Black Hearts Rising (Wardens of the Black Heart Book 2)
Black Hearts Rising
Wardens of the Black Heart
Book II
by Rob Campbell
© 2019 Rob Campbell
Cover by oliviaprodesign
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. For the fictional characters, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Where well-known historic figures and events are referenced, the specific details of the situations described are purely fictional.
This book is dedicated to all those that have been kind enough to encourage me in this mad endeavour. Family, friends, colleagues, and forum friends.
The story so far…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
The story so far…
(what happened in “Book I: Monkey Arkwright” in less than 500 words)
Budding writer Lorna Bryson is struggling to come to terms with the recent death of her father when she meets Monkey Arkwright, the boy who loves to climb. The two strike up an immediate rapport, and Lorna is soon catapulted into Monkey’s world of climbing and other adventures in the churches, woodlands and abandoned places in and around their home town of Culverton Beck.
When the two teenagers find an ancient coin in the woods, claims from potential owners flood in, including the mysterious Charles Gooch, who is adamant that the coin is his. Meanwhile, Monkey’s life is complicated by the harassment he suffers at the hands of school bully, Goofy Muldoon, a situation that deteriorates further when he discovers that Goofy is in league with Charles Gooch.
Ownership of the coin is finally settled in favour of millionaire Lester Hawkstone, but far from being the end of the matter, Lester reveals the amazing story behind the coin. He invites Lorna and Monkey to join his organisation, which he claims is locked in a battle for control of a series of objects that possess the power to change fate. Whilst the names of these objects are known – The Frenchman, The Sun and The Truth – their exact location and form are not. The only clue is that they are all works of art by a largely forgotten nineteenth-century artist named John Abernathy. Lester confides that he is afraid that a group known as the Wardens of the Black Heart, of which Charles Gooch is a member, is trying to locate and subvert the power of these objects for its own nefarious purposes.
Lorna and Monkey eventually help Lester track down one of the objects, The Frenchman, which is a toy soldier in the form of Napoleon Bonaparte, Monkey’s climbing skills being put to one last test as he recovers the soldier from a city apartment in a daring rooftop raid. Lorna feels a sense of anti-climax when Lester simply stores the Napoleon figure in his secure vault.
During the chase for the elusive works of art, Lorna and Monkey develop a theory that Gooch’s briefcase is the source of some demonic power, allowing him to reverse the positive effects of charmed objects. By the end of the story, Goofy Muldoon is in a psychiatric ward, having suffered some trauma after looking into the briefcase.
The story ends with an epilogue told from the perspective of Charles Gooch, in which we learn of his connection to the Chernobyl disaster, thereby confirming, to the reader at least, that all of Lester’s fears are well-founded and that the danger posed by the Wardens of the Black Heart is real.
Chapter 1
Charles Gooch threw the newspaper down in disgust.
It sat there on the table, the bold typeset of the headline mocking him, although in this case, the ‘FAILURE’ in huge capital letters referred to some incompetence on the part of the local council. All the same, the thought wormed away inside his head, leaving him unable to shake the feeling that somewhere, a group of men were discussing his fate even now. He felt sure that the word failure would feature at least once in their conversation.
His mission had been doomed from the start. Whilst his fellow Wardens were working up something of a frenzy about ‘the sign’ – all based on some vague prophecy that in his view was nothing but an unhelpful diversion – he’d been dispatched to Culverton Beck to investigate. In the last few years, there seemed to be a growing belief in the council ranks that such visions were indeed a harbinger, a precursor to some cataclysmic event, and a serious amount of resources had been deployed accordingly. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if he was being set up for a fall.
Despite having little to work with, his luck was in; he’d chanced first on Hawkstone’s coin, and then even better, he’d picked up the trail of The Frenchman, the miniature of Napoleon Bonaparte that was one of Abernathy’s works of art so desperately sought by the Wardens. After asking a few discreet questions and roping in some local youths to help him recover the piece, he’d started to believe that he might leave the town in triumph.
Until the boy, Monkey Arkwright, had turned up.
He’d certainly underestimated the scrawny kid with the ridiculous name and that girl, Lorna, who followed him everywhere. Still, she’d provided a way back into the game that he hadn’t expected, or more to the point, her associates at the newspaper had. There might yet be a way to wrest the advantage back from Hawkstone.
After plying a disgruntled reporter with drinks and feeding him a fabricated account of what went on at the home of millionaire playboy, Lester Hawkstone, Gooch had intended to turn up the heat on his adversary. A piece of gossip involving some local trouble-causing kids, a stolen coin, wild goings-on at the home of a well-known millionaire and the suggestion of occult practices should do the trick. The idea was to unsettle Hawkstone with some bad press, and when the old goat was sufficiently unbalanced, nab The Frenchman.
However, his plan appeared to be turning sour like milk in the summer sun. For the past eight weeks, he’d been scanning the pages of the Culverton Beck Recorder, eager for a sign that his poisonous words had made their way into its pages. But alas, there appeared to be no hint of the events of the past twelve months: nothing about Hawkstone or the kids, not even a hint of scandal.
