight ring of Oscar’s hole, just enough to probe the puckered entrance, swirling gently against the most intimate nerves - Oscar continued to leap forwards, eyes wide, jaw open, screams of laughter exploding from his face; his arse shook side to side, knees grinding against the table in desperate evasion …
Oscar glared over his shoulders, eyes blood shot, he had never been tickled like this in his life - just when he thought he might pass out, the basin erupted without warning …
The teal hue vanished in an instant, replaced by a crystalline purity that glowed under the candlelight like liquid moonlight - amongst Oscar’s screams and cursing, a gasp rippled through the hall as an elderly villager in the front row rose slowly to his feet, hand trembling as he pointed.
“It’s clear,” he whispered, then louder, voice cracking with awe, “The basin is clear!”
Reid withdrew the blade of grass from between Oscar’s buttocks with deliberate slowness, letting the thin green strand trail one last teasing path along the sensitive cleft before dropping it to the boards …
Oscar heaved forward against the ropes, chest rising and falling in great, shuddering gulps as sweat poured from his brow, dripping onto the varnished wood beneath him; his thighs trembled, arse still clenching in aftershocks of torment, the loincloth clung damply to his hips, offering no real modesty as he admitted in a exhausted wheeze, “—I, I th, think I’m gonna be sick …”
The Village Hall fell utterly silent - every eye fixed on Reid, breath held, waiting for the inevitable choice.
An older man near the back stood first, voice thin but desperate, “Pick me! I want to be young again! Please, give me back my years!”
A middle-aged man rose next, fists clenched at his sides, “My wife! Can you bring her back? Heal what’s broken? I’ll take anything!”
A woman in the third row pushed herself upright, cheeks flushed with shame and hope, “Make me slim again. I don’t want to carry this anymore, please!”
Reid ignored them all.
He turned instead toward the Landlady, voice calm and certain, “A glass.”
She nodded once and disappeared behind the heavy curtain at the rear of the stage. Reid walked slowly to Oscar. He stopped directly in front of him, tilting his head to study the flushed, exhausted face.
“You, my boy,” Reid said quietly, “Will drink from the basin.”
The Landlady returned, a simple tin cup in her hands - she scooped the now clear water from the basin into the cip and handed it to Reid.
“You snort coke,” Reid began,“You drink every night. To some, that might look like youthful revelry - partying, letting loose. But I see the shadow creeping in. The beginning of something darker. An addiction taking root before you even notice the soil. Drink this, Oscar. Drink, and I promise you … You will be healed.”
Oscar’s head snapped up, his lips pressed into a thin, defiant line - he twisted his face away, jaw locked, eyes blazing - still utterly breathless from the debilitating strength of laughter he had no choice but to expel, he managed to say:
“… I’m n, not drinking th, that …”
Reid’s smirk deepened. He leaned closer, “… ‘I’m not taking off my jeans. I’m not drinking that’ …” his expression hardened, though the amusement never left his eyes, “… We have you bound, wearing nothing but a cloth. Boy, you belong to us now. You do as we say …” he lifted the cup again, bringing it to within inches of Oscar’s mouth, “… Before the fourth and final practice, drink. It worked for the dog. For Cass. For every soul who needed it. It will work for you …”
Oscar clamped his lips shut, turning his head sharply to the side, muscles straining against the ropes.
Reid sighed and gave a small nod.
Two male villagers rose immediately from the front row. Broad-shouldered, silent, they stepped onto the stage and seized Oscar’s face between rough hands - one gripping his jaw, the other pressing thumbs into his cheeks to force his mouth open. Oscar fought, head thrashing, neck cords standing out, a muffled snarl vibrating in his throat, but the restraints and their strength left him no chance. His lips parted against his will; teeth gritted, but useless.
Reid tilted the cup.
Clear water poured in a steady stream down Oscar’s throat.
Oscar choked, he gagged, his eyes bulged option, he thrashed in his kneel, spun and twisted, the rope creaking once more as the basins water eventually made its way inside of him.
The villagers stumbled back as Oscar dangled, breathless.
Silence.
Oscar’s eye lashes fluttered shut, chest heaving as he swallowed reflexively.
Then … A soft, audible click at the back of his throat.
