Damnation For Beginners Part 1

d.a.m.nation for Beginners.

Alan Campbell.

NOW.

HE BOOK HAD WARNED him to expect manifestations-especially objects growing out of his body while he slept-but that didn't prevent him from panicking the first time it happened. He had woken from a feverish dream in which he and Carol had taken a picnic in the meadow near Alderney, only to discover that daises had sprouted from his knees.

A wave of revulsion overcame him. The flowers themselves didn't bother him as much as the queer tactile sensations he knew would be a.s.sociated with them. Jack touched one of the flowers, and shivered. Those tiny green caules and petals brimmed with his own living nerves. It had, he supposed, been like brushing a tumour. These daisies were now as much a part of his body as his own skin.

What did the book say about getting rid of them?

The moment he thought about the book, he found that he was clutching it in his hand. The gilt letters stamped upon the cover gleamed brightly: d.a.m.nation for Beginners by Charles Rain. Out of habit, Jack plucked his handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to flip open the cover before he remembered that he didn't need to do that any more. The small cotton square no longer offered him any protection. He tucked it away again, and set the book down on his lap.

Marley's inscription adorned the first page; it was becoming neater every time he glanced at it. Almost all of the fly-spattered ink had vanished from the margins, leaving rows of near perfect letters stamped across a crisp, white paper rectangle.

If I can't talk you out of this, Jack, maybe this book can. If not, at least you'll know what you're getting yourself into. d.a.m.nation is not something to be undertaken lightly-for any reason.

Regards, Marley.

Jack used his bare fingers to rifle through the pages, hunting for the appropriate section. But the words inside flowed and changed as he tried to read them. He stopped and took a deep breath. He had studied this volume. He knew it word for word. All he had to do was remember. Page 82, Section Nine, Deformations of the...

The text resolved itself into a structure he recognised.

Section Nine.

Deformations of the Conscious Soul.

Deformations of the Conscious Soul most often happen during lapses of concentration, such as when dreaming, but they can also be achieved by a deliberate act of will. Attempts to physically remove unnatural obtrusions will cause bleeding and pain, and should be avoided. The Conscious Soul will return to its natural state in time, although the following breathing exercises can often facilitate- Jack knew the pa.s.sage by heart, just as he knew every other pa.s.sage in the book, but seeing it there in black and white rea.s.sured him. He didn't bother with the breathing exercises. He thought: I can do this. It is a system that can be learned, mastered, and manipulated, like any other system. d.a.m.nation has a formula.

He set the book down, and yet he could still feel its leather- clad board pressing against the wooden top of the night table. He had yet to become used to this faintly disturbing sensation; it reminded him of a story about a crippled miner whose missing arm still ached. In Jack's case, both the book and the night table were part of his body, too, as was everything else in the room.

White boarding surrounded him, geometric patchworks composed of hundreds of square and rectangular panels. He knew without counting that there would be 6561 of them, because this was his favourite number. Tall white curtains along one wall concealed windows, but these were pressed directly up against the brick wall of his neighbour's dwelling, and so offered him no view. The room possessed numerous other useless exits. 81 of the panels boasted keyholes and small bra.s.s handles, however opening these revealed nothing but further rectangles of brickwork. These particular portals appeared to have moved since the last time he'd paid them any attention. He had a strong impression that they were searching for a gap in the surrounding walls. Steered by the subconscious. That was to be expected, he supposed. Around the edges of the chamber stood further subconsciously significant objects: a replica of Carol's fancy dresser, the lilac-painted wood now polished to a ceramic sheen; an ink bottle and a pen; a rocking chair; and an empty copper coal scuttle. Jack pondered the significance of these things. The dresser was easy: Carol had brought it with her when they'd moved to Highcliffe, and he'd always loathed the way the dust gathered in the carvings. This represented his guilt, then. The ink bottle must be a regurgitation from the part of his mind concerned with work. The chair-his grandmother had owned a chair like that, and it had always unnerved him. And the empty coal scuttle? That one bothered him more than the others. It looked clean and bright on the surface, but he knew there would be horrors lurking inside. A small portrait of Carol rested against the skirting board. Her painted face had been smiling originally, but Jack's imagination had now creased her brow with disapproval. She was frowning at the torture implements scattered across the floor.

