Irredeemable Rebooted

Hey, no updates last week due to holidays. However some good headway was made on rebooting the Ray Douglas "franchise," between sipping Rum and chilling out.

There are major changes to the story, but this time I have a plan so hopefully I can get more than two chapters done. However with University starting up this week, we'll have to wait and see how much writing I can get done. I may have to break up the chapters and only post a few hundred words a week.





- 1 -

The doors to the King's Arms Hotel flew open allowing the midday sun and country dust to enter, settling over the weathered patrons hugging their pints of draught. Ray Douglas moved towards the bar with the determination of a veteran, reaching the first port on the journey back into alcoholism, before the heavy wooden doors could swing closed.
“Scotch.” Ray hadn't uttered the word in just over six months now.
He sat in a booth along the back wall of the Pub, surrounded by wooden embellishments that looked out of place in a small country town. He rested on worn maroon leather, the kind that left a waft of smoky smelling dust when you sat down. The stifling heat, shifting against the creaky yellowed ceiling fan, left his scotch glass beading with condensation.
The cool golden liquor, ice cubes floating in the centre, was deceptive in its still, calm appearance. Ray Douglas knew the truth behind those refreshing drops of liquid. Ray knew the violent storm that brewed just out of sight, underneath the chill of the ice.
Blocking memories of past failures and relapses from his mind, Ray threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat. The warmth of the scotch was the first sign of the violence and power that it held. Ray shook his head, placing the glass back on the table.
No, he thought, the liquid wasn't violent. It was just a key, a key to unlock the violence inside people. The rage floating around in his mind had been unleashed before, Ray thought, too many times.
He sighed, a heavy tired breath, harsh and dusty. Unfortunately he needed a drink, and that was the long and short of it. Right now, he thought, I just need a drink.