His back arched violently, spine bowing against the ropes as though an invisible hand had seized his insides and twisted.
“—MNN!—”
A strangled gasp escaped him; his abdomen contracted hard, ribs flaring.
“—HUHHHFF!—”
The sensation raced through him, liver lightening, lungs expanding, every shadowed craving dissolving like smoke in wind. The itch for another line, the pull toward a glass of wine at dusk, the restless boredom that only chemicals could quiet - they simply… Ceased to exist. No longer options. No longer even memories worth chasing …
When the spasm passed, Oscar sagged in the bonds, chest still rising and falling rapidly. Then, slowly, a wide, genuine grin spread across his face - bright, unguarded, the first real ease anyone in the hall had seen on him.
Reid studied him for a long moment.
“Will you ever drink again?” He asked quietly.
Oscar met his eyes without hesitation. His voice came out clear, certain, almost joyful.
“… N, never, Jester …”
The word rang with absolute finality. He felt it in every cell - happier, fresher, cleaner than he had ever been. No haze. No ache. Just presence, sharp and alive. The world no longer needed elevation; it was already bright enough.
Reid turned back to the basin.
It began to bubble again, slowly at first, then faster, more insistently. The clear water darkened, swirling crimson this time, steam rising in thick, angry coils.
Reid nodded, as though receiving a private instruction, “… It has boiled red …” he handed the cup back to The Landlady, “… Red means purity …” he said softly, “… We have cleansed the soul. Now… “
“… We must cleanse the soles …”
The clarity that had flooded Oscar like cool water through parched veins lasted only long enough for him to draw a single, steady breath - then it cracked and splintered as confusion rushed in to fill the void - his grin faded; his eyes darted, unfocused, as though the room had tilted without warning.
“Cleans the …” all ten of his long toes curled into a clench, the question small and uncertain against the heavy silence that had settled over the hall, “… the what?—”
Reid did not answer at first - from the shadowed edges of the stage, two more villagers advanced in measured steps - the first carried a wide, shallow wooden bucket, its contents sloshing gently …
“River water from Wrenford’s own vein, thickly laced with soap and scented oil …” Reid placed his hands behind his back as he watched the bucket arrive.
The second villager held a broad wooden paddle-scrub brushes in his hands, the bristles coarse and dark, stiff enough to scour stone …
Reid turned to face the gathered crowd, arms opening slightly as though embracing them all.
“… The final practice …” he said, “… Is purity. Not merely of the soul we have already purged clean. No. We must purify his soles - the very ground The Successor has walked upon before he crossed our borders …”
A few villagers nodded, some closed their eyes and prayed, all whilst Oscar looked in alarm from side to side, his blue eyes shooting up into the dark of the ceiling as he began to forcefully tug at the rope again …
“The world beyond Wrenford is a festering wound,” Reid presented to the audience, “Cities that choke on their own fumes, streets paved with avarice and despair, soil poisoned by machines and greed. Every single step Oscar took out there pressed that corruption into his skin. It lingers like rot in the grain of wood. It seeps. It weakens the gift he bears for us …”
His gaze returned to Oscar, calm and unyielding.
“The cleaner his body becomes, the purer his essence. The stronger the liquid we draw from the basin. Every trace of that toxic outer world scrubbed away deepens the water’s power - lengthens the years it will grant, sweetens the life it restores,” he patted Oscar’s face, “One final cleansing, Oscar. One last rite … And the end begins, with washing your feet …”
Oscar’s eyebrows burrowed into a perplexed frown as he watched the villager with the brush kneel and offer it to Reid, handle first, bristles dripping foam …
Reid accepted the paddle brush with a slow nod, fingers closing around the worn wood - he then dipped the brush into the bucket of water and turned towards Oscar’s feet.
Oscar tried to protect the bottoms of his feet by twisting each foot over each sole, but the steel cuffs clamped to the surface of the table, locked around each of his ankles, kept them rigidly apart - from the audience’s view, they just saw a young man, knelt and bound with such panic racing through him that it ended up at the tips of his toes, which were now flexing forcefully, almost foolishly, the closer Reid approached.
Reid lowered the brush with exquisite slowness until the very tips of the bristles kissed the centre of Oscar’s left arch.
