Chapter 12 A Torn Soul

 

One week later in Gravebourne Borough, South New London.

 

Alone, in a dusty room with rubbish for carpet, Spike was staring into the wooden ceilings, bobbing his head to death metal. The broken morning light was coming through his mouldy windows and shining on his terrible tattoos. As he was listening, however, the music wasn’t soothing him like it always did. Despite his body recovering after the attack, he didn’t feel right. He needed something a little more.

Wearing only a crop top and his underwear, he jumped off his bead and headed into the living room. There, he found Goliath in the centre of the room, bent over with the floorboards lifted. He was reaching into a safe, pulling out handfuls of gold coins and putting them into pouches in a duffel bag.

“You cleaned up that mess yet?” was the first thing Goliath said.

“Fuck off, giant,” Spike spat, hands on his hips.

“You almost died last week,” Goliath reminded him, hardening his bushy eyebrows. 

“Yet here I am, ready to go again. I don’t need a pep talk, thanks. And FYI, I’m feeling fucking fantastic,” Spike remarked.

“You ain’t even thanked Roach for saving your life,” Goliath muttered under his breathe.

Puzzled, Spike shook his head and offered a smirk. “What?”

“Ah, don’t worry … you got a piss stain,” Goliath noticed, nodding towards his crotch.

“It came with them,” Spike huffed like a stroppy teen. He grabbed a pair of keys on top of the doorframe and headed outside, only adding a pair of crappy workman’s boots to his outfit. With a yawn and a stretch, and the morning sun hitting his face, he walked down the creaky metal stairs from their flat and double-backed. He jingled his keys until he found the right one and slotted it into a lock next to a shutter. 

“Morning, gorgeous,” Spike said seductively, walking into the dark garage and sliding a finger over the the roof of a car. Finding a layer of dust had gathered on the car, he pouted with furrowed eyebrows. “I need to get you all cleaned up.”

Hopping in the front seat and slotting the keys in, the car roared to life, sending a shockwave through the entire building. Spike gently kissed the dashboard and whispered, “You sound good though, baby.”

Reversing it out into the sunlight, he got out and began to dust it off. It was a hatchback, painted a midnight purple, with no license plate and no identifying marks. It was Spike’s toy.

 

Hearing the roaring beneath him, Goliath thought it was time to go; Spike would leave it running for half an hour before he even thought about driving it. He picked up the last pouch of coins and placed them inside a duffel bag, alongside a water jug and a towel.

Taking the steps down quickly, he started to walk through the streets of South New London. It was a normal working day; cars were driving and the odd gunshots sounded off in the distance. As he was walking by a small cafe, he noticed the TV inside was playing recordings of the SPD. From an open window, Goliath overheard a conversation between two locals.

“Shits been playing all week,” one grunted to the other, sipping their coffee loudly.

“Doin’ my head in at the minute; all my daughter is talking about. Unwanted this, Unwanted that. But hey, Giff, at least we know they’re real.”

“Yeah, and a bunch of murderous arseholes. All the coverups you see, like fires and all that shit? Yeah, it’s them no doubt. I heard there was a gas leak at Battersea Power Station last week, t‘whole Grey Zone has been closed off since.”

“Eh, why would you wanna go the Grey Zone anyway? Filled with crackheads and cunts.”

The other turned his attention back to the screen. “Look at that fucking huge bloke, see him?”

“The one that turned into a fifteen-foot titan?”

“Yeah, Bill. 

“How the fuck does he hide in the city—like how?”

“Didn’t you hear what Lady ‘Grand said: they walk among us,” the man jested.

“Whatever. I reckon he eats steroids for breakfast.”

“You don’t turn that big if you’re on the juice, mate. It’s probably some magic or some bullshit like that.”

“Too fucking right you do. Do you remember my old pal, Jeff? Yeah, he grew two feet in a month—”

“You told me this before mate, that’s a fucking lie. You don’t get that big on the juice.”

Goliath had heard enough as it spiralled from a discussion to an argument. He re-adjusted the duffel bag straps and continued. Often, people stared at him as he walked the streets. Half-Giants were rare in this part of the new world, but he wasn’t one. Despite hating being called a half-giant, it was best not to say anything. Mothers hid their kids and even the local gangsters didn’t make eye contact. Sometimes he liked it but other times he wished they didn’t. Was he not approachable?

With all the attention on him and his team, he wondered if he could come out into the spotlight without mist covering his face. Of course, it was just a fantasy. Goliath only wanted people to like him, and not see him as a brute.

