Martin Hull | Updates

Perchance to Dream

Martin Hull — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 06:38:36 -0400

One

I stood at the low, wrought iron gate and stared at the house.

Just another featureless three bed semi in a quiet suburban street. A house like many others, it’s anonymity spoiled on this night by the light and sound spilling over from it, escaping through the windows, seeping through the cracks around the edges of the door.

Raucous music, a hubbub of intermingled voices, the sound of people enjoying themselves, the sounds of life. In that moment my nerve almost broke - I would have turned and fled but it was too late, the door had opened.

“Who’s that?” a small, chubby dark haired woman called out. “Is that you Jonathon?”

I forced my face into the semblance of a smile, pushed open the little gate and stepped over the threshold with a deep breath.

“Hello Liz,” I answered. “Of course it’s me. Who did you expect, Brad Pitt?”

She threw the door open wide and a fresh blast of noise and light assaulted my senses. The attack on my morbid depression was intensified by touch and smell as Liz wrapped her arms around me, hugged and kissed me, her perfume filling my nostrils.

Again I told myself it was a mistake, it was too soon. Cary Ann had been dead only six months and I knew I wouldn’t get over her in six lifetimes.

“You look so different, I hardly recognised you,” Liz burbled in her usual way then took my arm in friendly possession and guided me through the crowded hallway.

Different? How much could I have changed in the week since I last saw her? Since she had cornered me at work and badgered me into accepting an invitation to this hideous torture.

We walked into the lounge together, into the screaming heart of the party where the stereophonic din mad my head pound in sympathy.

I smiled and nodded at people I recognised, people I would rather avoid simply because they were all friends or acquaintances of when I and Cary were a couple. Now they were constant reminders of the death of my only love.

Most of the people acknowledged my lukewarm greeting with a nod in return or a wave of a glass but they all stared at me oddly. I assumed I knew their reasons but it didn’t dim my anger, my rage at the unfairness of life.

For six months after the accident I had only left my flat to work or shop for food. Other than that I had become a hermit, unable to accept life without Cary Ann, afraid to take the option I really wanted to free my spirit to follow her into whatever lay beyond death.

So I spent my time alone moping, simply wishing over and over again that she wasn’t dead - thinking of nothing but being in another world, one where my beloved wasn’t dead. Until the wishing had become an unending litany in my waking mind - and the fantasy of another world clouded my dreams so that every morning when I woke I had to suffer the wrenching loss again and again.

“… beard?” Liz pulled on my arm and I realised she had been saying something to me but the music was too loud so I bent down to put my ear next to her mouth.

“Why did you get rid of your beard?” Liz shouted into my ear but still I thought I had misheard her. I’d never had a beard. Before she could repeat herself pointlessly yet again Peter, Liz’s husband came over and clapped me on the shoulder in a supposedly friendly greeting that I had always hated. He also leaned over and spoke loudly:

“Good to see you could make it Johnathon,” he shouted. “Where’s Carole Ann?”

I jerked back, feeling like I’d been punched and glared coldly at Peter, my rage bubbling up, boiling.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I roared at my erstwhile friend. If it was a joke it would earn him no laughter but maybe a broken nose.

The accident that took Cary Ann had left me with no one to blame - the truck driver had himself died of a heart attack which caused the tragedy. With only life in general to blame I felt all too ready to strike out at someone, anyone. At that moment the music stopped and Peter turned away to set another playlist going.

“I asked you why you shaved your bear off?” Lis spoke into the oasis of quiet that had appeared. I turned my angry stare to her.

I had always thought of myself as a straightforward, unimaginative type of person. Even dull - and the kind of persistent “wind up” that Liz was now indulging in had always grated on my nerves - combined with Peter’s very poor taste joke and the constant stares of the other party goers - I could feel the anger inside me ready to explode.

It was a bad moment for the evening to turn completely weird.

Two

“Where’s the music then Peter?” called a voice from the doorway, a voice that sent an unpleasant chill down my spine.

