Kingdom: The Complete Series (2 page)

The men at the door
have fallen eerily silent. Like a child hiding under the covers, he allows
himself a moment of hope. He drinks from the bottle, spilling paint-thinning
vodka down his lips.

Closing the journal and
binding it shut, he makes his peace and slides it back down beneath the
floorboards.

“
Maaaark...”

The mocking call seems
to come from the walls all around him, teasing him.

Like a brewing storm,
the creaking and groaning of wood grows louder as though the house is slowly
tearing itself apart. Mark shuffles into the corner, trying to make himself as
small as he can in the vain hope that he might fall through the floorboards
along with his journal.

The creaking turns into
cracking as the wooden door begins to splinter, until with a sharp thunder-clap
the wooden door crashes open and the drum-beat of heavy footsteps fills his
hollow dwelling.

Mark falls silent as
the voices fill his home, chiding him and seeking him out.

“
Where
are you, Mark?”

The voices grow closer,
until the thin door to his room bursts open and the snarling men arrive. The
lamp's weak glow casts their shadows across the room; they tower over Mark as
more of them prowl into the room, grinning.

Huddled in the corner,
Mark finds himself surrounded by wolves in the skin of men. The leader of the
pack wields a crowbar, the same one that granted him access to what little
space Mark has.

He drops the bottle in
terror and it clinks over the floor, spilling what little was left over his
legs.

The leader teases him,
walking forward until he stands at Mark's quivering feet.

“
Not
answering your door any more, Mark?”

“
This
place stinks,” says one of the wolves, screwing his nose up.

They all wear long
black jackets with old stained jeans and steel toe-capped boots – most of them
sport bruises or cuts on their faces: cauliflower ears and squint noses, some
with deep scars running up the side of their cheeks.

On the floor, Mark lies
like a condemned man. He is thin and frail: his  janitor's overalls hang off
his skeleton like the striped pyjamas of a starved convict.

“
Just
do it,” he whispers, and the men break out in rehearsed laughter.

The leader of the pack
wags the crowbar at him.

“
That
not how the King works, Mark. You've broken the rules.” “Now, assaulting the
King's men? That comes with a harsh sentence.”

He leaves the threat
hanging. Mark twists his hands together in his foetal pose and stares at the
floor, an animal in a trap.

“
I
come here,” the man says in faux-official tones, “as a Judge in the name of the
King. You have violated the laws of the Kingdom, and are hereby party to a
trial by a jury.” The leader of the pack turns and waves his crowbar at the men
behind him, who stand with clasped hands like onlookers at a funeral. “These
men shall serve as your jury. Should you be found guilty, you will face the
unbridled force of the King's law.”

Mark looks up at them
from his grave on the floor. Perhaps it's the drink hitting him, but he finds
the courage to speak.

“
Everybody
knows these trials are a farce,” he says.

The leader of the pack
pretends not to hear him.

“
You
stand accused of assaulting the King's men and as a result, jeopardising the
safety of the Kingdom. How do you plead?”

Mark seems to have
reached the end of his hope, and has now turned to his defiance. With liquid
bravery flooding his veins, he props himself up against the wall and looks his
judge and his jury in the eyes. The same words that he wrote in his journal
race through his mind.

If only I had the
strength to stand up to these people.

“
How
do I plead?” asks Mark, his voice a dry rasp. “If glassing a couple of thugs
who were dealing to bloody
children
is a crime, then yeah,” he sneers.
“I guess I'm guilty.”

“
Mark,
you're a smart guy. You understand the way the King works. This 'dealing to
children' is a necessary part of a complex system. The weak sink to the bottom
and the cream rises to the top. The King wants you to know that he is sorely
disappointed in you; he considers you a great waste of potential. There was a
place for you in his utopia.”

“
Utopia?
Really?” Mark laughs. “Look at this flat. Do I look like I live in a fucking
utopia?”

“
Mark,”
the judge smiles as though he expected this, “you live like this because you
blew all your money on endeavours that were against the King's wishes, and
therefore doomed to failure. Your skills could have been put to use elsewhere –
you forced yourself into poverty.”

“
The
King
forced me into poverty.”

“
No
Mark: you chose to persevere with your project despite the King's clear
indications to stop. This was your decision.”

“
My
project
worked
until the King decided to intervene.”

“
You
could have been somebody, Mark,” the judge sighs. “Instead: you struggle by as
a cleaner in a school that you hate. You
could
move home to your dear
mother's house, of course, but your pride keeps you here. It's that same pride,
Mark, that makes you think you know better than the King how to operate this
city.”

Mark wants to shout at
them for bringing his mother up, but he holds his tongue.