Ray reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a crumpled blood-spattered envelope. It had been delivered this morning, before he woke up. My last clear-headed morning for a while, he thought and sighed again.
The envelope was small and simple, uncomplicated, and unlike the alcohol; the envelope was not deceptive. Ray knew what it meant already before even opening it. The front simply had 'Ray Douglas' written in black marker, and on the reverse; 'Rachel Douglas.' Ray knew his sister would be in trouble sooner or later. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her, just under a year ago, but his memory of that night was foggy at best. Had he done something to cause Rachel to be in trouble? He couldn't answer that question despite the sinking feeling that it probably was his fault. For the last year he hadn't been able to shake the terrible premonition of Rachel getting hurt.
Ray slid a finger under the envelope flap and withdrew the note inside. The crumpled paper held the same distinctive specks of dried blood as the envelope that contained it. His eyes shifted across the handwritten text;
'Ray. I regret to inform you that Rachel may be in a bit of a tricky situation. If you want to enjoy her company again, you might want to be present at the following address by Friday night. All the best.'
Ray recognised the address as an abandoned warehouse at the port, back in Adelaide. The place had a reputation as a local hotspot for drug activity. Even the police were afraid of the fiendish night life at this warehouse, fearful of the violence that swelled in the fragile minds of its inhabitants. Ray hadn't been there personally but a good friend had told him to stay away, he had left that life a long time ago and there was no way he was going back.
But Rachel needs me, he felt a strong urge to jump in his car and drive back to Adelaide as fast as his battered Kingswood would take him. Ray sipped a fresh scotch as he imagined flying down the highway towards his sister, avoiding cops and sucking on cigarettes. But Ray wasn't that man, he never had been really.
Ray's mind flicked through scenes from his past; flashes of fists and flying bottles of bourbon. He saw his father's nose pissing blood, a gash across the bridge, and a matching gash across his seventeen year-old knuckles. Ray watched in horror as he saw, between flashes of blackness, images of himself being dragged across the ground in handcuffs. He swallowed a large gulp of the scotch as he saw himself surrounded by a wafting cloud of toxic, mind raping smoke, his lips covered in scratches from the broken light bulb he was using to torch the ice.
Ray closed his eyes and threw the last of the scotch down his throat, he hadn't thought about these things for at least a year but now he needed the alcohol to make them go away. It must have been the note that brought these images back, he thought.
In the darkness of his mind Ray pictured one last scene; he saw his sister Rachel, only eleven years-old, standing at the foot of his bed. He wondered what she was doing when he noticed the tube protruding from his mouth. She had a pained expression on her face and he realised he was in the hospital. This was a memory he always tried to forget, although the act of trying always caused it to become fresh in his mind. He saw a tear run down Rachel's cheek as their mother led her away. The doctors approached, stern yet indifferent in their demeanour. Ray's mind collapsed as they began to pump a litre of vodka from his stomach. He had turned sixteen only a few hours before.
Ray felt a wave of nausea rise up into his throat. He opened his eyes to see the shadow of the setting sun sweeping across his table, causing the empty scotch glasses to glisten violently. Ray closed his eyes and swallowed hard, leaving the nausea subdued in the bottom of his stomach. He quickly folded the note and shoved in into his pocket, gazing, glassy eyed around the room.
He was caught off balance when he stood, watching the front bar begin to crowd with local oil and gas workers who had just clocked off. The air in the hotel had become thick with heat and sweat, which caused Ray to gag. He made a step towards the restrooms and stopped, there was a pint of beer sitting on the corner of his table. Ray knew the pint wasn't his, he knew whoever owned it was probably just checking on his mates.
Before thinking too hard about it, Ray took the pint in his hand and sculled the entire beer. He knew the act would probably make him feel worse and he knew that somebody would be owed a beer. Ray felt a strange urge inside of him, something that he had forgotten. Something that he never quite understood. He felt the urge to see what would happen. He needed to know how far his actions could take him.
His stomach ached and throbbed and he saw a wiry man look over at him from the crowd. Ray realised, through blurred vision, that the whole bar was watching him. His head dropped until his chin hit his chest and he smiled.
“Who left this on my table?” Ray said, louder than he expected, as he held the empty glass in the air.
The wiry man stepped over to where Ray was standing. He wore a cap to hold back his lank brown and grey hair. His build matched his long goatee beard that stood off his chin like steel wool. The tank top that the man wore revealed his thick tanned skin. An inked snake ran up his left arm, the head resting in the man's neck, it's jaw hanging open.
“This yours?” Ray slurred at the man.
“Yeah, mate. You look like you've had enough already, eh?” The man replied, his thick accent revealed to Ray that he wasn't a South Australian native. Probably from Queensland, Ray thought.
“I don't think so,” Ray mumbled, smiling. “You shouldn't leave your mess on my table, mate.” Ray's imitation of the word 'mate' caused the wiry man to shift his weight.
“Orright mate, next rounds on you then.” The man stood his ground, but Ray sensed that he wasn't a bad person. Ray could tell by the man's attitude that he didn't want any trouble.
Ray sighed before swinging his hand at the man's face.
The pint glass grasped in Ray's fingers cracked and shattered against the wiry man's cheekbone causing him to clutch his face and stagger away from Ray.
The quiet crowd became suddenly silent and Ray locked eyes with every man who looked like he might want to step in.
The gasps and moans from the wiry man echoed through the main bar of the King's Arms Hotel and Ray dropped the fractured base of the pint glass to the floor.
“Shit,” the wiry man gasped from between his blood-coated fingers.
A large man emerged from the rear of the crowd and made his way over to the wiry man who had staggered away from Ray, clutching his mutilated face.
Ray noticed the crowd had thinned significantly and he had the sudden realisation that most people probably wouldn't want to be in this situation. He breathed heavily as he watched the crowd, remaining still and silent.
Ray watched as the large man inspected the face of the wiry man. When he took his hands from his cheek, Ray could see a large gash across his face, going from his brow down to his nose.
As the wiry man tilted his head back for the large man to inspect the wound, his eyes connected with Ray's. There was a flash of fear and confusion before he broke eye contact with Ray, who continued to stare.