The crowd started shuffling around to let the newcomer through and at the same time a ripple of surprise or even shock spread out into the room. Moments later a bearded man stepped in front of me and Liz.

“Hello Liz, how …” The man began to speak but quickly trailed off into slack jawed silence.

In an instant I felt my heart accelerate and felt each individual hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. I was looking at a bearded version of myself.

“Who …? How …?” Liz spluttered, her eyes flicking rapidly between the two versions of me.

“Who are you?” I asked hoarsely, my mouth dry, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Johnathon Butler,” he replied. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jonathon Butler,” I told him.

We stared at each other while the rest of the party stared at us. Nervous whispers slithered around the room and the scent of fear became apparent. Only one man spoke aloud.

“S’fucking good,” Terry Gee, drunk as usual, gave his opinion of the situation. “There’s two of the bastards.”

I turned to Peter.

“What’s going on here?” I asked him. “Someone’s idea of a sick joke?”

“Whose idea was this?” the other me chimed in. That pushed me over the edge and I lashed out, hitting him squarely on the nose which started bleeding profusely. I’m not really a fighter so it was sheer luck that I managed to hit him at all and he may have been bleeding but my hand was throbbing.

“What are you two doing?” a woman’s voice, “Stop this now.”

A woman’s voice that I recognised immediately, a face that was burned into my soul. She glanced briefly at me then turned to the other me with concern, dabbing at his nose with tissues.

“What happened?” she asked the other me in that quiet voice, a gentle American tang colouring the musical tone. I looked again at that face - serene, golden skinned with large, soulful brown eyes - and the long, softly waved auburn hair that fell to her shoulders.

Three

“Cary Ann,” I managed to croak before my voice deserted me and I sank to my knees, hands spread wide, begging for this to be true. Then the tears fell from my eyes, cascading down my cheeks.

“John what …?” She spoke to her Johnathon, looked at him questioningly but he could only shrug his shoulders. She turned to me and knelt down.

“Cary Ann” I said huskily, “I love you.”

“My name is Carole Anne,” she told me gently, softly. For long moments, an inch of time stretched impossibly long and thin we stared at each other. A brief, cold shadow passed over her eyes as if she suddenly knew why I was in such pain.

Slowly I stood up as an unbearably heavy weight had settled on my shoulders.

“Forgive me,” I begged her as I strolled to the door, barging through the knot of people and straight on outside into the crisp, cool night.

I felt my mind spinning, scrabbling desperately for grip but, finding nothing, spun again set adrift in a sea of surreality. Taking great, shuddering breaths I wandered aimlessly through the streets of Surbiton occasionally shaking my head as if trying to dislodge an idea that had become stuck in there or maybe just in denial.

I realised that I was heading back to my flat. Was it still my flat? Would she be there? Would I be there?

Images from the party flashed through my mind like a series of still photographs taken from odd angles or a dream that I desperately clung to.

I reached the old Victorian mansion that had been converted into half a dozen flats. The lock on the front door had been broken for months so I simply pulled it open and started up the stairs, sluggishly, my breath coming in short, short gasps as the tension that gripped me grew tighter as I came closer to my front door.

Four

The dark oak panelling on the walls, glassy smooth mahogany bannister that helped hold him up, the dark, wine-red carpet that muffled his footsteps. None of it existed for me as I reached the end of the bannister and faced the door to my flat.

“Shit,” I swore after my third attempt to make my key fit a lock it plainly wasn’t designed for.

I looked around, suddenly unsure but yes, it was the right building and the right flat. So who had changed the lock? Hope surged again bringing a fiery pain into my chest as I pressed the doorbell with a shaky hand.

I pressed twice more before I heard the sound of someone coming to the door.

The tension grew tighter, a giant hand squeezing my chest, my stomach churning.

The door began to open slowly and I shoved it hard.

“Ow, what the fuck?”

I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me. To find myself staring at the bearded version of me, favouring one foot where the door had apparently hit him - but it was his eyes that broke me, a look of pain that I recognised only too well.