Oscar jolted as the paddle brush arrived, his face glowing with dread and then dropping with cautious relief as Reid applied a gentle approach - the contact was barely there, a whisper of wet bristles gliding in the smallest, laziest circle; suds spread in a thin, slippery sheen, the soap and oil making every hair-fine bristle slide with liquid silk over skin already naturally hypersensitive - it wasn’t scrubbing, it was caressing, surprisingly caring - the brush traced a faint, wandering path along the high curve of the arch, then dipped lower toward Oscar’s heel, then drifted back up again, slow, sensual strokes that left a glistening trail of foam in their wake …
Oscar gulped down his breath as he bit on his lower lip, a faint tremor ran through his legs, not the violent seizure of earlier hysteria, but something quieter, something deeper - the toes of his left foot flexed, then curled slowly - the muscles in his calves tightened, then eased, only to tighten again with each languid pass of the brush - he sniggered, but otherwise remained composed, even if a quiet, “—ah! …” slipped from his mouth as he closed his eyes and buried his face into his bicep again, the candlelight in The Village Hall crackling, the audience watching quietly…
“There, there, my boy …” even Reid sounded comforting, “… Let me clean that horrid earth from your tainted soles …” he tilted the paddle brush again, letting the bristles skim the ball of the right sole now, light, barely-there circles that made Oscar’s foot crease inward, his chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled breaths; his eyes fluttered half-closed once more, then snapped open again anytime Reid arrived at an area where Oscar thought he might leap upward.
Oscar could take this, for now - he held himself rigid, jaw clenched, refusing to let any sign of additional weakness break through - sweat beaded anew along his collarbone, trickling down his chest in slow paths; his nipples pointed solid and tight against the cool air as The Landlady watched with a smile and Cass, seated front row, began to part her legs and touch herself softly.
“He squirms like a worm …” Cass purred.
The basin simmered quietly in the background, red glow pulsing in patient rhythm, as though content, for the moment, to let the slow, sensual prelude build - however, after two or three minutes of gradual bubbling, Reid knew he would have to increase pressure to create the same level of volume as before, therefore to ensure a real boil …
The instant Reid began to scrub harder, faster, side to side across Oscar’s right arch, Oscar’s eyes bulged wide, white-rimmed, pupils shrinking to black pinpricks of terror …
An explosion of high pitched cackles ripped from his throat, raw and immediate, a pure, animal overload, his entire body thrashed in savage spasms, his long toes splayed to their absolute limit, then curled so tightly the knuckles blanched bone-white - he tried to climb up the rope, he lifted the table with him, and then it dropped back down to the floorboards with a thud, a manic grin twisting his mouth apart as Reid lifted the brush from Oscar’s wet sole and cocked an eyebrow …
Sudden silence filled The Village Hall as Oscar spun in his now quiet dangle like a toy.
Ried watched the basin bubble and boil - he then turned up to Oscar and licked his lips, “Wrenford wants it, lad …” he scrubbed again, this time harder, “… Your sensitivity is quenching its thirst …”
Oscar thrashed like a creature being flayed alive; his head spun from side to side, cords standing out in his neck, mouth distorted around the gag in a rictus of eye-bulging lunacy as constant, endless laughter and screams fractured into high, keening wails - no defiance remained, only raw, unfiltered panic in the form of shrill, breathless shrieks that bounced off the rafters as the brush circled the ball of his right foot, digging into his heel, sweeping under his toes in short, merciless scrubs - each motion sent fresh waves of unbearable sensation racing up his legs, coiling in his gut, making his whole frame shake so violently the table lifted beneath him once again, as the basin’s boil turned ferocious …
Reid switched to the left foot without pause. Another long, hard stroke - arch to heel - and Oscar’s screams reached a new, ear-splitting register, body convulsing so hard the ropes bit deep into his wrists - there was no time to beg, to plead, to talk back, to curse or swear or spit - this was unmuted, compulsive hysteria, completely irrepressible, and Wrenford knew it …
The basin answered with a deep, hungry roar - bubbles surging faster, the red glow pulsing brighter, the village itself now feeding fully on every ounce of Oscar’s shattering lunacy, an irresistible and relentless madness that Oscar had no choice but to expel for a long three and a half minutes before Reid lifted the brush again …
He studied Oscar’s face; eyes bulging, mouth gaping, tears brimming his eyes, chest heaving in great, desperate pulls.