“
Your
'operation' ruins lives -” he begins.

“
For
some, yes - so others can prosper. There'll always be victims, Mark. Look at
you for example,” he laughs. “Tell me, are you still phoning your mother?
Telling her that you've got a good job and a nice flat? That your project
works?”

He twirls the crowbar
like a cheerleader's baton.

Mark forces his shaking
legs to tense beneath him and stands up with one hand on the wall. He is not a
threatening figure – emaciated, starved, frightened and shaking.  He slurs a
little when he speaks, meeting the pack leader's eyes.

“
Don't
stand there and mock
me
, and then call the King a visionary with a
straight face. At least I can look at myself in a mirror without feeling sick
at what I see.”

The leader of the pack
grins, showing Mark a single gold tooth embedded in his gum. Turning to his
pack, he asks,

“
Verdict?”

As if on cue, they
chant:

“
Guilty.”

“
The
jury has spoken,” the leader states, his arms outstretched. “The sentence for
such crimes is clear.” He points the crowbar like a wand at Mark, who flinches
back, tensed and ready to fight. “Take him.”

The wolf pack advances
on Mark, closing the short distance in a few steps. They pull metallic dusters
over their knuckles, embossed with the crown symbol of the King.

“
One
day you're going to meet someone,” Mark tells them as he scrambles back into
his corner, “with the strength to stand up to you.”

“
Sure
we are,” says the judge.

The first punch throws
his head to the side, dislodging a tooth that rattles around his mouth like a
ricocheting bullet. Blood sprays his pasty white walls and smears his lips. His
legs are kicked away, and he hits the floor hard.

The skies above Glasgow
burn as though a barrage of missiles are streaking through the evening clouds.
A dull orange glow lights the murk as though the sun is trying to break
through, and the clouds scream and burst into rain and thunder as flaming
debris crashes through the atmosphere. Something within the fire reaches out
with its mind and seeks those that will serve its needs best. It chooses them,
and veers towards them as it splits itself into a dozen smaller burning lights.

Jamie neglects to look
up as thunder peels across the city: he is too busy disarming the locks and
alarms on an expensive car with a small set of tools. He works in a blind
fever, trying in vain to concentrate when all he can think of is Chloe,
screaming, being dragged into a gloomy office by a gang of greasy men in
trench-coats.

He needs more time.

The roar of the rain
and wind picks up, deafening him. At the last minute he looks up at the
fireball roaring towards him. He gets the beginning of a scream out before the
flames hit him and engulf his entire body.

Mark curls himself into
a ball as boots and knuckles crack his ribs and bones. Blood spurts from his
mouth with every blow.

If only he had the
strength to stand up to these people.

His window shatters,
bathing his assailants in purifying flames. The fire rushes towards him as
though it were aware, and blazes through his body as he screams in fear.

Mark feels no pain –
there is only the endless, warming heat.

The last thing he sees
is his red journal, lifted from the floorboards by the explosion, burning to
ash before he closes his eyes in acceptance.

Fire rains down on
Glasgow, a dozen small meteors hitting the city like a wild spray of bullets.
For a moment, those hit by the fire become a part of something greater than
themselves.

Then the fire changes
them.

Episode
2

Thrown
to the Wolves

He
looks no different to an ordinary man, although perhaps that's the point. You
might guess at his age or profession: middle-aged, middle-management,
middle-child of a middle-class family. His navy-blue suit is stylish without
being over the top; the watch on his wrist is functional, but not too
expensive. A neutral gaze and hair that is cut for convenience complete the
story: this man
is
his job.

The office seems to
darken as he enters. He crosses to the blinds and pulls them shut, and the
light flickers like film reel until it disappears. He smooths his suit and tie
and settles into a plain-looking chair behind a dark wooden desk. In the gloom,
his eyes look like bullet holes.

Sighing – the first
time that Chloe has heard him breathe since he entered the room – he leans
forward and clicks a green-tinged lamp on. Immediately a bubble of cold light
encases the two of them, alone in the office.

Chloe says nothing as
his darkened eyes run over her features, until eventually the silence is broken
by the man's monotone voice.

“
You
know who I am.”

It is not a question.
Chloe picks a point on the desk and focuses her eyes there rather than meet
his; he prompts her like a teacher.

“
Answer
me.”

“
Yes,”
says Chloe, her voice breaking. “You're Jamie's boss.”

“
Boss?”

“
King,”
she whispers.

“
Better,”
he gives her a polite smile in the darkness. After considering this for a
moment, he takes a breath and leans forward. “You know why you're here?”

“
I'm
insurance.”