The knives, pliers, clubs and hatchets had been here when he's first woken up in h.e.l.l. Symptoms of his rage, no doubt. He couldn't use these particular objects on his intended victim: they were part of his corporeal subconscious, after all. But they mimicked the tools he'd thought about gathering together in real life-the steel all polished to surgical perfection, the blades as thin as gas. In the middle of this murderous display loomed its gruesome centrepiece: an iron maiden as tall as a man. It waited with its hinged doors open wide and its belly aglitter with spikes. The floorboards beneath it had started to bruise under its tremendous weight.

"I'm not responsible for that," he said to his wife's portrait. "I don't even know where it came from."

Her disapproval deepened.

Jack got up from the bed and walked over to the spiked cabinet. He ran his hand across the pitted iron surface. Then he knelt and pressed a hand against the purpled floorboards surrounding the base. A fierce jolt of pain startled him. The location of this sensation, like most others down here, was hard to pinpoint. It had come, simultaneously, from both his arm and the floor. The room itself was a ghost limb.

He tried to steady his breathing again. Was he actually breathing? He didn't know. But holding his breath for any length of time still made him redden, and panic, and finally gasp. All he had to do was take the necessary time to understand his environment. Breathe in. Breathe out. One, two, one two. He would figure out this system, and then he would use it to his advantage.

Beyond the walls, floor, and ceiling, Jack could sense the other rooms surrounding him, compressing his own small s.p.a.ce in h.e.l.l. It felt like he was lying under a pile of bodies-which, he supposed, was close enough to the truth.

Section Two.

You are your Surroundings.

Your subconscious manifests itself as your surroundings. This is a natural defence mechanism to protect the conscious element of your soul-the artefact you will come to regard as your body-from the millions of other d.a.m.ned spirits around you. You must learn to control your state of mind. In h.e.l.l, imagined stimuli become very real and very dangerous. Wish for a fire in your hearth, and its flames will crisp the corners of your soul. Fear a strangers knock upon your door, and you will immediately hear such a report, for he will be standing outside, and his intentions will be whatever you-in your worst nightmares-have imagined them to be.

Jack glanced at the iron maiden and wondered what would happen if he stepped inside and slammed its vicious doors closed behind him. Could a mind be punctured by spikes that were a manifestation of that same mind? What happened when someone trapped in h.e.l.l tried to kill themselves? He tried to push the thoughts from his head. Lately, he'd been thinking far too much about suicide.

THREE WEEKS AGO.

RANKLY, IT WAS OUTRAGEOUS! How horrible these people were to make her wait in this heat! Mistress Angelina shuffled forward another step, using the compliant form they'd given her to fan her face. Given her? They'd practically shoved it at her. The queue looked barely shorter than it had done ten minutes ago. It stretched from the Doc.u.ment Office three hundred yards behind her and ran all the way up to the very edge of the cliff.

Hundreds of people waited in line, all sweating, their clothes powdered white with the dust from the nearby mines. She could hear the rumble of Henry Sill's great wheel coming from the head of the queue, and she could feel the shudder of the ore crushers deep in the earth below her feet, but she still couldn't see the infernal machine from here. The man in front was too tall for his own good. You couldn't help but notice the wheel from Cog City, of course-its enormous spokes flush against the rock face, endlessly turning like some ghastly fairground ride as it powered the corporation's whole gold mining operation. But there was little to see from up here on the Pandemerian plateau itself.

"How much longer do you think they'll be?" she asked the man in front of her.

"Not much longer," he said. "It's built up speed now."