“I’m just cleaning your feet, lad … ” he said teasingly, a playful glimmer in his glance, “… What’s the matter?”
Oscar’s startled glare cut through the dimness like a blade. His eyes glazed over as he watched Reid’s mouth move - what had he gotten himself into? As Reid waited for an answer, Oscar simply shook his head slowly, lowering it in humiliation, “… You know whats the m, matter …” this was the easier option, remember? He wasn’t being smacked anymore, no one had cut him yet, “… you all do …” he could barely lift his head, but when he tried he managed to scowl out at the villagers seated in their dozens.
Reid admired the paddle brush and licked some gristle from the back of his teeth, “What do you say!” He faced the audience, “The Successor’s feet, once protected by socks and leather loafers, are ticklish too, absurdly so! …” he turned back to Oscar and poked him with his index finger, right inside his left armpit, “… Am I correct?”
Oscar twisted away in a fiesty spin - when he swung back round, he glared at reid with a look that suggested he was dumber than he appeared.
Reid faced him with a grin, “Have I discovered your achilles heel?”
Oscar, looking Reid straight in the eye, returned the grin with a teasing snarl, “It appears so, Jester …”
A villager at the back of the hall had no care for Oscar’s suffering, “—Take it all!—” he yelled.
Reid looked at Oscar’s feet with the same lack of sympathy for their extreme level of sensitivity, “Pity,” he said in a flat tone, and then, without warning, he lowered the paddle brush towards Oscar’s left sole …
Once again, the touch was light, calm, exactly as before - the soapy bristles glided in faint, languid circles over Oscar’s left heel, barely grazing, tracing wet silk patterns across the tender skin.
Oscar hissed out like a vexed cobra, his toes stretching out hard, soles flexing in tight, controlled curls as the basin bubbled gently in response, a soft, rhythmic gurgle, the red glow pulsing like a calm heartbeat …
“Light touch,” Reid murmured, almost instructional, “Calm water …” then he increased the pressure - the bristles dragged firmer now, still controlled, still deliberate, but with real friction - they raked up the high arch in one long stroke, suds foaming thicker, oil making every bristle tug and glide at once.
Oscar’s body snapped taut; a roar of quick, unstoppable and manic laughter exploded from his throat as he climbed the rope and shook his entire torso as if someone had plugged his hips into live wires - the basin answered instantly, bubbles surging higher, the red glow flaring brighter, water churning with sudden violence …
“You see? I clean gently,” Reid explained, “Wrenford responds gently. I clean hard and fast, Wrenford responds hard and fast …” he faintly patted the wooden side of the paddle brush against Oscars feet, “… Is it all making sense, handsome?”
Oscar looked towards the watching audience with a fierce knowledge that he simply had to endure, to expel how unbearable this felt through as much of his own natural reactions that forced their way through him - he had always accepted his level of physical sensitivity as an extreme weakness, one his friends and family knew of, a weakness they used against him when getting their own way or teaching him a lesson - now, he would have to turn it into his power, it would become the only thing that would lead him out of here …
Oscar nodded firmly as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck, “Yes …” a pause, and then, instead of ‘Jester’, Oscar delivered a cold, cutting: “… You little cunt …”
Reid glanced down at Oscar’s bare soles and looked at them with sorrow as he dipped the brush back into the bucket and hung the tool over Oscar’s heels, allowing the warm, oily, soapy water to coat his soles in thick lines of shimmer, “… I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that sort of word takes the biscuit …”
Reid set the brush to Oscar’s soles with sudden, unrelenting fury - he didn’t tease now, he attacked; short, vicious scrubs under the toes, then long, punishing drags from heel to ball, then back again, faster, harder, the wet bristles scrubbing Oscar’s feet with rhythmic cruelty …
Oscar’s response was an instantaneous and spontaneous eruption of physical, untamed rebellion - his elbows bent, he pulled up the rope, the steel cuffs bolting his ankles to the table remaining firm … Screaming laughter was now commonplace within his throat, occupied full time at the base of his neck, a wild and surging sound that was more than just a part of him, it was all of him at once …
At the same moment, Reid’s free hand snatched Mother’s blade of grass from the table’s surface - the thin green tip slipped between Oscar’s clenching buttocks and found the tight, puckered ring of his arsehole once again, circling then stroking in light, insistent flutters, dipping shallowly, withdrawing, stroking again, never letting the sensitive rim rest …
