chapter one

Dear Solomon

Old friend I find myself writing once more to you though I promised I would not. As the years have past I am grow more and more restless. Things here have not improved and weirdness grips Galway with its twisted fingers. Just the other day-old Ben Crawly disappeared. Just vanished in the middle of the day. His wife found nothing but a bloody patch in the grass, but they say the sheep were licking at the blood, they say their muzzles were red and their bellies swollen. I’m tending to keep away from the fields these days.

Anyway, I should get back to the point. I am writing this because I need to talk to you about… him.

I have found myself thinking about him again. Wondering why he lingers in my mind. Since the mist descended all kinds of strange things have become normality for us. What kind of madness has gripped this Island I cannot say, though I know in my heart that he is different. The chances of us finding him is close to none. The chances of what followed even less. I do not know if I believe in the prophet or even god anymore but whatever happened out there was beyond either of them. I pray that this reaches you soon and you hear my words. I am filled with more dread each day, something watches me, talks to me in my dreams. It askes me where we took him. And I regret to say I told it his name. I hope I live to see you again and that we can discuss this soon. Please, I don’t know what else to do.

I eagerly await your reply

Lucas O’Daud

Bogman’s breathing was fake, fake and steady. Forced into empty lungs and out into empty air just the way he had done it from the moment he had emerged from the mud.

From that moment onwards some unexplainable compulsion had struck him. It had wormed its way down his throat and into his chest like a writhing serpent, forcing him to draw in air. He could not deny it, this unstoppable need to pretend to breathe. Since then it had become a lullaby, keeping him from the tendril’s madness. In, out, in, out, the rhythm calming him reminding him he wasn’t in that terrible dark anymore. That all surrounding cold.

This fake breath was a pretty lie and it was a lucky thing that Bogman was a master at lying to himself. Lies are pretty and sweet and once you get started, they never stop. They keep you settled, keep you calm and in Bogman’s case, they keep you alive.

He focused on the men before him and tried to put on his best smile. The kind of winning smile that you did when you had not a care in the world. This too was another sweet lie.

“come on now Connall,” Bogman said coolly to the man before him “whatta ye going to do with that eh? You know churchman is the only one round here allowed one of those?” he gestured to the gun and smiled brighter but farmer Connall did not smile back. Instead his mouth made an ugly sort of twitch and his glare intensified.

“I have this so that when someone like you comes onto my land, I’m able to deal with you nice and proper.” he said clutching the open double-barreled shotgun tight against his body “and since I know your kind can’t use one of these, I think I will tell you again to get the fuck off my land.”

His three sons stood around him in a cautious semi-circle and as Connall said this they seemed to tense in preparation for a fight. They were all armed though Connall had the only gun. Bogman looked from one to the other. They were all men now bar one, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, he barely had scruff on his chin.

Bogman had known them years back when he first came to the town, back then the biggest of them had only come up to his waist. Now it was more like the other way around. The first of them, Nial, was a large lad, bigger than almost any man in the town. He had a thuggish weight to him but cool calm eyes and a cheeky smile. That smile was absent now. It was hard to smile without menace when holding a length of crowbar. The one with scruff on his chin was big too but Bogman didn’t remember what his name was. He was not nearly as big as his brothers but bigger still than most men. His wide shoulders would’ve been good for rugby, if that was anyone played anymore. In his hands he held a shaking kitchen knife. Poor lad, Bogman thought, he doesn’t want to be here.

The last brother was the only one Bogman had always disliked. Charlie was larger even than Nial, with flat blonde hair shaved into sharp angry shapes. His jaw hung slightly slack, either with a sneer or confusion Bogman wasn’t sure.

There was a click and farmer Connall pulled the gun shut. “piss off you feak! You will not be getting my son. The only thing you are like to get here is a mouth full of metal” he barked his eyes going wide with mad anger as he raised the gun. Bogman stared down the barrels and wondered if he should reassess his life choices. Then again, he had never really had many choices, so this seemed as good a place to end up as anywhere. No use thinking about the ifs and the buts.

