The Berserker
Chapter 2

Peter Robson tripped over the threshold mat and landed head first into the door frame that led out from the Duck and Goose pub, quickly stumbling to his feet as he checked around that nobody saw him.

“Pissed then,” he said to himself as he straightened the collar on his winter coat. “Get a grip Pete, we can do this, just one foot in front of the rubber.”

He stumbled forward as he began to laugh at his mispronunciation, and he only stopped himself from face planting the asphalt by grabbing out to the thick wooden trunk of the pub sign, holding onto it as he giggled to himself.

“Gonna take me hours to get home me thinks,” he said, looking the fuzzy sign post up and down. “Hey, you're a tall bastard aintcha,” he said to the swinging Duck and Goose sign, and then laughed as he hugged the trunk. “Come on Pete,” he encouraged himself seriously, “Get a grip.”

He pushed away from the sign and closed one eye as he walked steadily along the High Street of Blaise Village, unaware he also had his arms extended outward as though he was a tightrope walker and it was helping him balance. He tripped up the kerb and fell sideways into the window of the 8til12, where the pretty woman called Kristy, with the big boobs, worked. He stood upright and apologised to the glass.

“You will have to excuse me,” he said to it in a posh voice, “I am very drunk.”

He looked through the window and closed one eye again as he tried to focus on the illuminated clock above the counter. It flashed the time at 2:29am.

The two white lights were bobbing towards him from the direction of Blaise Forest, and Pete stood on the kerb outside the 8til12, trying to focus as he wondered if it was a couple of fire flies that were sporadically flying straight toward him.

He moved from left to right as he tried to dodge the lights, but his reflexes were very slow and erratic, so he only succeeded in splitting the two lights down the middle and end up spinning around as Marcus hit him first and Wilson soon after.

Pete laid out half on the road and half on the pavement as the wheels of his brothers’ bike spun with a buzz next to his head. His eyes were flickering and his forehead had a lump growing on it, which had a tiny ooze of blood erupting like a slow motion red volcano.

Marcus crawled toward him on all fours, ignoring the icy coldness of the asphalt on his hands, and he closed his eyes when the familiar face came into his view.

“Crap,” he said as he saw that it was his brother that they had just run over. “It’s Pete,” he said, turning to Wilson.

The sigh and roll over onto his back told Marcus that his friend was relieved it was someone they knew.

“Is he pissed?” Wilson asked him.

“Smells like,” Marcus replied, as a matter of fact.

“What the frick was he doing trying to play hop scotch in the middle of the village, in the middle of the night?”

Wilson had a look of bemusement.

“His head is cut,” Marcus said as he inspected his brother for damage. “Looks like his coat is ripped as well,” he added, pushing his fingers into the new hole, just to be sure.

“Well, he will be pissed when he replaces that out,” Wilson said with a giggle.

He knew how much Peter cared about the way he dressed, and how much money he spent on looking like he cared.

“Help me get him up, Wils,” Marcus asked him with urgency, a little put out that his friend wasn’t taking the situation serious enough.

Wilson stood up and rubbed the remnants of the road from the leg of his jeans, tutting loudly as he spotted the tiny hole that had appeared in them.

“Just drag him to the side of the 8til12 and leave him there for the night Marc, he won’t know any difference.”

He carried on inspecting his jeans as he gave Marcus his proposal.

“And that’s supposed to be a serious option?” he questioned, as he stopped fussing over Pete and looked at Wilson.

A shrug of Wilson’s shoulders and a muttering under his breath made Marcus a little annoyed with his friend.

“We will have to carry him,” Marcus said, as he looked back to his brother.

Wilson’s attention was finally taken away from his leg, and he turned his head to look at Marcus.

“And that’s supposed to be a serious option is it?” he said sarcastically. “I’m not carrying your brother man, he’s a dick.”

Wilson was shaking his head with purpose, just to convince himself that he was making the right decision.