Mistress Angelina tutted. "Really, it's a disgrace." "At least it's not raining." A spot of rain might actually have been a relief. It was only mid-morning, but the sun was already unbearable. You certainly felt it more up here, away from the sea breezes in Cog and Port Ellen. The air was thick with dust from the mines and more dust from the horses' hooves as the drivers halted their horrid little brickle-back carriages to unload yet more people outside the Doc.u.ment Office; it nipped one's eyes and one's nostrils and hung over everything in an ochre pall. If she'd known it was going to be like this, she would never have worn her best frock.

The queue moved forward again.

"We're moving now," the man said. "The wheel's going at a fair clip."

"I can see that, thank you."

"Of course, that gives you less time to lodge your complaint."

"I shall take all the time I need," she replied.

He shrugged.

The people ahead of her began to move at a brisker pace. Mistress Angelina hurried to keep up, fearful of losing her hard-earned place amongst them, her sensible little boots struggling on this rocky ground. A moment later, she heard the voice of the wheel steward.

"Six to a cabin, quickly now."

And suddenly a s.p.a.ce opened up before her. The steward herded people towards the edge of the precipice, where a wide boarding ramp extended across six feet of hazy air towards a small wooden cabin suspended from the top of the great wheels rim. Identical cabins hung from the steelwork on either side, each stamped with Henry Sill's coat of arms above their open doorways. She recognised the stylised coin and garotte at once, of course. The same design was emblazoned across the top of her complaint form. But there on the cabin wall it seemed so much more vulgar. Did the man have to mark everything he owned? Beyond the wheel lay nothing but sky.

"Six to a cabin, quickly now."

Mistress Angelina watched as half a dozen people in front of her hurried across the embarkation ramp and ducked inside the cabin doorway. The wooden chambers never stopped moving, revolving slowly away as the vast wheel turned. It would carry its occupants all the way down down to the base of the cliff.

"Six to a cabin, quickly now."

Mistress Angelina felt a hand on her arm. Before she could protest, she found herself being propelled forwards along with a group of five others. Planks moaned under their boots as they crossed the ramp. She endured a moment of vertigo, whereupon she glimpsed the whole of Cog City spread out below her, the vast tremulous blue of the ocean beyond, and then she stepped into the gloom of the cabin.

Wickers of bra.s.s-work separated the bank staff from the public, with shallow wells sunk into the counter top to facilitate the exchange of paperwork. There were no lamps, only a bare hook in the ceiling to accommodate one. A window in the far wall provided some illumination, but it was scarcely enough to see by. And there was nowhere whatsoever to sit. Mistress Angelina walked straight up to an unoccupied teller, and pushed her complaint form towards him. He was a neat young man with close-cropped auburn hair and kind eyes-the sort of man who looked like he smiled a lot. But Mistress Angelina resolved not to let his appearance disarm her. He wore an immaculate grey suit with a small bra.s.s badge pinned to his lapel. The letters embossed there would presumably spell his name.

"My complaint," she said.

He glanced at the form. For a moment he seemed vaguely uncomfortable. Then he plucked a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and used it to slide the printed sheet through the well towards him. "Miss Angelina Carin," he said, now smiling amiably. "I am obliged to inform you that we have about 90 seconds before the cabin reaches ground level, whereupon all customers must disembark. The Henry Sill Banking Corporation cannot be held liable for any injuries sustained by a customer who fails to disembark promptly."

"What?"

"We have a very limited time to deal with each customer complaint."

"What happens if I run out of time?"

"You'll just have to come back."

Mistress Angelina glared at him. "And queue up again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But that's..."

"Please," the young teller said. "Let's see what I can do for you in the time we do have." He set his handkerchief aside, and his gaze shuttled rapidly across the complaint form. "It says here you borrowed 20 ducats..."

"Well..."

"...And you were supposed to repay the loan over three years, at two ducats per month. A total of 72 ducats."

"It was to buy a gown and cap for my grandson's graduation," Mistress Angelina said. "We could have hired one, but...well, you know how it is. Stephen deserved something a bit special for once. He's worked so hard for it, and I wanted to contribute."

The young man's expression softened, and he smiled again.