“Churchman has to keep the peace Connall.” Bogman said trying to keep his voice calm. When men like Connall held guns you never knew what could set them off. “Not like to be the end of this if you kill me. Besides you know you won’t.”

Connall laughed, a loud mocking laugh like a Dog barking in a cage.

“You think me a fool eh Bogman?” Connall said raising the gun to his eye and pointing it at Bogman’s chest “I know what ye are. I loaded this myself with iron and hawthorn. It will turn that pretty face into mush!” as if to empathize his point he pushed off the safety catch with a metallic click and grinned. That put Bogman in a right spot. Taking on four lads was bad enough but a gun like that and loaded in that way put the odds firmly against him.

Bogman clutched the wooden handle beneath his jacket firmly. His jaw tightened and releasing as he desperately tried to think. It was not as if he could return empty handed, churchman Cole would not stand for that, not for a moment. He looked from son to son and back and Connall eyeing them up to see how ready they were to fight... Churchman had been clear about not fighting unless necessary but Bogman was starting to think that wasn’t an option anymore.

“You know I can’t walk away from this Connall.” Bogman said slowly as he took a tentative step forward. Connall tensed but didn’t fire, perhaps there was a chance he could talk him down “He has to be brought to the hall for what he done. Hes gotta at least get to the hearing. Sure, if he’s not done nothing then he’s got nothing to fear right?”

Connall seemed to mull that over. Then Charlie interrupted and ruined it all.

“you can’t be serious Da! There is no way they will be fair about it. You can’t honestly trust that churchman and his freak.”

Connall nodded and looked back at Bogman “boys got a point; I know that churchman of yours. More like that my Charlie will be strung up at the gates before he even gets to invoke prophets’ parley.”

“you know that’s ridiculous. Churchman just wants what’s best for all of us. If you stand down and come with me, I’m sure he will give you a fair hearing.” Bogman said emphatically. though he could already see his words were pointless. 

Connall raised a bushy eyebrow incredulously. “how long you been working for him? Six years is it? Prophets balls man I knew you were dim, but I didn’t think you were a damn brick.”

Bogman wasn’t sure what he meant but he felt his face turn red. Well that was another white lie, Bogman’s face never turned red not really, the most could summon was a slight darkening of his pale cheeks. 

“I don’t care what you think.” Bogman said, angrily now. He needed to reassert his dominance. “he’s coming with me and that’s the end of it.”

Charlie sneered and shouted out from behind his father “And what’s a bloody fouling like you going to do about it? Piss off back to the town and your churchman. No place here for a freak like you. You are the one they should be stringing up.”

Bogman felt his anger grow and he pointed a finger at Charlie, who instinctively took a step back

“listen ye donkey faced kiddy fiddler!” Bogman growled “yer coming with me so churchman can figure out what to do with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere” Charlie screeched his voice going high. His father pushing in front of him in red faced rage

“Don’t you dare call my son that!” Connall roared prodding the gun barrel painfully into Bogman’s belly.”

“Careful Connall you are starting to piss me off!!” Bogman growled dangerously close to breaking. Nial seemed to sense the danger and tried to move closer to the pair. His arms held out to try to pacify them

“Now calm down fer a second” he started to say but he was cut off by his father’s angry shouting.

“Piss you off, Piss YOU off!? I’m the one who you need to worry about pissing off ye freak. I have a gun Bogman and I’m not afraid to use…”

It was at that moment that Bogman snapped.

“AHHHH FECK YOU AND YER BLOODY GUN.” Bogman swore stepping back and kicking out at the gun in Connall's hands. His foot caught the barrel and it swung up and to the left. Connall stumbled back, taken by surprise by the force of the kick. He almost fell backwards, and his hand tensed suddenly on the trigger of the gun. There was a loud bang an instant spray of blood as Nial was thrown from his feet, half of his skull spread about on the mud around him. The gunshot echoed out across the land as all present stared at the scene in silent shock. It took a moment for them all to process what had just happened, to realize that in the space of a second a man had turned from living, into meat. Connall stared down at his dead son. The youngest boy screamed. Charlie’s mouth fell open. Bogman swore.