After his increasingly positive reports, the council wasn’t going to take news of his latest failure too well. It took a lot to rattle Charles Gooch, but for the first time in many years, he was concerned. In the early years, he’d pulled off one success after another, culminating in his acquisition of The Sun and his stunning success in Chernobyl.
But nothing in this town seemed to be easy. Gooch’s past victories meant nothing here, and he couldn’t help but feel that this Monkey Arkwright character was playing a larger part than fate would normally allow. Just bad luck? Gooch didn’t think so; in his experience, luck was usually on his side and not working in favour of some no-mark kid who’d blundered in on the action once all the pieces had been set.
Nothing m
ade sense. It wasn’t like the old days, not at all.
About to make his way over to the ever-present briefcase, Gooch stopped when he saw a small headline in the bottom right-hand corner of the Culverton Beck Recorder that he’d tossed onto the table: something about a good Samaritan who’d handed a lost wallet in to the police and how its grateful owner had made a song and dance about rewarding the finder for his kind deed. Normally, Gooch would scoff at such a sickly story – or heart-warming tale, as the manipulative media would spin it. In fact, that’s pretty much what the story said. But in this case, it brought back memories so vivid that he caught himself easing back into his chair at the table as he remembered a mild spring day in 1912.
--- Charles Gooch, 1912 ---
It was better this way. That’s what Gooch kept telling himself, had to keep telling himself. If Edith didn’t want him, then he’d just have to accept it. If she didn’t want to share his life, didn’t want to be part of the grand vision of the future that he’d laid out, then it was her loss. At just twenty-seven years old, he felt like he’d had the world at his feet, but six weeks and the rejection of a fiancée who’d told him that she no longer loved him had a way of bringing one’s world crashing down.
Yes, it was much better this way, the only way out that his heartbroken mind could conjure. For the past few weeks, he’d walked through life like some clockwork automaton that he’d read about in one of those fanciful books that were all the rage these days. But now the way was clear: a new life in the new world. He could put all his troubles behind him and forge ahead in a place where he could make a fresh start, a place where nobody knew him, where the ghosts of the past would be more easily kept at bay.
Stepping off the train at Liverpool’s Riverside Station, Gooch breathed deeply, taking in the salty tang of the sea air. A cacophony of gulls accompanied the sounds of dock workers going about their business. The walk from the platform to the gangplank would be a short one, a journey much shorter than the nightmare few days that he’d endured in getting to Liverpool in the first place, arriving just in time to board his ship.
He looked up at the boat that was docked a short distance to his right. It towered above the concrete pier like some magnificent floating hotel, which to be fair, was an apt description of the Mauretania. Her four funnels reached up into the blue sky, and at this close range, Gooch had to crane his neck to see their tops. They seemed impossibly tall, but everything about this wonder of modern science was crafted on a grand scale. He supposed that a ship that could cross the Atlantic to deliver its passengers to New York in a matter of days would have to be built on such a scale.
After stopping for a moment to take in the scene, Gooch picked up his single suitcase and made his way towards the gangplank, pushing through the throng of passengers and porters who jostled against each other on the busy pier, eventually emerging unscathed on the other side. But at the last moment, he had to turn back to tug his suitcase free, as it had become wedged between a fat woman and an old gentleman in a straw boater. Now that his suitcase had been reunited with him on the right side of the crowd, Gooch turned just in time to see a well-dressed middle-aged man striding purposefully towards the gangplank. He seemed to be in a rush to board, which probably explained why he didn’t notice his wallet fall from his pocket and hit the cobbles of the pier with a soft slap.
“Stop!” shouted Gooch, stooping to pick up the errant wallet.
The man turned, a look of surprise, or perhaps fear, written across his face.
“You dropped your wallet,” called Gooch, holding it out with his free hand.
The man, who held a battered briefcase in one hand, patted his trousers with his other hand as if he somehow doubted the fact that it was his, despite the evidence in front of his very eyes.
“It just fell out.” Gooch handed it back.
“Why, thank you,” the man said, sounding more startled than grateful.
“Are you alright? You seem a little on edge.” Gooch was a keen judge of character, even at this tender age. He’d found that he could read most people. Apart from Edith. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind.
“Just a little nervous,” said the man by way of explanation. “My stomach’s not too good on the water.” He emphasised the point by rubbing the front of his jacket.
Gooch smiled back, offering his hand. “Charles Gooch.”
“Doctor Daniel Turnbull,” the man replied, shaking Gooch’s hand firmly. “Listen, when we’re settled in, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
“I insist. It’s the least I can do. It would’ve cost me a lot more if you’d not spotted my wallet. One of these Scousers would have had more than a few drinks out of that tonight,” he said, gesturing to a crowd that had gathered, presumably to wave off family and friends. A shrill whistle split the air, causing a general murmur to rise from the crowd. “Come on, we’d better get on board,” Turnbull said, patting Gooch on the shoulder amiably.