Not expecting the bottoms of his feet and his arsehole to be exploited at the same time, Oscar’s face detonated into a delirious, deranged splay of the purest frenzy, his laughter now arriving like an avalanche over The Village Hall; breathless, insane, unstoppable, a deep, guttural bark torn from the pit of his stomach, then exploding upward into a high, keening wail that fractured into peals so rapid they blurred into one continuous, shuddering roar - no gaps for air, no control - his diaphragm spasmed helplessly, forcing sound out in violent bursts that left his lungs burning, his throat raw - the laughter shook his entire body like a seizure, ribs flaring so hard they threatened to crack, hips bucking wildly against the air as the table creaked, wobbled, lifted - his head thrashed from side to side, hair plastered to his forehead in wet ropes, sweat and tears flying in arcs with every convulsion …
The villagers moved as one as the basin bubbled furiously - they could tell that this might even be the greatest boil they had ever witnessed in their centuries of causing pain, pleasure, of purging and purifying - even Cass’s husband lifted himself from his seat, leaving his wife at her chair, still touching herself at the sight of Oscar’s torment - he planted himself over Oscar’s calves and used his hands to keep Oscar’s feet still, grabbing his heels with mite, so that Reid could scrub the brush over both of Oscar’s heels at the same time, whilst circling the blade of grass around the hairless rim of his arsehole …
Manhandled and tormented publically, Oscar’s face squashed into an expression of utter derangement - his eyes bulged to the point where they looked ready to bulge out of his head, tears poured in thick streams, carving clean paths through the sweat that shimmered across his cheeks, his mouth gaped in a wide open stretch, lips pulled back, tongue visible, drool slipping from the corners as the unrestrainable laughter forced his jaw to lock open - his cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, veins throbbing at his temples, nostrils flaring with every desperate, whistling inhale he managed to snatch between the endless peals …
His feet fought like trapped animals, toes splaying then curling into a clench, splaying then curling into a clench, splaying then curling into a clench, non stop, always, both feet held still by Cass’s husband, no longer able to avoid the paddle brush and its wet, soapy, oily scrub as the pointed tip of the blade of grass danced around the rim of his arsehole with feather-light taps, stroking the fluttering ring in tiny, maddening circles, dipping just inside the sensitive muscle then withdrawing - the ticklishness there was obscene: delicate, invasive, deeply erotic, turning his most private place into another point of shattering vulnerability as he had no choice but to allow himself to harden, just as much as he allowed himself to give in and just be at the villagers mercy …
The villagers watched in rapt silence as Cass buried her right hand deeper between her thighs, fingers working in frantic circles while the other fingers of her left hand pinched and twisted her nipple - her breath came in short, sharp gasps; her eyes never left Oscar’s writhing form - as his laughter reached a new, ear-splitting crescendo, she arched, body shuddering, a low moan escaping her lips as she came - hard, openly, thighs trembling - head thrown back in ecstasy while her husband watched in silent awe.
The Landlady’s eyes narrowed, “The basin wants more …” she said quietly, “… I need more …”
She stepped further across the floorboards, graceful and certain, and moved behind Oscar - without a word she reached up, her long, pink nails sinking into the damp hollows of his armpits, scratching lightly at first, then digging in with deliberate, fluttering strokes.
Oscar’s head snapped toward her - for a heartbeat the laughter fractured; his eyes locked on hers, blazing with pure, incandescent wrath, “—YOU, YOU BITCH!—”, he snarled through the breathless roars, voice shredded but venomous, “—You ab, absssss, solute fucking—”, the words died as the triple assault overwhelmed him: paddle brush scrubbing both soles, grass teasing arsehole, nails dancing in armpits - the laughter returned tenfold; insane, breathless, body-shaking hysteria that left no room for words, no room for anything but the avalanche of sensation consuming him whole …
The unregulated, spiralling laughter cracked into soaked sobs, the hysteria giving way to raw, chaotic distress - his voice emerged again in short, gasping pleas between the endless touch, this time not to insult The Landlady, but to express his inability to breaths …
“—Can’t—breathe—please—can’t—breathe—stop—please!—”
A single creak of floorboards cut through the anarchy …
Creaaak.