“
I'm
detecting a hint of animosity.” The King cocks his head. “You didn't know you
were collateral?”

Chloe gives him a
questioning look with an eyebrow raised.

“
Of
course you didn't,” says the King, gesturing to the piece of yellow paper in
front of him. “It's not often that we get a
person
in a contract, I have
to say.”

“
What
kind of criminal gets his men to sign contracts?”

The King says nothing –
the silence intensifies like heat, causing Chloe to shrink back in her seat.

“
I
am no criminal.” The King leans forward into the bubble of light, and she gasps
and reels back from the coldness of his glare. “No more than any politician or
leader.”

Jamie opens his eyes,
bracing himself for pain that never comes. He remembers the fire: the warmth,
the heat – but not pain. There was a feeling of peacefulness, like a fading
dream: a memory of time being stretched and pulled like putty around him, and
then:

Silence.

He sits up, taking a
deep breath. The world is quieter than he has ever heard it: the silence
threatens to crush him like the weight of an ocean. Rushing blood fills his
ears and his sight dances with dots.

On the roof of a
parking garage, he extends a hand and waits for the pouring evening rain to
wash his palms clean.

The rain never falls.

Jamie looks up at the
grey clouds and waves his hand through frozen raindrops hanging in the air. He
tries to stand and yells in fright, falling backwards.

A man in full, black
body armour and a dark face mask showing only his eyes is standing a few feet
away from him, pointing a fierce looking assault rifle at his chest. Jamie
throws his hands up as he scrambles to his feet and backs away.

The soldier does not
move.

“
Don't
shoot,” he pleads, and the words seem to freeze in front of him like breath on
a cold day. Like a statue, the soldier remains still. “Hello?”

Nothing.

Jamie takes a step
forward. Looking into the mask with a pleading grimace on his face, he tries to
talk again.

“
Anybody
in there?”

As though on cue, the
soldier begins to react.

Like an ancient robot
moving for the first time in millennia, the soldier creaks and groans as he
starts to turn. The assault rifle is tracking towards Jamie; he moves to stay
out of its way.

Frowning in confusion, Jamie
dances to the side and watches as the soldier struggles to track his movement,
as though he were covered in tar.

Something wet touches
his top lip.

Bringing his hand up to
his face, he finds warm blood dripping from his nose. Lifting his hand away, a
droplet leaves his finger and the air seems to catch it and hold it still.
Jamie watches it just hang there. It stays floating in mid-air.

“
I
see gravity was cancelled today,” he mutters.

Nearby, the soldier is
beginning to speed up: the rifle is halfway turned towards him.

Jamie moves again,
behind the soldier, and looks at his watch. It has stopped.

Before his eyes, the
second-hand moves in slow motion, sprinting the gap between seconds before
stopping again.

“
Time?”

Jamie breathes, his
heart pounding in the silence. He dabs his hand to his nose again as more blood
trickles out, swearing under his breath. The second-hand moves again, catching
his eye. Turning faster now, the soldier pivots as though he were underwater.

Jamie takes a step
backwards and the droplet of blood that he left hanging in mid air begins to
fall. His heart races faster as sound begins to pour back into his ears – the
traffic outside, a man shouting, the hiss of rain, helicopters in the distance,
his own words bouncing off the walls of the parking garage...

Time catches up with a
snap.

“
Don't
move,” the soldier screams, aiming the rifle at Jamie. Jamie raises his hands
again, more blood dripping from his nose and over his lips. “Get on your
knees,” he roars, motioning downwards with his rifle.

Jamie complies,
terrified, and gets on his knees. Raising a hand to his ear, the soldier says
in a shaking voice: “Command, I've got one. Send backup, he's – different.”

The soldier listens to
a voice that Jamie cannot hear, and then looks at him. From behind the face
mask, Jamie can only see his frowning eyes.

“
Yes,”
he says, “his nose is bleeding.”

He listens again and
pauses, still sighting down the rifle's sights at Jamie.

“
Ok,”
he says in response to a command. He lowers the assault rifle and reaches for
something from his belt. Jamie's heart skips as the man pulls out a small black
pistol with a yellow lightning bolt on the side: a tazer.

“
This
is for your own good,” says the soldier, taking aim.

He fires, and a loud
buzzing fills the air.

Flinching back, Jamie
hears the rush of his own blood in his ears and realises that the silence has
returned. Two tazer-darts float in mid air, swimming towards him like dazed
fish on their wires.

This time Jamie is
ready.

He leaps to his feet and
runs. Around him, the flow of time begins to stutter and start again.