“Okay, mate,” the words shot through Ray's head like a bullet. Ray noticed that a wiry man with blood on his face was sitting at the bar being tended to by a waitress, and that he had lost track of what had just happened.
Ray saw that a large man was standing very close to him but his hands were raised, as if he didn't want any trouble.
“Okay, mate,” the large man repeated. “The cops are on their way, so we're gonna need you to take a seat here. You okay with that, mate?”
Ray stood still, his eyes fixed on the wiry man at the bar. He had done that before to a man. Not with the pint glass, but he had snapped like that before. There was no cause, no catalyst that Ray could identify. One moment he was drinking a beer, and the next he was watching a man stagger away from him, his hands clutching his face, covered in blood.
“Orright, mate. I'm gonna need you to take a seat here.” The large man held his arm out to guide Ray to a seat. Ray didn't move, his eyes were glazed and staring in the direction of the exit.
Ray took a step towards the doors and felt a large hand softly pressed against his chest.
“I'm going home.” Ray said, his dull eyes still gazing at the doors.
“No you're not, mate.”
Ray took the hand by the wrist and twisted it around until it was upside down. He then took two steps until he stood behind the large man, still holding onto his arm. Ray pressed the man's arm up along his back smoothly, but firmly, until he heard a loud crack and a sudden pop. His eyes fixed glumly on the door the entire time.
Ray didn't hear the screams as he opened the heavy wooden doors and left the pub.

As he approached his car, Ray managed to hear a rushed shuffling coming from behind him. He turned his head, but before he could see who was there, his face was rocked back in the opposite direction by a seemingly unstoppable force.
Ray used the momentum to turn his body around the opposite way, where he came face to face with another man from the pub.
The man threw a punch which struck Ray across the side of the head, causing his drunken legs to buckle.
After collapsing to his knees, Ray was shoved onto his back by a firm boot to the chest.
“Ya don't get away that easy, mate.” A thin nasal voice came from somewhere above Ray.
“Go away.” Ray mumbled the words, his jaw tingled and he felt warm blood rolling down his brow.
“Whassat, mate? I ain't goin' away.” The man tried to punctuate his point by dropping his heel onto Ray's chest, but Ray reached out and grabbed the man's other leg, tripping him up.
The man lay stunned alongside Ray, who rolled on top of him and began throwing fists.
A few minutes later Ray stood up and walked over to his car. Unlike before, Ray could hear the gurgling moans of the man behind him. Also unlike before, this man didn't have the strength to hold his hands to his damaged face. Ray looked over his shoulder to see the man's body rocking slightly, his legs arching up and sliding back down, causing his heels to carve lines in the dry earth.
Ray thought he saw fragments of bone protruding from deep incisions in the man's cheeks and eye sockets, but it could have just been the light reflecting off the blood.
He got into his car, turned the engine on, backed out of the car park and began to drive home.

Rachel doesn't deserve this, Ray thought as he drove through the night. Rachel doesn't deserve this.
He decided to call the police in Adelaide about the kidnapping note and then stay as far away from Rachel, and alcohol, as possible. If he went near her in this state, he would only ruin everything.
Ray got a flash of Rachel yelling at him. She wanted him out of her life, he recalled. He could see her red face, her forehead beaded with sweat. Ray could see the tears welling in her confused and scared eyes as he approached her that night. That was just under a year ago now, the last time he saw Rachel.
Ray opened his eyes and jammed his foot onto the brake pedal.
The Kingswood went into a slide and Ray narrowly avoided the tree that the car was set to hit if he didn't react.
When the car had come to a smoking halt, Ray took a deep breath and imagined what his world would be like if he had hit the tree. Would Rachel be better off without me, he asked himself.
Ray looked at the note he had received and decided that as long as he was around her, Rachel would be in danger. Going to help her would be the worst mistake he could make. Sure, he could probably help her, but who knew what consequences his actions would have. Who knew who would come after her a year down the line. Five years later, ten? Ray couldn't account for his actions in the past few hours, and he had no idea what the consequences would be, but he didn't care.
He didn't care what happened to himself, but he couldn't let his actions affect Rachel, not any more.
Ray crumpled the note up and dropped it in the centre console.
He started the engine, that had stalled in the slide, and made his way home.

A First Post

The following text is the first chapter in a novel-in-progress, hopefully to be updated weekly, along with whatever else gets posted. Also Check the tags etc to find stuff on this blog. I'm still working out the kinks.