The Village Hall fell instantly silent …
Reid froze mid-stroke, The Landlady’s nails stilled in Oscar’s armpits, even the basin’s roar quieted to a low, expectant simmer as Cass’s husband let go of Oscar’s heels …
Oscar sagged forward, ropes squeaking, the only sound being his ragged, wheezing breaths …
Huff, wheeze, huff, wheeze, huff …
“—Th, thank you—” Oscar was now consumed by relief, his giggles drenched in an overwhelming weight of genuine happiness, “—Thank you!—”
Reid slowly turned, looking over his shoulder into the deep shadows at the far edge of the stage.
A hush deeper than any before settled over The Village hall.
Reid’s voice, when it came, was soft, respectful, almost awed.
“… Mother is here …”
Every head in the audience bowed low, a long, hunched shadow lengthening across faces etched with awe and fear.
On the stage, The Landlady and Cass’s husband shuffled away from Oscar’s wheezing form, dropping to their knees with the dull thud of bodies surrendering to gravity.
From the deepest shadows at the rear of the stage came more creak of floorboards, like the groan of ancient bones stirring from slumber.
Her presence was felt before seen, a chill that rippled through the room, making candles flicker and sputter as though the flames themselves recoiled.
Mother shuffled into the light.
She was a relic of eternity, a woman who had outlived empires, her form a grotesque testament to time's merciless hunger.
Her feet were not like Oscar’s - youthful, sensitive, soles soft and pale, toenails neatly trimmed and elegantly curved - no, hers were monstrous: gnarled, twisted talons that scraped the wood with each laborious step, nails yellowed and hooked like raptor claws …
Her legs were little more than knobs of knee and stretched sinew, skin hanging loose and grey as ash from a dead fire - her flesh sagged in pallid folds, veined with purple rivers that pulsed faintly beneath. Her arms dangled unnaturally long, ending in fingers like skeletal razors, sharp enough to rend flesh without effort.
White hair flowed in wild, ethereal waves down her back, the only remnant of beauty the basin’s water could still grant - but even that ancient elixir could not restore her to the goddess she had been millennia ago. She was decay incarnate, a walking corpse animated by unfathomable will …
Reid vaulted onto the table in a single, fluid leap, positioning himself behind Oscar.
With the boy still knelt in his bonds, the back of his damp head came level with Reid’s waist.
Reid’s hands clamped down on Oscar’s skull like a vice, fingers digging into sweat-slick hair, forcing his face forward to confront the approaching horror.
Oscar, utterly soaked in perspiration, his skin gleaming like oiled marble under the lanterns, twisted futilely in the grip - Reid’s free hand slipped under Oscar’s arm, fingers spidering lightly into the damp hollow of his armpit - teasing, fluttering strokes that made Oscar grunt and buck, his body jerking in angry spasms.
“—P-please—no—stop that—fuck!—” Oscar begged through gritted teeth, his voice a raw, furious rasp, twisting and turning against the ticklish invasion, “—No more, n, not again!—”
Reid ignored him, his own voice trembling with a cocktail of terror, excitement, and desperate composure, “Hello, Mother …” he said, the words catching in his throat like thorns as his fingers continued their light, merciless dance in Oscar’s armpit, drawing fresh grunts and pleas from the boy as the basin boiled furiously behind them, “… We have a special one for you tonight, Mother. This one is sensitive, so profoundly, exquisitely sensitive that the water has shifted colors time and again. We’ve cured a dog on death’s door, banished cancer from a woman’s bones, mended a shattered arm in moments. Take him, Mother. Take him entirely. Devour his essence whole, and perhaps, perhaps you will reclaim what has eluded you for five hundred years. Return to your radiant self, the eternal bloom we all remember!”
Some of the villagers raised their arms in gospel, “—Take it all!—” they cheered, “—Take it all!—”
Mother shuffled closer, her clawed feet scraping like knives on bone - she stopped before Oscar, her grotesque form towering in presence if not in height.