Eventually, he found himself at a gym. Time had not been kind to this establishment, with the ink on the sign above the front doors being faded, barely spelling out the words ‘Frank’s Gym and Foundation’. All the windows were painted sparsely white, and the only decor outside were dozens of fight listings. It smelt of sweat and hard work, and despite the look of the place, was very busy.

He entered, spotting a di-human behind a desk folding towels. He strolled up, casting his shadow against them.

“I’m here to see Mike,” Goliath announced, his presence alone scaring the life out of her.

“Sure, go right in,” she said, offering a weak smile. “He’s in his office.”

Goliath took his hood off and walked through the weights section towards the double doors at the end. Many people stopped their workouts to look at the enormous man walking by them. Though, it was more the incredible muscle mass he had, rather than his height. Respectful nods came his way while others considered his presence as a threat, and stared daggers at him. He ignored all of them.

At the back of the gym, there was a bleak wooden door labelled ‘office’. The large man twisted the handle and entered inside. Sat at a desk at the back of the small room was a di-human; it was an old, dark-skinned man with what appeared to be gills where his cheeks should be protruding. The man had a clean shave and a trimmed afro that turned white towards the top. Though he was old, he had a ripped physique and looked as if a paper cut would kill him.

“If it isn’t the mysterious donator,” the man announced, putting the papers in his hands down and looking over a thin pair of glasses. Goliath didn’t say anything, only dumping the duffel bag onto the desk.

“I don’t want it,” Mike told him, folding his arms and leaning back.

“What?” Goliath questioned, his eyebrows furrowed. “That’s 160 gold there.”

“Only the Three Moons know how you got this coin,” he replied. Grabbing a pen from a pot, he poked around the open duffel bag, seeing piles of gold coins inside, stamped with ‘EOC’ on them.

“It’s official coin,” Goliath grunted in response.

“Coin is only good if you’ve earned it—”

“I have earned it,” Goliath cut off angrily.

“This is blood money, or whatever the Terrans call it. I don’t want my foundation built on it.”

“Most of your foundation is built on this coin. This helps people.”

Mike sighed. “We’ve already built four gyms for the kids; salaries upfront for 5 years and two schools have been built because of you—and it’s all under my name and not yours. You want to do good but throwing gold at me doesn’t solve your problems.”

“This coin changes lives … it doesn’t matter how I got it,” Goliath remarked, scratching his stubble.

“It matters because you think it clears your conscious when all it's doing is fuelling it.”

Goliath placed his hands on the table and met Mike’s eyes. Mike didn’t even flinch, instead, he moved his head closer, challenging the enormous man.

“You don’t scare me, boy,” Mike said, his tone guarded, “I see through you.”

Goliath backed down, remarking, “Save it, old man. I’ll see you in two hours.” Not many people could confront him, and even fewer make him back down.

Mike sighed once more and shook his head. Goliath turned around and was about to take his leave when Mike reminded him, “Your membership payment is due. Two months worth.”

Goliath reached inside the duffel bag but Mike slapped his hand away. “This is a donation,” Mike explained to him, taking the heavy bag off the desk and letting it fall to the ground. “I want it out of your pocket.”

With his upper lip twitching, Goliath reached inside his jumper and dumped four silver onto the desk. “Two months in advance.”
“Enjoy your workout, sonny,” Mike said with a genuine smile and a wink.

“Thanks,” Goliath said without smiling back.

“Oh, baby, you sound soooo fucking sexy,” Spike moaned, slapping the dashboard of his car and running his hand around the rim of the steering wheel. His foot gently pressed the throttle and the exhaust let off three loud pops. 

Spike was currently sitting at some traffic lights which were leading onto a highway above New London. The eccentric bard was still wearing his tighty whiteys with a piss-stain and a crop top. At least he wore some boots. As he was seducing his car, another pulled up next to him with some teenagers inside.

There were four of them and each began to shout obscenities while asking for a race. Spike ignored them, preferring to tend to his car.

That was until one of them threw a can of beer at his window, nicking his window tint. Spike clenched his jaw and slowly turned around while reaching into the glovebox. The window came down too and the four teenagers turned pale as a pistol was pointed at them. 

Why didn’t he shoot? His finger was on the trigger, ready to squeeze but he didn’t and felt it slip off. 

“We’re sorry, dude,” one spluttered. 

Spike didn’t put the pistol down, just held it—pointed at the driver. With a change of mind, the gun’s aim moved down to the front tyre. Just as the lights turned green, a bullet pierced the rubber and Spike floored it, leaving the other car in the dust.

Forty, fifty, sixty—Spike watched the speedometer closely, making sure his girl hadn’t suffered any problems since he was gone. 

Seventy, eighty, ninety—he focused more on the road ahead.

