Completely Folk'd Read online

  Imprint Page

  First published by Last Passage

  This edition published in 2015 by Blackstaff Press

  4D Weavers Court

  Linfield Road

  Belfast BT12 5GH

  With the assistance of

  The Arts Council of Northern Ireland

  © Laurence Donaghy, 2015

  All rights reserved

  Laurence Donaghy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Produced by Blackstaff Press

  Cover design by www.grahamthew.com

  A cip catalogue for this book is available from the British Library

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 85640 630 0

  MOBI ISBN 978 0 85640 635 5

  www.blackstaffpress.com

  About the Author

  Laurence Donaghy is Belfast born and bred and has lived for approximately 32.5 per cent of his total life expectancy off the Falls Road, where he currently lives with his wife and two young children. A geek before geek-chic was chic, he’s been a fan, follower and writer of sci-fi and fantasy most of his life. The first novel in the Folk’d trilogy was published by Blackstaff in 2013, and the sequel, Folk’d Up, was published in 2014.

  Follow Laurence on Twitter and Facebook.

  Twitter @LarboIreland

  Facebook.com/LarboIreland

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever taken a chance on an unknown author.

  And to everyone who enjoyed Folk’d and told others about it.

  The Future

  ‘Look,’ the man on the judging panel sighed, ‘you’re not bad looking, certainly, but please. The spontaneous human combustion – tired. Juggling cars – yawn. Dancing sharks – seen it. The Britney cover – tuneless. All a bit cruise ship, isn’t it?’

  A chorus of boos erupted from the audience behind him. The man passing judgment rolled his eyes theatrically and ignored the flashing neon ‘TWAT’ sign that had appeared above his head. There was a ripple of a cheer, before the sign popped into nothingness once more.

  Watching this unfold from the comfort of his living room settee, the father frowned as a silent summons came from upstairs, nudging its way into his mind, a subtle little notification on the taskbar of his cerebral cortex. Getting up, he silenced the viewer and let his wife know that he was on his way.

  ‘You’re watching Britain’s Got That X Factor Talent aren’t you?’ she asked as he came into the room.

  ‘Um, a bit, yeah,’ he said guiltily. ‘Lost track of time.’

  ‘Explain how that’s possible,’ his wife said, projecting a giant image of Big Ben into his mind. She had a point. Nobody in the country had overslept in almost a decade – unless they’d wanted to. You had to be pretty fucking creative with an excuse to your boss these days.

  ‘Thought you’d be done ages ago,’ he said. ‘What’s going on up here? She okay?’

  He looked over his wife’s shoulder into their daughter’s bedroom. The child’s sleeping form was visible on the bed, which was unusual in itself. ‘She’s still here?’ he said. ‘Why hasn’t she flipped?’

  ‘Didn’t you get my permission slip a while back?’

  He frowned. Come to think of it, there had been a tug, right about the time Ant and Dec had been quietly taking the piss out of Buster the Dematerialising Dog. ‘Sorry love,’ he said, ‘I just accepted it, I didn’t oh.’

  She nodded, knowing he had finally bothered to look at what he was giving permission for. ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s so young.’

  ‘I know.’

  He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. ‘Has she …’ he began, trying to think how he was even going to frame the question without scaring himself. ‘Has she recognised any of it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Another successful postponement of that particular convers­ation, then. He couldn’t help but feel relieved.

  She tugged his hand, pulling him into the child’s room. ‘Come on in. You know what it’s like, it’s a long oul tale. I’ve had to break it into segments, and I think she’s about to come round from the second. She might want to see us both.’

  His nerves jangled. Seeing his daughter’s peaceful form, he felt a bit daft for being so nervous. Like every child since the dawn of time, her sleeping form belied none of the mischief going on beneath the surface. If every kid was as angelic as they looked when they slept …

  ‘For God’s sake,’ his wife clucked, popping the halo he’d unconsciously conjured above his daughter’s head. ‘What’re you like? Ya soppy eejit.’

