Ben Rose

Extract from fantasy novel, Vermin Sickness. The beginning of Chapter One: Fear for the Folk of Fallowfield.

Beneath the fog and smoke, between the muddy plains and rugged mountains, Fallowfield bustled with work – the sort that keeps a small, desolate town alive in the midst of winter.

Peasants pushed wheelbarrows, yelled commands to one another, and roared as they struck with hammers and lugged wood, stone, and metal from one tradesman to the next. Horses neighed, chickens clucked, cows mooed.

Rats scurried.

The cogs of Fallowfield were truly turning – bathing in the thick aroma of sewage, hay, and the burning of wood and coal.

Among the impropriety to one’s senses, a young girl, twelve years of age and buried beneath a heavy cloak, manoeuvred her way through the mud and crowd, with a basket in her hand and a shaggy hound at her feet.

An old man, hidden beneath his hood, snored as he slept – oblivious to the hubbub crawling through the shutters and crooked door of his old, wooden caravan. Rocking back and forth to the song of his creaking chair, he had stolen his own little piece of tranquillity in the chaos of survival. Among the jungle of herbs and medicine that filled every corner of his caravan, he dreamed sweet dreams.

By the next beat of his heart, a knocking tore his tranquillity into tatters.

The old man jumped as he woke.

All the while, the knocking continued – on his caravan door.

The curse left his lips: “Merciful dragons.”

He could hear the innocent voice of a child calling his name: “Hammurabbi… Mister Apothecary.”

The old man groaned his curse once more, sitting forward and dropping his hood to reveal a long, white, unkempt beard and his bald, inked scalp. A tattoo bore an ancient rune: The Map of the Judge – double-lines formed an incomplete circle, with a dot (a bullseye) in the centre.

Hammurabbi climbed to his feet, silencing the knocking with a cry of his own: “I’m coming, damn you.”

He opened the door.

A young girl in a shabby cloak stood the other side. She simply stared at the man with her enticing blue eyes. A shaggy hound stood at her feet.

“Well…?” Hammurabbi refused to meet the pup’s gaze. When the girl remained silent, the old man bent down to her level. “Speak, girl, or fuck off. I’m a busy man.”

“I could hear you snoring.” Without hesitating, the child slipped beneath the liar’s arm and stepped inside the caravan.

Hammurabbi put his foot down before the dog could follow her in. “Your hound remains outside.”

The girl called back to her dog: “Stay there, Noah.”

In hearing the instruction, her four-legged companion set its arse on the ground.

With a huff, the apothecary closed the door.

Noah remained seated.

Around him, Fallowfield laboured away.

Through the centre of the town, River Sully’s murky water divided the work force in two. Along its banks, a tavern, windmill, and a fishing hut stood in service – as well as the apothecary’s crooked caravan.

Curious… thirsty… wooed by the stench of piss, shit, and other foul offerings gifted by Fallowfield and the bleak world around it, the shaggy hound strolled several yards down the slope that led to River Sully.

-

Hammurabbi removed a cup from a hook above the kitchen counter. In front of him, a blue flame kept a coffee pot warm – forever at the optimum drinking temperature. With a parched lick of the lips, he poured himself a cup of the fine brew. “You did well coming to me, girl.” As he spoke, he joined the child at the table in the centre of his cluttered caravan and continued: “From what you’re saying, this old man of yours needs to keep away from those stinking greens.”

“Right.” With her hood down, her knotted hair fell in a scramble of champagne locks, intertwined with old ribbons and small clumps of mud.

“Merciful dragons,” Hammurabbi cursed under his breath, rising from his stall – all too soon after planting his arse on it. Rummaging through a nearby cupboard, he continued to curse under his breath: “Bleedin’, pointy-eared, good-for-nothin’ gree...”

He clicked his fingers and cheered. “Ha!” Meanwhile, the young girl watched the old apothecary curiously. “My name’s Angelica, by the way.”

Hammurabbi, holding a small leather pouch, turned to face the child. “Huh?” “My name,” Angelica said with innocent wit, “you should know the names of your customers.”

