From The Shadows (Blaze series Book 1) Read online

  Judge Jones cleared his throat, then ordered Blaze to rise as he addressed the court. He stood with O’Brian and Turner either side of him.

  “Bobby Blaise, you have been found guilty of arson in the first degree, which carries a maximum sentence of seven years’ imprisonment, serving a minimum of five years without parole. You will leave this court immediately in the custody of the state, spending the night in a cell at the Glendale Police Station until tomorrow morning—when you will be transferred to the Winterhill Corrections Facility to carry out your sentence. Is there anything you wish to say to the court?”

  Blaze turned to face the gallery. He locked eyes with the principal of St Mary’s, and said, “Did you like your Christmas present, Mother?”

  She said, “May God punish you for your sins, Bobby!”

  He snickered at her response. “Perhaps if you’d listened to me twenty-three years ago, none of this shit would have happened!”

  Elizabeth was at the end of her rope. She was just about ready to run down the stairs and slap her good-for-nothing son across the face. Instead she yelled at him in a fit of rage. “You deserve every vile thing that happens to you in prison, Bobby! In fact, I pray that you are miserable and suffer greatly!” She took a deep breath and continued her rant. “May God deliver your soul to the devil himself, and may it burn in the fires of Hell, as he knows you most certainly deserve it!”

  Blaze could only laugh. He didn’t understand how people still used the old-fashioned fear of Hell in modern-day society. The teachings of Hell-fire and eternal damnation in Christianity were all but over. He composed himself long enough to say, “Stop being so fucking dramatic. At least now that the school is a scrap heap you can stop brainwashing the next generation of innocent kids with all that mental shit!”

  Elizabeth welled up with tears. It hurt her so much that he wasn’t a God-fearing son, and that he would never receive salvation.

  “I’m washing my hands of you, Bobby!” she said. “You are no son of mine! You belong to the devil! No—you are the devil!”

  He chuckled. “Thanks for the compliment. But just so you know, you were dead to me a long, long, time ago. Feel free to saw my branch off your family tree any time you fucking please! Oh, and by the way, ever since I’ve been gone from this pathetic, shithole town, I go by the name, Blaze. It ain’t Bobby no more. So, all of you can stop fucking calling me that!”

  “Enough!” Judge Jones banged his gavel.

  Elizabeth refused to look upon her son whom she’d publicly disowned. She couldn’t bear the pain in her broken heart any longer.

  What did I do to make him hate me so much?

  Blaze didn’t look back as he was ushered out of the courtroom by O’Brian and Turner. He’d only come back to Glendale for two reasons—and he’d achieved his first objective: the ‘short-term plan’: the piece-of-shit school was out of commission, closed for the season, until it was rebuilt, which was inevitable. But he’d sent his message loud and clear. And with a minimum five-year prison sentence to be carried out, the ‘long-term plan’ was next on his agenda. But for now, all he could do was kill time.

  O’Brian and Turner eased him into the rear seat of their patrol car. Blaze was buckled in and left to make himself comfortable as they drove the short distance from the courthouse to the station. When they arrived, they escorted him to his cell, locked him inside, and left him sprawled out on his bunk in solitude.

  Later that evening O’Brian walked over to Blaze’s cell, and said to him through the bars, “Listen up, Bobby, are you going to give us any trouble tonight?”

  Blaze stared at the ceiling. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Good. I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee and order Chinese, if you’re interested?”

  “Sure, sounds better than that frozen microwaved shit you’ve been feeding me for the past fucking week.”

  O’Brian left him, picked up the phone on his desk and dialled the number from memory to make their order.

  O’Brian and Turner were almost in awe of Blaze. He was so relaxed about the whole affair. They knew from experience that most people destined for Winterhill were terrified on the eve of their departure to the notorious prison. But that wasn’t Blaze. He just casually lay back on his bunk with his hands tucked under his head, enjoying what would be the last night in his temporary home of the previous ten days.

  O’Brian ran a hand through his thick crop of styled brown hair as he asked, “Aren’t you even a little anxious about where you are going tomorrow?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you’re either a man with a death-wish or you’re goddamn crazy.”

  Blaze exhaled loudly through his nose. “Maybe I’m a touch of both. But it’s more the fact that I’ll be safer on the inside rather than the outside for the time being.”

  “What do you mean by that, Bobby? Is your life in danger?”

  “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. Just hurry up with that coffee, and stop fucking calling me Bobby.”

  “Sorry, I thought that was your name. I’ve been calling you that all week...”

  “Hence why I ignored you.”

  “Okay, fair enough. What would you like me to call you instead?”

  He sighed with frustration. “For fuck’s sake. Does anyone listen to anything around here these days? It’s Blaze, goddammit. My fucking name is Blaze.”

  Chapter 3

  The Watcher breathed in the crisp morning air as he sat outside on the balcony of his two-storey house. The red brick walls and charcoal-black tiled roof radiated heat from the intense rays of summer sun, and the roses that lined his gravel driveway sparkled from the morning dew.