Her eyes - milky, bottomless pits - studied him like a predator sizing prey.
One clawed hand reached out, lifting the edge of his loincloth with surprising delicacy.
Oscar grimaced, twisting away as her nail, sharp as a dagger, drew slowly under the shaft of his penis, tracing the sensitive underside in a single, languid stroke - his body jerked, a low groan escaping despite himself.
She moved behind him then, her shuffling steps echoing ominously.
At the foot of the table, she paused - her clawed fingers toyed with his soles, nails scraping lightly over the high arches, making them squirm and flex in helpless spasms - Oscar hated it - viscerally, deeply, a revulsion that twisted in his gut like poison - then she leaned in, her grey lips pressing wet, cold kisses to the damp skin, sucking on his toes one by one with a slurping, obscene hunger …
Oscar’s face contorted in disgust, his body shuddering in revulsion, “—Get—off—me—you—witch!—”, but she was already moving back to his front, already actioning the complete unbelievable …
As if by dark sorcery, her frail form lifted from the floorboards, levitating silently, effortlessly, until her grotesque face hovered level with his …
Oscar’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief - his mind reeled: This isn’t real …I died from an overdose at my birthday party. This is hell. Is this hell?
She closed her eyes, and with Reid’s iron grip holding Oscar’s head still, she leaned in.
Her lips, cold as grave dirt, pressed against his in a kiss that tasted of dust and forgotten ages.
Oscar froze, rigid with horror.
Mother’s eyes snapped open - pure white, glowing like dying stars.
She fell to the floor in a hunch, body crumpling like paper in flame.
The audience gasped as one, a collective intake of breath that hung in the air.
Everyone waited, frozen in anticipation, the basin’s boil the only sound …
Suddenly, Mother’s eyes bulged - blood-red, veins bursting like overripe fruit.
She exploded.
It was cataclysmic!
Her body detonated in a visceral gush: blood erupted in arterial sprays, thick and hot, painting the stage in crimson arcs; guts uncoiled in wet, slippery ropes, splattering across the boards with sickening slaps; skin tore away in ragged sheets, flinging outward like shrapnel; bones cracked and shattered, fragments embedding in wood and flesh alike …
The air filled with the coppery reek of slaughter, viscera raining down in gruesome hail.
She was there one minute, standing in all her aged disfigurement.
And in less than a single second, she was gone.
Oscar reacted like he’d been shot.
His body jolted backward, eyes wide in abject shock, mouth agape in silent scream.
Blood coated him head to toe, soaking his hair, dripping from his lashes, running in rivulets down his chest and legs.
He blinked it away frantically, the metallic taste invading his mouth, his nose, his every pore. His mind blanked - utterly blown apart, a void where thought should be.
Then, one by one, the villagers began to explode.
It started with a front-row elder: his eyes bulged red, then - PFFT! - a detonation of blood and innards, his torso erupting like a burst balloon, spraying fellow villagers seated beside him in gore.
Then, it was nothing but screams.
A woman beside him followed, her shrill cut short as she burst in a fountain of crimson - PFFT! - chunks of flesh slapping wetly against seats …
The middle-aged man who had begged for his wife - PFFT! - his body shredding in mid-stand, guts uncoiling across the aisle.
The woman who wanted slimness - PFFT! - her weighty form dissolving in a gruesome mist of blood and bone shards.
Cass went next - one moment she sat, fingers still buried between her thighs, body arched in lingering ecstasy; the next - PFFT! - a violent eruption of red, her blood splattering her husband’s face and clothes.
He staggered, shock frozen on his features - one moment his wife beside him, the next a seat slick with her remains …
… Then he too bulged red - PFFT! - exploding in a gory cascade that painted the row behind …
Oscar’s red stained eyes darted from left to right, up and down - he flinched at every explosion.
Reid had fallen off the table - Oscar hadn’t noticed - all he could see was blood, all he could hear was - PFFT! PFFT! PFFT!
The Landlady staggered backward, stumbling over Reid who lay with his hands over his head in a ball - she slipped on a pool of someone’s blood, she fell hard, then crawled frantically toward The Village Hall’s exit door, hands and knees sliding in the slick carnage, desperate whimpers escaping her.