The apothecary’s bushy eyebrows dropped in a frown.

Angelica smiled: “For your records. What if someone fools you, you know?”

Hammurabbi returned to his stall, placing the pouch on the table. “This is the stuff you want,” he said, sliding it to her and ignoring the child’s observation. “When a family gets sick,” he continued, “the individuals only spot the symptoms on others. Not themselves.”

Angelica retrieved the pouch.

“And girl.” The apothecary raised an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee. “Sometimes the sick only single out one of their herd… a scapegoat, let’s say. It’s a self-preservation, denial kind ‘a thing.” He sipped his coffee once more, proceeding to exhale as he placed the cup on its saucer.

“I only came for medicine, Mister Apothecary. Not some lesson on goats.”

“Well,” Hammurabbi chuckled at the child’s tongue, “your father best thank you for his imminent healing.”

Angelica shrugged. “I’m just following instructions.” She rose from her chair.

“I see.” The old man nodded to the door. “Let’s hope your instructor is thanked then, shall we?”

“My father’s sick, remember.” The child walked toward the exit.

“Aren’t we all?” Hammurabbi whispered, his gaze lingering on the rocking chair that had not long offered him peace.

Angelica opened the door and stepped outside. “Come on, Noah. Mum wants some of Mister Loft’s bread to go with dinner.”

Her shaggy hound was absent.

“Noah?” the girl called, “Noah?”

River Sully attracted the shaggy hound, who nibbled on the few strands of pale grass that decorated its banks. He moved from one to the next, until a new scent – one that would have any human, elf, or dwarf churning at the stomach – added extra spice to the mix of natural and unnatural waste.

Caught in a dry, tangled bush along the banks, a body lay still.

Swollen.

And rotting.

Noah sniffed the corpse. Beneath the dirt and dying colour, the slightest shade of green could be seen.

The limp body once belonged to a sageskin goblin.

A girl’s call pricked the hound’s ears: “Noah! Noah!”

He looked up from the corpse.

Angelica, some way in the distance, spotted the dog and waved to him, continuing her call.

Without another thought for the dead goblin, Noah ran toward the child. As he arrived at her feet, she knelt and ruffled with the hair on his head.

“You never stray that far,” she said, looking toward the dry bush. From her position, she saw nothing but foliage, mud, and murky river water. “Come on.” She stood. “We need to get to Mister Loft’s before he shuts shop.”

Extract from nonfiction ‘memoir-and-advice’ book, “9 months, my arse.”. Chapter title: “A Sense of Permanence.”.

Boy, there’s a sense of permanence, With this ink on my wrist, I won’t forget your innocence.

And boy, there’s a sense of permanence, With a ring on my hand, I’ll hope to be resilient.

If these blues are gonna be permanent.

I’m gonna need your strength, I’m gonna need your fight, I’m gonna need some space and time, To work on my mind.

I’m gonna need your mum, More than anyone.

If these blues are gonna be permanent.

I’m gonna need a little love, Need a little nudge, When the morning comes, But I can’t see the sun.

‘Cause there’ll be days, When I won’t wanna face, These growing pains, That are here to stay. [chorus] I’ve left the above lyrics here for one reason: this song first came to me when driving home feeling blue with no particular cause for it. Nothing had triggered it that day. And it just clicked: this part of me that had become ever-present wasn’t going away any time soon – if at all. This experience, the emotions as a result, the changes it has had over me as a person… I get the impression that they are permanent.

So, I guess, I am writing this chapter to let you know: an experience like Gemma and I have had, other huge experiences people may have too, change you – and that it’s only natural… it’s OK that they do. The key is: how do you handle that? What do you do with this new you?

Really, the aim is to find a silver-lining – to somehow walk away feeling better for it.

For example: despite all the hurt and drama that came from our time in Oxford and the time that followed it, I definitely prefer the man I’ve become to the boy I was before. One night, during one of our flip-flopping sessions (where we’d start angry, make our way through the motions of sadness and happiness, to find ourselves enlightened or simply emotionallyexhausted at the end), I remember asking Gemma: “If someone offered you the chance to go back and never get pregnant, to give you a chance to experience none of it and go back to our innocent lives before, would you?”