“Where is she?” I screamed at him. “Tell me where she is.”

“She’s dead,” the other man shouted back. “A lorry ran out of control and rammed into her car. She didn’t have a chance.”

“No,” still shouting I shoved the other me backwards against the wall. “You’re lying. She was standing in a bus queue when the lorry went out of control. That was six months ago.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” the bearded man asked. “The woman I love is dead and you come here telling me insane stories. Why?”

Fear, crushed hope, pain and anger swirled together dangerously inside me like a bomb ready to explode and when the explosion came it was just as deadly.

“Because I loved her to.” I lunged forward and grabbed this other me by the throat, unreasoning fury brushing aside any constraints of civilization. “Because I’ve lost her once already and I cannot take losing her a second time. Dear God please don’t put me through all that pain again - how can I be expected to survive again?”

All the time I was speaking, more to myself or God rather than the man I was strangling - all the time my fingers tightened their grip, ruthlessly squeezing, crushing Adams apple into windpipe, cutting off air, killing.

Was it a minute? Two minutes? before I realised what I had done. It was an eternity, separating me as a basically good man from me as a murderer. I stared, horrified at the lifeless thing in my hands, the weight of the dead body hanging from my adrenalin pumped arms and suddenly I couldn’t hold it any longer. The remains of Johnathon Butler hit the ground with an echoless thud.

I quickly looked over my shoulder fearfully, guilt already burrowing into my head but the front door was shut tight. Every time I looked at the body I felt that I might vomit so I ran to my bedroom to hide, climbed into my bed.

Perhaps I should call the police but how could I explain what had happened? The longer I left it the more difficult the explanations. But I was tired, so tired - all I wanted to do was fall asleep, to wake up in a world where I wasn’t a murderer, where Cary Ann was still alive. Another world, a better world.

I was awakened by the slamming of a door and was instantly overwhelmed by guilt. Had the police burst in? Had someone discovered the body? I looked to the bedside clock but couldn’t make out what time it was - the numbers seemed blurred, badly printed and there where too many of them. I rose softly from the bed crept to the bedroom door and opened it a fraction, just enough to see into the lounge. The handle felt odd, warm and soft to the touch and the door itself moved too slowly but what I saw in the other room made me forget about everything else.

There, by the sofa, shaking her long, (slightly darker than I remembered) hair free of the ponytail that she wore to work. Cary Ann.

Five

Opening the door wide I stepped through and walked to my beloved, determinedly pushing thoughts of murder and bodies out of my mind.

She turned around and looked startled for a moment then relaxed and smiled.

“Oh Jothan,” she exclaimed. “You frightened me half to death. What are you doing home so early?”

“I want you,” I whispered hoarsely. “I need you.”

I took hold of her blouse, fingers stumbling over unfamiliar closures, gave up and simply ripped it from her body. Again I hesitated over the strange design of her bra, waited long enough for her to press a hand to my chest and back away a pace.

“Wait,” she said softly. In that moment I almost felt that I would take her by force but saw that she wasn’t refusing him as her bra fell to the ground quickly followed by her skirt and panties. Naked, she stepped back to me.

Lips touched lips, tongues probed frantically into each other’s mouths and a vast hunger overtook us both.

Later, another eternity consumed by passion, the two of them lay together on the floor of the lounge, her head resting on my shoulder, my arm holding her in a protective embrace.

“Mmm,” Cary Ann murmured through a haze of sweaty contentment. “You must come home from work early more often.”

I smiled, afraid to speak as if that might break the spell of whatever magic had given me this second chance. Gently, so softly I trailed my fingers down her cheek - felling the velvet softness I thought I would never touch again. I rested my hand against the pulsing beat of life at her throat, it’s slow and easy rhythm enough to bring a lump into my own throat.

I moved my hand, exploring once more the contours of her collar bone, sliding on down to her breasts, squeezing a quickly hardening nipple between thumb and finger. She looked at me with a mischievous smile.