PFFT! PFFT! PFFT!
She made it through the doors, stumbling into the night, but she didn’t get far - a final, wet pop echoed from outside, her bloody carcass splattering across Oscar’s car like thrown paint, hood and windshield smeared in red ruin.
Back in The Village Hall, Reid stood shakily as more villagers continued to explode around him - his blameful glare aimed up at The Successor.
He climbed back onto the table and bear-hugged Oscar from behind, arms wrapping tight around the bound boy’s torso as detonations continued around them - PFFT! - pop after pop, the air thick with flying viscera, the floor awash in blood and chunks of flesh - rhe walls dripped crimson; seats were upholstered in gore, Reid’s voice was desperate, manic, shouted over the chaos …
“—Wrenford does what is required!—” he bellowed into Oscar’s ear, breath hot and frantic, “—I will be spared! I’ve given everything, everything it ever wanted! My life, my service, spare me, Wrenford!—”
Then … Silence.
…
The explosions ceased.
The hall was a slaughterhouse: bodies reduced to scattered remnants, blood pooling in thick lakes on the floor, guts draped over chairs like macabre decorations, bone shards glinting in candlelight.
Only the flickering flames from the candles remained, casting hellish shadows on the carnage.
Reid unwrapped his arms from Oscar, shifting back a little with a shaky laugh, disbelieving, triumphant.
“We, we did it …” he muttered, voice cracking with glee, “… I’m, I’m sss, spared. The village sss, sees me!—”
But something twisted deep inside of him.
His laughter faltered; a low growl rumbled in his throat.
He leaned close to Oscar again, fingers digging into the boy’s shoulders.
“—Hnn, g, good luck getting out with no one here to un, untie you ,,,” he snarled, breath ragged, “… You’ll probably starve to death, with no one here to hhh, h, help—”
The words cut off mid-sentence.
Reid’s eyes bulged red.
PFFT!
He exploded.
A final, intimate detonation that showered Oscar in fresh gore, blood and bits splattering his behind, soaking the loin cloth, his back, the soles of his feet, with the rest.
Oscar knelt alone on the table, head to toe drenched in the blood of an entire village.
He panted, wheezed, chest heaving, his mind fractured …
The basin stopped bubbling.
The red faded entirely, the water turning still and clear - the clearest it had been all night, gleaming like polished crystal under the lanterns.
A single droplet rose from the surface, levitating, shining like a diamond caught in moonlight …
It drifted through the air, slow and purposeful, and touched the shackles around Oscar’s ankles.
They snapped open with a soft click, falling away.
Shakily, Oscar shifted his legs - numb, trembling - and stood on the table.
He leaned upward, teeth sinking into the ropes binding his wrists, biting and tearing until the fibres gave way.
His hands free, he stepped down, feet slipping in the blood-slick wood, nearly falling into the gore.
The only sound was his ragged breathing … And the soft pad of paws.
The black Labrador from earlier trotted carefully through the chunks of flesh and guts, avoiding the worst puddles.
It licked at a stair leading to the stage, then climbed, tongue lapping at more blood on the boards.
Oscar paused, staring at the dog, then he bent, removing the loincloth with numb fingers.
It dropped into the crimson.
Now naked, skin sticky with drying blood, he rummaged through his discarded jeans and fished out his car keys.
He left like that - barefoot, exposed, stepping gingerly through the carnage.
The dog followed, tail low but steady.
Outside, the night air hit like a slap.
His car sat there, hood and windshield smeared with The Landlady’s exploded remains - blood congealing in thick drips.
Oscar opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
The dog hopped in beside him, curling up on the passenger side.
The engine roared to life.
Tires crunched over gravel, then road.
Wrenford receded in the rearview, lights dimming, shadows swallowing the village whole.
Oscar fingered the glove compartment and found a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
Shakily, with one hand on the wheel, he popped a cigarette between his lips and lit it,
Oscar drove into the dark, naked and alone except for the dog, the taste of blood still on his lips …
He began to laugh.
Not the kind of manic, relentless mania he had been forced to expel only ten minutes ago.
Joy and relief were the only music his lips could make, even as his bloody footprints remained stamped upon the pebbled spine of Wrenford village …