The two men walked up the gangplank and, when they’d climbed onto the main deck, settled for a place leaning against the rail, looking back onto the dock. Within half an hour, the Mauretania was pulling out into the Mersey estuary, the cheers from the crowd below deafened by the huge machinery that worked ten-to-the-dozen far below deck.
“So, what’s a young man like you doing on a fine ship like this?” Turnbull asked as the two of them gazed at their last images of England.
“I need a fresh start,” Gooch replied, neither wanting to elaborate nor willing to give the ghost of Edith the opportunity to cloud his thoughts further. “And you?”
“I need a fresh start too. But I’m a doctor, and I can afford all this finery.” Turnbull swept his hand out to take in the beautiful wooden deck, the ornate brasswork of the portholes, and the general luxury of their surroundings. “You’re not on the run, are you?” he said conspiratorially, raising his eyebrows in the process.
“Sort of. But not from the police or anything,” Gooch added quickly.
“You can tell me. I’m a doctor!”
If Gooch didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that his new-found friend was hamming it up.
“There’s nothing to tell, really. I was to be married, but things… well, they didn’t work out,” Gooch admitted, reaching the limit of what he wanted to tell a stranger.
“I see. So, you beat her with a poker and pushed her into the river then?”
“Of course not!” Gooch responded hotly.
“Relax, relax. I’m only pulling your leg.” The doctor laughed, clamping his hand on Gooch’s shoulder again. “Seriously though. Travelling on the Mauretania takes some serious brass.”
“Rich uncle. I’m lucky that he took pity on me.” That at least was the truth, and Gooch was eternally grateful to his Uncle David for giving him a way out of the miserable circumstances in which he’d found himself. “You’re travelling light,” he said, trying to change the subject and pointing at Turnbull’s briefcase.
“Got all I need in here, and here,” said Turnbull, patting his wallet. “What say I buy you that drink?” Gooch smiled, took one last look at Liverpool retreating in the distance, and followed Turnbull into the plush interior. If he was to make his way in the new world, he’d need friends, and a doctor who owed him a favour was a good place to start.
Maybe his luck was about to change. In addition to all that business with Edith, the last few days had not been easy. His uncle had generously offered to pay his fare on the Southampton to New York route, but a ticketing mix-up had meant a mad dash to London and then Liverpool to secure passage on the Mauretania. He may be mourning the loss of his beloved Edith – for he felt her departure as surely as if she had shuffled off this mortal coil – but at least he wouldn’t have to slum it stowed in some cramped hole below the deck. A quick look around this ship revealed that he had a few days of luxury to look forward to, and from what he could see, the Mauretania offered the same comforts as her sister ship
on which he had originally booked. He probably wouldn’t regret missing out on the Titanic’s maiden voyage after all.
Gooch parted ways with his new friend in New York, by which stage the luck he’d had in missing out on the Titanic had been heard across most of the world.
“Well, it’s been great getting to know you, Charles,” said Daniel Turnbull as he shook Gooch’s hand warmly. Gooch smiled back, eager to be on his way. “If you ever need a hand over here, look me up,” the doctor added.
As he watched Turnbull head off down the pier, gripping his tatty old briefcase that represented his only luggage, Gooch thought the man’s offer a tad optimistic. In addition to paying his fare, his Uncle David had set him up with a contact in Chicago, whilst Turnbull had already said that he was off to see what America’s west had to offer. What was the chance of them ever meeting again in this land of millions? Such an event would need a huge slice of luck.
Chapter 2
College certainly had some advantages. Gone were the days of scratchy nylon shirts and ties that were too tight. I could now wear my favourite jeans, a comfortable T-shirt and a hoodie. My new classmates seemed friendly and approachable, and I didn’t get that ominous vibe that made me feel like everybody was laughing at me behind my back or plotting some unlikely practical joke at my expense. Then there was the new timetable with its reduced number of subjects: no more maths, no more science and thank God, no more resistant materials. In short, everything was just that more relaxed.
Academically, my week broke down into geography, history and, of course, English – subjects that would stand me in good stead for a career in journalism, or so my careers advisor said. These were subjects that I’d enjoyed at school and looked forward to studying in more detail over the next two years at Harvey Cross Sixth Form College.
However, I had to admit that geography hadn’t got off to the best of starts. We were six weeks into the course now, but my teacher, Jeremy Holdsworth, hadn’t risen much in my estimation over that time. He had a voice that changed in neither pitch nor volume, and whatever knowledge he had to impart was delivered with all the enthusiasm of a bored supermarket announcer. Whilst I accepted that the finer details of coastal erosion wouldn’t excite most people, I’d have thought a geography teacher would at least attempt to breathe some life into the subject. Instead, Jeremy (no more mister or miss in college) laid out the facts in a dull monotone that a hypnotist would have been proud of. You’re getting sleepy… well I certainly was.