At this moment a story jumped into Bogman’s mind. His friend Micky had once told him about how, when feeling unwell at a party he had barged into a bathroom stall and thrown up on someone’s lap. Rather than apologize Micky had reasoned that he was about to get punched and therefore preemptively punched the guy in the face. The moral of the story is simple; if you are about to get hit, its better to hit first.

This was clear in Bogman’s mind as he pulled the wooden handle out from behind his back revealing a thick heavy woodcutters’ hatchet. In a single movement he roared and swung it at Connalls exposed head. The heavy metal back of the axe cracked against Connalls scull and the old farmer collapsed backward clutching his head in pain, the Gun still held tightly in his grip. Bogman moved to reach for the weapon but before he could he was at once taken off his feet by a force slamming into his chest. Charlie’s crashed into him with all of his considerable weight, bellowing all the while like a wounded pig. Bogman felt himself being lifted into the air before the ground rushed to meet him with terrifying speed. His head rebounded off the earth and his vision exploded with stars. his axe falling from his grip and out of reach.

Thick hands wrapped around his throat, their chilling strength overpowering Bogman. He struggled with all his might, but it was useless Charlie bore down on him, slowly strangling the air from Bogmans lungs. Bogman began to panic and thrash desperately. Sudden images of the endless dark and gloom of the mud gripping him. ‘I’ll not go back’ a voice screamed in his mind ‘not ever’. But there was nothing he could do, he was simply outmatched. He struggled once more with all his strength, waiting with utter terror for the darkness to grip him.

It took him longer than he would have like to admit to remember that he did not need to breathe. Both men stopped moving and sort of stared at each other in confusion. Clearly this was not the normal outcome in strangulation. Bogman out a gasping laugh with what breath he had left and grinned manically. His eyes going wide with sudden menace as if to say ‘what you going to do now eh?’

“what the fuck!” Charlie said, pushing down harder but still with no effect. Desperately he turned to and called out to his younger brother. “Callum, kill him Callum!!! Kill this freak!!”

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Bogman almost hit himself ‘ohhhh Callum was what he was called Bogman thought, suddenly remembering the youngest boys name, how on earth had he forgotten that. Some days he really was as dim as a brick.

Callum however did not react to his brothers calls. His body seemingly frozen with inaction. He stared at his brother and Bogman with wide terrified eyes. It was then that Bogman felt his fingers curl around the handle of his axe. He gripped it tight and swung it upwards with all his strength.

The axe head dug into Charlies flabby side and the bigger man roared in pain. His thick hands released their pressure somewhat and Bogman wrenched the axe free to swing again. Before he could strike again there was a moan of agony to their right. Bogman turned to look and saw to his horror that the Connall was beginning to rise. Blood was pouring down his face from a cut on his head, but His eyes squinted as he began to take in the scene before him. Realization was alighting in his old eyes and the gun began to turn his hands.

Bogman swore again and pulled back his axe and cut again. He was fucked if he didn’t free himself right now! this time his axe sank into Charlies shoulder cutting deep and letting out a spurt of blood. The big man bellowed once more but to his credit did not relinquish his grip. Understanding was slowly spreading across Connall's face, one of his sons was dead and now another was dying right in front of him. The gun lowered. The barrel pointed at Bogman’s head.

Bogman realized that he was about to die.

What a way to go, getting your head blown off, not very dignified was it?. Well it had happened to Nial, couldn’t be that bad could it. Nice and quick he guessed, he realized that no one was going to miss him and that seemed like a sad thought to have. Then again, an empty funeral seemed much better than one full of crying. God but Bogman hated crying. Made people screw up their faces in such an ugly way. And the snotty noses, prophet but he’d rather have no weeping than have to look down on that. There was a loud click…

And nothing happened. Connall stared at the gun in confusion, his concussion clearly making it hard for him to figure out what to do next. He turned it sideways to look at it. His eyes squinting curiously in the half light. It was then that the gun decided to go off. Bucking in Connall's hand and falling from his grip. He looked at it in utter confusion then something fell to the ground beside him. Connall turned slowly, his eyes going from the gun to the body of Callum his mouth working like a fish as he tried to figure out what had just happened.