Peter seemed to stir as Marcus lifted his head up from the kerb, and he blinked his eyes a few times as he let out a groan when the weight of his head caused a jolting pain to creep through his brain.

“What happened?” he asked, groggily.

Marcus opened his mouth to explain that he had been hit by their bikes when Wilson jumped in and spoke before he could get a word out.

“We were riding our bikes out in the village and saw you lying in the road,” he lied. “We figured a car must have run you over or something because you were out cold.”

Wilson was nodding at Marcus subtlety to encourage him to go along with his story, and Marcus finally spoke when he realised what his friend was doing.

“Yeah, that’s what happened,” he agreed, unconvincingly, smiling at Wilson as he carried on the lie. “We found you just lying hear with that bump on your head Pete.”

Peter lifted himself up onto his elbows and shook his head in an attempt to clear the fuzziness that either the bang on it, or the alcohol in it, had caused.

“Well I can remember two lights, which could’ve been headlights of a car,” he said to himself out loud, “But there was no engine noise?”

“Anyway,” Wilson butted in, spotting that Peter may be regaining some memory of them causing him to pirouette like a drunken ballet dancer, “We need to be getting on if you're feeling ok Pete.”

Peter struggled to his feet and then rubbed his eyes with the base of his thumbs, stretching his back out in the process, as he contorted his body in some strange rhythmic dance pose that he held for a second, and then releasing himself from it as his stretch subsided, when something occurred to him.

He turned to Marcus, who was stood to his left, and stared at him intently, suspiciously.

“What are you doing out in the village in the middle of the night, Marc?” he asked. “Does mum know you're out?”

Wilson lowered his head so he didn’t have to make eye contact with Pete, but the way he whispered under his breath made Pete even more suspicious.

“Rumbled,” he had said.

“What it is Pete,” Marcus started, “Is that we were night fishing on Blaise Pool when I caught a Tench, and then we saw a figure splashing in the water on the island and it spooked us, so we left our gear and rode away.”

He waited for the inevitable accusation of his lies from his brother, but he was stunned to silence when Pete jerked his head, alerted by something he had said.

“Holy Island?” he asked.

“With the ruined church,” Marcus confirmed.

“You two keep away from that place,” he told them forcibly. “You keep away, especially at night.”

Wilson had lifted his head and was now looking curiously at Peter. He had never really been his biggest fan, but he had never heard him warn them before either, especially in a way that sounded as though it was to protect them from something.

“What’s there?” Marcus asked, slightly confused but slightly intrigued. “Is it haunted or something?”

He laughed uncomfortably when the words he had said caught up with him.

“Just keep away,” Peter emphasised again. “Particularly in the wintertime.”

He rubbed the bump on his head and then inspected his hand to see the blood that had begun to dry in a bubble at the front of it.

“I need to get home,” he said with a yawn. “And you two do as well.” He pointed his finger at them. “No going back to the lake unless I'm with you, is that clear?”

“What is it out there?” Wilson asked him, “What did we hear, and how do you know about it?”

Peter straightened his coat, missing the new hole in it, and looked to Wilson.

“Wake me in the morning and we can go get your fishing gear. I’ll explain on the way.”

He turned and took two steps, wobbling slightly as the effects of his drinking session in the Duck and Goose suddenly came back, but stopped to inhale deeply.

“Are you ok Pete?” Marcus asked, only a little concerned as he had seen his brother drunk many times, but Peter just waved his hand over his shoulder as he walked on.

Marcus and Wilson picked up their bikes, checking for damages as they did, and then looked at each other. Both of them checked that Peter was out of ear shot, and then both spoke at the same time.

“What the frick,” they said.

“There’s something on that island,” Marcus whispered.

“Something that we aren’t supposed to replace out about,” Wilson added.

“Tomorrow should be interesting,” Marcus said as he climbed on to his bike, “Come on, you can kip at my house.”

The red lights on the back of their bikes bobbled down the road, with a wobbling Peter following after them.