Ade Grant - The Mariner

McConnell would have ended up on the scrap-heap, if not for a producer he’d worked with in year one of Old To Gold, since left for greener pastures. He was starting up a new show, a sort of funky documentary series called ‘Gibberish’ and it needed a researcher. Pretty low pay, but it was something. Actually, it turned out to be a lot of fun. It mocked groups and businesses that took advantage of the ignorant — alternative medicines, psychics, that sort of thing. Although the biggest targets were the organised religions, anything ranging from Islam to Scientology. The approach led to some pretty harsh reviews, but great ratings.

His father, a life-long Catholic, hadn’t been impressed. All his fears about his son joining the liberal media had been proven right, and when McConnell tried to move back into the family home (empty other than his father these past five years since Mum passed away) the old man had refused. Home or the job. McConnell chose the job, and moved into a bedsit.

He’d been on the way to collect some things, temporarily still under the old bastard’s roof when… what? Suddenly he was here, in this strange forest behind the wheels of his car. A car he’d been hoping to sell, though the crash may have put an end to that dream.

“Fuck,” he cursed, wincing at the pain in his face as he did. Perhaps he’d been attacked and drugged? Perhaps he’d had a flashback? He didn’t think he’d taken enough acid in his youth to worry about such things, but who could tell? There wasn’t enough research on the subject to be sure. Perhaps his brain had been fried and he’d zoned out for weeks?

A sign ahead caught his eye. He squinted, not making it out, so he rubbed his eyes.

Deggendorf 10

“What the fuck?” He shook his head. The name sounded German, but he’d never been to Germany before. If he’d been spiked, or drunk, or hallucinating, how did he cross the channel?

McConnell rubbed his head. The strange fizzing sensation was passing, his brain recovering from whatever blow had broken his skin.

A groan from the back seat made him shriek, jumping where he sat and smacking his head against the side window, leaving a circular print of sticky blood upon impact.

His father was in the backseat. Gregory McConnell, looking many years beyond his sixty-seven, was slumped in the rear-opposite side, belted in and semi-conscious.

“Dad?” McConnell asked, not believing his own eyes. “Dad, what’s going on?”

And then the ground began to shake.

It began as a low trembling, something felt in fillings that could be dismissed, but as it built up, the trees on either side began to quiver.

“Dad!” he yelled again, turning the key in the ignition to breathe life into the old ford, but with no avail.

Water seeped across the road. Not much, only an inch deep, but it flowed through the trees to his right in one wide wave. His panic stricken mind screamed tsunami, but could a tsunami hit Germany? How much of Germany was coast? Was he even in fucking Deutschland? With a moment’s reflection he figured it must be a flood from nearby river, burst from its banks, but this did nothing to allay his fears. He tried the ignition again and reluctantly the car rumbled into life.

The sound of the engine must have roused his father, who now leaned forward, staring over McConnell’s shoulder. “Sighisoara. Take me home. Please, take me home.”

“What?” McConnell put the car into reverse and de-tangled it from the fragmented wall. The car bounced over scattered stones as it rolled to realign itself withthe road. “Your home is Croydon. Where’s this other place?”

“Sighisoara.”

“Dad, you’re confused, just be quiet for a second… How did we get here? Do you know what’s going on?”

“Take me home. Sighisoara.”

“I don’t know where the fuck that is!”

“Transylvania.”

Shaking his head, McConnell began to drive towards Deggendorf for no other reason than because the water was running from the opposite direction. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw his father had fallen into a semi-conscious state. It was probably for the best, the old man was speaking gibberish.

As he drove, a thick mist rolled in as if brought by an ocean breeze, settling on the windscreen and forcing McConnell to switch on the wipers despite the absence of rain. He was eager to make haste, water still flowed around his tires with a hunger that made him nervous, but the low-visibility was an even greater threat. It would be hard to see head-on traffic in this mist. Perhaps it was an oncoming vehicle that made him lose control in the first place?

Suddenly, realising his mistake, he veered into the right hand lane. He’d been driving on the left! If this was Germany, surely he should be on the right? How long had he been breaking the law?

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, heart beating with heavy ominous thuds, two thuds to every swipe of the windscreen.

Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

“Where are you taking me?” his father asked, his voice thin and exhausted.

“Dad, it’s okay,” McConnell said, trying to pacify his father. “I’m going to find a way back to Croydon.”

Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

“Croydon?”

“Yes. Somehow we’ve ended up in Germany. We’re not in England any-more.”

“I don’t want to go to England!” the old man yelled as stubborn as a toddler. “Take me home!”

“England is home you senile old fool!” McConnell found himself shouting at his father, frustrated, stressed and scared out of his wits. “Shut up, and let me drive!”

“England? My home? Don’t be silly, that’s where Pappa’s from, but I don’t want to go there. And you shouldn’t address a stranger so.”

“A stranger? What are you talking about? I’m your son, you silly git! Christopher! Remember? Christopher!”

The old man fell silent and immediately McConnell felt guilty. Whatever had happened to bring him here had also happened to his father, the shock clearly having a devastating impact. He was probably suffering amnesia or a stroke or some other awful thing.

“Listen, Dad… I’m sorry, it’s just—”

Suddenly he felt fingers at his head, scratching and clawing. One got a hold of an ear and pulled, a strange deep tearing sound followed by pain as blood poured from the broken lobe. He pulled away, leaning forward, trying not to swerve off the road, whilst getting away from the sudden onslaught. Behind him his father was screaming, not words, just mindless babble, hollering as if he were a dog after the postman. Insanely, McConnell’s disturbed mind assumed it was over-the-top retribution for his brisk tone and crude language (something his father had always condemned); he even tried to yell an apology, but when he turned his head to face his attacker he saw how futile an apology was.

Gregory was tangled in his seatbelt, held back by the strap as he strained against it with all his will. His face, usually one of condescending calm and judgement, was now distorted into a wide snarl, spittle peppering his chin, cheeks an angry red, as if he’d consumed a lifetime of alcohol in just five minutes. Loud screams were cut short as the belt constricted his neck, choking breath. Once more he appeared like a dog, though this time straining against its leash and gasping, not intelligent enough to let the lead go slack.

“Dad, stop it!” He glanced between the road and the passenger as quickly as he could. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong!”

The creature’s eyes had rolled up into its skull like tiny white dots of pus on an enormous purple boil. As McConnell screamed, Gregory turned a bloodshot eye in his direction. It almost made him open the door and throw himself onto the tarmac outside; the hate he felt was potent.