“Again already?” she laughed. “Is this the same man who forgot to kiss me goodbye this morning?”

I froze, flames of desire quenched by the cold waters of reality. All the buried fears and questions re-surfaced to chase each other endlessly around my mind.

Was I going mad?

Maybe I was already locked in a padded cell for the criminally insane while my deranged mind sought refuge in this fantasy?

Had I found my way into another continuum, another - parallel - universe?

Was there yet another Jonathan Butler around?

Cary Ann sat up and looked down at me.

“Jothan, what’s wrong?” she asked. “It was only a joke, I know you’ve been working hard lately.” The she smiled brightly again “I bet I know what it is - you forgot to pick up the milk.”

I just smiled.

“Never mind,” she said, getting dressed. Looking at the torn blouse she grabbed my shirt instead. “I’ll nip down to the corner shop and grab some. Back soon.” as she disappeared out the door.

It seemed only moments later that I heard the screeching of tyres and the screams of people. I rushed to the window and looked out but I already knew what I would see. A lorry, overturned, the massive weight of the container it was carrying crushing Carry Ann. I could just see her head and shoulders underneath it.

I stood by the window for a while but I knew what I had to do.

I went to bed, breathing deeply and softly, thinking about a world where my beloved was still alive.

The End.

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Contact

Martin Hull — Thu, 24 Oct 2024 10:57:14 -0400

Chapter 1

The spaceship came screaming down with the thunderclap roar of displaced atmosphere yet landed whisper soft on the grass at the end of town.

The craft glittered sleekly in the mid-morning sunlight as it lay on it’s side - a broad shaft topped by a bulbous nose from which a door opened.

The blond haired man that stepped out was tall, bronzed and athletic. He wore the shining, golden uniform of Earth’s Bureau of Exploration, his proudly displayed badges of rank declared him to be a Senior Contact Manager (ConMan) Alien Division.

He flicked aside the long ponytail that was a fashion among his colleagues and walked down the ramp that had silently extended itself from his scout craft breathing the fresh, untainted (thoroughly examined and tested) air.

There was a short, thickset native strolling towards the spaceman, looking mildly curious. Switching on his Universal Translator the ConMan greeted the native.

“Greetings from Earth”. The time delay between speaking and computerized translation was almost unnoticeable.

“Hello”, replied the native. “I’m from Lower Great Wopping. Did you know that you aren’t allowed to park there?”

“Eh? What?” said the Earthman. “Sorry, no I didn’t.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” relied the native cheerfully. “Just remember next time otherwise the grass tends to get worn out. Okay?”

“Sure, I … Wait a minute,”the Conman interrupted himself. “I’m from another planet.”

“Oh goodness,” exclaimed the native. “No wonder I didn’t recognise you. That also explains why you parked on the grass. Well, enjoy your stay here,” and he turned to leave.

“Hold on. Wait,” called out the man from Earth. “I am from another planet and I want to see your leader.”

“Well …” the other man thought for a moment then puffed his chest out a bit. “I suppose that’s me. I am the Mayor of Lower Great Wopping.”

“No,” said the ConMan with a cendeceding smile. “I meant your overall leader. National Government.”

“Nashnul Guvmint?” said the mayor quizzically. “Is that anything like a public convenience?”

“No it isn’t,” snapped the Earthman. “Do you have a king then? Or a dictator?”

“I’m sorry, no I haven’t,” apologised the Mayor. “Perhaps we can get one at the general store?”

“No, no, no,” raged the thoroughly confused ConMan. “Please let us start again. Do you have a ruler of any kind?”

“Yes, of course,” the Mayor’s face brightened rapidly. “I’ve only got a six inch one with me but I can get a longer one from home.”

“What? No, not that sort of ruler!” The ConMan tried very hard and managed to bring himself under control. Barely.

“A slide rule,” suggested the Mayor diffidently.

“No dammit!” screamed the man from Earth.