  ‘You’re just jealous cos you didn’t get one.’

  ‘A halo wasn’t exactly what I wanted to conjure between us tonight,’ was the retort. If it was designed to sting more than any cheap comeback, it succeeded.

  He watched as his wife curled her fingers around the child’s clasped hands and felt her gently bring their daughter out of the embrace of sleep. It was more than sleep, of course; but then everything was more these days. His head hurt just thinking about it. There were days he missed the simpler times, when the world got dark all by itself.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Hey, princess. Look who’s here too.’

  ‘Right, smelly head?’ he winked.

  ‘Daddy,’ she smiled, still woozy. ‘Is it morning?’

  Some older part of him, sensing the glorious light outside, wanted to reply yes, but of course it was the wee hours of the night. ‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ he replied. ‘You’ve not even finished your bedtime story sure. What one’d you pick?’

  His wife glanced over at him, surprised at the feigned ignorance. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why he had done so himself, but some daddy radar sense had steered him down that path – correctly, as it turned out.

  She threw off the covers and sat bolt upright, vibrating with energy, all wooziness forgotten. ‘I’m gettin’ the Origin, Daddy! No one else in my whole entire class has heard it yet! Not even big Suzy Robinson and sure she looks about thirteen!’

  ‘Ach away,’ he sneered theatrically, turning to his wife. ‘Sure she’s far too young for that. Can she not have that one about the annoying wee lion who finds out Darth Vader’s his da? Or the one about the frigid princess?’

  ‘About the what princess?’ his wife choked.

  ‘The one that turned stuff to ice. What?’ he said, assuming an innocent manner under his wife’s suspicious glare.

  ‘Daddy!’ his daughter howled. ‘I’m not too young for it! I understood every bit of it. Mummy’s even letting me hear the version with all the really bad curs–’

  Mummy chose that precise second to clear her throat very loudly.

  ‘Cursing, eh?’ he asked his wife.

  ‘Frigid?’ she replied.

  The child sighed, sensing a Mummy-Daddy moment. ‘Any­way,’ she said meaningfully, ‘I’ve already seen all the start bits: Danny being miserable cos he’s got Ellie and Luke and he thinks he should have a great life and a big important job.’

  ‘But he very definitely did have a big important job, didn’t he,’ her daddy said gravely. ‘Looking after his wee chicken Luke, which is The Most Important Job In The World.’

  There was an embarrassed silence. Mother and daughter exchanged a look of mutual empathy – the sort of look women have been swapping for eons while in the presence of a man who has just proven to be a disappointment.

  ‘Daddy, d’you think some of them candles on my birthday cake were for decoration?’ the child asked, layering enough genuine curiosity into her voice that her mother let out a startled bark of laughter.

  Chastened, he remained silent as she laid out the Origin she had heard to
date: Danny Morrigan and his trip down the parallel-world rabbit hole into the seemingly perfect, responsibility-free life he had craved. A life he ultimately rejected, before setting out on a quest to find his girlfriend and his wee son.

  ‘So that’s where we’re up to?’ he asked a tad doubtfully, checking the time. ‘Cos there’s still a lot more.’

  ‘Ach I’m away past that now,’ she scoffed. ‘Danny’s met the Morrigan in the Otherworld and –’ the child suddenly shivered. ‘Mummy I’m gonna get back under the covers. It’s cold.’

  Now it was Mummy and Daddy’s turn to exchange a look. He grimaced. ‘Sure, love.’

  Sub-duvet, the girl continued breathlessly. ‘But the Morrigan’s still trapped as a crow but she’s helping Danny by showing him where she came from and all that, it’s really good because he realises he was silly and then Carman – the evil oul witch who’s kidnapped wee baby Luke – had him killed and put into the Cauldron, but he realised it was a test and managed to pull himself back together and realised his da didn’t leave him cos he didn’t love him, and now he can use his powers really good,’ she paused to service her pressing need for oxygen, ‘the bit where Danny got killed was brilliant it was all gory an’ everything like.’