Charlie screamed. His grip releasing from Bogman’s neck momentarily as he looked over at the dead bodies of his two brothers. Bogman used the moment to his advantage. He kicked his knee up into Charlie's exposed groin. The man groaned pain and the pressure on Bogmans chest eased enough for him to pull back his arm and swing his axe into Charlie's exposed neck. There was a spurt of blood and the last of Connell's sons collapsed backward onto the earth.

Bogman clambered to his feet and looked from one body to the next. Connall did the same. Finally, their eyes met. Connall opened the shotgun, the empty cartridges ejecting onto the ground with a plastic clatter.

“Don’t Connall.”

He began reaching into his coat

“Now I’m serious. You do that and I’m going to have to kill you, ye hear.”

The old farmer pulled out two cartridges and slowly slotted them into the gun.

“Ahhh shite” Bogman groaned and knelt to lever his axe free from Charlie's neck. He then strode towards Connall as the gun closed with a click.

Bogman washed the blood from his face in a sheep trough. The stinking water turning red as it ran from his dripping face. He was in a field overlooking the bay. The fence posts suddenly ending where they met the cliffside as if half the field had been chopped off and dropped into churning ocean below. Bogman wondered if sheep ever fell off it, but he couldn’t be sure if even they were that stupid.

The Connell family farmhouse just out of sight over the hill. A sheep tottered over to him and nibbled at his shoe. Bogman kicked him away and swore at it. You had to be careful with sheep these days, who knew what they were thinking behind those glassy eyes. He found himself thinking of the bloodbath that had just ensued and once again wondered how the situation had gotten so out of hand. Had it been before or after he kicked the gun, had there been any moment after that when he could have still ended things well. Bogman doubted it. The long and short of his job was that most things seemed to end in violence with him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket repeating its dreadful four note tone that always sounded to Bogman like the phone was saying ‘you’re in trouble’ over and over. When churchman had first given it to him, he had been immensely proud of having it, it setting him apart as the only man to have one in the village. Since then he had grown to hate the thing. He pulled it from his pocket and held it an inch from his ear, like he was afraid the thing might try to sting him. Tentatively he pressed the answer button.

“You there Bogman?” Came the cold steely voice of churchman Cole.

“Aye.” Bogman responded. There was a long pause as if Cole had not fully expected him to answer. Then when he spoke his voice was edged with irritation

“Why haven’t you reported back? You have the boy I presume.”

Bogman winced internally, not sure how to proceed. “Not quite” he said slowly, looking down at the cliff below.

“What did you do Bogman?” Cole said, his voice was ice.

“Well it wasn’t exactly me. Its quite complicated ye see.” Bogman was stuttering now. the chuchman always made him feel like he had done something deeply wrong.

“Cut to it!” Cole snapped a twinge of anger in his voice now.

“Well… they’re sorta,” Bogman kicked a stone over the edge, it fell for some time and when it hit the water he did not hear the splash “a little… dead…”

“Dead?”

“Yep, well... I sorta helped kill the eldest then Connall killed the youngest then I finished off the middle one. I’m telling you now churchman this one was a close thing; prophet must be looking out for me today... sure there was one moment I’m not joking you were…”

“Bring the body back. People will want to see the body. They need to know justice had been done.”

“Ah now about that…” Bogman said nervously but the churchman cut him off before he could continue.

“Dispose of the rest of them I don’t want to hear any excuses Bogman. You screwed this up enough as it is.”

“It’s just…” Bogman started to say but the phone had already gone dead in his ear. “Fuck…” Bogman groaned. He put the phone in his pocket and turned to look over the cliff edge where moments before he had tossed the last of Connall's sons’ bodies. It had taken him hours to drag each of the bodies over to the edge here where he had been able to toss them over into the water below. It had seemed the best thing to do after all a watery grave was better than no grave at all right. As for Connall, the old man lay asleep against the sheep through, Bogman having been forced to beat him unconscious to stop the old man fighting.