- 1 -

Ray Douglas finally opened the letter that had been sitting in his pocket for two days now, the letter in the blood-spattered envelope. Sitting in a booth at the rear of a small roadhouse somewhere near the state-line between Pennsylvania and Maryland, Ray Douglas lit a cigarette before unfolding the sheet of paper in front of him. The cigarette smouldering between his stained fingers trembled in unison with his hand as he unfolded the note. Typed on paper covered in specks of dried blood, the letter read;
'Douglas, little sis needs fifty grand before midnight. Friday. You know the deal. You know who this is. You know what happens if you don't.'
“Dammit Rachel,” Ray muttered as he took a drag from the dwindling cigarette. The adrenaline of driving non-stop overnight had finally worn off. He had known the envelope meant trouble without even having to open it, he knew it had something to do with Rachel, his little sister. Since they were kids Rachel had always been the rational one, the smart one. Ray was always getting in trouble; when he was relieved of duty for “conduct unbecoming” it was Rachel who stood by him, his parents had already cut off all contact with their wayward son. But when Ray went overseas for two years the roles seemed to reverse. Now Rachel was in trouble and it was Ray's turn to finally be the big brother she never had. He gently let the note rest on the red and white checkered table-cloth before resting his head in his hands. Ray heard the rain kicking up outside, it was seven in the morning but the storm growing overhead turned dawn into dusk.
A waitress noticed Ray's smoke cloud from across the dining area, grabbed the coffee pot from behind the counter and made her way over to him. “You'll have to put that out, mister,” she said, then added with a grin and a look of embarrassment, “I know there's nobody here, but it's still against the rules.”
Ray peeked out from behind his hands, the waitress was in her mid-twenties, pale with short black hair, dyed. He realised he must look like shit, his black suit and tie were crumpled from sitting in the car all night, and his thick woollen overcoat probably stank of smoke. But Ray hadn't had time to change, shower or shave since yesterday. After clocking off from his shitty job driving VIPs around Ottawa, Ray was looking forward to some much needed sleep. But when that letter fell through the mail-slot in the door of his apartment, Ray picked it up, grabbed his keys and his smokes and left for Baltimore. He had stopped only once since crossing the border back into the States, to refuel the car and pick up some more cigarettes.
“How far am I from Maryland?” Ray asked the waitress abruptly, dismissing her suggestion about the cigarette and her coy smile.
“Not far, ten or fifteen minutes I guess,” she offered another slight grin but looked nervous about the cigarette, she didn't want to get into any trouble here. Ray's eyes widened as he realised where he was. He checked his watch and began to mumble as he shot a glance at the rain-soaked road through the timber Venetians.
Noticing this strange behaviour, the waitress spoke without thinking; “Are you in some kind of trouble, mister?”
Ray's eyes darted back to her, blood-shot and droopy. “No, but Rach...” He trailed off.
“What?” She leaned closer, not quite catching that.
Knowing he was wasting time, Ray placed his cigarette between his lips, grabbed a fistful of notes and coins from his coat pocket and put them on the table. “Look, I gotta go lady,” he said as he got up and rushed for the door, cigarette still hanging from his mouth.
“Hey!” The waitress called after him, but he didn't turn to answer her. He was already gone.

In the parking-lot of the roadhouse, Ray Douglas covered his head with his coat so that his cigarette wouldn't go out in the rain. He had more, but recently he had never butted a cigarette if he could get away with it. He made his way towards his car through flooded puddles in the cracked asphalt, his black shoes collecting more mud with each step. Once the car was started, Ray jammed the column-shift of his battered Cadillac into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. He drew another cigarette from the crumpled packet in his coat pocket and lit it with the one still dangling from his mouth. Ray knew that once he reached Maryland, it would only take him an hour or so to get to Baltimore, and to his sister. Reaching over to grab the letter he had tossed on the passenger seat, Ray was thrown back by an unexpected and violent jolt from behind. He looked into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch the dazed look of the police officer, sitting in the cruiser that he had just rammed.
Ray jammed the gear-stick into first, whipping the steering wheel around, and then back again as he kicked the accelerator pedal to the floor. He inhaled deeply from the cigarette and fish-tailed his over-sized '87 out of the lot and onto the road. After the moment of shock had passed, the squad car roared into life; its sirens shrieking as it peeled out onto the road behind Ray. Glancing from the rear-view, to the road ahead, to the letter in his hand, Ray realised that today was Friday and he didn't have time for this.
“Great,” he groaned, reluctantly butting the cigarette out in the ashtray and grinding the Caddy up a gear.