One-hundred, 120, 130, 140—he kept going, reaching speeds of well over 180 miles per hour. Everything started to become a blur. At this speed, he would be hooting and hollering, screaming in joy as he left vacuums in his wake. But he didn’t feel anything.

He slowed down, dropping to ninety miles per hour—still zipping between cars, however. That was until he passed the wrong car; an armoured saloon with ‘Highway Guard Force’ written on the back in blue. Lights flashed and they sped up to him.

Goliath was lying on his back under a reinforced steel bar. On either side of the slightly bent bar were dozens of weights, totalling well over twelve hundred kilograms. His warm-up alone had gathered a crowd. You see, Goliath didn’t need to work out. His genetics and race played a vital part in his build, only really needing to eat to supply his body—going to the gym was just something to do.

“Do you lot want tickets?” Goliath asked them, sitting up.

Eyes turned to the floor and feet spun around.

“Come on you piggy little cunts!” Spike screamed out his window with a middle finger raised high, swerving through traffic like a snake.

“In law by the King and the People, pull over!” a speakerphone shouted.

Spike cackled as he pushed down on the throttle. A single guard car had turned into three and a full chase was now underway. 

Suddenly, a wave of fear and regret hit him and his foot eased off the accelerator. He moved over three lanes, taking the first exit off. He knew the city very well and quickly found an abandoned warehouse where he parked it inside and killed the engine.

“Fuck is wrong with you, mate?” he asked himself, gripping and shaking the steering wheel. “Fuck … Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Goliath sat in a Luminian Drinkhouse. It was later in the day; more people were inside, many of them with friends, family or coworkers. A faint smell of lavender was in the air but was masked by the smell of stale beer and body odour. Despite it being Lumina-styled, TVs were hung in every corner with a few oddballs watching them, Goliath included.

On the table he was sitting at, which was situated at the back, away from as many people as possible, was a two-pint glass of beer and a single pint of ale. Goliath quietly sipped it as he watched replays of the SPD. He liked it, but it felt wrong.

Then, Mike sat down next to him and grabbed the spare drink. He slid a silver coin Goliath’s way who slid it back.

“I broke your bar,” Goliath told him.

“We only had that one for you anyway,” Mike replied after taking a hefty gulp. He noticed Goliath was staring at the TV screen so he swivelled his chair to watch.

“You into it too?” Mike asked him, setting his drink down.

“What?” Goliath questioned, furrowing his eyebrows.

“The Unwanted; all people are talking about nowadays,” Mike replied, nodding to the television.

“What about them?” Goliath questioned, taking a sip.

“Mercs in masks—killers on leashes,” Mike stated, hinting at his hatred for them. 

“You ever met one?” Goliath asked him.

“No, not sure I’d like to. From all the stories I’ve been told, I wouldn’t even want to be in the same room as one,” Mike answered.
“Tell me some of the stories,” Goliath requested of him, eager to hear if any of his colleagues slipped up.

“Ah, not sure even you would want to hear them,” Mike replied, twisting his glass around on the table.

“This is our deal, you know, Mike,” Goliath reminded him.

“Hey, I like coming for a drink with you . . . takes all the stress away from the gym. Candy just had a kid too and she wants this special fridge in the breakroom for breastmilk. Why does she need a special fridge?”

“Women,” Goliath grunted.

“I guess it shows she cares,” Mike figured.

“Go on then—the stories?” Goliath urged, interested.

Mike took a nervous glance around before leaning in close. “I know they killed a family down in West; normal folk, father had a good job—a nice guy too, but he was sent the wrong email, showing all sorts of dodgy bank transactions. Thousands of gold going in and out … he clicked off it and deleted everything. You know, not wanting to get involved with that sort of shit. Next week, him and his family disappeared—just gone, poof, like that.”

“Mercs would have done it anyway,” Goliath huffed, sipping his beer.

“I even think Hunters would’ve at the moment,” Mike joked. “At least there would be some bodies for the guards. Besides, for the right amount of money, anyone would. Like, look at that—” Mike pointed to the television. It showed the armoured vehicle they were in landing on a school bus. “People praise them as heroes for saving Elora Evergrand, but they killed over a hundred people in the process. Thirteen kids were in that bus.”

“Some souls are worth more than others,” Goliath countered.

“Lives are worth more than others,” Mike corrected, “souls are the same. Anyway, what do you think about them then?”

“Me?” Goliath asked, surprised.

“No, the other bald guy sitting next time,” Mike joked.

Goliath chuckled and rubbed his stubble. “Same as you really,” he lied, side-eying the television. “Where do you think they get them from?”

Mike looked around once more before he said, “I think they get them when they’re young, you know? Train them up. I pity them to be honest—probably think they’re doing it for the greater good or some bullshit like that.”