He had found himself unable to kill him. After all he had committed no crime. Charlie was one thing, but the churchman had always told Bogman it was ok to kill criminals. he just hopped the killing of Nial wasn’t going to count as a sin. Sure, he had had a role in it but it hadn’t been completely his fault had it? These kinds of moral questions often kept him up at night. How was he to know when it was right to kill a man and when not. Before he had always trusted churchman Cole's word on it but now the rules seemed to change daily.

Bogman thought about Micky's story once more as he picked up the sleeping farmer and slung him over his shoulder, beginning the long walk home. Of course, it was better to hit first but Bogman often found himself thinking about the poor guy sitting on the toilet with a bloody nose and sick all over his lap. Poor bastard was probably having a bad day anyway before that then someone had to come in and start throwing sick and punches. ‘Loss is acceptable in the eyes of the prophet’ Churchman Cole had always said, but where was the line drawn.

It was just like the three bodies at the bottom of that cliff, maybe one deserved to be down there, but all of them? It just didn’t seem very fair. Bogman turned and began the long walk home. His mind swimming with the images of dying men.

It was raining when he made It back to the town, not real rain, but a pathetic kind of drizzle mist that clung to your face and somehow soaked you without you ever realizing. Connall hung slack from his shoulder and around him curtains twitched as he passed. Bogman nodded and smiled at each one, pretending that he did not have an unconscious old man slung over his shoulder like sack of potatoes. A bleeding sack of Potatoes, that reminded him.

“hey Connall, ye alive?” he bounced the unconscious figure and he let out a low painful groan. That was good enough. The last thing Bogman needed was another death on his conscience. He made his way up the road moving towards the distant spire of the church, that poked out over the nearby buildings. People watched him as he passed and Bogman could hear them grumbling under their breath.

The church was a simplistic affair. An imposing stone building with a tall pointed spire and dusty unwashed windows. Bogman pushed open the sturdy wooden door and stepped into the cold space beyond. Here was the stone basin for washing your hands and a second set of doors that lead into the main church. Bogman eased Connall from his shoulder and rested him against the stone basin. His jaw hanging slack in almost comic expression.

“you rest here now Connall” Bogman said, patting him on the face. “Churchman will know just what to do with you. He stood straight with a sigh and pushed open the door into the main part of the church. Just like its exterior the church was simple and demure. All previous wealth stripped back and laid bare. Several battered shotguns and swords hung from the wall along with a frayed yellowing flag. The only other decorations were the stained windows and a shine to some saint of the prophet. It was empty in here though the churchman had set up the aisles in preparation for preaching tomorrow. Their rows were like lines of soldiers staring up to the altar of the Prophet. Altar however was a bit of a fancy word for it for it was just a thick wooden pulpit with the depiction of a dying wolf carved into it. Bogman found his eyes drawn to the pulpit and he remembered a passage from the book of the Prophet. He said that passage now into the empty church. His words reverberating in the hallowed place.

“And god said onto the lamb, take up the gun and blade, turn from the fields and face the wolf, for night is coming, and with the light of god take your aim and see be true as the prophet's will, smite thy enemy to dust.” He stared at the altar and turned his head to the side. From here the caving seemed so real, like the wood itself might come to life. He found his gaze fixing on the face of the dying animal. The wolf's face was dusty, its eyes wide and frightened as the line of blood leaked from its open chest. It almost seemed to be panting, its tongue lolling from its mouth in desperate futile breaths.

“It is good that you seem to at least know your parables.” Came a voice behind him. Bogman turned to see churchman Cole standing behind him, his face a visage of cold countenance. He was not a handsome man, not by any stretch. His thin skin seemed to be spread too tightly over his shiny scull, veins popped out of places where there should not be veins and contemptuous eyes looked out past a set of thin eyebrows. His mouth too was a thin coiled line, that sat poorly hidden beneath a badly trimmed goatee. It was his fingers however that unnerved Bogman the most. They were long veiny spider leg things that pressed and pointed with flowing distain. No matter the sentence, the churchman’s hands were sure to make an appearance, hammering each syllable into your head with their stabbing gestures. He employed these gestures now as he strode towards Bogman with spitting vehemence.