Ray floored the hulking mass of steel through the whipping winds and torrential rain and straight through an intersection with the cop still on his ass. He would have to deal with this cop before he said too much over the police radio, and he knew he would have to make it fast. Flicking the indicator on, Ray jerked his Cadillac over to the side of the road and let the cop catch his breath.
Ray could tell that the stunt with the intersection had worked exactly as he had intended when he saw the cop exit his squad car, hand already on his pistol. He just has to make one mistake, Ray thought as he eyed the officer. He just has to make the same mistake I made, Ray thought to himself, all those years ago. Like a gorilla, the cop rocked his powerfully built barrel of a body through the pouring rain towards where Ray was parked, waiting patiently. When he reached the car, the cop rapped his hairy knuckle violently on the closed window, giving Ray just enough time to register his wedding ring and name-badge; 'John James'. Perfect, Ray thought as he wound the window down.
“Alright smart-ass, I'm gonna assume you know why I've pulled you over.” Officer John James said, eyes fixed on Ray, hand still resting on his pistol.
“Aww shit,” Ray groaned, his hands shaking on the steering wheel.
“That's right, 'aww shit!'” Officer James mimicked.
“I knew you'd find me, Jesus! I knew this would happen,” Ray mumbled, half to the cop, half to himself.
“You thought I wouldn't find you? What are you? Some kind of idiot!” Officer James barked into the window through the roar of the storm.
“Goddamnit! She told me her husband was a cop. Why didn't I believe her? Stupid! Stupid!” Ray mumbled to himself, not looking at Officer James who was now soaked.
James paused, this last remark had caught him off-guard, “wait, what are you talking about?”
“You're John James, right? Officer John James! I'm sorry, Jesus I'm sorry!” Ray groaned. He had tears in his eyes, although this wasn't necessary as the rain was coming in through the window and streaking his face.
“What are you babbling about? I'm John James- How do you know me?” Officer James clearly didn't know what to make of this situation, or this lunatic in the black Cadillac.
Ray went in for the kill; “I slept with your wife man! It was a mistake, I'm sorry. She told me you would come looking for me. Oh God, please don't hurt me!” He cried into the steering wheel.
Officer John James stood speechless for a moment, it was a lot to take in all at once, the life he had known was slowly crumbling away in his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray noticed Officer James' fingers tightening around the handle of his service revolver. It should be enough to throw him off his game, Ray hoped.
In a quiet yet commanding tone, Officer James told Ray to, “get outta the car.”
“Oh God! Don't hurt me,” Ray pleaded again, cowering in the driver's seat deliberately holding his ground.
“Get the fuck out! Now!” Officer James raised his voice and his pistol simultaneously and Ray shakily complied, exiting the vehicle. The ruse had worked, Officer John James had forgotten a crucial part of his training, don't draw your weapon within reaching distance of an assailant, especially in such an emotional frame of mind. This was a mistake that took Ray years to get over, hopefully Officer James wouldn't get that worked up over it.
Officer James' hand shook as he violently jammed the barrel of his pistol into Ray's chest, “I knew that bitch was sleeping around, I knew it! You fucked up big-time mister!”
“Sure,” Ray said calmly before grabbing Officer James' pistol and redirecting it away from himself, twisting the cop's arm into his side in the process. Officer James stood frozen in shock, his simian mouth agape in awe and fright. With his left hand firmly controlling the cop's gun-arm, Ray used his right to punch Officer James in the groin, before twisting the gun backwards out of his hand, snapping his index finger against the trigger guard. Grabbing his mangled hand and doubling over to protect his crushed balls, Officer James tried to shake off the nausea that bubbled over in the pit of his stomach.
“Jesus Christ-!” Officer James could barely finish the curse before Ray stepped behind him, wrapped his arm around Officer James' neck and squeezed.
“Easy now, easy,” Ray whispered as he gently lowered Officer James to the ground. In his head Ray was counting down from thirty, just enough time to block the oxygen travelling to his brain, causing Officer James to pass out. Ray picked up this technique from a colleague in Iraq, where he worked for two years. He had learnt plenty of neat tricks over there; like the moves that he had just used to disable Officer James, for instance. He was actually surprised that he could still remember how to do that sort of thing. Remembering those days had its drawbacks though, as Ray would soon discover, he had his reasons for blocking that shit-hole from his mind.
He stood over the unconscious body, his adrenal gland only now starting to kick in, after the threat had already been neutralised. Pocketing the pistol, Ray felt a pain in his chest like a hand wrapped in barbed-wire trying to climb out through his throat. He doubled over in the rain and began to cough, trying to dislodge the creeping hand, dragging its jagged fingernails across the inside of his neck. Hacking up phlegm flecked with blood, Ray's hand shook violently as he reached for his cigarettes.