“It’s bad,” Gemma said, “’cause I’d say ‘yes’.”

First of all, I reassured her that ‘bad’ was far from what ‘yes’ was. As I’ve already mentioned throughout this book, as counsellors will mention, and other books on similar subjects such as this, it is OK to pretty much feel and say anything during times of tragedy and/or change.

When Gemma asked the same question, I said the opposite: “No. I wouldn’t change it, ‘cause we wouldn’t have met him.” I added: “The only thing I would choose to change, if I could, is to have him still be in your womb – to have arrived at a healthier gestation.”

(Something like that, anyway). The point is, what purpose did he have if we couldn’t find more good than bad in him and the ride he set us on?

Later down the line, I remember us lying in bed again. I remember thinking: “Here we go, we’re about to flip-flop, aren’t we?” And I remember being wrong.

Gemma looked at me. “You know I said I would change it.”

I nodded.

“Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t. Yes, the hurt sucks. But he showed us so much.”

What Gemma went on to say, what I had said prior, and what we both still say now, consists of the following reasons as to why we would say, “No,” to change: • He showed us strength; how strong he was, how strong we are as individuals, and how strong we are as a couple, a partnership, and a family.

• We make cute babies – as Gemma has often observed.

• Elijah showed us how lucky we are to have the people around us that we do.

• When we have a child again, we will know how fortunate we are to have one, knowing and experiencing how pregnancy isn’t always something smooth, something you see to the end, or something that results in you bringing a healthy baby, or any baby at all, home with you.

• He has brought Gem and I even closer and, because of it, the symbolism behind us getting married has only grown.

Heck, if it wasn’t for Elijah-James, I may have never got a tattoo.

On a more serious note, he has left us – and me, personally – permanently changed for the better.

I’m sure of it.

I have never felt more blessed. At 24 years old, I was given a taste of parenthood, I was shown how it feels to be a father, and I was shown how much I love(d) it and, now, moreso than ever, want it… truly want it. Beforehand, I always said: “I want children.” But, deep down, I never knew 100%. How could I? Without knowing, first-hand, what it involves, how it feels, and whether or not I was ready for it. I truly know I want a coffee or a biscuit when I say, “I want a coffee or a biscuit,” because I have experienced, first-hand, having one. I know its taste. I know the delicacy needed when dunking a biscuit. And I know the beautiful sensation one gets when said dunked biscuit finds your tongue.

My point is, I have experienced fatherhood – if only briefly.

And I loved it. I want it. More-so, I need it.

This experience and newfound desire has led to a huge sense of purpose too. For the first time, I genuinely feel like what I do shares meaning. Before Elijah, I did everything so that Gem and I could have a good life. I wrote in hope of getting published and, through it, make some money. I worked so that I earned and provided so that we could live under our own roof and enjoy our independence – as well as save funds for our next steps: a small place of our own, our wedding, future children. I studied to get my degree, so that I could increase my employment options and, hopefully, find a job I would love – and, again, earn to provide.

Now, however, I do it all for so much more.

I want to write to not just sell books and make an income from what I enjoy. I want to write books, such as this, to help people – through advice, relatability, escapism. And I want to make Elijah, and our future child(ren), proud. I want to work so I can build a career and help us save for a small place that we raise a family in – so that our future child(ren) will be safe and secure, and we won’t have to pay as much money each month, replacing rent with mortgage payments, thus allowing us to have spare funds to take our child(ren) on adventures and allow them all the opportunities I/we can. But before our child(ren) arrives, I want Gem and I to travel. We’ve only been abroad once together, and we did so in the company of moreexperienced travellers. I want us to travel so Gem and I don’t see the idea of it as something big and overwhelming. I want to travel so when we have our future child(ren), we won’t hesitate

to go on holidays abroad and show our child(ren) that the world is accessible… that the world is as big or as small as you desire it to be.

Elijah-James Rose has opened my eyes.