The smeared evening
light streaks across the concrete like wet paint as he sprints down the ramps
of the parking garage. Jamie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card with
an address written on it, getting his bearings from the landmarks around him.

It's like a muscle in
his head – like lifting a weight with a limb he did not know he had until now.
If he concentrates, he can force it. He feels time pushing through his head,
trying to break him. Gritting his teeth, he mentally pushes back and leaves the
garage.

Jamie runs out into a
silent street filled with grey statues of people in mid-panic, soft raindrops
suspended in the air like a fine mist.

“
Chloe,”
he mutters as he runs.

Mark opens his eyes to
the men staring at him from the corners of the room. The broken window lets the
strained evening light in. He rises first to his knees, then stands on legs
that are stronger than he has ever felt.

“
What
the hell was that -” one of the wolves whines from the floor, rubbing his
singed, red skin.

“
Some
kind of gas explosion,” another bleats as they get up.

Mark stretches his
arms, feeling a strength in them that he is not used to: it is the strength of
intention – the strength to act. His bruises and cuts are drunken memories now,
vanished as though he is wearing a new suit of armour over his old sallow skin.

Sirens echo in the
distance, and the wolves look to one another in alarm. A helicopter chops the
silence into slices.

“
They'll
be coming,” says the leader of the pack, looking out the window in alarm. “This
changes nothing. Get him out to the van and we'll continue this elsewhere.”

Mark looks at his hands
and knows that something is different – something has changed. One of the wolves
approaches, looking at him with hesitation.

“
Come
on.”

Mark feels the cold
fingers like iron bars around his forearm and looks the man in the eye.

He pushes the man
backwards with his forearm.

A surprised cry echoes
around the room as the man is slammed to the ground as though Mark had hit him
with a sledgehammer. He curls on the floor and cringes in pain, clutching his
ribs.

Mark looks down at his
hands in shock, then around the room. He swallows his fear like glass: these
are not men to be trifled with.

The leader of the pack
curses at him and lunges, swinging the crowbar. Too late to react, Mark takes
the blow to the side of his jaw.

His face barely moves,
and the wolf drops the crowbar and clutches his hand, cringing in pain. A dull
clang rings out as the weapon hits the floor, and Mark rubs his face. The pain
never comes to him.

Now he understands.

Mark steps forward,
grabbing the wolf by the collar of his jacket. With a grunt, Mark throws him
into the wall with a fleshy snap. He lets out a winded yelp and collapses on to
the floor, leaving a spider-web crack where he hit.

The other three men
exchange a perplexed look as Mark leans down and picks up the crowbar. His eyes
says everything they need to know, and they turn and flee for the door, clawing
at each other to get away.

Mark lets out a tense
breath; the clatter of boots fades as they leave. With a grateful sigh, he
drops the crowbar with a heavy clang.

A feeble whine breaks
the silence. Mark looks down to see the first of the two remaining men curled
in a ball, holding his stomach. There is a puddle of bile and spittle dribbling
from his reddening lips onto the floor. Remembering himself, Mark leans down
and puts a hand on his shoulder in concern; the man flinches away.

“
I'm
sorry -” Mark begins, trying to formulate his regret into words. “Let me help.”

“
You're
dead,” the injured man hisses at him.

“
I
didn't mean to hurt you,” he says, taking his hand off the man's shoulder. “Let
me call you an ambulance.”

Mark lifts his head as
he hears the sirens, closer now.

“
You
idiot,” the leader slurs from across the room. He sits with his back against
the wall. Above him is the cracked plaster where Mark threw him into the wall,
hanging over him like a dream-catcher.

“
I
didn't mean to hurt either of you,” says Mark. “You didn't leave me a choice.”

“
The
King,” the man grins through bloodied teeth, “does special things to people who
hurt us.”

“
I
didn't mean -” Mark begins, and trails off as the red-lipped grinning man
reaches slowly into his leather jacket and produces a small, ugly pistol.
Mark's stomach flips into his guts and he freezes as the barrel is levelled at
him.

“
How's
your mother doing, Mark?”

“
Please
-” he whispers.

The single shot deafens
him, a sudden thunder clap bursting the hushed silence like a balloon. Mark
grunts as the force of the shot throws him onto his back. Icy numbness spreads
across his chest and up his arms as his hands paw at his skin. He can't
breathe: the air has been punched from his lungs.

Writhing on the floor,
gasping for air, Mark looks up in terror to see the pack leader shuffle himself
up the wall, getting to his feet as the sirens grow louder outside. The whir of
helicopter blades cuts through the patter of rain.

“
You
should have stayed on the floor the first time,” he slurs through clenched
teeth, and lowers the pistol to Mark's prone figure.