“The Revenant” is a small novel I have been writing in my down time. Slightly rusty with fiction writing, this is my way to dive back into it and dust off cobwebs.
The Revenant is a story about 3 different broken people- with murder, monsters and all that strange stuff.
It is set on an Island somewhere around the UK, that nobody knows about and most forget once left.
It is post WW1, pre WW2.
THE REVENANT
1
The theatre was an old soul in an even older city.
A chimera of wooden and stone buildings grew into one another down muddied streets. The theatre was massive compared to the other homes and stores that dotted that area of town, with a grand entryway with stone stairs that led to heavy double doors. The whole structure was formed from stone and oak, arching round so that it hugged the end of the street with glass and small balconies jutting off its 4 stories. The theatre stood at the end of a road, either side of it spaced away from the other structures like the other buildings were embarrassed by it, or perhaps intimidated.
The sun was setting, throwing an amber glow over the building as it stood floors above once unbroken rooftops, and twisted shadows of half-broken gargoyles across the stone road.
There was a soft hum of activity as a small group stumbled out from a local pub, mumbles and soft laughter rose as drunken feet scraped the pavement. Warm light hung from a few scattered windows. The theatre was dark, but not uninviting. Just asleep, or waiting.
Despite being so disheveled and rough around the edges, the theatre gave off the comforting feeling of the end of a long summer. A long, wet and humid summer that would lead into a cold and still wet autumn.
The low hanging sun cast long shadows as the night rolled in, sinking peeling paint and carved doorways into a dying light. It was a peaceful evening. One to stand by a doorway with a cigarette to.
The effect was somewhat tainted by the corpse right up against a wall down one of the theatres alleys.
2
Edgar’s leg brace groaned as he stood with the papers. His body copied the noise as he strode across his office, mumbling to himself.
he read over each line again as he finished a lap around the small space, ending at his desk. He had almost forgotten he had a cigarette between his lips when he instinctively plucked it away to dash into his ashtray, the two missing fingers from his right hand barely bothering him anymore. The ash smoldered into small clouds that danced before the amber lamp by his typewriter. Edgar turned to lean carefully against the edge of the desk, sighing at the police signature decorating the base of the letter. His mind was scattered.
They mustn’t assume that it was him or he had any involvement, right? Bobbies would have come in person for that, or he would have been already booked. They wouldn’t have just sent him a letter if that were the case, right?
Edgars eyes darted over his bookshelves as he thought. The dust was heavy in this room, and with his persistent smoking he could already feel it lie heavy on his chest. He needed some air.
Leaning away from the desk, his leg clicked as his joint straightened. He wobbled for a moment before letting out a sigh. The letter was already folded in his pocket by the time he had entered the hallway.
His office was on the second floor, and Edgar paused for a moment by the metal lift to let his mind argue with him over it for a split second before he continued to the stairway. His left hand gripped the railing as the slow echoes of mechanical churnings followed his each step upwards.
Have to keep mobile- , he told himself, be grateful you’re still on your feet. His own joints ached in disagreement as he reached the landing. Rolling his shoulders back with a quick hop he strode forward, now on the third floor. The hallway was similar to the second floor one, but with a different coat of paint that had long since begun to fade and peel in some spots.
The fresh evening air hit his ears like tiny daggers as he stepped upon the east-side balcony.
The balcony was large, just over 10 feet wide with two stone benches facing one another. An empty planter sat cracked in one corner and hardy pillars framed the scenery of squat buildings.
For once it wasn’t raining.
Edgar’s eyes roamed over the street below as he gently held himself. How a city half drowned and constantly swamped by rain had such awful drainage was beyond him. This part of town didn’t know grass, it knew mud, and most corners could pass for their own ponds. At least it kept the paths mostly clean.
Edgar looked up at the other side of the theatre, towards the west-side balcony. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which he barely did since his short-sightedness was barely noticeable, but it was just bad enough to throw the other balcony out of focus. Even with his sub-par eyesight he saw something most would have missed.
From the back of his throat Edgar could still taste the residue of his last cigarette. His tongue rolled over the roof of his mouth and teeth, subconsciously trying to taste anything left lingering. His two remaining right-hand fingers and thumb tapped his own shoulder as he hugged himself against a slight breeze. The sight on the other balcony shifted out of view and into a nook he couldn’t spot. Edgars breath came out as a soft vapor.
Shuffling back, he folded himself onto a stone bench with a mechanical crack. His left leg- his “good” leg- sat folded on top of the braced one.
He waited for a while, till he no longer felt he was alone.
“I’m seeing a lady from uptown tomorrow…” his voice came out as barely a note on the wind. There was no response, only dead air. He knew better. “She wants to rent out the red hall at some point…”
Edgar turned and saw the small glass placed besides him.
A small sip told him that it was water.
He would have preferred whisky.