The Mariner

The old man fell silent and immediately McConnell felt guilty. Whatever had happened to bring him here had also happened to his father, the shock clearly having a devastating impact. He was probably suffering amnesia or a stroke or some other awful thing.

“Listen, Dad… I’m sorry, it’s just—”

Suddenly he felt fingers at his head, scratching and clawing. One got a hold of an ear and pulled, a strange deep tearing sound followed by pain as blood poured from the broken lobe. He pulled away, leaning forward, trying not to swerve off the road, whilst getting away from the sudden onslaught. Behind him his father was screaming, not words, just mindless babble, hollering as if he were a dog after the postman. Insanely, McConnell’s disturbed mind assumed it was over-the-top retribution for his brisk tone and crude language (something his father had always condemned); he even tried to yell an apology, but when he turned his head to face his attacker he saw how futile an apology was.

Gregory was tangled in his seatbelt, held back by the strap as he strained against it with all his will. His face, usually one of condescending calm and judgement, was now distorted into a wide snarl, spittle peppering his chin, cheeks an angry red, as if he’d consumed a lifetime of alcohol in just five minutes. Loud screams were cut short as the belt constricted his neck, choking breath. Once more he appeared like a dog, though this time straining against its leash and gasping, not intelligent enough to let the lead go slack.

“Dad, stop it!” He glanced between the road and the passenger as quickly as he could. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong!”

The creature’s eyes had rolled up into its skull like tiny white dots of pus on an enormous purple boil. As McConnell screamed, Gregory turned a bloodshot eye in his direction. It almost made him open the door and throw himself onto the tarmac outside; the hate he felt was potent.

“I’m your son, Dad! Don’t you remember?” Tears of anguish flooded down his face. “What about Mum? Remember her?”

But Gregory wasn’t interested in reminiscing. He thrashed like a trapped beast, throwing his body forward until the strap cut into his skin, drawing blood.

Unable to look at his disturbed father anymore, McConnell turned to the road. What could he do? Find a doctor? In Germany? It didn’t seem likely. Perhaps he could find a hospital or police station and throw himself at their mercy? Did they need passports? Wasn’t there some sort of EU medical card you need in situations like this?

If only this fucking mist would pass!

The TV Researcher from Croydon let out a loud desperate sob. He was leaning so far forward he could feel the steering wheel digging into his chest, and yet still couldn’t see a damn thing outside. And all the while his father was snarling and shrieking.

“I’ll do what you want, just please come back,” he whimpered. “I’ll take you to Ziggy-wara if you like. Would you like that? To visit Ziggy-wara?”

With a gurgle the screeching suddenly ceased. McConnell wanted to look, but was too scared to witness again those hate-filled eyes and horrible snarl.

But it was the quiet, gentlemanly voice of Gregory McConnell that reached his badly torn ear.

“I think you’ll find, young man, it’s pronounced Zig-ish-wa-rah.”

They never found Deggendorf. The forest gave way to vast unkempt fields which in turn surrendered to a sporadic collection of hamlets. Nothing that could be called a town. Eventually the rickety car broke free from the thinning mist, although their vaporous pursuer never fully vanished beyond the horizon, it clung to the ever changing line, refusing to give up the hunt.

“You’re going to love Sighisoara,” Gregory said, looking out the window as if he were on a pleasant excursion. “It’s a beautiful medieval town, one of the most significant in Transylvania’s history. Ancient stone houses. Majestic church atop of a central hill. Ah! I can picture it now. I grew up there, you see, before my father insisted we move away. Was dangerous for an Englishman to live in Romania in those days. It was a terrible blow to my mother though, she’d lived there her whole life.”

“I didn’t know you’d actually lived in Romania,” McConnell said. Gregory had mentioned, some years ago, that his Grandmother had been Romanian, but had never elaborated further.

“Why would you? We don’t normally share such things with our drivers, but seeing as how you’re going to take me there, I thought you deserved an explanation. What’s your name?”

“Christopher,” McConnell muttered, deeply worried about state of his father’s mind.

“A fine name. You’ll enjoy Sighisoara, many beautiful young women there, we’ll have the time of our lives! You won’t regret it.”

He doesn’t realise how old he is, McConnell marvelled. He’s regressed to an earlier segment of life. No wonder he has no clue who I am!