Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) by Robert Parker

just the most unnatural thing to do ever. He was always raised to respect his elders, not bring them an ugly battering. What he is doing turns his stomach, but he knows it is not the first time he has had to do something truly abhorrent in order to survive.
    He swings again, with no target in mind, simply to make debilitating contact and swing again - only this time the wood, on making contact, almost sticks to it’s victim like it was bogged in tar. Ben tries to pull it out and back to him, but the wood is tugged away from him. He feels his finger loosening on the wood, and then some more fingers clawing through his hairline. An old lady is literally trying to scalp him with her own withered hands. Ben can only think ‘This is definitely a first’. A punch hits him right in the breadbasket, which is a devastating impact so penetrating Ben is pretty sure the owner of the fist will have grazed his knuckles on Ben’s own vertebrae, right through his stomach. It hurts Ben a lot. One of these boys has got some real power, Ben thinks. Through sheer force of will he refuses to go down, driven by the fear that the moment he does go down, he’s pretty sure he won’t get up again.
    He pulls his head up again, to take in some air, where he can see his own weapon of terror swinging down onto the top of his skull - no longer has he managed to get upright, and the table leg has been used to smash him right in the head. The impact is too much this time. Ben slumps, and all he can see is blood vessels in his vision - tiny swirling blobs that the mere sight of can’t be anything good. That odd cold glove of unconsciousness begins to entrench Ben, and he almost welcomes it. He falls, hands clawing at his clothes, dragging him this way and that.
    Suddenly, a deafening blast rips through the church. It silences the hordes and punishes the ear drums. Ben is suddenly dropped onto his front on the church floor, as his oppressors fan. He has no idea where the sound came from, but he knows it stopped his torment, and for that, he is grateful. He can now see a black vignette at the corners of his vision, giving the sensation of seeing life through an Instagram filter - so an appropriate level of hipster drama is afforded what he sees happen next. An old man in a green waterproof jacket, paces down the aisle towards Ben, and he is wielding a mean-looking smoking shotgun.
    ‘Get away from him!’ he orders. ‘Back! Back!’.
    The man is cradling the shotgun tightly, but jabs it in the direction of the people he passes. He is older, like the people in the church, but, unlike the people in the church, there is a fire and fear in his eyes - as well as an absurd red blotchiness to his skin. The man keeps moving at a steady pace, then his boots are by Ben’s nose.
    ‘Can you stand?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes,’ Ben answers, trying to hoist himself up to his knees, but manages only to lose his balance and roll onto his back like a stricken turtle.
    ‘Can you bollocks’, the man scowls. Before Ben can try to get an idea of who the man might be, he can feel himself being hoisted to his feet. ‘Get your bearings. Lean on me, but we need to move now.’
    And with that, Ben is practically being dragged down the aisle back towards the front door.
    ‘Any of you dare move, I’ll bloody drop you’, barks the man at the people, who just stare back glass-eyed like the sheep that they are. ‘Nearly there,’ he whispers to Ben.
    ‘Who are you?’ croaks Ben.
    ‘You’ve no idea?’ the man replies.
    Ben remains silent.
    ‘“That’ll be £2.90”, does that ring a bell?’
    ‘The pub’ Ben replies.
    ‘Yes, the pub. You’ve been my best customer for the last three weeks.’
    Ben looks up to him and scrutinizes him - he can’t, for the life of him, recognize him.
    ‘Don’t strain yourself’, says the man. ‘You never look up from up your pint. Ever. My name is Dag.’
     
    5
    Before Ben can look where they are going, they are outside. The cold air