“KeresCorp is taking the jobs those Blackwater pussies won't touch.” Ash Idris leaned in to Ray Douglas, boasting his company's superiority over the competition. Ray felt uncomfortable with the thin and disturbingly handsome man whispering in his ear.
“Yeah? What sort of jobs are we talking here?” Ray inquired. He didn't really want to be here talking with this Euro-trash prick in his khaki suit and panama hat, but the curiosity was overwhelming.
Ash Idris sat back with the most juvenile grin on his face, using his hand to suppress a slight giggle.
“Well, I could tell you Ray. I could tell you, but then. But then, I'd have to kill you.” Idris let out a hideously high-pitched squeal and Ray shifted in his seat, thoroughly unnerved by the man's attitude. He smirked and waited for Idris to continue.
Shifting gears suddenly, Idris stopped giggling and looked thoughtfully off the deck of the yacht they were sitting on, out into the Mediterranean, “Well I can tell you of course, if you agree to sign up.”
Ray had heard of these private security contractors, let loose all over the middle-east, wreaking havoc while Uncle Sam turned a blind eye. He didn't want to be a part of it, but he was drinking himself into an early grave back in Baltimore. He'd been drinking since he got handed his marching papers from the Baltimore Police Department.
No, wait. He was handed his marching papers because of the drinking. It was becoming harder and harder to see things in the right order these days, maybe he did need time away.
He looked at Idris, who was nodding slowly, watching him carefully. The pay was good too, great even. If he'd managed to hold onto his job as a cop this wouldn't have happened.
The world had been going to shit these last few years, happy new century asshole, welcome to hell. It started with his job, later that year Bin Laden blew up the twin towers. America went to war against a ghost and Ray drank steadily, watching it all on TV through the bottom of a bourbon bottle. Rachel showed him an advertisement for a security job; 'seeking people with law enforcement experience for work overseas.' She wanted him off the couch and out of her apartment, but he couldn't blame her.
Idris suppressed another giggle watching Ray stare blankly out into the ocean. “What's it going to be Ray. We need good men like you. You're a good man Ray.”
Ray eyed him coldly, “I'm in.” He looked away but could feel Ash Idris' grin through the back of his head.

The little smoke he could inhale through the pain and the rain subdued the cough, causing the barbed-wire encased hand to slide painlessly back down his gullet, where it would wait. Ray stood shaking, his head spinning. Unsure of how long he had been standing there, over the unconscious body of a cop, Ray hurriedly went about moving the limp mass.
Quickly dragging the hulking Officer back to his squad car, Ray looked around for witnesses but could sense that they were alone. He opened the back door of the car and heaved Officer James' into the rear seat.
After shoving the cop's legs into the car and closing the door, Ray opened the front door and grabbed the radio; “cancel that, dispatch. This isn't the guy, I'm all good out here. Over.” Without waiting for a response he walked back to the Cadillac, sat inside and lit a fresh cigarette.
Inhaling deeply Ray Douglas started the car and disappeared into the storm.