His finger hovered over the form. "You have been repaying this loan now for..."

"Seven years and two months," Mistress Angelina said. "I've been trying to tell you people this for years, but n.o.body returns my letters. I've had nothing but threats and demands."

"You're not from Cog?"

"Amstire. It's a three day voyage by ship."

A clock on the wall behind the young man chimed, but he kept his full attention on the paperwork. "Your problem, Miss Carin," he said, "is one of overpayment."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"You were supposed to make 36 payments... Unfortunately, you made 37."

Mistress Angelina exhaled pointedly. "I think you'll find I've made 86 payments."

"No, I mean, you sent us an extra payment after the three year term was up. That's the root of the problem." He sighed and glanced at the teller seated to his right, an older man with a caldera of grey hair. Then he looked back at her again. "Because that extra payment was over and in excess of your loan, the bank was forced to conclude that you intended us to hold that money for you. When this happens, the loan department automatically opens an account in your name."

Mistress Angelina nodded.

"The standard fee for opening an account without prior agreement is 40 ducats, which was deducted from the original two you sent us, leaving a debt of 38 ducats. Since this amounted to an unauthorized overdraft, it incurred a further administration fee of 25 ducats, and an additional maintenance fee of 10 ducats per month. Once you add on the primary, secondary and tertiary interest-deducting, of course, the two ducats you have been paying each month-the sum outstanding is 1882 ducats and three pennies. That's what you need to pay."

The clock on the wall chimed again.

"Do you have any a.s.sets you could sell to settle the debt?"

Mistress Angelina felt her legs weaken. "But I paid my loan," she said.

"You really need to speak to someone in Reclamation," the young man replied. "They'll sort out a payment plan, look at your a.s.sets if need be. Are you a home owner, Miss Carin?" He spread his hands. "Perhaps someone in your family..."

"You don't understand," she said. "I paid my loan."

The clock chimed once more.

"We're approaching the ground," the young man said. He wrote something across the top of the complaint form in careful, neat letters. "I've given you a new reference number, here. Hand this in to Reclamation after you disembark. They'll help you from here." He used his handkerchief to slide the form back through the slot.

Mistress Angelina just stared at it.

The clock began to chime repeatedly.

"Miss Carin? You need follow the other customers outside. Please disembark immediately."

Mistress Angelina continued to stare at the sheet of paper with its indecipherable scrawl of black ink across the top. The tick boxes. The little printed letters. All the words the woman in the Doc.u.ment Office had filled in for her. She didn't understand any of it. A metal band now seemed to be tightening around her chest, restricting her breathing. The clock was ringing frantically now. She had already forgotten what it meant.

"Please," the bank teller insisted. "Miss Carin. You have to leave now. There's a security-"

She heard a snap. A rush of air. Light flooded the room. And suddenly she was falling. She slammed against hard ground and heard another snap. She tasted dust; it stung her eyes and nose. Bright blue skies reeled overhead, and lines of steel and shadow. A spike of pain shot through her hip and she cried out. She spied the cabin six feet above her. Its floor had parted along its middle, leaving two sections swinging underneath on hinges. A trapdoor? It had opened underneath her, dropping her into the dusty s.p.a.ce below the wheel and the disembarkation platform.

"Ma'am?"

Mistress Angelina crawled in the dirt.

"Do you need some help, Ma'am?"

She turned to see a fellow in overalls approaching across the hard-baked ground. "My hip," she wailed.

He crouched down beside her, and picked up her complaint form from the ground nearby. "Let's get you over to Reclamation, shall we?"

A DAY IN THE WHEEL.

ARLEY HELD OUT HIS hand. "Five."

"She might be hurt."

"She'll be fine. You owe me five."

"But what if she broke something?"

"Hand's still empty, Jack."

Jack reached into his wallet, slipped out a clean five ducat note, and placed on the counter next to the other man's open palm. Trough the open floor hatch he could see one of the disembarkation staff helping the old woman up. He began to relax a little.

"What's that now?" Marley said. "Three out of three?"