  Somehow he managed to follow the 100mph child-speak. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And then Ellie and Steve went to see Ellie’s uncle Dermot to see if he could help find wee Luke cos they realised the wee baby Ellie had was a changething–’

  ‘Changeling,’ her mother corrected her gently. What did they teach her in that school? She’d have to have a word with Headmistress Greene next time she saw her. ‘So is the story magical enough for you now?’ she asked.

  ‘Ach yeah, Mummy it’s really magical now. There’s spells and creatures and it’s class.’

  ‘And that’s what magic is, love?’

  The child frowned. ‘What else would it be?’

  Her mother stifled a smile. ‘Nothing. Go on, love, your daddy needs to know where we finished if he’s gonna help me create the story bubble and make it even better.’

  The child continued, words tumbling out in a rush as she retold the tale of Ellie and Steve’s capture by Carman’s evil son Dother; of Ellie’s father slaying Sarah, the monstrous spider and of Dother killing him in retaliation.

  ‘Oh so that’s where you got to,’ the child’s father interrupted. ‘Ellie taunted Dother until he grabbed the Sword and all of Ireland vanished?’

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, practically bursting with excitement.

  He glanced at his wife. ‘You left her at that bit? I am impressed at your cruelty, milady. Okay well,’ and there it was again, that twinge of nervousness.

  Everything in this new world was something more. This wasn’t just a bedtime story, it was the Origin. The problem was, it wasn’t just the Origin of this world …

  ‘Ready?’ he asked his wife, and she knew exactly what he was asking.

  ‘She is, even if we’re not,’ his wife replied.

  The bubble came together under their delicate gestures and ministrations, swirling from their skin, pooling from their pores – a little coloured sphere which caught the light that the blackout curtains couldn’t quite shield and threw it off in a myriad of dazzling, beautiful, complex patterns. It was easier to create with two people; the bubble pulsed with vigour, a universe of memory and sensory experience, craving a host –

  – and finding one.

  Unlike the previous bubbles, this one did not drop gently into an outstretched palm. This one shot like a bullet, a forehead-seeking missile striking their daughter squarely in the temple. She did not cry out or make a sound; she had time for neither.

  Both parents eased their now unconscious daughter back onto the bed. The silence inside the room screamed at them. The father’s nerves, just as they had before, flared into existence, dropping the ambient temperature by a good ten degrees; their daughter’s deep breaths now formed little wisps of condensed air above her mouth. The mother reached over and placed a calming hand on his shoulder to arrest the snap-freeze.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘There’s no going back. When she comes out of this, there’s a chance she could know.’

  ‘She already knows what matters,’ his wife whispered, transferring her hand from his shoulder to the child’s cheek. ‘She’s our daughter.’

  The Change

  THE SKIES ABOVE BELFAST, NOW

  The 9.15 from Newark, poised to touch its wheels onto the tarmac of the Belfast International Airport, found itself gliding over nothingness.

  Captain Lansing, the pilot, was a trained and seasoned professional. Only two years before he had single-handedly landed a plane with two engines out of commission, an action that had earned him a modest amount of media attention.

  He panicked.

  The co-pilot, Peters, was a novice, not long out of training. He had endured Lansing’s arrogance all the way across the Atlantic, listening to umpteen speeches about how he still had a long way to go and a lot of things to learn – he dimly suspected the man was a big fan of the movie Training Day – so for the last hour he’d taken to glumly staring at the instruments.

  Now, on seeing the pilot panic, Peters indulged in a quarter-second of vicious glee before his flight school training kicked in and he remembered the emergency protocols for landing in poor visibility with inaccurate altitude readings.