Looking back, I can admit how I used to take friends, colleagues, and family for granted. I would sometimes turn down the opportunity to go out and socialise, preferring to stay at home and write or Netflix-and-chill. Now, however, I jump at the chance to see the people we care about – knowing how lucky Gem and I are, because of how special these people are.

I took our home for granted too.

Not just our little rented flat in the roof – but our location in Bournemouth too. I now find myself loving and truly appreciating its beauty and everything it has to offer. I find myself happy to build a life here – whereas before, I would always consider what life would be like elsewhere.

Though I am not a religious man, and I’m not sure if I’m spiritual either, I cannot help but feel some kind of faith: in Elijah-James Rose. It’s as if by carrying his ashes in a necklace, in having his feet and ‘little dude’ inked on my wrist, and holding so many memories of him and our time in Oxford, I cannot help but feel some kind of presence… a permanent presence… his presence.

With this presence, my perspective has changed.

Though I have always been a contradiction of calmness and hot-headedness, triggered by needless things (such as a slow computer or a lack of milk in the morning) and unmoved by bigger things (like job uncertainty), I now find myself hardly stressed, scared, or p*ssed off at something – other than the football, or waking up in the mid of night to partake in a frenzy of sneezes birthed from hay-fever. Some comments from people who pass you by through the day, the incompetence of a payroll or HR team, or having to pay money for this, that, or the other – a common occurrence with a 16-year-old car. These used to get me angry.

Now? I simply laugh. Shrug my shoulders. Or continue the joy of dunking a choco’ digestive into my hot brew.

I remember my boss (at my job as a ‘customer service advisor’ in student accommodation) speaking with me as I returned to work. He said: “You may find that something triggers you. Maybe a student screaming that their world is over because their light bulb has gone in their room and, despite her reporting it during the night, it has not been fixed.

They’ll give the usual: ‘How do you expect me to live like this? This unexpectable.’ All the while you’ll be sitting there, staring at them, thinking: ‘You think this is bad. You don’t even know.’ If it triggers you, and I won’t blame you if it does, just tap one of our shoulders and say: ‘Can you take this?’ Then walk out. Take a breather. Call Gem and tell her about it. Laugh about it.

Do whatever you need to do. Just take your time. And when you’re ready, come back in. You won’t have to explain yourself. I assure you.”

The offer and understanding was amazing to hear. Frankly, my boss – and my colleagues – were fantastic to me, both before I returned to work and when I joined them again. They insisted on making sure that I didn’t work alone until I felt ready, with a number of people changing their shift patterns and length of shifts for it.

Going back to my boss’ offer, however, I never needed to take him up on it. The company was enough. Frankly, in the presence of a complaining student, I simply found myself laughing (in my head, of course) at it all. ‘You just wait’, I’d think. I, too, used to be naïve and innocent. Then the world gave me a bloody Sunday that will forever be there in my mind.

F*cking PTSD. Not only has Elijah given me the ability to laugh at things that used to get me riled up, he has presented me with the capability of thinking: “F*ck it. He went through a lot worse for us. I/we can do this.” He has, to put it simply, given us the ability to put our middle-fingers up at anxiety.

We were thrown into an absolute sh*t show and came out standing. As we keep getting reminded of, as we keep telling ourselves: “We’ll be able to handle whatever the world throws at us.”

Yes, Oxford has left us with an underlying sadness and hurt.

Yes, we will now have days in the calendar that will always carry an emotional weight with them – i.e. Elijah’s birthday, the day he died, or the day of his service.

And yes, when we have children again, the whole process will be different for us. It may, and most likely will, trigger emotions we haven’t felt yet. We may need to revisit counselling to help us through.

However, Elijah has put us on a path we cannot help but feel grateful for.

As two people, and as a partnership, our son has completely transformed us.

Though Gem and I are a family, Elijah-James truly showed us that. He cemented us together, more-so than any marriage, wedding papers, or mortgage will ever do.

I may not recognise the boy before the bloody Sunday of Elijah’s arrival, but I sure know the man who was born alongside him. In all these things that are permanent, Elijah has helped me understand this man. I know the cards I have been dealt. It’s just a case of how I play them.