For several minutes he simply stared at the Mayor, apparently trying to wish him out of existence. When the native failed to disappear in a puff of smoke the ConMan decided to try another route.

“Who makes your laws?” he asked with reasonable calm.

“Laws?” the Mayor laughed. “We tried making some laws a few years back but nobody liked ‘em much so we junked ‘em.”

“Junked ‘em?” the man from BuEx was shocked into spluttering for a few moments. “You can’t simply junk all laws just because nobody liked them.”

“Why not?”

“Well … er …” The ConMan was unsure but pressed on. “Well … er … who made them?”

“Let’s see now,” the Mayor counted names off on his fingers. “There me and Jane, Fred and Mary, the two Jones girls - very good at it they were - and just about anyone who was interested chipped in some ideas.” The Mayor looked sheepish, “I suppose you think we were stupid, making up laws. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean I don’t know.” The ConMan was floundering and took a few moments to collect his thoughts. There seemed to be some missing.

“Let’s start again. Again.” He said eventually. “Who makes the rul … er regulations for this country?”

“What’s Country?” asked the Mayor warily.

The ConMan’s reply started off reasonably, if somewhat incoherent but quickly became an ear shattering screem.

“Well it’s … I mean it’s got … that is … Goddamit you stupid sonofabitch you must know what a country is!”

“Nope,” said the Mayor lightly.

“Oh dear God,” said the exasperated Earthman. “Look, you are a Mayor, right?”

The Mayor nodded.

“So you have a council?”

Again a nod.

“What does the council govern?” asked the ConMan in a whisper, as if he were afraid of the answer.

“The borough,” came the simple answer.

“And what,” the ConMan was becoming exited again, “Do you call a collection of boroughs.”

“A collection of boroughs,” replied the Mayor without even blinking but he did take a step backwards. Just in case.

“I … you …but … aarrgghh” screamed the Earthman who seemed to have developed a twitch just under his left eye and stuttered slightly as he spat out his next question.

“What do you get if you put all the boroughs together?”

“The World,” replied the Mayor, stepping back another pace as the ConMan seemed about to throw a fit.

He was silent for several minutes, breathing deeply as his face went through several colour changes while blood vessels at his neck and temples began throbbing visibly.

“Let’s go back to the beginning,” the ConMan almost pleaded. “How many councils are there?”

“Nobody knows for sure,” the Mayor thought for a while, “But I think it’s around two hundred and fifty thousand now.”

The Contact Manager was obviously shaken by the answer but ploughed grimly on.

“And who,” he asked, “Is above them?”

The Mayor thought long and hard, brows furrowed, face towards the sky. Eventually he said - “All right, I give up. Who is above them?”

The Universal Translator was unable to translate the reply other than to give out an ear splitting shriek.

When the ConMan was able to speak intelligibly again there was a glint of madness shining in his eyes.

“Listen you fool,” he started ranting at the native. “I am a Senior ConMan, an expert at understanding and communicating with aliens …”

“I’m no alien,” the Mayor interrupted indignantly. “I was bor and raised right here.”

“No, I’m the alien,” said the Earthman. “I mean … that’s not what I mean … no it’s …”

Suddenly he turned and marched quickly back to his ship, muttering to himself.

“I’ll quit, that’s it, I’ll resign. It was a stupid job anyway. Maybe I never even found the bloody planet, they’ll never know.”

As the spaceship took off, disappearing rapidly into the clear blue sky another native, this one riding a bike, drew alongside the Mayor and stopped.

“Hello Fred,” the Mayor greeted the newcomer.

“Hello Mayor,” replied Fred. “Who was that?”

“A bloke from Earth.”

“What did he want?”

“Buggered if I know,” said the Mayor.

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Devine Enquiries 4

Martin Hull — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Devine Enquiries 4, published.

The dead don’t rest. Neither do they.

Six months after the zombie war, the world is quieter-but far from healed. The fae have vanished, and the streets of London are littered with the ghosts of what came before. Amid the wreckage, Sam and Jason-partners in life and in the business of supernatural sleuthing-are trying to rebuild.