  He aborted the landing procedure, trying desperately to hail a ground control that was no longer present (impossible) and tell the plane’s computers that contrary to readings the plane was not taxiing down a runway but still descending into empty space (even more impossible).

  Dimly he heard himself scream at Lansing to pull himself to-fucking-gether, then at one of the flight attendants to get the passengers to brace for impact, brace for an emergency landing, brace for something–

  The plane fought him, but the most impossible thing about all of this, the complete and utter lack of terra firma below, was the thing that was saving them – there was no ground to crash into. The plane continued to descend. According to their instrumentation, they were now at minus 400 feet. Minus 500. Minus 600.

  ‘Where is the fucking ground?’ he heard Lansing gibber beside him. ‘Where the fuck has the fucking ground gone? What the fuck is going on?’

  Peters nudged the nose up, got the plane stabilised. The windows showed only blackness outside. All kinds of half-assed theories were going through his mind. He found himself fervently wishing he hadn’t read Stephen King’s ‘The Langoliers’ as a teenager: he half-expected to see nightmarish creatures assembling outside the cockpit window, gobbling up pieces of reality …

  Keep it together, he told himself sternly, feeling his entire body convulse in fear. He didn’t want to crumble like the oh-so-heroic Captain Lansing alongside him.

  He swallowed, hard. ‘I’m taking us back up,’ he said, his voice level.

  ‘We need to find the ground!’ Lansing insisted. ‘It’s gotta fucking be there! It can’t just vanish, Peters! A whole fucking city can’t just up and vanish!’

  ‘Captain, we’re already six hundred feet below the surface!’ Peters returned. ‘The ground is gone. Do you hear me?’

  ‘So why are we going up? Why go up?’ Lansing whined.

  Peters spared a second to stare directly at Lansing. ‘Do you want to be six hundred feet below if it comes back?’ was all he said.

  He’d been afraid that this would push the captain over the edge altogether, but it seemed to do the opposite. Lansing exhaled, straightened his shoulders, and, with a nod at Peters, grabbed the controls. Together they angled the plane upwards and the altimeter began to climb towards zero. When it span into positive numbers both men exhaled as one.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ the inflight supervisor demanded from behind them. ‘I’ve got a hundred and fifty people scared out of their fuckin’ minds back there … hundred and fifty-one if you include me.’

  ‘We–’ Peters began.<
br />
  ‘Tell them there’s been a power cut,’ Lansing broke in. He was all smoothness again. ‘We need to go back up, circle awhile, make sure they’re ready to have us come in. Nothing to worry about, have a drink on us, sorry for the inconvenience.’

  The inflight supervisor was a career woman, with the airline twenty-seven years. Frankly she scared the hell out of Peters – his first flight, she’d given him a look that could have withered Jack’s beanstalk.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, fairly vibrating with indignation. ‘But you tell me right fucking now what’s really going on.’

  The plane banked left. Peters started in surprise; he hadn’t initiated the manoeuvre.

  ‘That,’ Lansing said, taking one hand off the controls to point. His finger shook. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘That is what’s really going on.’

  The Irish Sea had been halted, as if by the hand of God, in an irregular line. The waters swirled and rebounded off an invisible wall, preventing tens of millions of gallons of seawater from rushing in and filling a great nothingness – a vast void where the island of Ireland had been.

  Ireland was gone. Lock, stock and barrel, it was gone.

  ‘Get me Heathrow. Get me Glasgow. Get me anyone,’ Lansing said softly.

  Screams sounded from behind them.

  ‘That’ll be the passengers,’ the Inflight Supervisor said calmly, as though in a dream. She stared directly at Peters, all traces of her former fearsomeness wiped away. ‘I better give them those drinks …’

  ‘Don’t let them up here,’ Peters told her retreating back. He hated himself for saying it, but it was necessary. Panicking passengers storming the cockpit wasn’t going to solve anything, unless you counted the question ‘What’s the quickest way to get us all killed?’