“They did stop the Children of Discordia,” Goliath stated, sipping his beer.

“Terrorists come and go… Only since the Great Merge did Lumanians know of the word,” Mike offered his opinion.

“I agree,” Goliath said, folding his arms and leaning back on the chair.

“I don’t think it will be the last we hear about them. They’re getting bolder.”

“Can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Goliath wondered.

Mike shrugged. “Who gives a shit at the end of the day, honestly? Their line of work is getting more demand than it ever did. If they don’t take the offer, then someone else will. Even psychopaths need a job.”

Spike scratched his head and looked down at the tattoos covering his body. Most of them he didn’t remember getting; there was a small penis on his thumb, an ugly, terribly-drawn dog on his right palm—it was no less to say that they were mistakes. But when did he care about his mistakes? When did he care about anyone other than himself?

 His hands slowly drifted to one across his veins on his right wrist. The tattoo there was of a small, majestic boat, labelled ‘Serenity, The Sea Splitter’. It was small and cute but very detailed, almost like it could be recalled from memory alone.

 

Inside the Thorn household, Roach had just finished a workout. The long-sleeved t-shirt and tight trousers he wore were used to hide the tallies from his sisters. It felt good to alleviate his mind of his troubles for some time.

Walking into the kitchen, he found his sister, May, leaning over the countertop with a smile and a phone pressed to her ear. “Ok … Ok, sure, this afternoon? I can do it. Here? Um, yeah we can do it here—whatever is easiest. I don’t mind—if she insists then definitely. Brilliant, see you soon.” She ended the call and screamed at the top of her lungs in delight.

“Do you have to do that?” Roach spat, uncovering his ears.

“Guess who’s coming over in an hour—oh shit, I need to clean up,” May remarked, speaking directly from her thoughts.

“May, what’s going on?” Roach asked, throwing fruit into a blender.

“Guess who just got another job?!” she squealed, grinning from ear to ear. “And—AND, it won’t interfere with anything on the West End.”

“Congrats, May, what is it? Did you say it's happening this afternoon?”

“Ha-ha,” she said. “Elora Evergrand is coming here in an hour!”

Roach knocked the blender off the counter and it splintered into pieces. “What?!”

“Elora Evergand is coming here, to our house,” May repeated, hands on hips, gloating.

“You—what, for what?” Roach asked, composing himself.

“She’s offered me a job as an influencer with her company Omen Entertainment. I already have 15,000 followers, look!” she exclaimed, bringing up her phone to show him.

Roach didn’t care about her followers. “Why is she coming here?” he asked the most important question.

“We’re doing a photoshoot here. Elora insisted because she wanted me to be as comfortable as possible. Can we do it in the kitchen? No—wait, the garden would be better. When does the gardener come?”

“Wednesdays. May, I wish you could have warned me before.”

“Why? You don’t control me,” she said, offering a scowl.

“Because this is my fuckin’ house, May, and Elora Evergrand is not someone you want to get involved with. She’s up there and you’re down here,” Roach explained with his hands.

“And? Isn’t that what you did with us? We went from living in a one-room shack in the Underground and now we’re here, the Outers with a seven-bedroom house. Just because you did it, doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Roach scratched the top of his head and ran a heavy hand down his face. He couldn’t argue with that. “I understand, May,” Roach sighed. “Do whatever you need to do.”

“I need to put on make-up,” she said quickly, scuttling down the hallway.

June looked puzzled as her sister ran past her and bumped her slightly. “Hey, watch it.”

“Not now, June!” she exclaimed, sprinting up the stairs three at a time.

“Sol,” June said in a puppy dog voice. 

“What do you want now?” Roach asked as he was picking up the pieces of the blender.

“Well, you remember Mr Lockheart Horrowitz? I may have invited him over. But, before you get angry, we didn’t get much time as he had to shoot off that night and I want you to get to know him more. He’s a nice and well-put-together guy and I just want you to like him.”

Roach pressed his head into the cold tiles. “Fine. When is he coming?”

“In the next hour or so?”

“Don’t give him our address, tell him to park and walk at the gates,” Roach grunted, displeased.

June opened her mouth in protest but Roach put a finger up. “I don’t anyone knowing our address. Don’t argue with it. That’s final.”

“Fine,” June huffed, spinning around, her smirk betraying her tone.

“Oh, and Elora Evergrand will be here too,” Roach told her, throwing glass into a bin.

“What? Here?” June questioned.

“Yeah, something with your sister.”

“Shit, I need to put on makeup.”

“Language, June,” Roach told her.

“Sorry!” she yelled as she took off down the hallway and up the stairs.