“Since you seem unable to know the difference between Connall and his son. Why did you bring him here?”

“Ah” said Bogman looking suddenly sheepish “well about that. I kinda hit him on the head and he was unconscious, so I thought, since he don’t have no sons or any wife to look after him best to bring him here.”

“And you didn’t think.” Cole said coldly “How the community might react to seeing one of their own be hauled through the street, bloody and unconscious. Do you understand how that makes me look? What that does to my authority!?”

“You sent me to get him!” Bogman said though he immediately regretted it.

“To get Charlie!! The criminal. Instead you killed Connall's sons and dragged him through the streets like a pig. People are going to see that as an attack on the community!! The least you could have managed is some subtlety you damn fool!”

“Well I couldn’t just leave him there; he was bleeding out his head for prophets sake.”

the churchman rubbed the space between his eyes and shook his head. “Yet you had no problem killing the others.” He said his voice thick with distiain

“What does that mean?” Bogman asked, suddenly confused.

“Nevermind.” Cole barked “What of Charlie’s body?”

Bogman shifted on his feet “oh, I tried to tell you about that honest, but you hung up before I could and you always said not to call you back unless it was an emergency.”

the churchman’s glare hardened “so you lost the body?”

“Threw it off a cliff yea.” Bogman replied

The churchman let out a long deep sigh “is there no end to this incompetence. How far do you intend to push me?!”

“Hey I brought you Connall right. Surely people will be happy he’s alive?” he said it hopefully, a dog awaiting praise. His hope however was cut suddenly short.

“He’s dead Bogman” said Cole firmly “the blow to the head must’ve been too much.”

“Seriously…” Bogman said in complete shock, Connall had been alive moments ago, had he really just passed away like that? “Are ye sure?”

The Churchman ignored the question and pushed past Bogman, walking towards the pulpit and reaching for the wood with his spidery fingers.

“Take it as a blessing Bogman.” He said his figers tracing over the dying wolf’s face as he stepped behind it to take his place. He stood now as he would during a sermon, speaking down on Bogman with the prophet's wrath burning in his eyes. “The last thing we need is him wandering around telling people what you did. But you must be made accountable for these actions. You must suffer for your failures.”

Bogman took this as a cue and dutifully dropped to his knees before the pulpit. The churchman looked down at him and his eye twitched unnaturally.

“You reek of sin you know that? When they brought you to me, I hoped I could wash it off. I prayed that beneath the mud and slime there was something that god might see of worth. I took you in. I washed you with holy water and my bare hands. I baptized you in the prophet’s name. even now though more slime seems to come off each day. I wonder, is there anything beneath it all Bogman? Or are you simply one of them?”

“You must make amends for the deaths of the innocents. The killing of the child molester frees you of the guilt of one of those deaths, but two more deaths must be paid for. You will do two hours of prayers every night for the next two years unless you kill another criminal to even the score, is that understood?”

“Yes churchman.” Bogman replied

“Good. Go to your room, I think it is best if you are left to contemplate what you have done on your own. I will deal with Connall's body.”

“Churchman…. I….”

“to bed with you Bogman!” Cole growled and Bogman knew the conversation was over.

He went to his room and undressed, his clothes and jacket crusted with mud and blood. He washed himself as well as he could in his little basin. Then kneeling down he set about to make his prayers to the prophet. Before he could though he heard a creaking noise outside his room. He turned, sensing the presence of the churchman on the other side. Perhaps he was there to console him for his mistake. Tell him how to be better. He perked up but at once felt his hopes crushed. There was the sound of a lock twisting shut as Bogman was locked in for the night. He shouldn't have been surprised. He was locked in every night.

“Night churchman.” Bogman called. There was no reply from the figure behind the door, who turned and trudged away, leaving Bogman to restless murder filled dreams.