  He commenced his usual morning routine: pouring a steaming mug of coffee to go with his scrambled eggs on buttered toast, before perusing the daily newspaper. As he unfolded it and spread it flat on the table, his lips formed an evil smirk, as the clever headline filling the entire front page of the Glendale Times read: BLAZE JAILED FOR INFERNO.

  He finished reading the article, and made a mental note to save the newspaper for his vast collection of keepsakes. “It was so nice to see you again, Bobby,” he said to himself. “It’s such a pity you have to leave again so soon.”

  The Watcher had been present at the courthouse for Blaze’s trial, and had enjoyed watching the show of Blaze and Elizabeth airing out their dirty laundry immensely. It was years since he’d seen Blaze, and he’d often wondered what had become of him. It was exciting that he’d made a shock return to his hometown, even if it was short-lived.

  He sat back in his elegant outdoor dining chair and reminisced on the times he’d watched Blaze as a young boy. He became aroused as the intimate memories flashed through his mind. He snapped out of his feverish state, and reminded himself that God had forgiven his past. He should focus on the task at hand.

  There was one thing that prevented the Watcher from truly uniting with God: his one guilty pleasure that made his bones itch. Over the years, he had succumbed to the desires of the ravenous beast that lived in the depths of his soul, constantly begging for nourishment. He had made an honest effort to keep that part of his life suppressed, and had vowed to serve God faithfully as recompense for his sins.

  The Watcher lived on a quiet suburban street, directly across the road from a playground and BMX track built in a small park. The enormous sports field behind it backed all the way onto the vast school grounds of St Mary’s. For the past thirty-five years, the Watcher had climbed into the attic of his house and endlessly stared through his binoculars from the sole window in his roof that looked directly into the park. It was the perfect hideout: he could watch Blaze and numerous other children ride their bikes and burn off excess energy on the playground every day after school.

  He took a sip of his coffee as he remembered Blaze as a student: living at the boarding school during the week, and at home with his family on the weekends. He would often see him getting picked on by the other boys who attended St
Mary’s as he walked home every Friday across the field and past the playground, quickly becoming the star of many afternoon altercations.

  The Watcher had noticed Blaze never took a backward step, and almost always managed to overcome anyone who stupidly decided to push him around. He wasn’t the tallest kid, but he was naturally stronger, fitter, and tougher than the rest of the boys in his year level.

  The Watcher had noticed a rare quality in Blaze: he feared no one, and the consequences of his actions didn’t register a blip on his radar. He was an all-or-nothing fighter, and had the mental aptitude to win at any cost, destroying his opposition with intent to inflict pain.

  Where did you learn how to fight so well at such a young age?

  The Watcher closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered the day two boys from St Mary’s tried it on with Blaze on his way home. They were at least two years above him in high school. The first boy pushed him. Blaze retaliated, throwing a series of rapid punches to his face, resulting in a broken nose, two missing teeth, and a swollen black eye. The second boy grabbed him from behind and held him in a headlock. Blaze thrashed enough to free his right arm, and winded his assailant by delivering three solid elbows to his gut. Then he turned, grabbed the boy by the head and slammed it down on his right knee as he snapped it up with brute force. The boy cried out as he dropped to his knees, clutching at his bleeding face, while his friend lay on the ground, a mirror image of him, his hands drenched in blood as he gingerly caressed his splintered nose.

  Blaze had them beaten, but it wasn’t enough just to win. He caught up a large stick that had fallen from a tree in the park and delivered a round of savage blows to their kneecaps, as retribution for starting a fight with him for absolutely no reason at all. Then he continued on his way home as if the incident had never occurred.

  Every now and again, certain boys wanting to raise their status in the schoolyard would have a go at Blaze. But by the time he’d become a senior and grown into his frame, it was common knowledge that it wasn’t worth the hassle, and it was in one’s best interests to just leave him the hell alone.

  With all the memories streaming through his mind, the Watcher started to feel that same burning itch that consumed his life for so many years. He had never imagined the long-term effect Blaze would have on him after all the time he’d been away. The unfinished business from their past had always plagued his mind, crushing his ego; a deadly cancer without remedy.

  He let out an exaggerated groan as he stretched his arms above his head, before hauling himself up to take his dirty dishes inside. He went down the spiral staircase to the ground floor, whistling his favourite song: Old Time Religion. He walked across the room to the kitchen which occupied a moderate portion of space in his open-plan kitchen, lounge, and dining area, and put the dishes in the sink with good intentions to take care of them later.

  He walked down the hallway to his bedroom and pulled out his beautiful leather-bound Bible from the set of drawers next to his bed. He leafed through the pages until he found his favourite verse. It reassured him that God had forgiven his past transgressions, and would continue to forgive him for the many more he was about to commit. He believed God had charged him with a mission to rid Glendale of the evil it possessed, by whatever means necessary.

