Opening Chapter of the Serpentine Court

As I am preparing to re-draft my YA Urban Fantasy novel, I thought I would share the opening chapter. More of my writing, and my attempts to complete my next draft can be found at http://kevinamcfadden.wordpress.com/

I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

For a time the sky stretched out, beautifully bruised by dusk. And then night fell with unnatural haste. Beneath, the sleepy village was calm and peaceful, as was its way, with the occasional body strolling through the High Street. Laszlo Rotha sat in his office shuffling his paper work, packing up for the day. He was extremely overweight, sweaty, with a face crammed full of oversized features. As he worked he guzzled greedily at a large tumbler of whisky. Once he’d drained his glass he grabbed the bottle and carelessly refilled it, splashing whisky over his leg and the desk top. Cursing the drink in a low grumble he slammed his hand on the edge of the large oak desk and with effort dragged his heavy frame out of his chair, before padding over to the other side of the room. Here he bent and held his right hand against the wall. The gold pinky ring on his finger, with its design of an oak tree, began to glow a putrid yellow colour and sparks shot from it, running out in bright neon lines across the wall. These sank into the wall exposing a hidden door which creaked open and revealed his safe. A file was placed into the safe, the hidden door was shut, transforming back into the wall, and then Rotha prepared to leave the office.

Once outside Rotha took a deep breath of the warm summer air, which was fragranced with sweet blossom, and surveyed the sky smugly. A fat bright moon sat in a perfectly clear expanse, surrounded by stars that twinkled delicately. Rotha took a cigar out of his pocket, lit it and turned to lock his door. After he locked it he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the metal sign on the wall: ‘The Gooseberry: Brookes and Rotha, Solicitors’. He was careful to only polish the part of the sign that was engraved with his name. The moon offered a bright footpath as Rotha strolled down the High Street. His expensive blue suede brogues resounded boastfully off the walls of the old buildings as he made his way, as if he was keen for everyone to be aware of his presence. It summed the man up; he was brash and extravagant, strangely at odds with the rest of the village.

At the end of the High Street he came across a small country road. Here he did something strange; he crossed over the road, carefully avoiding the outstretched shadow of an old oak tree, before returning to the side of the road he was originally on. Once he was back on the path he chuckled to himself, took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the sweat, which had erupted when he first saw the oak’s shadow, from his forehead. A few hundred yards down the road he came to the train station.

The train station was very old and rarely used. Whilst many similar train stations had been closed down, this one had remained open, allowing the wealthy and, in many cases powerful villagers quick and easy access to London. There were two wooden platforms, with a tiny booking office, open during the day, and several benches. All of the benches had small plaques engraved with the name of the villager who had donated them. Scattered around the benches were pots full of blooming flowers. The only way to access the second platform was to cross the tracks. Rotha made his way to the edge of the first platform and carefully checked both directions before he crossed over to the second. Once on the second platform he sat on a bench and re-lit his cigar. He blew out plumes of white, grey and dirty yellow smoke and admired them as they danced and dissolved into the night air. Loosening his tie and brushing the sides of his hair with the flat of his hand he looked up at the fat moon. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face and he extravagantly blew a kiss to the moon.

On the track the small stones began to dance. The dance became wilder as a small light pin-pricked the darkness of the horizon. As the light became brighter, so the dancing stones grew more agitated. Rotha lifted his head and looked at the light before glancing at his watch. Five minutes to ten. It wasn’t his train; he would have to wait ten more minutes. The light became brighter, dragging the thunderous sound of the train behind it, as the stones danced ever more violently. And unnoticed by Rotha a small cloud drifted effortlessly and quickly across the sky.

The train roared through the station hitting Rotha with a breath of warm air. Once passed, the stones on the track began to calm and the quiet of the night returned. Rotha pulled a newspaper from his briefcase and buried his face in it. The small cloud was now beginning to float in front of the moon. As it did so a surprisingly sharp shadow cut across the countryside. Fields were sunk into inky darkness and a deathly silence. Rotha found something funny in the newspaper and laughed loudly. It was a laugh that was trying to make a point, even though there was no one to hear it. Once again he looked at his watch; three minutes. His jovial eyes lifted to the moon again and spotted the little cloud. The blood drained from his face and in an instant he seemed to age twenty years. Throwing the newspaper to his side, his eyes scurried to his feet. There, right across the expensive brogue wrapping his right foot, cut the deep line of the shadow.

He flew to his feet, moving away from the shadow, his head jerking around him. He moved with a speed that was in direct contrast to his size. His ears picked up the small rattle of the stones on the track, and his eyes hungrily searched the horizon for the pin-prick of light. There it was! Perhaps there was a chance. If he could just get on the train, he might be OK. He wouldn’t be able to return but everything could be arranged now, the plans were in place and he would be able to take what he wanted from anywhere in the world. The stones grew more violent as his heart pounded against his ribcage, as if it was trying to escape. Even if he couldn’t. He clenched and stretched his left hand, shifting lightly from his left foot to his right. The light was getting closer, the stones seemed to be pinging off the track now. His breath was being dragged into and expelled from his lungs in desperate gulps.

The train pulled into the station, letting out an exhausted puff of air as it sighed to a gentle halt. Several passengers looked out onto the old wooden platform as the doors automatically opened. A newspaper rustled next to a bench but other than that there was nothing to see. Laszlo Rotha had disappeared. With a beep the doors shut themselves and the train groaned back into life as it moved out of the station. As it left, sat neatly by the track was a right foot, wrapped in an expensive blue suede brogue, cut precisely in a line from the ankle to the heal. The vibrations of the train moving along the track caused it to rock gently beneath the twinkling stars of the clear summer sky.