Their agency is busier than ever: cheating husbands, runaways, and the occasional revenant with a grudge. But beneath the surface, something darker stirs. Jason is haunted by the memory of a woman who chose death to save the world. Sam is terrified that the fragile peace they’ve found could shatter at any moment.

Now a coven of amateur witches have released the Greek gods from their ancient prison. Vengeful, angry gods, who want to rule or destroy the world.

Gripping, gritty, and full of heart-Devine Enquiries is back in business.

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Devine Enquiries 3

Martin Hull — Tue, 25 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Hey, it's finally arrived. Full of the usual blood and violence but Jason has a darkness over him.

DE4 is in process, hopefully you won't have to wait so long this time.

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Half way

Martin Hull — Tue, 12 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Hi all, I'm about half way through Devine Enquiries 3. Here's a little taster, chapter 1:

“Ow, ow.”

We had made love for hours last night then fell asleep snuggled up to each other, Sam’s head tucked into my shoulder, my arm around her. Now my arm was completely asleep and as I tried to move it pins and needles raked my arm with blood flow returning.

Sam moved her head onto my chest, her body pressed against mine. Slowly and carefully I extricated myself, resting her sleeping head on my pillow and crept out of our bedroom heading for the kitchen for a desperately needed cup of tea. Gizmo was stretched out in the hallway. He raised his head briefly (and I swear he was grinning) then dropped back down to continue his snooze.

I made a cup of tea and also took one into Sam although she was still asleep so I put it on her bedside table then went back to the kitchen to start breakfast.

Before I got to the kitchen the office phone rang and in my rush to get there before it woke up Sam I clipped my shoulder on the door frame and tripped over a chair making more noise than the phone ever could. Eventually I picked up the phone and spat out

“Hello. Who is it?” Before realising that it had already gone nine o’clock so I may be snarling at potential customers.

“What an excellent telephone manner you have.” It was Detective Inspector Hilary St John Stevens of New Scotland Yard, an old friend.

“Sorry Hils,” I said “But if I’d known it was you I wouldn’t have been so polite. What can I do you for?”

“As you know, whenever weird shit happens,” he said “I come to you because let’s face it you are weird.”

I smiled because that’s as close as he ever came to showing emotion.

“So what particular weird shit is happening now?”

“Bank raids.” He said, deadpan.

“Bank raids?” I said. “What’s that got to do with us? Surely that’s purely a police matter.”

“Normally I’d agree with you,” Hilary answered. I was expecting his usual coughing and spluttering from too many cigarettes but then remembered Sam had turned him into a vampire. Cancer no longer affected him - but he still smoked. “The trouble is that no one sees the robbers arrive or leave and when one gets shot nothing happens, The robber just carries on walking and disappears. There have been ten banks hit in the last month - plenty of witnesses seeing half a dozen thieves, no one hurt, no visible weapons - no getaway car, they just walk out the front door and vanish.”

I had a sinking feeling that I knew what was happening. Ishaaq Ibrahim was not the only person who could find and “span” gateways.

“In one case,” Hilary continued, “We had a van load of armed police waiting outside. The witnesses inside saw the thieves walk out the front door but they never appeared outside. The only descriptions we have are that they looked like zombies. Do we now have another mythical group to contend with?”

“Hi Hils,” Sam came into the office, stark naked and beautiful.

I thought “Good job it’s not a video call.”

Then I thought “Don’t be daft, Sam wouldn’t care.”

“Hi Sam,” Hilary called out. “No doubt you heard the conversation.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “I didn’t realise that zombies needed money or that zombies existed.”

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And so it begins

Martin Hull — Mon, 4 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Hi all. Sort of a newbie at this so allow a little leeway.

So far I have 5 children's books, all fantasy/adventure and three adult books, 2 with the Devine Enquiries and one humour.

I am in the process of writing Devine Enquiries 3, I'll let you know how it goes. Cheers.

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