  The Watcher was old-school. He liked all things old-fashioned: cash instead of credit cards, cameras that required film, a hand-written letter in the mail on his birthday, washing dishes by hand, manual transmissions in cars, respect for the elderly, and families attending church together every Sunday. Above all else, there was one thing that plagued him more than anything: modern religion. There was no place for it in Glendale. He preferred church services the way they used to be: traditional hymns sung in a key so high that men had no chance of hitting the notes, husbands and wives dressing in their Sunday-best and attending mass with well-mannered, obedient children who sat quietly through the services, and large congregations who freely donated their time and money to grow God’s family into the future.

  He felt that many longstanding traditions had gone by the wayside: confession, communion, tithing, helping Church family, sharing God’s love to the community, and most importantly: following God’s word to the letter of the law.

  Anger brewed within him as he thought about how much the Church had changed over the past twenty years. Young people attended church wearing jeans, baseball caps, and sneakers. Smartphones with mind-numbing games were handed to sugar-loaded kids to help keep them quiet during the services. Young church members performed modern praise and worship, giving him a migraine from the deafening noise of amplified guitars and drums. Baptised members neglected to pay their tithe, completely losing sight of their faith and obedience to God. Young couples had started living together and having children out of wedlock. And teen-pregnancy coupled with homosexuality had started to riddle Glendale as never before imagined.

  He was certain God had appeared to him in a dream, saying he must take action to preserve the town’s Christian roots and traditions that were being degraded beyond recognition.

  He sensed the time was right to carry out God’s plan. The return of Blaze had reignited the itch that was always a fraction out of reach to scratch.

  He was going to clean house; God had called him to his service. His obsession with watching people’s comings and goings had gone to a whole new level over the years—to the point where he virtually knew all the dirty little secrets being kept behind closed doors.

  He had waited patiently for a sign. And the moment he’d heard Blaze had returned home and burnt down St Mary’s, he knew it was time.

  He had never comprehended Blaze’s homecoming. But now, as he sat pondering on the edge of his bed, he had the unique opportunity to rid Glendale of all its immorality, and the chance to resolve his unfinished business with Blaze.

  Two birds with but one stone.

  He reverently bowed his head in prayer. “Father, I will answer your call as you have sent me a sign to commence your work. I will serve you, and your will shall be done to the highest distinction, and bring glory and honour to your name, amen.”

  For the moment, the crusade would have to wait, as he was about to leave for work, and it would be against his morals to be late. He always arrived early in case of any urgent matters, and was more than happy to stay after-hours. He was extremely dedicated to his work, and after more than three decades of service, his routines were deeply ingrained in him.

  Joy engulfed his heart as he returned his Bible to its drawer. He had to deliver an important message on his way into work, and decided it would be nice to take a walk through his beloved town.

  As he happily strolled along, he detoured off the main street and casually walked past the police station. He was just in time to see Blaze being loaded into the back of a white Ford Transit armoured van, before being driven away to spend at least the next five years in prison.

  Don’t worry, my precious little Bobby. With the plan I have up my sleeve, I have the feeling I’ll be seeing you again very soon.

  With that thought firmly in mind, he smiled to himself and continued walking. He turned down a suburban street, and discreetly popped the envelope he was carrying into a letterbox as he strode past.

  Let the fun and games begin…

  Chapter 4

  Blaze woke from his catnap as the armoured van slowed and jolted over a set of speed humps. The road they had coasted along for the past half hour was a dead end that had only one destination. Blaze sighed as he peeked through the caged window and saw the daunting walls of Winterhill Corrections Facility. He noted the terrain encompassing the entire area was made up of nothing but neck-deep swampland as far as the eye saw. “Welcome home, Blaze,” he muttered to himself.

  They drove around the enormous complex and came to a stop at the centre of a giant grey concrete wall with razor-sharp barbed wire coiled along the top. It was at least ten metres high, and one hundred metres long either side of their position.
r />   The entire outer perimeter had a wide concrete pad poured at ground level, acting as a major deterrent to anyone who might consider escaping over the walls. The architects responsible for security had made sure there was no possibility of a human body surviving such a catastrophic impact. Only two prisoners in the history of Winterhill had been desperate enough to test the waters and make the jump, and what was left of them had to be hosed off the concrete into the storm water drain in the adjacent curb of the road.

  They waited patiently outside an impenetrable steel door that stood nearly as tall as the intimidating fortress before them. The lights mounted on the wall flicked from red to green. The door slowly rose, folding in half like a concertina and resting parallel to the ceiling of the security checkpoint. They drove through the narrow entrance, just wide enough for a large delivery truck, and stopped in the centre of the room. Blaze heard the electronic humming of the door slowly retracting behind them, and with a definitive, ‘clunk’, the room went dark, sealing him off from the free world.

  The walls inside the gloomy chamber were made from the same thick concrete as the perimeter wall. Directly ahead was another steel door, housed in a concrete wall identical to the one behind them.

  Four security guards were on duty. Two of them were responsible for inspecting the van and recording the time and reason for their arrival, and two were required to escort Blaze inside for processing—which included an introductory meeting with the governor.